Work Text:
and we got some big big mistakes
to make along the way
set them in stain glass windows
build cathedrals to our flaws
the spire's crowned by galaxies
see our humanity as beautiful
(Kind Love, Bears in Trees)
Kings Cross Station was busy, even in the early hours of morning that Jon and Martin had found themselves in.
After pulling Martin out of the Lonely and trying to get him to wake up a bit, they had run into Basira while trying to leave the institute. There wasn’t even a plan until then, Jon just wanted to get out while he could, holding the hand of the person he loved. Which Jon had only realised in the time-wise short, but emotionally long and straining, aeons looking for him on the fogged up, white shores. He had never been the most in-tune person with his inner feelings, never thought he needed them, to be honest. But recently, with his whole life becoming a mess and losing his little thread on humanity, Jon tried, really tried, to keep them close. They were what he felt to be his last real connection to others, and as such, expressing them and letting himself feel them seemed important. And while he held Martin’s face in his hand and begged him to looked at him, Jon saw in his eyes a new emotion reflected.
“I really loved you, you know?”
And it hit him. Love. Of course, the thing he never considered, was to be his downfall. Martin’s love for him that came through in every kind (and sometimes snappy) word and cup of tea, unwavering even when his prick of a boss constantly berated him, was the one obstacle that Jon couldn’t seem to overcome. The Lonely in its insidious way had nestled itself in Martin’s heart and convinced him that Jon would never return his feelings.
But looking at him in that moment made him connect every dot in his mind. The red-string board of tightly spun paranoia snapped and fell on him. The strings of fear were quickly turned into red strings of fate, showing him his true feelings. His dramatic complaining about Channel 4, leaving the cupboards open; his now milk-blue eyes stared first over his head and then directly into his eyes. They were no longer flaws, but another facet of Martin. Martin, who was in his thoughts. Who was right in front him.
Pushing him away never worked, the stubborn fool broke down every last one of Jon’s barriers, so maybe, reaching out and holding him tight would save them. And it did.
Basira looked at them, exhausted and still holding hands. Two people who in very different ways tried to give themselves up for the other and all of mankind. Maybe they’ll both be martyrs – in the end. She wasn’t concerned with all that. She just wanted them out of her sight; they were now liabilities in this fight. And so she pulled Jon aside.
“Daisy had a safehouse.”
“I- I’m sorry?” Jon asked, not understanding the use of the past perfect in reference to Daisy.
“She was always prepared for the worst. Never felt safe without a way out. When the house was uninhabitable after a gruesome case, she bought it and fixed it. Ways out in the highlands, but pretty. Remote.”
“And, hm, why are you telling me this?”
“Well, you can’t be here anymore. And Martin needs someone to look after him. Hence: the safehouse.” She stated, no discussion to be had, and handed him the keys.
--
After packing his meagre possession from a backroom in the archives and a short stint in Martin’s flat where Jon packed him a bag with what he deemed important (some well-used mugs, tea that looked like a favourite, clothes, other bits and bobs, and a good handful of the medicine cabinet) they took a cab. And now they were standing in the big hall of Kings Cross with tickets to an early train to Edinburgh Waverly, paid for with loose cash that Martin had gotten in big bundles in envelopes from Peter from time to time.
“Are you, are you hungry?” Jon asks Martin, hoping for a reaction, any sign to show that there is still a piece of Martin that is listening to him, for him.
A shrug, nothing more. Jon looks at him and notices that his clothes don’t fall the way they used to, they hang on his frame. Nothing like Jon in the fragile, sad, and pathetic way of someone who never prioritised food and got lost focussing on a task until he stepped back from it and his body lit up like a car’s dashboard full of ‘please attend to this issue’ signs. Martin was still big, but his skin sagged in some places that spoke of neglect.
Jon looks around and finds a Greggs, perfect. Easy food that can be held in one hand and even the option to heat up the pastries and sandwiches. Did Martin have any food restrictions, allergies? They must have had an Archives Meal Swap somewhen in the early days… back when Tim didn’t despise him and his little neurotic ways, or when Sasha was Sasha. He remembers one such occasion, where he worked the whole day before to make a palak nu shaak that wouldn’t offend British mouths and carefully formed chāt into balls. Tim had brought some Nasi Lemak, proudly proclaiming he had made the coconut milk himself, but Martin… a potato soup of some kind? With little cheese filled dumplings, maybe. Meaning flour was on the table, meat and the ever present milk in his tea.
