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Jon drives for ten hours out of London, and then…
Finally. Daisy’s safehouse, on the outskirts of a village outside of Inverness. The closest he and Martin can get to safety. The door creaks on its hinges and they leave footprints in the dust on the floor, but it’s still a breath of fresh air when they finally make it inside.
They unpack. Jon cleans. Martin sneaks down to the village, goes for supplies and to call Basira from the little payphone they passed on the way up here.
He comes ho— comes back just before dark, and then just like that they have all this time yawning open in front of them to just… Be.
Martin doesn’t eat dinner that night; he tells Jon he’s going to shower and go to sleep, and it’s a testament to his own exhaustion that he doesn’t even argue when Jon tells him to take the bed.
So Jon sits on the couch with a cup of too-bitter tea he made himself slowly going cold in his hands, and listens to Martin puttering around the back of the house. He doesn’t relax until he finally hears him go silent, asleep or at least playing at resting, leaving Jon alone with his own thoughts.
He stares down into his mug, sighing long and slow out through his nose, tracing his thumb up and down the cooling ceramic. It’s not Martin’s tea, and Jon has no right to be disappointed about that. He’s a grown man, he can make his own bloody tea.
Things are different, now. With Martin. What he needs, Jon thinks, is someone to look after him, and by god Jon is going to be that person. He spent so much time and effort pulling Jon out of his own self-destructive spirals, Jon owes him at least that much back. And more than that — it’s not about what he owes Martin. It’s not a debt, not a transaction. It’s about what he wants to do for him.
Jon wants, more fervently than he’s ever wanted anything, to be something steady and guiding to keep Martin anchored. He wants Martin to be okay.
He sags back against the sofa, staring up at the wooden beams crossing the ceiling, tracing dust motes with his eyes.
He just wishes he could be braver. He told Martin he needs him (true). He told Martin he wanted to do more than just survive (true again). He told Martin he’d bring him home (unsure— neither of them quite have a home anymore, but. But they’re out of the Lonely and safe, so… Half-points, he figures).
He didn’t tell Martin he loves him (the most true thing he can think of, right now).
He should’ve, before his brief, adrenaline-fueled grand gesture faded and fizzled to a confusing and exhausting flight to another country. Should’ve just said it right there in the Lonely, but—
But it would’ve felt less real, he thinks. Might’ve seemed like something he was saying just to get Martin to listen and come back with him instead of something he was saying because it’s true and he wants Martin to know it. Which it is, and he does, but…
He wants Martin to be able to hear it. Wants him to know Jon means it.
So Jon doesn’t follow Martin to bed, no matter how much he wants to. Doesn’t curl up beside him and wrap his bony arms around him, doesn’t tell him over and over how loved he is, how glad Jon is that he’s here, with him.
Instead he eats half a can of soup heated over the stove (it doesn’t feel right, cooking any of the fresh, lovely groceries Martin brought back with him without him here, too) and makes up the sofa with some ratty spare bedding from the hall closet.
Tomorrow, he tells himself, he’ll be braver. Even if Martin doesn’t want to be with him, he deserves to know he is loved, and Jon will give him that.
—
In the morning, Jon decides to make breakfast.
He waits until he hears signs of life from the back room, and gets a whole plan in his mind: preheats Daisy’s ancient oven, pulls out bacon and a bag of bagels and cracks some eggs into a bowl, and then— and then he stops. Remembers Martin hasn’t eaten anything since— Jon thinks back— god, it must’ve been that sandwich he bought at the Gregg’s in King’s Cross. Oh, lord, that was over 24 hours ago.
Jon sighs. Probably not the best idea to give him something so heavy first thing in the morning on such an empty stomach. He turns off the oven, reluctantly puts the bacon back in the fridge and the bagels back in the cupboard, and settles for scrambled eggs and tea. Maybe tomorrow he’ll be able to make something more involved. Or even tonight for dinner, if Martin’s up for it.
Even though he knows he heard the bedroom door open and close, heard Martin moving between the bathroom and his room, by the time the eggs are done Martin still hasn’t come out to join him.
Trying very hard not to let nerves overwhelm him, Jon dishes the eggs out onto two plates, fixes Martin’s tea the way he’s… almost sure Martin likes it, and heads back.
