Work Text:
One more night, Jon decides the moment he steps through the front door. And then we’ll go.
He makes this decision subconsciously on the way home from the grocery store, fingers curled around the steering wheel, shooting glances at Martin’s figure in the passenger seat. The plan was to go sooner, but if there’s any genuine danger ready to befall them, Jon doesn’t Know about it, which is as good an indicator of safety as they’re going to get, in his books. And besides, Martin has been happy here so far, slowly settling into Jon’s house like the snowy white in his hair. (There’s so much more of it now. Spreading like tree roots.)
Giving up the goodness that they have – that they are finally sharing, on the same page at last – feels like the wrong decision to make. Wiping the warm look off Martin’s face feels like the wrong decision to make. Maybe it’s because now he knows what it feels like to do that. He doesn’t much like it.
They don’t really talk as they unpack the groceries. Once, Martin catches his eye, and Jon is expecting to see that lingering resentment, but he’s all curiosity and quirked lips. He’s holding a can of beans and a jar of bright red paprika. When he puts them down, they make soft clinks in the buzzing silence.
Finally, after everything is away in its respective place – at least, until they have to pack it up again – they get started on dinner. Jon rifles through a couple recipes on his phone, but they settle on possibly the most basic of choices in the end: pasta and red sauce. Boring, but practical. Jon could probably live on it if he really had to. He gets the water on the stove and tears the dry pasta out of its package. See? he tells himself. Easy.
Martin handles the red sauce in the pan next to him, much more at home than he was yesterday. Watching him, Jon realises that the faint red marks and scars all over his hands likely come from hours spent in the kitchen – hot water, the sizzle of frying pans, the harsh spit of oil. He stares for a second too long, trying to envision Martin in his own kitchen with an apron and steam-reddened cheeks. When he finally comes to his senses, the water is almost boiling over.
When his hand drags absentmindedly through his hair, Jon can see the grey and white multiplying in his fringe. It’s true: it kind of does look like an interesting dye job, if you squint from the right angle. Maybe that’s what Martin will think, too, and none of this will matter in the end.
“Martin,” Jon starts, fumbling with the pasta and the measuring cups.
“Hmm?” Martin says, clearly halfway into his own world. Jon is rather taken with him – his hands on the wooden spoon, the clink every time he sets down a bottle or jar. For a minute he feels bad for interrupting.
But… no. This is important.
“About earlier. At the shops.”
“The– Jon, we talked about it. I’m not angry because you accidentally made things slightly awkward.”
Oh. Oh, they’re talking about that now. Alright. Jon can do that.
“I know,” he mutters. “I just– Thought an explanation might be better than a bit of stammering?”
Martin laughs slightly at that, but he nods in Jon’s general direction. “Alright.”
Jon swallows. “I think,” he says, “it’s been a long time since I talked to people. People that aren’t… well, you, or Daisy or Basira or Melanie. You’re in that boat, too, and I don’t think it’s very good for either of us when it comes to–” he huffs, sort of amused, “normal interaction. I was never the best at it, even before. And I just… I didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”
“Jon,” Martin says, sounding tired and sympathetic in equal measure. “Jon.”
“I– Yes?”
“Seriously. It’s fine.”
Jon stares at his blurry reflection in the side of the saucepan. The light from behind him makes big, blobby shapes in its silvery curve. “Yeah,” he says, sounding in all honesty very unconvinced. He picks up the spoon again.
“Really.” The spoon is now lying rather limp in Martin’s hand, and he’s looking at Jon. Really looking at him. “I mean yeah, it wasn’t necessary, and she definitely looked at us weird after that, but… it’s fine. I– I bet she’s already forgotten. And anyways, we’re not.”
Jon, who is inspecting the softness of the pasta with the edge of the spoon, pauses. “Not what?”
“Dating,” Martin says simply.
“Oh,” Jon realises. “Right.”
Because– Yeah. Of course they aren’t.
-
“God,” Jon says as he sits down, his legs already tiring from the day’s walk. It’s been a long time since he did more than sit at a desk for hours every day. “I miss being able to cook.”
“You’ve just kind of got to ease back into it,” Martin explains, like he’s been exactly where Jon is. “You’ll get there sooner than you think, if you don’t overestimate yourself.”
Neither of them have bothered waiting for their meals to cool down. Nowadays there are more important things to worry about. “I s’pose so,” Jon muses, through a mouthful of sauce. “I guess it’s just weird not working all the time. I feel like I’ve got to… compensate for everything.”
Martin looks worried for a moment, but it smooths over quickly. “Well, that’s something to work on!” he says, sounding pleased with himself for having taken the optimistic route. “You’ll have much less to do for a while. I’m sure you’ll learn to make the most of it.”