A simple ham and cheese sandwich will work. He gently drags Martin by his hand into the shop and orders one, together with tea (two spoons of sugar and just a dash of milk, any more and he would consider it no longer tea but warm milk – Jon had learned this early enough). He asks the employee to heat the toastie up, and with a blueberry muffin and another paper cup of tea for himself (black, he never had the decency to tell Martin he didn’t like milk in his, but they had time now, didn’t they?), they leave again to sit on a bench at their track. Martin eats slowly, but at least he does. The tea warms Jon up, and he hopes the same goes for Martin, who still shudders under layers of cardigans and jumpers.
--
The train won’t come for a quarter of an hour, and even then, the train ride will be long and probably full and stuffy. G-d, Jon wants a cigarette. His last one was before he entered the institute the day before and withdrawal was not helping his shaking hands, no longer warm in Martin’s hand, having had to separate while eating. Quitting again wasn’t in his mind right now, needing all his capabilities to help them get to Scotland in one piece. But his pack is in his other jacket, stuffed beneath clothes in his bag. He could pop into one of the many kiosks in the station, but he didn’t want to reek of smoke next to Martin, who never stated his opinion to Jon’s dreadful habit, but certainly wouldn’t be too happy with it. Suffering and longing it was, then.
They sit next to one another, just sharing the space while others bustle around them. What a picture they had to make.
--
Boarding and getting a nice four-seater with a table wasn’t that hard; apparently not many people were up for a five-hour train ride at nine in the morning. Jon briefly considers sitting opposite of Martin, to be able to look at him directly the entire time but decides against it in favour of being next to him and feel his warmth. Martin doesn’t voice any objections, so Jon lugs their baggage into the overhead storage area, and they sit down again, this time in a warmer place, not yet full of people.
Martin seems content to just stare out the window during the ride, Jon grabs a book – previously stashed randomly out of his apartment – from his backpack. Catch-22, a fitting analogy to their situation. They’re mentally sound enough to want to get out of their job, but to get out of their job, they would have to be reckless enough to no longer be sane, gouge their eyes out, and everything that came with that. The general war in the book fits the Slaughter, but all the talk and stream-of-consciousness babble is so confusing, the Stranger might fit better. No, bad Jon, he thinks. You’re on a train to a little cottage surrounded by mountains and fields and whatnot, there is to be no work talk from now on.
His reading continues until, about halfway there, Martin falls asleep and ends up with his head on Jon’s significantly lower shoulder, which is probably not comfortable. He puts the receipt from the shop as a bookmark and lets himself consider Martin some more. He looks tired, the rest will surely do him good. His hand is between their seats, and Jon gingerly wraps his around. Martin immediately squeezes unconsciously and Jon’s heart flutters a bit. New love seems so sacred. He had read about it so many times in so many different books, seen it depicted thousandfold in the media. But personally, he had only ever experienced it with Georgie, after long conversations in the night and an awful amount of supporting each other through depression, panic attacks, stress, and identity crises. What brought them together eventually lead to them separating. Idiosyncrasies clashing hard and stressing them out more than necessary.
Would this happen to him and Martin? Would he get tired of Jon’s info-dumping, his snaps and fidgets, proclivity to emotional constipation? G-d, he’d hope not. They’d known each other for years by now and every time Jon spiralled Martin didn’t comment negatively or complain behind his back. For now, Jon was optimistic about their future together. Together, good lord, what a lovely word. One way or another, they had each other now.
Jon closed his eyes and drifted of peacefully.
--
He awoke to Martin moving around enthusiastically and excited. When Jon sits up and wants to ask what happened, he first follows Martin’s gaze to the window. They were certainly rolling through lush, green landscape now. And there were cows. Shaggy brown highland cows that were just tiny dots, barely identifiable through the glass.
Martin shakes their hands and exhales, “Cows…” full of fondness, reverentially.
“Yes, those are certainly cows. How are you feeling? Pleasant nap?” Jon responds, flooded with happiness that Martin was with him mentally and talking.