Awkwardly juggling two mugs and two plates, Jon manages to free up two knuckles to rap on the bedroom door.
No answer. Jon waits, shifts from foot to foot. Maybe he didn’t hear? Maybe he’s in the bathroom? (No, the bathroom door is right there, open, and the light is off.) Maybe he went back to sleep?
Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk to Jon right now.
Jon sticks his tongue between his teeth. Okay, he’ll… give it one more shot. And then he’ll let Martin avoid him in peace if he wants. It’s fine to want some space, right? It doesn’t have to mean Martin’s feeling Lonely again.
He knocks again, a little more persistent this time. “Martin?”
He hears movement. Faint, but it sounds like the rustling of sheets. And then, quietly, “Yeah?”
Jon relaxes, breathing out a quiet, relieved sigh. “C-can I, ah, may I come in?”
A brief pause. Jon holds his breath.
Then, “Sure.”
Jon pushes the door open. Across the room, on the bed, Martin pushes himself up, legs still tucked up under the covers, hair a mess and blinking slowly at Jon.
“Oh—” Jon falters— “S-sorry, did, uh… Did I wake you?”
“N-uh, no.” Martin undercuts the point by doing a poor job of hiding a yawn behind his hand. “I was up.”
Okay. Jon won’t push. He’ll worry, but he won’t push. Funny, he thinks, absently, how their roles have shifted. How he’s the one who gets to fret and fawn.
So Jon just smiles. “I, I made breakfast,” he says, crossing the threshold, feeling oddly fragile stepping into Martin’s space like this, even if it’s just a temporary shelter in a cramped murder cottage they’re hiding out in together. “Oh, erm.” He holds up the mugs. “A-and tea.”
Martin’s eyes slip to the mugs and plates balanced like awkward Jenga blocks in Jon’s arms. Very softly, so quiet Jon mightn’t have heard if he wasn’t so attuned to Martin right now, he says, “oh.”
“Yes, I, ah—” He rearranges things in his hands, puts one of the mugs and one of the plates down on the nightstand nearest Martin’s side of the bed. “I-I hope the tea is made right? I’m, I’m not sure if your tastes have changed since— uh. If you. If you still…”
Martin shrugs. Gingerly, he picks up the mug, inspects it like a paleontologist holding some rare, delicate find. “Kind of hard to mess up.”
“Don’t underestimate me.” Jon huffs. “A-anyway. I don’t know how you like your eggs. I always go in for a bit of hot sauce, myself, but… W-we don’t, er, t-there isn’t any, and I’m not sure— well. I hope just, ah, salt and pepper is okay? Or I can, can go get you something else, i-if—”
“Jon,” Martin cuts over him, and his voice, now, it’s different. Gentle, like it always has been, but unquestionably firm, in a way that’s new. More sure of itself, which Jon is secretly quite proud of, even if he hates the route he took to get there. “It’s fine.”
Jon stops talking abruptly, restrains himself from sighing in relief. “Alright. I-I’m glad.”
There’s a moment of silence. Martin sips his tea, and Jon tries not to stare, looks down into his own mug, sneaks a peak at Martin out through his eyelashes, but Martin’s not even looking at him anymore. Instead, his eyes are focused on a spot on the far wall. Or, no. That’s not right. He’s looking in the direction of the far wall, but it doesn’t seem like he’s focused on anything, his gaze gone vague and indistinct in a way that maybe frightens Jon more than it should.
It’s early, he tells himself, it doesn’t mean anything. Still, desperate to see anything else on Martin’s face, Jon clears his throat awkwardly, and Martin’s eyes snap back to him.
Martin blinks. “Are you just gonna stand there?”
Jon tries not to let that sting. “Ah, r-right, sorry, I didn’t mean— I’ll just—”
He turns to go, but at the last second two fingers catch the long sleeve of his sleep shirt. “No, wait. God, sorry. I-I was— I was genuinely asking. Y-you don’t have to. You can… You can stay, if you’d like.”
Jon would very much like. “Oh! Um. Y-yes, thank you.”
He moves slowly, steps up onto the bed and shuffles around delicately, trying not to disturb Martin too much as he settles back against the headboard, legs crossed, socked feet tucked up under his thighs for warmth.
Next to Martin, but not quite touching.