“Mm,” Jon says quietly.
Then, “You ever feel like… you don’t know who you are outside of the Institute?”
He watches Martin’s brow crease. “Not… really?”
“No, I guess– I guess that makes sense. I’m sure it’s not a problem for everyone.”
“But it is for you?” Martin asks, sounding like he already knows the answer.
Jon pokes grimly at a piece of pasta on the side of his bowl. “Yeah. I mean, that’s what I get for working extra hours, huh?”
He tries to laugh, but it falls a bit flat when Martin doesn’t. When Jon looks up, Martin’s eyes are fixed very closely on him, big blue things, always so intent on seeing right through him. Jon swallows the urge to say something stupid, or worse yet, ask it.
“What?” he says instead, which isn’t not stupid, but… well.
“Nothing,” Martin says, and then he sighs. “You just… you’re so different now.”
“Am I?” Jon asks warily.
Really, he knows. It’s an ugly feeling to hear it from Martin, is all.
“Sorry, that came out wrong. I don’t mean it badly. I mean you just… lost a lot of yourself, after everything went to hell. All of it went into– into statements and things. Nothing you could really get to know. I almost wish,” it’s Martin’s turn to laugh now, and he does, sort of sadly, “I almost wish you still hated me.”
“Hey,” Jon says immediately. “I didn’t hate you.”
“Not the point,” Martin dismisses. “The point is, Jon, you need a break. I don’t know if it’s… I don’t know how long it’s been.”
Jon sets his fork down with a soft clatter.
“I know,” he hears himself admit. “Yeah. I know.”
“So, now that we’re here…”
“I take one,” Jon says reluctantly, “yes, I understand. And it has to be a real one. As soon as we get to the safehouse, I promise.”
“Good,” Martin replies insistently. “I’m going to hold you to that, okay? I know we’re still going to have to do things– stay in contact with the Institute, and all that, but– that doesn’t mean you have to shoulder all of it.”
Jon nods mutely and takes another bite of pasta to avoid speaking. Doesn’t Martin know, it’s rude to talk with your mouth full.
“You know I worry about you,” Martin says quietly. He’s staring into his bowl like it’s going to tell him what to do. “Don’t you?”
“Martin,” Jon begins, an untraceable thread of fondness in his voice. “You think I didn’t notice all those interviews about my health, after Jane Prentiss–”
“That's not the point–”
“The point is that I know, Martin. Of course I do.”
“Alright,” Martin says quietly. And then, sounding quite frankly offended, “And I was not interviewing you. I’ll have you know that if I didn’t do it, nobody else would’ve dragged you out of that damn office.”
“Yes, yes,” Jon says, grinning. “No, you’re right. It was sort of nice, anyways.”
Martin hums. He looks deep in thought, now, and more than ever Jon wants to ask what’s on his mind, if he’s allowed to share the sentiment. He thinks if he tried hard enough, he could Know it, maybe– but he can't make himself. It doesn't feel fair.
They leave the butter and salt and pepper on the table in favour of clearing up their dishes, placing them in the sink together. Neither of them talk about it when Martin’s hand brushes over the small of Jon’s back, as he washes the sauce out of his bowl. Neither of them talk about it when their shoulders press together.
Jon wonders how long it will take for this to become natural; if his heart will ever stop doing a little jump every time Martin touches him. At this rate, he’s going to be having mini heart attacks forever.
Martin looks down at him as they leave the sink behind, but instead of pulling away to clear the table, he just blinks. Jon wonders for a moment if he’s going to say something large and earth-shattering, but instead he tilts his head like a particularly interested dog and frowns, slightly.
“Um,” he says, “you’ve got a little bit of stuff. There.”
He points… somewhere at Jon’s face. Jon stares at him.
“What?” he puzzles. “And where?”
“Sauce,” Martin says, as if it was obvious. “Just– kind of, on the corner of your mouth, there.”
Perplexed, Jon wipes at his mouth, but ends up choosing the wrong side, judging by Martin’s sigh. Then he tries the other one, but misses the exact spot, and then he’s not sure what he’s meant to be doing at all. “Er,” he says. “Sorry?”
He thinks he sees Martin’s eyes roll, briefly. But his voice is soft when he says, “Look, here,” and Jon can’t really harbour any resentment towards him if he’s going to speak like that.
He lifts his hand to Jon’s mouth and thumbs something away from it, the blunt tip of his nail brushing over Jon’s lip. Despite his apparent irritation, he’s gentle about it. For a moment, Martin’s hand just rests there, on his face.