“Oh, nap was fine, sorry if I stopped you from getting up… you were just… really comfortable.”
We’re acknowledging this then, good.
Jon can’t imagine his bony shoulder was that good a cushion, but maybe he meant the physical closeness. He himself wasn’t used to kind touches anymore, and Martin was just that. Kind.
“It’s uh, it’s quite alright, really. I like having you next to me.”
Martin perks up a bit, then says “Good, that’s good.”
Silence. What do people talk about in this situation? Jon can’t just come out and ask him if his love is present-tense, and if he’s happy that they’re running away together. But the location does seem to be a good point to start.
“So, well, Scotland. Ever been?” he asks.
“No, can’t say that I have. We- I haven’t been able to travel much, so this’ll be my first time. I’m quite keen on visiting though. Read a lot about it, a few authors I like come from there, seeing what inspired them will be cool.” Martin divulged.
“Right!” Jon exclaims, knowing his fair share about this topic, “Did you know that the dichotomy between modern and the more bohemian Edinburgh compelled Stevenson to write Jekyll and Hyde? He was apparently so fascinated by the duality of the human nature that- Oh, hmm. Sorry. You don’t need me to ramble on. I have been in Edinburgh a few times over the years, it’s got its’ nice parts, certainly, if you overlook the whole big city problems.”
Martin doesn’t look that put off by him. Interesting. In fact, Jon might even speculate that he even looks… charmed?
“Didn’t know that, Jon. Thanks,” Martin smiles, “but I do want to ask, what did you do there? Went to see some dusty old libraries and visit the medical college?” he asks cheekily.
“Unfittingly, no. I went to the Edinburgh Fringe a couple of times. ‘Course, we never took a nice, expensive train there. We used the overnight sleeper coach, which was a new kind of hell every time.”
Jon has never told anyone about his university exploits before, to his knowledge. Drunk Jon was tattletale, who can tell what Tim knows- knew, about him. He wasn’t ashamed of who he was by then, G-d no, but it never seemed pertinent or fitting to his boss persona. Maybe Georgie still has his fishnet gloves and short plaid skirts somewhere in the back of her closet. He wishes he still had those clothes, they always gave him the kind of confidence he could otherwise never project. She wouldn’t throw them away, probably.
When he stayed at her flat the last time – before his coma, before his life became a constant cycle of needing to know and being too tired – she gave him a few sweaters she had kept. She hadn’t thrown any of the stuff he had there before he got his own flat in London away. Why did she hold onto his things? Had she always suspected he would come stumbling back to her? In that case, she'd been right. She had always known him best, except for maybe The Admiral who shoved his (back then) tiny head into his face at the smallest sign of exhaustion. The Admiral would be nice just about now, basking in the sunbeams through the train window, a heavy weight on his lap…
Well, no use in daydreaming, when he has Martin by his side. His own, private little dream. And they had the unforeseeable future to turn it into reality, as a team effort.
--
They arrive in Edinburgh Waverly shortly after 2 pm, and take another bustling station in. People are rushing to get to their trains, or stand in the middle of the platform taking phone calls, eating and listening to music without headphones. Neither of them ever liked this level of noise. A nice chat for distraction?
“Did you know that- well, remember the Leitner version of The Seven Lamps of Architecture? The old fool using it to change the tunnels under the institute?” Jon asks Martin, while they wait for a sudden revelation of what the next step is.
“Yeah? I mean, not in great detail? But vaguely, yeah.”
“I got interested in the book, the non-spooky version”, putting air quotes around ‘spooky’, as if it still hurts him to use the word, “and I picked up some old copy of it second-hand somewhere, and read it.”
“…so?”
“Well, see, Ruskin had some rather… odd views on architecture, but I do remember that he wrote an entire section on how railroad stations shouldn’t be pretty, as they are the place where man ‘parts with the nobler characteristics of his humanity for the sake of a planetary power of locomotion’ and that the only good thing builders can achieve is to show us the quickest exit route.”
“Is this your way of saying you want to leave?” Martin pitches cheekily.
Lord, how Jon missed his gentle smile.
