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If Jon’s hands weren’t on the steering wheel, he’d be wringing them to numbness in his lap. He hadn’t really been thinking much about…well, anything, really, after bringing Martin back from the Lonely. They’d been on their way out of London within the hour, each with a suitcase, after stopping at their respective flats for as short of a time as possible. Jon had felt better once he’d returned with Martin, sure, but being back in the chaos of the Institute for even a few minutes was enough to set his heart pounding again as they dashed for Basira’s old car, the keyring she’d given him surely imprinting itself into the palm of his hand as he squeezed it. Keys in his left hand, Martin’s hand in his right. That was how he fled.
“You’ll be safe there,” Basira said, clipped, dropping the keys into Jon’s open palm. One, large and clunky, for a black sedan parked behind the Institute. Jon hadn’t even realized Basira had a personal vehicle. The other key, thin and delicate, was the only match for a lock almost six hundred miles away.
“You’re sure?” Jon asked, fingers trembling as they closed around his gift. Was six hundred miles far enough from the Eye?
“Jon, go get him, then leave,” Basira simply replied, turning back over her shoulder to look at him. Their eyes locked and her hard, severe expression was the opposite of his surely visible panic. “I’m sure.”
It wasn’t like Jon had any other options, anyways.
So now here he was, five hours into an eleven hour drive, sitting next to the man he loved after pulling him out of the physical manifestation of an isolation so strong it could make you forget who you were. Who your loved ones were.
They…hadn’t said much.
Partly to blame was some lingering trepidation Jon still harbored. Emotions had been running so high that day until suddenly they just weren’t, and where the hell were they even supposed to start? Hi Martin, Jon imagined saying, Thanks for agreeing to run away to Scotland with me for god knows how long while our evil boss searches for us. I know this probably isn’t ideal for you since I’ve let you self isolate for months now and I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me for that, but I’m glad we’re moving on! Oh and by the way, I’m in love with you.
Jon scowled at himself. Even if he wanted to say that – which he didn’t, they had a lot of time to go before they arrived at the safehouse, and he was sure he’d think of something at least a little bit better to say in the remaining six hours, thank you very much – Martin slept for the first three hours anyway. Jon didn’t blame him. Lord knows that’s exactly what he wanted to do, too, as soon as the adrenaline had worn off.
“You should let me drive soon, Jon.”
“Hm? Oh, r-right,” Jon mumbled. Probably. He should probably do that. He should probably also say something to Martin. Something…calming, some assurances that things would be okay or something like that. And then they could get to the…heavier stuff. Yes. That would be fine. That way, Jon could work himself up to it. He just had to say…literally anything else first.
“Did you mean what you said?” He blurted instead. Fuck.
“What I said?” Martin asked, voice quiet, airy.
Jon gulped. Fuck fuck fuck fuck — “What you–what you said, in the–”
“Yes. Christ. I know what I said. Sorry, I…just, sorry,” Martin gushed, and Jon saw his hands fly up to his face out of the corner of his eye. He heard a deep breath. And then: “I…um. I meant it. Yeah…yeah, I did.”
Martin’s hands dropped back onto his lap. He didn’t turn his head to look at Jon. Jon didn’t look at him either, though not for a lack of want. He was just. You know. Driving, and all that. And also utterly terrified, right down to his core, of what came next.
“Right,” He breathed. His heart was in his ears. He knew he didn’t deserve Martin’s love. He’d done nothing to earn it. He’d spent so much time treating him like gum under his shoe and then as soon as he realized that hey — he didn’t actually hate Martin, now did he? — he hardly had the time to make up for it. No, no — and this was something Jon had to accept — Jon didn’t make the time to make up for it. He’d left Martin alone. He’d taken those precious feelings that Martin had for him and completely neglected them; he dropped them and let them shatter into a million pieces on the scuffed wooden floors of the Archives. Wonderful, beautiful Martin. But god, if Jon was sure of anything in this strange, terrifying world: it was that Jon loved him now more than anything.
