Archive of Our Own

“It’s quite … stark, isn’t it? For a wedding invitation. No curly bits or fancy borders or anything.”

Martin handed it back and Jon smiled as their fingers brushed (which, naturally, meant that their lips had to brush too, in the interests of fairness). He took a quiet moment to appreciate this new, giddy sensation of belonging to each other, which had lasted, somehow, for three heady weeks, without Martin realising what a mistake he was making.

“Curly bits and fancy borders have never been quite Gertrude’s style.”

Jon tapped the square of plain card against the table a moment, considering. Part of him - the petty, resentful part, which he wasn’t proud of, but which throbbed within him, nonetheless, like an unpopped pimple - was considering just recycling the thing and ignoring it entirely, avoiding the whole emotional trainwreck it would surely end up being.

But he knew he’d feel guilty afterwards. And there was another part of him, small and despised, which leapt a little, like a puppy, at being invited. It didn’t really mean anything, he knew, except that Gertrude liked to do things properly; but he was … relieved was perhaps the closest emotion, with a touch of rather pathetic surprise, that he hadn’t just been overlooked entirely.

“Wait, wait … this isn’t the Gertrude Robinson, is it? Dr ‘Ice Cold in Oxford’?”

“I strongly suggest you don’t address her as such at the wedding, but … yes. That would be the one.”

“Oh! You want me to come to the wedding with you?”

Jon’s heart kicked him, hard, and, of course Martin wouldn’t want to come to the wedding with him, it was a whole three months away and by that time they probably wouldn’t even be speaking …

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed —”

“I should probably get a new suit, my old one’s a little … well, funereal …”

They broke off and stared at each other.

“You … you don’t mind? Coming to the wedding with me?”

Martin looked at him, opened his mouth and then closed it and looked at him again. He leaned in and gently kissed Jon, so softly that it felt like a tiny hug for his lips.

“I would love to come to the wedding with you.” He kissed Jon again. “And now I’d really better stop kissing you and get into work, before I get fired. The new boss is apparently kind of a jerk about that sort of thing.”

“Right. Because most bosses would just be perfectly fine with the excuse that you were late because of an emergency kiss delivery.”

“Exactly. It’s wholly unreasonable not to be.”

Martin offered up one more kiss, regardless - a light forehead special, with the gracenote of a loving hand to the cheek - and sprinted off to catch the bus to the library. Jon smiled at the air - it was good air, marvellous air, which deserved praise - and then began gathering his research materials together. He didn’t have to lecture today until the afternoon, which gave him several hours to devote to his second book, on some lesser known aspects of local history.

He’d sent a copy of his first book to Gertrude; who hadn’t responded. Honestly, he didn’t know why he’d thought she would.

Still. Adelard Dekker, huh? On reflection, they did seem a good match.

Jon genuinely hoped they’d be happy.

Jon had been making regular visits to the library for only a few weeks before Martin realised he had developed the sort of crush which was so vast, it could have savaged all of his previous crushes and swallowed them whole.

Because this wasn’t the first time he’d done that ‘worship from afar’ thing - he’d never been like his friends Sasha and Tim, who just went and talked to people they were interested in, as if the world wouldn’t cave in on them if they received that particular look, in response, the one which suggested that the idea of Martin, of all people, thinking they could possibly be interested in him, was just the funniest thing in the world.

But Jon was different. It wasn’t only his appearance - appealing though it was. There was something about his intensity; his voice, so soft and rich and compelling; his slightly formal way of speaking, as if he kept wandering verbally into another century. Then there was that time when Martin had asked him an offhand question and received a response which took half an hour: such suddenly engaged excitement, from the usually reserved man, taking Martin entirely by surprise and snatching his heart right out of his chest.

But it was his moments of awkwardness which really settled into Martin and made him feel like maybe there wasn’t such a giant gulf between them after all. And it was the spider incident which had set the seal on it all.

Jon hadn’t screamed or fussed when the spider wandered over his books and came up to peer at his notes, in a companionable fashion. He’d just frozen, so quietly and undramatically, that Martin hadn’t realised at first that he wasn’t just studying the spider with as much interest as Martin, himself, would have done; trying to determine the species and possibly having a small, playful conversation about spinnerets.

Well, monologue, obviously. Spiders had many excellent qualities, but they weren’t exactly known for their sparkling conversation.