Jon eats slowly and quietly. Sips at his tea. Watches Martin out of the corner of his eye. He finishes the tea (an ego boost) but not the eggs (worrying), picking at them for ten minutes before he apparently gives up and sets the plate back down on the end table, only half-eaten.
Jon finishes his own breakfast and sets his dishes aside. There’s another night table on this side of the bed. Like a proper couple’s bed, Jon thinks, and then tries his level best to stop thinking entirely. He’s not sure if Martin wants to be a couple with him yet.
Or ever, really.
Okay. Change the subject. At the same time Jon says “so did you—” Martin starts in with “you— um, you didn’t—”
They both stop, two jaws click shut.
“Sorry, uh…” Jon gestures. “Go on?”
Martin frowns. Bites his lip. “Did you come in last night?”
Jon tilts his head, looks sideways at Martin. “Hm?”
“You slept on the sofa.”
“Well. You took the bed.”
“Y-yeah, I just…”
“Just?”
Martin shrugs. “Thought you might sleep in here, too.”
Oh. Jon feels suddenly lightheaded. “I didn’t realize I was, uh, a-allowed? To do that?”
“I don’t…” Martin frowns. His eyebrows, Jon notices, are peppered through with white, like frost. “It’s cold, sleeping in here alone.”
Before he even really registers he’s moving, Jon’s grabbing Martin’s arm like he’s the only thing stopping him from free-falling into nothing, like if he lets go Mike Crew will pop up and toss him back into an endless void.
“S-sorry.” He clears his throat. His grip, he becomes aware, might be tight enough to pinch, but. He can’t make himself let go. “Tonight I can— we can share?”
Martin nods. “Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
Feeling like a parrot, Jon nods. “Okay.”
Martin lets out a long, slow breath. He shifts, slowly, scooches down in bed, and gingerly lets his head come to rest on Jon’s shoulder. It feels like a gift. It feels like an offering. Jon has so thoroughly botched every little moment of connection Martin has tried to offer him over the years. He won’t ruin this one, too.
Willing his muscles to relax, he slips his hand from Martin’s arm down until he finds his hand, wraps his other around the back of Martin’s palm and squeezes as tenderly as he can. He stays put, tries not to move, doesn’t want to jostle Martin, make him think he has to move. When he finally works up the courage to turn his head enough to press a kiss to the crown of Martin’s head, he sees Martin’s eyes have slipped closed, and his lips are faintly parted, breathing deep.
He’s gone back to sleep.
Something soft and breakable as eggshells emerges and lodges firmly in Jon’s chest. He smiles almost deliriously to himself, wondering if maybe he’s finally managed to do something right.
—
Sometimes, Jon almost wishes for nightmares.
Well. He wishes for different ones, he supposes. He’s got plenty to choose from, an entire goddamn collection to rifle through each night.
It’s just that none of them belong to him.
So he’s not wanting for night terrors. It’s more that he wishes he could hate them the way people hate their own bad dreams. Which is kind of — okay, he does hate them, in a way. Hates the he gets them, at least. Hates that they don’t make him feel scared, hates that part of him that actually likes watching them, the monstrous part that never gets sick of replaying old recycled terror. The part that wakes up feeling… well fed.
But the part of him that is sharing a bed with Martin Blackwood almost wishes that he could wake up from these nightmares with cries of terror or tears or sweaty, thrashing limbs. Wishes, strangely, to be afraid of them himself, like any normal person would be.
Anyway.
Point being, when Jon wakes later that night to a full dark room and sheets cold beside him, his heart grips with fear. He just isn’t terrified of what he woke up from. Instead, the fear comes after Jon’s brain reorients to the waking world and he realizes that Martin’s gone and his side of the bed is ice-cold.
He jolts upright, fist clenching in the empty sheets, breathing sharply in and out through his nose. Jon tries to steady his suddenly-racing heart. He tells himself that there are plenty of perfectly mundane reasons for Martin to be up at night, that it’s normal for people to need to get up to pee or get a glass or water or just stretch and get some space. No need for a panic.
But the sheets are cold.
Not just ‘nobody’s been sleeping here for awhile’ cold, but cold-cold. And that sets off Jon’s internal alarm bells.