Stupidly, all Jon can think of to say is, “Ah. Thank– Thank you.”
Martin nods absently, and Jon swears he’s gone a little bit red, unless he’s just imagining things through rose-coloured glasses. By the time his hand falls away, Jon is only certain of one thing and it’s that his own face is burning. Yeah, he’s never getting used to it. Christ.
“We should probably wash up,” he mutters. It’s the first thing his brain latches onto. “And finish packing.”
“Right,” Martin says, still not moving, and then, “right! Yes. Okay. Do you want me to handle the dishes?”
“That would be great,” Jon finds himself saying, even though his first instinct is to share the workload. “Thank you, Martin, I’ll– I’ll get our stuff together.”
-
Stupid, really. Jon is currently resisting the very strong urge to bang his head into the wall. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Their bags are finally packed, the remainder of the food they’ll be taking down to the safehouse stored away and ready for transportation. Jon is in a considerably less organised state; he is sitting with his head between his knees, his fingers curled into his hair to have something to hold onto. Martin went to bed an hour ago. He feels… very strange. Deep in the pit of his stomach, all the way up to his chest, like vines spreading from a spot he can’t seem to fully unroot. Stupid.
Jon isn’t clueless. He knows how to put two and two together, he knows what strange feelings are – and thinking back on it all, this isn’t the first time he’s thought things about Martin that he doesn’t think about other people. It’s just… well. He hasn’t usually gone to hell and back for the object of his affection. The object of his affection usually hasn’t gone there, either.
It complicates things; the fact that they’re always running, that they haven’t had time to talk about everything yet because there’s so much to do before they get to that point. And maybe if they had talked about it, Jon would have an exact, specific word for all the things he wants right now, from Martin and from himself and from the gap between them that he’d like to somehow close.
That’s just it though. They aren’t there. Maybe never will be. Martin said I really loved you, and never corrected himself, and Jon dug his teeth into his own tongue. Who is he, Martin’s coworker-turned-maybe-friend, to do the correcting for him?
-
If they were closer, Jon might know these things about Martin: his go-to breakfast, whether he showers hot or cold or morning or night, his exact sleeping position and how much he dreams. Instead he is sitting in the kitchen, tapping the rim of his coffee cup, listening to the shower run a couple rooms over. It’s early enough that the leftover cold has not quite relinquished its grip on his flat, and Jon is still in his socks and the sweatshirt he never quite grew into. His knuckles are outlined sharp and unfriendly against the porcelain.
The shower turns off, leaving only the gentle tick-tock of the analog clock somewhere above the doorway. Jon listens to the faint sound of his curtain being pulled aside, listens to the shuffle of feet against cold tile.
It’s a strange thing to share his house with another person. To hear doors shutting and footsteps creaking on floorboards, or see lights on in other rooms at night; Martin’s silhouette in the living room, in the kitchen, his shadow passing Jon’s door and then disappearing. Jon hasn’t lived with someone since Georgie — hasn’t really had an excuse to be at home or a person to be at home with. The Institute was home for a while, his flat gone silent and dusty with neglect. Maybe this whole time it was just… loneliness. Maybe that’s why.
Jon tries very hard not to think about it. He takes a large mouthful of coffee and burns his tongue on purpose.
Somewhere nearby, the bathroom door opens and then shuts.
Martin appears in the kitchen doorway barely a minute later, his sweater slightly rumpled, hair hastily brushed. His round glasses reflect the dim light above his head, the morning light in the window, the absence of light in the hall behind him.
“Morning, Jon,” he says. Voice still thick with sleep, eyes tired, he looks how Jon feels. Perpetually half-there, half somewhere-else. “Sleep well?”
He runs his fingers through his fringe and Jon follows them up, up into the web of white that spreads now from the front to the back, through the little wispy bits at the sides. It’s all mottled. Worse, again, than yesterday.
“Hi, Martin,” he says absently, pulling out the stool next to him without really thinking about it. “Yeah, uh— alright. Better than usual.”
Martin takes the seat without saying anything. His hands drum on the countertop, wrists lying gently against the edge.
“Cold in the mornings, isn’t it?” he remarks, as if just noticing it.
“Oh,” Jon says, still half distracted by… something. What exactly, he doesn’t know. “Yeah.”
Oh, yeah. Stupid, pointless thing to say. Just… his mouth doesn’t obey his brain, around Martin.
“Do you want me to make something?” Martin asks, nudging his arm with an elbow. “Might, uh… help with the chills.”
Jon glances down at his coffee cup and almost says yes anyways, except that’s more dishes to wash later and he can’t be bothered to do them all. “No, I’m alright.” A bit too late, he adds, “Thank you, though, Martin. Really.”