--
The Beholding kindly told Jon where they needed to go next. Another inland train up north, until they reach the highlands proper, mountains rising up on the sides of the town. Then a cab ride, where Jon was not able to tell the driver the address, only directions as he Knew them by and by. There was an awkward silence apart from that.
They end in what could only generously be called a village with one main road made of cobblestone, and lots of small, winding paths between the assortment of houses. The driver tells them in no uncertain terms that he will not drive them farther, he seemed more vexed with the state of the ‘street’ than with how close the two sat in the backseat. They pay and tip him heavily, and start the hour long walk up a small trail further into the hills. Jon is happy they didn’t bring more luggage, but already dreads the trip to the grocery store.
--
The cottage is, like Basira said, ‘fixed up’ and remote.
“You could call it… rustic.” Jon proposes.
“You can say it looks like shit, Jon. There’s no one here to get offended.”
Shit does seem like an apt word to encompass the general state of the house. The door neither opens nor shuts easily when they try, there seems to be a draft coming through the frames and the roof has certainly seen better days. It sits next to an old, big tree, which probably takes the brunt of the storms that sweep through these altitudes. It doesn’t have a mailbox, or a welcome matt. But it’s theirs, for now.
Splitting up, they first try all the taps, and after a few moments of brown fluid, clear water starts to pour out. But despite all the twisting and turning of the faucet handles, they can’t get it to warm up. Remembering that the house hadn’t been in use for a long time, Martin, with a bit of plumbing experience from his years of odd jobs, looks around, finds the boiler, and switches it on. There will be no frozen limbs for them– tonight.
There’s an entry hall, a small kitchen with an honest-to-G-d log oven, a common room, one whole bathroom, and a single bedroom in a little loft. With a single bed. Big enough for two, surely, but still. One bed. That’s a problem for future Jon, he thinks (he doesn’t want one of them to take the couch; he wants to fall asleep next to Martin’s gentle breathing and wake up cuddled together with hair in his mouth and an arm around his waist).
Ignoring the bed situation, they put their bags down and take in the sparsely decorated living area. There is an old kettle at least, so Martin starts his calming ritual of making tea for the both of them, carefully using actual fire to heat the water safely. Jon goes to hoist himself up on the counter to wait, but upon his hand touching the dusty surface, recoils, shaking his hands out as discreetly as possible. Then Jon begins sweeping the countertop of the soot that has settled there over the time the safehouse had been uninhabited.
Martin is pleasantly surprised when Jon digs up the mugs from his bag.
“Oh G-d, Jon, where do those come from?”
“I, well I didn’t know what the.. mug situation was up here? And I saw those in your flat and packed them in case none were useable after so long,” Jon admits sheepishly, and imagines a pat on the back for his foresight.
“Great! That’s really… thanks.”
Just as Martin pours the milk into his tea, Jon plucks up the courage to tell him the truth before another cup for himself is – not ruined, per se, but – made poorer.
“Martin, I have something to confess.” He starts, feeling his face become flush already.
“I hope you’re not about to tell me that the whole ‘Oh no, I’m a monster who only feeds off of the fear of mortals’ thing has put you off tea now?”
He’s joking, right? He has to be. Jon looks at his face to decipher his meaning, quickly, so as to not make the moment more awkward than it has any right to be. He is smiling, one corner quirked up a bit more than the other and his eyes are brighter than before. Yes, joking.
“No, no. I do still enjoy tea. But,” he steels himself, “I… do not take milk in my tea. I know, I should’ve said something earlier, at the start of all this, but it never felt right? And now, now we have time, and I thought you should know, so- now you know.”
“Jon. Jonathan. Jonathan ‘can’t be trusted with hot things’ Sims. I know.”
He’s full on laughing at Jon’s demise. Damn him, and his beautiful laugh. The way it makes his freckles move and shoulders shake.
“What? How!” Jon bristles, it’s teasing.
“Have you ever looked into a mirror when taking a sip? Your whole face kind of… scrunches up. It’s actually adorable.” Martin is also blushing at his admission.
“Then, why, in the name of G-d, would keep giving me this– this slurry?”
“For the face, my own amusement? I don’t know. Maybe just to see how long it would take you to ‘fess up? I’m sorry. Well, I’m not, but you know.”
He thinks Jon is adorable. Good lord, with what luck have I earned to run away with this fool.