He fumbles with the lamp on the nightstand until it clicks on, chasing off the deep navy night, pushing himself clumsily out of bed. He blinks into the dull yellow glow as his eyes adjust, but the room, predictably, is empty.
Still, he tries anyway, with a shaky: “Martin?”
No answer. Okay, he expected that. He is not panicking. Martin just didn’t hear him. It’s fine. Jon makes for the hall, bumps his hip on the doorframe on the way by. Doesn’t matter, the bruise’ll be gone before it really has a chance to be born, he knows. Not human enough for it to last anymore, and anyway—
It doesn’t matter, because Martin is there, in the living room. At first, he thinks something must be wrong, the way Martin is hunched over, but the longer Jon looks, he realizes he’s just asleep. Slumped and curled over the arm of the couch like he didn’t mean to go to sleep there, arms curled up close over his stomach, glasses hanging off his nose. A mug of long-cold tea sits on the coffee table, lamp on in the corner. Something seizing in Jon’s throat, he stoops in front of Martin.
“Martin?” He murmurs gently, runs a hand gently through his hair. “Martin, this can’t be comfortable.”
Martin hums somewhere deep in his throat. His shoulder twitches, and he turns his face deeper into the sofa, but doesn’t wake.
Jon sighs. “Martin…”
He keeps carding his fingers back through Martin’s hair (longer than Jon’s ever seen it and streaked through with white), bringing his other hand to hold Martin’s cheek.
“C’mon, Martin,” he tries again, louder this time. “Wake up.”
Martin sucks a harsh breath in and finally blinks his eyes open, squinting blearily up into the light. “Jon?”
Jon can’t help it, he feels his face break out in a soft smile. “Hey.”
Martin pushes his glasses up and rubs at his eyes, groaning tiredly. “God, what… What time’s’t?”
“Late,” Jon tells him. “Early, technically, maybe? Uh…”
“Oh.” Martin readjusts, finds a spot that must be more comfortable. Jon is forced to drop his hand from his cheek, but he doesn’t stop playing with his hair. Martin swallows, clears his throat of sleep. “What’re you doing up?”
“I, I was hoping I might ask you that, actually.”
“Hmm, I dunno, I don’t think I can tell you why you’re awake now, sorry.”
Jon huffs. “Martin…”
He shuts his eyes again, trying to hide something like a smile. “I’m not a mind-reader, Jon.” The near-smile fades as quickly as it came. “Oh. I-I didn’t mean— er. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Jon waves him off. “But stop dodging the question. Why were you awake? Did something happen?”
“I was cold,” Martin recites, “and it scared me. I thought tea might warm me up.”
His jaw snaps shut, and he blinks, startled. And. Oh. Oh.
“Fuck.” Jon sucks in a breath, eyes going wide. “I-I’m so sorry, Martin, I— That was an accident, I swear I d-I didn’t—”
“It’s fine.” Finally, Martin sits up, and Jon is forced to reluctantly pull his hand out of his hair. “I mean— try not to, uh, t-to do that, but. Not a big deal, this time.”
“Okay.” Jon tries hard to believe him. Not to let guilt crumple him over. More importantly: “I would’ve kept you warm.”
Martin shrugs. “Didn’t wanna wake you.”
And it’s not because of guilt, but Jon still crumbles. He flops onto the sofa beside Martin, all but collapses into his side, throwing his arms tight around his stomach. “Please wake me,” he murmurs into Martin’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut. “Please. I want to keep you warm.”
For a long moment, Martin is so still Jon swears he must be holding his breath. And then: a tremor passes through him, something Jon feels in his bones, and he hunches over, curling in on himself, near-gasping. Jon just holds on tighter.
“Jon.”
“Please,” Jon repeats, nosing pathetically into Martin’s T-shirt.
Martin’s breath hitches, and he turns, drops his face into the crook of Jon’s shoulder, fingers twisting into the hem of Jon’s shirt. His nose is cold, and he’s shivering, but Jon’s always run a bit warm so he just holds Martin by the shoulders, pulling him into his chest.
He doesn’t usually get to be the one to do this; doesn’t often get the chance to hold someone like this, to wrap them up and keep them safe. That Martin is letting him now sets his heart fluttering on butterfly wings.
Turning to press his lips to Martin’s temple, Jon asks, “Will you come back to bed?”