It was only after a long moment, that Martin realised that Jon was trying to make himself small - well, even smaller - and that, oh, maybe he wasn’t so much fascinated by the spider as utterly incapable of movement, lest it launch itself at him, in a terrifying onslaught of legs.

It was easy enough to just casually stroll over and scoop up the creature, softly congratulating it on its cute little scurrying ways and general fly-exterminating prowess, as he removed it to another room.

When he returned, Jon looked a lot better; if a little embarrassed. Martin expected him to just ignore the incident, but he coughed and looked up, just as Martin was leaving.

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. You know, spiders are actually an interest of mine, they’re really incredibly useful and —”

“I’m sure they are. But, I happen to be extremely allergic to them and … well. I appreciate it.”

Jon had never smiled at Martin before - he had that sort of face on which a smile comes as a complete, yet delightful, surprise, like Buster Keaton breaking character - and, if Martin hadn’t been already in far too deep, this would have pushed him down, down, down, to the hadal depths of infatuation.

“Do you want to get a drink with me sometime?” The words had burst out of Martin unbidden, his treacherous longings making a wild break for freedom and basking in the sunlight for a moment, before panic and regret pounced on them and tried to wrestle them back inside. “Er, I mean … I’m sure you wouldn’t …”

“That would be very pleasant. When would be a good time for you?”

And just like that, Martin had a date; and then a boyfriend; and now, quite ridiculously, an invitation to the most notorious wedding of the year.

It had turned out that Adelard Dekker was nearly as well known as Dr Robinson, though not in the field of science, but the sort of journalism which took one to remote places and into war zones and left you with multiple scars and even more enemies. What wasn’t common knowledge, was that Gertrude had accompanied him, on several occasions, and had a fair amount of adventure herself, over the years: as well as aroused a certain amount of controversy, which had been mostly buried, but still poked up a little, around the edges of any intensive research.

“Oh yes, Gertrude has definitely had quite the life.” There was an air of reserve to that, and possibly some slight bitterness which Martin really wanted to explore, but held back. Jon had been cagy about the reasons he knew Gertrude Robinson - of all people - well enough for a wedding invite, and Martin was trying to let him open up gradually and in his own time.

Which might never happen, of course. Jon wasn’t good at admitting he had feelings at all, let alone exploring them. Especially when he thought those feelings might be a burden to others. It was one of Jon’s things, that he would assume himself to be annoying if he talked for any length of time, or let you know if he was hurt either emotionally or physically, and Martin both ached for him and wanted to yell at him that, of course, he was allowed to lean on other people sometimes; on Martin specifically, in fact; and no, he didn’t have to drag himself slowly and painfully to A & E, when he got mugged and actually stabbed - requiring five stitches - because he didn’t want to bother anyone.

But then, Martin was being a little hypocritical there, wasn’t he? Because he was far better at taking care of other people than he was of thinking of himself, as Tim and Sasha had pointed out, when he’d let out some of his Jon-related frustrations to them. His mother had become somewhat exacting and even verbally abusive, as the illness, and her bitterness over Martin’s father’s desertion, had crept further and further inside her and poisoned every part of her life, but she had still been his mum and he had done his best, because how could he not?

And that had been his life for so long, that it was hard to remember that he might possibly put himself first, on occasion.

Well, he was working on that. And Jon had promised to try and be a little more forthcoming. But Gertrude was clearly a prickly subject, so … baby steps.

Whatever Jon’s issues with Gertrude, he had gone to some pains to get her a thoughtful present, rather than the usual toast rack or set of wine glasses.

“Gertrude is not generally a fan of the impractical, but … she does like to spoil her cats.”

Jon had smiled softly at this, as if he very much approved, and Martin wondered, not for the first time, why he didn’t have a cat of his own, when he was clearly so besotted with them.

But then, knowing Jon, it was work-related. Between his writing and his university work, he could get worryingly lost in it, at times; though he was clearly trying really hard to be a good boyfriend and be there for Martin, even if it required giving up precious ‘staring at a book until your eyes bleed’ time.

He’d even gone to a couple of Martin’s poetry slams and been very supportive, despite not appreciating poetry in general.

“But I appreciate you, Martin, and this is something you clearly care about. I enjoy watching you come alive like that. It would not be too much to suggest that you … sparkle.”

“I … what? Sparkle?!”

“Yes, Martin, I would say that sparkle is the appropriate word. And I’m accepting no rebuttals on the subject.”

There had been a good few kisses for Jon after that.