It’s not meant to come out the way it does, all pent-up affection and things left unsaid too long. A thank you more like an I’m sorry for all the time we wasted not being together, please forgive me.
“That…” Martin says, smiling in that concerned, amused way he does when he’s not sure if something’s wrong. “Are you alright? That, really didn’t sound like you were thanking me for the tea.”
Martin notices everything, Jon has come to realise. He’s not sure if it is a comforting thought.
“I’m fine,” he says. “I think I’ve just, er. Missed this.”
“S-sorry,” Martin says, “missed what, exactly?”
“Right. Um. Having… someone?” The moment the words leave him he cringes, wills himself to not look at Martin’s face in case he’s laughing. “God, no, ignore me. Sounds stupid when I put it that way. I’ve just been, kind of, living alone for a long time. And—”
“No,” Martin says, “no, I get it.”
Jon chances a look at him. He’s not laughing. There is something like a smile on his face, but it’s a small thing. A sad resignation. Jon knows what that is.
“You do, don’t you,” he mutters.
“So— don’t feel like you can’t talk about it? I guess? Because it would be stupid of me to not empathize, or turn you away, or. Anything.” All too casually, he gestures at his hair, the pale colours making their home there, the remaining patches of warm brown. “Of course I get it.”
Jon blinks.
“Anyways,” Martin says, before Jon can speak. “You’re welcome, I think? You know, I’ve… I’ve missed it too. A lot.”
“Alright,” Jon breathes. His own voice sounds distant. He should probably look away from Martin, but he can’t quite. It’s like he’s forgotten how to. “..Alright.”
Martin clears his throat. “I’m going to make tea.”
He gets up and directs himself toward the kettle, the tap, the box of spare teabags. Jon doesn’t even have to tell him where they are anymore — he’s used to it, now, the layout of things. Jon watches him set out his own mug and spoon, pull the milk from the refrigerator and the sugar from the cupboard, and has the terribly rash urge to spill every compliment that has entered his brain in the past five minutes.
Instead, he just says, “Martin.”
Martin turns from the stove. “Mm?”
“I, um… your hair. I’m sorry for not— I should have said something.”
He watches Martin’s face shift from neutral to puzzled to entirely lost to— Jon doesn’t know what that is. “Jon,” he says gently. “Did you think I didn’t know?”
“I… assumed you found out this morning?”
That one, Jon knows. Amusement, pink-cheeked and tinged with something sad again. Does Martin always look this sad, nowadays?
“Oh,” he says, quieter than before. “No, I’ve… It’s really not your fault. You don’t have to, like, horribly break the news to me.” Belatedly, he adds, “I— I kind of expected it. Anyways.”
God, Jon thinks.
“Martin,” he says again. His tongue feels slightly glued to the roof of his mouth.
“Uh. Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I told you, it’s—”
“No, no, I mean, I’m sorry. Not that it looks bad— it doesn’t, it looks fine. It’s just… aren’t you upset?”
Martin appears to think about this for a very long time. Then, he says, “Yeah. Think so.”
He’s pouring his tea when Jon looks at him next. He doesn’t seem upset, nothing furrowing his eyebrows or tensing his shoulders. Maybe it’s just hard to tell from a distance.
“Jon?” he says.
“Yes?”
“Would you have told me?”
Jon pauses. “I… Think so,” he says. “I’d feel bad just letting you find out.”
Martin brings over his tea. Jon thinks it might be Earl Grey, and he Knows it’s Martin’s favourite. “Isn’t that what you did?” he says casually. He sets it down on the counter. He… doesn’t sound angry.
“If you’re upset at me,” Jon says, anyway. “I—”
“No, I’m not.” He’s not quite looking at Jon. “I guess I just wondered.”
“Martin—”
“It’s okay,” he says. Does he mean it? His fingers are drumming against the rim of his mug. “This is just… how things are now.”
“Yes,” Jon says, feeling his own frustration begin to creep out, “and you don’t have to like it.”
Sounding genuinely perplexed, Martin says, “No?”
“No,” Jon presses. “You can be as angry, or as upset, or as scared as you want.”
“And—” Martin inhales. He sounds like he’s trying to force himself to say something. “What if I don’t?”
Jon tries to catch his eye. He looks smaller than usual, sat up at Jon’s countertop, talking about things he shouldn’t have to. It should be enough, the fact that it happened. It isn’t.
“What do you mean?”
Martin’s voice comes out odd. Not quite congested, somewhere deeper in his throat than normal. “What if I don’t… Feel anything?” he says quietly. “At all?”