Martin sighs heavily. “Yeah.” He nods against Jon’s neck. “Okay. Let’s go.”
So Jon takes Martin’s hand and leads him back to the bedroom, and when he slides back under the covers they’re the normal type of cold that comes from a late night vacancy. Martin follows after him, leaves his glasses tucked safely on the night table, hesitating as he looks down at Jon.
So Jon grabs his shirtsleeve and guides him down until Martin gets the message and curls into his side. Letting out a long, low breath, Martin melts against him, head on Jon’s bony chest, wrapping an arm around him and holding on. His hold is tight, like he’s afraid he might drift away otherwise, but that’s okay.
Jon is more than happy to anchor him here.
—
That evening, Jon tears into the groceries Martin brought him and cooks them both dinner.
It’s all a bit daunting, at first. The tiny Scottish country shop may not have all the options he’s used to back in London, but Jon’s a decent enough cook, so even what they do have gives him plenty of possibilities.
It’s just… been awhile since he was able to do something like this. To take care of someone in such a human way. To do something he likes for a person he loves. The Magnus Institute has swallowed everything simple and good in his life, but here, away from it all, he can have a small moment of that back. With Martin.
Martin, who hasn’t been cooked for since he was a child, who looks so shy Jon’s almost afraid he’ll spook him like a small bird when he brings over flatbread and rice and a hearty veggie stew to the table for them to share. They eat in their pajamas, a fire crackling softly in the next room, eventually migrating to the old sofa when the sun sets and it starts to get chilly in the kitchen.
When they finish eating, plates (much to the delight of Jon’s ego) clean, Martin sighs, shifts on the couch next to Jon. “Here.” He holds his hand out. “Gimme your plate, I’ll take it in.”
Jon frowns. “No.” Rather than hand over his plate, Jon makes a grab for Martin’s. “I can take care of it.”
Martin shakes his head. “You cooked, I’ll wash up. It’s just fair.”
“Alright, well… Do it later,” Jon insists, grabbing Martin’s arm to keep him from getting up.
Martin groans, like the idea of putting off an unpleasant chore is a great hardship to his person, but he relents. Lets Jon take his plate from his hand and set it on the end table with his own, settles back against the sofa.
He lets his head fall back against the cushions, looks over to Jon, expression going soft. “Thank you, by the way.” He nudges Jon’s shin with his socked toes. “That was really, really good.”
Jon preens like a peacock. Or, does the Jon version of preening, which on him looks more like a faint smile aimed down at his own hands. “I’m glad. I-I, um…” He clears his throat. “I’m glad, yes.”
Martin laughs quietly. “Right, tell me how you really feel.”
Jon’s cheeks heat. “I-I am, I… Uh.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly as he gathers his courage. He knows Martin likes it when he shares. He knows Martin sometimes needs to hear things, out loud, spoken clearly, even if he won’t admit it in as many words. “I enjoy the cooking. A-and I enjoy, erm. M-making you happy.”
Martin’s voice comes very soft. “Oh.”
Jon feels a smile tugging at his lips. “Now who’s having trouble expressing himself?”
“Ugh.” And then Martin turns, drops his head onto Jon’s shoulder, and wraps his arms around him with a quiet whine. “I really appreciate it, okay? Thank you.”
Jon’s heart swells with such a raw intensity he genuinely thinks he might go weak in the knees if he weren’t already sitting. With all the gentleness he can muster, he brings his own arms up to encircle Martin, to hold him close, lets his cheek fall down onto the crown of Martin’s head. “I’m happy to do it,” he murmurs softly, emphatically, “I’ll cook for you every night, if you let me. Because I love you.”
In his arms, Jon feels Martin go stiff all the way down his back, and tries very, very hard not to panic, swallowing down the sudden fear. It’s not like Martin didn’t know, right? After Jon barged into his office and begged him to elope and mutilate themselves together. After the Lonely. Certainly, it must be obvious, right?
Slowly, Martin pulls himself out of Jon’s embrace. Jon lets him go, although it hurts worse than any of his myriad scars to do it, to feel his arms empty again, to see Martin putting space between them.
“Martin?”
Martin opens his mouth, brows pinching. His eyes are… somewhere around Jon’s ribcage, which seems right since that’s about where Martin seems to live these days, anyway.