“If we’re having this conversation,” Martin started, finally shifting in his seat to face Jon, “then I’m going to need to hear…something more from you. Something more than ‘right.’ B-because Christ, Jon, I’m so bloody obvious about it. I care about you so much. Everyone else in the Archives knows. I-I’ve heard their comments on the tapes and I know you have too. There’s–there’s no way that you’re still that oblivious. Especially after…” A stuttering sigh. “The point is. I just need to know…how you feel. Because even if you don’t, I just — I don’t think there’s anyone else who would have followed me into the Lonely like that, Jon. That was so stupid of you. But, but you’re Jon! And you do things like that! Because you, you’re the Archivist now and you feel responsible for us and I just — I need you to tell me, Jon, if you only did it because you felt like you had to, because you feel guilty about letting me get…sucked in in the first place. Which that, that is not your fault, Jon, working with Peter was a decision I made on my own, and I don’t—”
Jon’s brain, which had been rendered completely useless by the tide of Martin’s words, finally clicked back on and he did the first thing he could think of.
He grabbed Martin’s hand.
Martin’s wild gestures and his words, both, froze.
“Martin,” Jon began. He had…no idea what he wanted to say. He’d never really let himself imagine a moment like this, to be completely honest. He thought he’d missed his chance. And he knew he deserved that. So…why let himself dream? Not like he was very capable of that these days, anyway.
“If you think that…t-that the only reason I followed you was because I, I…I had to…” And where was he going with that? What if Martin thought that? He’d be completely within his right to do so. Had Jon done anything to indicate his feelings towards Martin? No, he hadn’t, the bloody idiot that he was, because he thought he didn’t have the right. Because he’d decided to wallow in self-pity and throw himself into work instead. If he pretended the feelings just weren’t there, they couldn’t hurt him, right? “I’m sorry,” He eventually settled on. “I-I’m sorry that my actions have…given you that impression. However. I feel that it is…important, to let you know that…t-that is n-not the case.”
“...okay,” Martin breathed, the sound thick. Heavy. “So then…what is?”
He spared a glance toward the passenger seat only to see Martin’s cheeks were wet.
And that settled it. Jon could stand for a lot of things, apparently, but he could not, he would not, stand for letting Martin cry because of him. Fuck hiding — it was time for Jon to face this.
(If only he could have done it a bit more elegantly.)
“Y-you said that you, um, you loved me. I don’t – don’t know if those feelings are strictly in the past, or i-if you’d be willing to…to g-give me a chance now, lord knows I don’t deserve it but, um. For what it’s worth. I…I love you. And…that’s really all I was thinking when I went in after you. Just…that I love you. A-and I didn’t want you to go.”
Jon cringed. Good lord, is that really the best you can come up with? He thought, but he couldn’t get himself to speak again, paralyzed by the fear that such pure honesty spurred in him. Time seemed to freeze. It was only the faint sensation of the car’s tires hurtling across the road underneath them, the sight of the vehicle carrying them through the countryside, that convinced Jon that the world hadn’t stopped moving entirely. His knuckles were white where they gripped the steering wheel, and certainly where they squeezed Martin’s hand.
But then…Martin squeezed back, and the world roared back to life.
“Oh,” the other man breathed, and then he laughed, half-hysterical and teary as he slumped down in his seat and clutched at Jon’s hand with both of his own. He carried Jon’s hand to his chest and tucked it there, against his heart, like a prayer. “I…I love you too, Jon. I-I love you too.” Jon could hear his smile through the words, wide and toothy, as Jon began to laugh with him, and then he was risking more glances over, and for a glorious moment they laughed and smiled incredulously together, and the dangers of the Institute and the Fears seemed so far away they might never have existed at all. All Jon knew was Martin. Martin. Martin’s voice. Martin’s laugh. The feeling of Martin’s hand in his and Martin’s body sitting next to him, in Basira’s old sedan, as they drove to a secluded little house in the Scottish highlands together. And that was all Jon needed, really.
“S–sorry, sorry,” Martin stammered with a sniff as he righted himself in his seat. “It’s…it’s been a long day. Yeah.”
“You don’t – you don’t need to apologize, Martin. I – I know.” Jon squeezed his hand again, blessedly still being held. Martin nodded beside him and squeezed back.
A little while later they began passing road signs for a rest stop.
“Jon, stop there. Let me drive,” Martin insisted, again, though his voice was fond and laced with gentle concern. Jon’s heart, which he already felt was on the brink of overwhelm, fluttered just the slightest bit more.
Once situated in the driver’s seat, Martin hesitated before pulling out of the cramped parking lot of the rest stop. Biting down on his lip, his eyes met Jon’s as he nervously offered his hand.
No more running, no more hiding.
Jon took it without hesitation.