--
The sun had already begun to set when the two finished a cursory sweep of the entire house, put bedding on the covers and had a quick, graceless conversation about the medication both contributed to the meagre closet in the bathroom. Now Jon’s antipsychotics and beta-blockers stand next to Martin’s testosterone and it’s, it’s good.
Jon’s anxiety was alleviated when Martin had simply looked at the bottles and shrugged jovially in a way that seemed to say ‘look at us, two fools’.
--
Sitting down, exhausted, one of Jon’s other dependencies decides to make an appearance. His nicotine cravings weren’t that present anymore, not like they had been in university, when smoking a pack a day seemed like the right decision. The coma after the Unknowing had made his cravings disappear almost entirely, but the habit and routine just stuck around. And right now, he could feel the small part of his brain crying out at him to have a smoke.
He gets up and goes to his bag, getting his pack, then turns to Martin sitting on the couch.
“I’ll uh… d’you mind if I go out for a bit?” Jon asks, shaking his Silk Cuts abashedly.
“Oh, yeah, you can- sure. I’d rather you didn’t for, well, obvious reasons, but,” Martin pauses, thinking a bit, “can I join you? Not- not in that, I just… don’t want to be alone.”
They go out, with Jon taking an extra flannel to keep the evening chill at bay, and sit on the small step to the door of the safe house. He lights up and takes care not to have the smoke drift towards Martin.
The rush of nicotine gives him a light-headedness that feels so familiar, he’s comforted almost immediately. The cigarette feels right between his fingers, like a stim toy that he can’t put down. It also gives him the confidence to address the whole bed situation.
“Martin, is there- the bed. What do we do about the sleeping arrangements?” G-d, there had to be a smoother way to ask that, but no, the Eye may allow him questions, but the wording is still in his own, clumsy hands.
“Hm? Oh, well. I was thinking we could share? Or, if you’d rather, I could take the couch, my joints won’t kill me in the morning, unlike yours.”
Yes, sharing the bed seems like the most obvious choice. Martin is, apparently, well aware of Jon’s whole ‘thing’ with his joints and bones, which haven’t gotten the memo that they’re not supposed to hurt unless there’s something actually wrong. But the intimacy of it all still makes Jon itch a bit. He wants it, craves it, however…
“It’s just,” he takes a drag, breathes out, “I don’t want to make things awkward. I have been called quite a bad tosser in bed…”
“Toss- I uh, what d’you mean by that?”
“No, urgh, G-d, no. Never that. I don’t… do that.” Jon shudders. Sex was not on his mind when he had started this conversation. That was a topic for another day entirely. Explaining his asexuality to Georgie was easy, since she’d given him the word in the first place, and afterwards never tried to initiate anything again. And every try at a relationship following was negligible in that regard. He needed to be in the right headspace, with the right person, and then his aversity was unobtrusive. They hadn’t even kissed!
Jon stubs out the last of the cigarette and lets it fall besides the step, vowing to put an ashtray there the next morning.
“I simply meant that I either cuddle up to the person next to me like a koala, or toss and turn the entire night. On one memorable occasion, I uhm, sat up, screamed something incoherent, and kicked Georgie out of bed.”
Martin laughs, and Jon can’t help also giggling at the memory.
“Jon, that’s… I-, I don’t mind the cuddling…” He’s blushing through the laughter, and the conversation takes on a lighter mood.
They decide to share the bed, in the end, and chat for a while, until it gets too cold to sit outside.
--
Their dinner consists of some canned ravioli that they found in one of the cupboards in the kitchen, poorly opened with Jon’s pocketknife, together with more tea.
After taking turns in the bathroom, they settle quietly into bed. They lie with some space apart, breathing softly. Neither is used to the complete silence outside, no cars blaring, no noise drifting up from the streets.
“Jon?” Martin whispers.
“Mhm?” Jon answers, quite eloquently.
“When I said I wouldn’t mind the cuddling…”
“Good lord, please.”
Martin carefully wraps Jon up towards his chest, where Jon rests his head now, legs tangled together, protective arms slung around the smaller man. He kisses him gingerly on the forehead. Neither of them dreams that night, and when Jon wakes up the next morning with Martin’s hair in his mouth, he smiles.