“Martin, is…” Jon stops, swallows down the words. He’d never forgive himself for Compelling Martin now. Not about this. “I’d like to know if I’ve said something wrong.”
There’s silence, and then—
“How can you be sure?”
“S-sure? Sure of…”
“You know.”
“N-no, I… N-not really?”
Martin looks down at his hands. “… Sure that you love me.”
Jon has to stop himself flinching. “What?”
“I just mean— H-how can you be sure this isn’t just the Eye making you think you—” He shakes his head. “You didn’t even like me before the coma.”
“What?” Jon doesn’t know whether to feel hurt for himself or for Martin. “O-of course I did.”
“N-not, I mean—” Martin laughs, entirely without humor. “Not… like that. Maybe we were sort-of friends, but…”
“Martin…” Jon has to take a minute to collect his thoughts; to try and find words. “How can you possibly think that?”
Martin’s voice trembles around the edges, barely there, but noticeable when you’re hung on his every syllable, his every inhale and exhale like they might unlock the secrets of the universe. “Am I wrong?”
“Yes.”
Martin looks up at him, finally, and something about the reproachful cautious swimming in his eyes yanks words from Jon just as powerfully as any Compulsion.
“O-of course I liked you before the coma. I loved you before the coma,” Jon tells him. “Maybe I wasn’t… Maybe I didn’t make that clear enough. Bu-but I did love you. I promise. This isn’t—” Jon tangles his fingers in his own hair, pulls tight enough to sting, something heavy and sick and desperate knotting itself around his stomach. “Martin, this is the only thing about me I’m one-hundred percent certain is entirely human. Please, I need you to believe that.”
He watches Martin’s eyes go wide, and then, alarmingly, watches them fill with tears until he blinks them closed and they spill over, tracing down his cheeks. He nods, once, slowly. “O-okay. Yeah, okay.”
“Okay?”
“I believe you.”
Jon’s entire body deflates. “Oh.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Jon tells him, because it is, now. As long as Martin knows that loving him is the one thing that keeps him clinging desperately to humanity. That he is the most human part of him. “I love you.”
Martin looks at him through damp lashes, smiling faintly, and lets his head fall forward lightly back onto Jon’s shoulder. “I— yeah. M-me too?”
The sun comes out in Jon’s chest, chasing away the linger clouds of distress. He pulls Martin closer into a hug, kisses his hair, his temple, even the top of his ear. Anything he can reach.
“Sorry,” Martin says again into Jon’s shoulder. “T-that was… kind of lame, wasn’t it?”
Jon huffs and somehow finds a way to hold Martin even tighter. “No.”
“Oh, come on.”
“It wasn’t!” Jon insists. “It’s…” He hums, wets his bottom lip with his tongue. “Y-you don’t have to say it just because I said it. I just wanted you to know.”
“Okay.” Martin’s hair tickles Jon’s neck when he nods. “Okay.”
Jon can’t help but feel relieved. He holds on even tighter for it.
—
There’s no real place for them to keep their clothes in the safehouse. No wardrobe. No dresser. There’s a closet in the bathroom, but no hangers, and the closet in the hall is already full of spare bedthings.
No, Jon and Martin are reduced to living out of their suitcases like they’re on holiday.
It’s not so bad, really. In the grand scheme of things, having to rifle through his bag for clean clothes after his shower the next morning is really not so different from living out of cardboard boxes shoved back in document storage like he’d been doing back in London. This time he even gets a big window basking him in midmorning sun and the sounds of Martin in the kitchen washing their morning tea out of used mugs as accompaniment.
He can’t help it: he smiles. A quiet, lovesick thing just for him.
He’s digging through his bag for a clean T-shirt when his fingers hit thick cardstock, and—
Oh.
Hesitantly, he pulls out a battered old folder, flips it open. It’s not much: just a handful of wrinkled statements he was able to grab and shove into his bag before he and Martin fled the Institute. It’s not enough, but Martin told him Basira promised to send more as soon as she can. And anyway…
Jon slumps back, sitting down right on the floor and flipping absently through papers. He gives the bedside table a quick glance, but the tape recorder he has stashed away in the drawer hasn’t manifested or turned itself on, is still hidden away and slumbering.