“Then,” Jon says, and the realisation bleeds through his voice even when he tries to keep it out, “that’s okay, too.”
He should have guessed. Should have anticipated that Martin wouldn’t be tearing himself to shreds or breaking mirrors. Just… still. Quiet. God, he deserves a bit of anger and self-righteousness after all this. Just a little bit.
“I don’t like it, Jon,” he mutters doubtfully. “I really wish I was angry. I— I do. I don’t know why I’m not.”
He might look scared, now. Jon can’t tell what it is. Neither of them can. “I don’t know if I’m going to start crying, or if I’m never going to cry again. Ever. I don’t know.”
“Martin,” Jon says. He reaches out, not really sure what he’s going to do until his hand makes contact with Martin’s shoulder.
He sees Martin shrink into himself. Sees that old withdrawal in his eyes. The Lonely’s really got you, hasn’t it? You know, I think it always did.
“Don’t,” Martin says quite suddenly, and he doesn’t pull away, just looks at him. “Don’t be sorry for me.”
“I wasn’t about—”
“You were. It’s okay. I know you, Jon.”
Jon takes a deep breath. His lungs feel tight in his chest.
“Alright,” he says, “okay.”
Tentatively, he pulls Martin into him. Martin hesitates but does not pull away, and after a minute it becomes a hug, nervous where their arms meet and their knees bump together between stools but still, a hug, at the end of it. Martin’s head drops onto his shoulder and stays there, and Jon rests his hand on the back of Martin’s neck.
He doesn’t think he’s ever hugged him.
“These last few days,” Martin murmurs. “They’ve been really good. I really am trying to keep it that way.”
“We’ll leave, soon,” Jon responds, feeling his hand trail up through Martin’s hair as if on autopilot. “We have time. When we get there, we can work on it.”
“I— yeah. Okay.”
“Do you—”
“I love you,” Martin says, very quietly. “I missed you.”
“Oh,” Jon breathes. Everything from last night and the past three years comes rushing back to him. He does not quite remember how breathing works.
“Yeah,” he says. I love you too, I wish I’d known you earlier, do you understand, do I need to tell you. “Yeah.”
Suddenly, there is something very tight in his chest that suddenly won’t stop pulling.
-
They don’t talk much, while cleaning up. The atmosphere shifts somehow and Martin’s chirpiness returns to him, although Jon isn’t entirely sure if he’s being sincere about it, or just playing it up because it’s easy. He doesn’t ask. They’re leaving soon and he can ask then.
Everything is mostly packed and has been for a while, thanks to Jon’s haste to get it all together the night Martin arrived — and this leaves only the finer details of the house to tidy up. The blinds and curtains closed, the dishes all washed and dried, the bathroom towels folded and the counter wiped clean. Martin knocks a stack of old pillows out of the closet when he tries to put away the ones he’s been using, and he laughs through the embarrassment, and Jon wants to hold him so tightly that he forgets what it is like to be lonely. Instead he assures Martin it’s okay and they put them back together.
It’s when they’re making Jon’s bed together, the last goodbye to his little flat for quite some time now, that he says it. Martin is straightening the covers around the edges, a soft look of dedication on his face, the light streaming in slats through the blinds. Jon is watching him over a pillowcase he’s attempting to zip up, narrowing his eyes in annoyance when the zipper gets stuck. God, he’s going to miss this.
He hadn’t thought so, leaving his flat ages ago for the Institute and rarely ever returning to it. But now there’s Martin, chewing on his lip as he folds up Jon’s throw blanket — green, bought for him by Sasha back when they still did things like being friends. Home being where the heart is doesn’t quite seem so bad.
He glances at Martin over his pillowcase, wiggling the zipper around and finally managing to drag it into place. Martin looks up at him through round glasses, ones he hasn’t changed since Jon met him, and Jon says, casually, without really meaning to, “I love you, too.”
Martin’s cheeks go pink. Jon likes watching his reactions, likes the look in his eyes when he’s caught off guard, likes watching him try to figure out what to do with his hands. “Jon,” he says quietly.
“Mhm?”
He doesn’t miss the small smile. He doesn’t miss Martin’s small breath of relieved laughter. He wants to ask about the relief, but deep down he knows without needing to Know what it means.
So this is how it is, then. Martin has hollowed out a little home in Jon's heart and left all the lights on, even in the dead of night. There's a word for that. Jon can't remember what it is so he just focuses very hard on straightening the edge of the blanket and imagines this will last forever, or for long enough that forever doesn't matter anymore. Forever or for the rest of this moment. They can make it last. If they choose to. They're good at that, the both of them.