They had had the conversation about asexuality and boundaries early on and established that, while Jon had no interest in sex, he more than appreciated other sorts of touch, when it came from someone he cared about: the sort of gentle, affectionate hand-holding, cuddles and soft kisses that Martin was delighted to share with him; to give him all day and every day if that were only possible.

Unfortunately, other things tended to get in the way of this noble ambition. Such as weddings, for example.

The one which Jon was very visibly considering running away from.

“Jon? Are you okay?”

“I … yes. I’m fine. Everything’s fine, Martin.”

Everything was clearly not fine, but they were going to be late, so Martin let it go for now.

The ceremony itself went off swiftly and without incident. It was a small service and Gertrude and Adelard had both eschewed the usual fancy wedding clothes for neat, practical everyday wear. They got through their vows briskly and without visible emotion; though Martin fancied that the kiss held at least some affection.

The reception was far more daunting.

They walked in, past the sea of photographers and a number of far more exciting guests - a couple of film stars, some politicians and a notorious endocrinologist, whom, according to rumour, had actually … (though Martin didn’t believe it for a moment, of course) - which dazzling luminaries thankfully took all the attention away from them: a mere pair of nobodys in second-hand suits.

Inside, there were more and more celebrated faces, everywhere you turned. Singers, activists, even minor royalty. Or less minor.

“Oh my god, is that really …”

“Indeed. I believe that he and Gertrude met at some ceremony or other and bonded over their mutual love of plastic explosives.”

“Oh. Well … okay then.”

Martin tried to blend in with the small crowd of slightly less distracting guests, gulping his champagne and then immediately regretting it when his glass was refilled by an apparently magical waiter who had appeared expressly for the purpose. If he went on like that, he’d be drunk before the ‘I Will’s, end up doing something incredibly stupid, and Jon would never speak to him again.

Which idea was so distressing that Martin downed his whole glass again out of sheer nerves and had it refilled just as swiftly. He carefully put it down on the nearest clear surface, so that this cycle would not continue, and settled into alternating watching the crowds, with a little friendly chat with his neighbours, while Jon made the most uncomfortable attempts at small talk in human history.

Then he spotted someone else he recognised.

“Hey! Jon! Isn’t that the really wealthy book collector, the one whose librarians kept having mysterious accidents and there was all this scandal about it? Leitner or something?”

He hadn’t actually been convicted of anything, but no one had wanted to work with him after the rumours got around and he’d disappeared from public view for over a decade. Martin was surprised to see him here.

Apparently not nearly as surprised as Jon, though, who stopped completely still for a moment, as if hit in the face with a frozen mackerel; and then strode over to him.

“Gertrude actually invited you?”

“Trust me, Jonathan, I was as surprised as you are. I nearly didn’t come, but … well. I don’t get out much nowadays and no one’s likely to take much of an interest in me here, not with this sort of competition.”

They stared stiffly at each other, the air so full of tension that Martin almost wanted to throw himself at it, to see if he bounced.

“So … how have you been?”

Martin thought that Jon muttered something like ‘as if you actually care’ under his breath, before sighing and squaring his shoulders.

“Fine. Thank you. And yourself?”

“Oh, I suppose I can’t complain. Truth be told, the quiet life actually suits me. I’ve rather lost my appetite for fame and attention, these days.”

Leitner turned to Martin and gave him a quick look up and down. Martin felt like his value was being assessed and prised out of him and he didn’t know whether to bristle or wilt.

“And who is this rather … sizeable young man?”

Martin flushed and opted for wilting; looking down and instinctively hunching inwards as if to persuade the universe that he was hardly taking up any space, honestly; but Jon stepped forward and firmly took his hand.

“This is Martin. He’s the best thing in my life. And if you have anything to say about that, you’re about twenty years too late for me to care.”

While Martin was still reeling from ‘best thing in my life’, Leitner had adopted a shifty, regretful look.

“You know that I would have kept in touch a little more, but your mother … we never really did get along. And then there were all those unfortunate allegations. It was really just easier to ...”

“To forget the whole thing. I understand.”

Jon had dropped that spark of anger from defending Martin, as swiftly as he’d adopted it, and now seemed just resigned and achingly sad. Martin might not be quite sure what was going on, but he was starting to feel that maybe punching Leitner in the face was an act which had some merit to it and should be seriously looked into.

He was interrupted in these important contemplations, by Dr Ice Cold herself. Gertrude nodded briskly at Jon, then turned to Leitner.