When Jon prods at the corners of his consciousness, he comes back with the conclusion that leaves him a little breathless: he isn’t Hungry. Not even a little bit! He’d forgotten the statements were even here, because the pull in the back of his mind that is normally ever-present and demanding like when he was 22-year-old and craving nicotine, has gone silent.
“Huh.”
Slowly, like he’s testing fate by even having them in his hand, Jon stuffs the statements back into the bottom of his bag. They’re there when he needs them, he tells himself, but for now, at least, he has Martin.
Martin, who’s stood at the sink when Jon finds him, still in his boxers and sleep shirt. Jon watches, charmed, for just a handful of seconds before he walks up to wrap his arms around his belly from behind.
“Oh. Hello.” Jon feels the vibrations of Martin’s laugh where his chest is pressed up to his back. “Trying to cop a feel there?”
“Mm. Perhaps.” And then he kind of has to, just cause Martin’s said, and he's not wearing his binder right now, and it has the added bonus of making Martin laugh again, louder and richer than before. “Problem with that?”
“Hm.” Jon feels the vibrations in his chest. “No, not really. Be my guest.”
“Thank you.” He gives them one more good squeeze, just to get another laugh, and then drops his hands back to Martin’s tummy, just sort of hugs him from behind, hides his face between his shoulder blades.
He shuts his eyes, takes one long, deep breath in, lets it out slowly. He feels Martin relax back into his arms, even as he turns the tap back on to finish the washing up.
Jon frowns, goes briefly onto tiptoe so he can hook his chin over Martin’s shoulder and look into the sink. “I would’ve done those.”
Martin shrugs, dislodging Jon and knocking him back down onto his feet. “I don’t mind.”
“You made the tea. It’s only fair.”
Martin huffs. “It’s just tea, Jon.”
“You said yourself! You wash up after I cook. This is no different!”
“Well.” Martin shuts the tap off, sets the last mug in the drying rack. He breaks out of Jon’s koala-like embrace to snag a dishtowel from the oven handle to dry his hands, turns around so he’s facing Jon. “Too late now.”
Jon frowns again. He takes the towel, sets it on the counter, replaces it with his own hands in Martin’s still slightly damp fingers. He steps in close, manually pulls Martin’s arms around the small of his back, then takes Martin’s face in his hands, stands up on his toes, and pulls him into a kiss.
“Next time,” he says, when the kiss breaks some minutes later, “let me clean the mugs.”
“I— God. Okay.” Martin shakes his head minutely, a shaky smile flickering across his face. “Sure. I-if you really want to that badly.”
“I do.”
“Right. Yeah.”
“Thank you.” Jon kisses him again. “I love you.”
“Sure. Love you, too,” he says, and then. Stops. Pulls back just a bit, eyes just a little rounder than before. “Oh.”
Jon finds that he’s smiling. Quite widely, it seems. “Oh.”
Martin answers with a smile of his own, shy and quiet, but colored with something that looks an awful lot like relief. He looks so soft around the edges, but not in the sinister way he’d looked in the Lonely. This time it’s like he’s got sunlight seeping out his pores, brightening the very room around them.
Almost sheepish, Martin looks down, takes Jon’s hands in his. “I-I think it’s my turn to shower now.”
“Sure.” Martin doesn’t normally shower in the mornings, prefers night showers, but Jon elects not to comment. To let Martin regroup, to let this bright molten thing settle quietly around them. “Have a good time.”
Martin squeezes Jon’s hands in his own. “I will.” And then he’s gone, the bathroom door closing down the hall.
Jon stares after him for a moment, caught in his wake, before he pulls out a chair at the table and settles into it, grinning like a fool.
He feels light, like a helium balloon in danger of floating away. He thinks he’s beginning to understand something, now. Thinking, oddly enough, about Georgie. About what she said to him: that he needs anchors. About a pile of tapes Martin set out to guide him home.
The unbearable heaviness of their lives is still there. There’s no way to pretend it isn’t, to pretend they’re normal. But here, with Martin, he feels, for the first time in months, like a person.
Martin looks at him and loves him and lets him do stupid human things like kiss him and argue with him about dishes. When neither one of them feels truly human, they hand each other these silly human rituals to keep them tethered.
For now, Jon thinks, it’s more than enough.