“Ah, Jurgen. You showed up. I did rather wonder if you’d bother.”

“I was rather surprised to find myself on the guest list. I’m not exactly of any use to you any more, and I somehow doubt that you’ve developed any sentimental feelings, since I saw you last.”

“You’d be quite correct. Sentiment only gets in the way and clouds judgement. If I’m going to allow my critical thinking to be impaired, then I’d rather do it through alcohol and at least get some enjoyment out of it first.”

“Yes, well, we all know where that got us.”

Leitner’s eyes flickered guiltily to Jon, as soon as he’d spoken, as if he’d forgotten for a moment that he was there; and, oh yeah, Martin was getting the picture now, and punching was seeming more and more like the thing to do.

He suddenly wished he’d had more than two glasses of champagne.

Gertrude Robinson was not a woman who made many mistakes, but Jon was well aware that he was one of them.

She had even told him the story once, with her characteristic bluntness: how a combination of an unaccustomed urge for emotional connection and an overgenerous helping of scotch, had given Jurgen Leitner a spurious halo of attraction; for just long enough to have a ‘lapse of judgement in the potting shed’.

As a fundamental base for one’s self-image, it wasn’t ideal - and there was far too much of spilled compost and misplaced trowels about it - but Jon had learned to accept things. And it wasn’t that his parents had been bad ones - they hadn’t hurt him or been more than, what Jon assumed was an ordinary amount of disparaging - they had just been very little present in his life.

Before his public disgrace, Jurgen had visited from time to time, been generally awkward and uncomfortable at him and then vanished again; while Gertrude had visited from time to time and been mostly brisk, sometimes chiding, and occasionally disturbingly informative, before vanishing again.

Occasionally they visited together and those occasions were best forgotten.

His Grandmother - Grandma Robinson - had shouldered most of the day to day raising and had done so perfectly adequately, if not with any real enthusiasm.

Jon couldn’t blame her. He had, after all, had been a deeply annoying child, prone to restlessness and incessant questions; forever stumbling into something he shouldn’t or getting lost; rarely going a week without gaining a nasty scrape or bruise or something, from either bullying or sheer curiosity. And then there was the incident in which he’d discovered that he was dangerously allergic to spiders and caused no end of bothersome fuss; not to mention the nightmares afterwards, though he had tried to keep them as quiet as possible.

So, as he grew into a socially inept teenager, and then adult, with a tendency towards small obsessions and none of his mother’s notable brilliance - nor even his father’s knack for unearthing something special from unpromising places - he had accepted Gertrude’s suggestion that he legally change his last name (which was for his own good, of course, to avoid harassment from association with her growing fame - and occasional controversies) and gradually resigned himself to existing as an embarrassing footnote in their lives.

Which was fine.

For one thing, it meant he hadn’t been subjected to the Gertrude and Jurgen Mutual Contempt Hour for quite some time.

“ … hardly of use to anybody, these days. Perhaps, if you’d taken some time for self-reflection after the second accidental death of one of your assistants and considered whether your Health and Safety Policy was quite up to snuff …”

“If we’re talking self-reflection, then I believe that you have a few ghosts of your own, calling to you. Or perhaps not. After all, it’s not as if you actually have a conscience to haunt.”

If this went how it usually did - and the presence of flowing champagne strongly suggested that it would - then both of them would lose their customary composure and get down to the more personal insults in less than a minute.

Jon could happily go the whole rest of his life, without hearing his parents each pick a theme for the other - pasty poltroon or wilted spinach; disapproving trout or crag in a cardigan - and develop it at length, until reaching a resounding crescendo of bile.

But past experience had suggested there was no point getting involved (and, god knows, he’d never been good at just walking away); so it was a huge relief that Adelard Dekker chose this moment to drop by and quietly nod at everyone, derailing what was set to be quite a fizzy altercation; and visibly disappointing both of them.

Jon wondered, with a sudden revelation, if they’d actually grown a sort of dependence on their odd intermittent relationship - a way to relieve frustration and tension in a way they would never dream of with anyone else - and abruptly put in a change to his emotional vote and felt rather sorry they’d been interrupted.

“You must be Gertrude’s Jonathan. It’s good to meet you at last.”

There was nothing affable about Adelard, who looked and sounded exactly as wiry and tough as you’d expect from his exploits; but he seemed sincere enough and Jon shook his hand and nodded and offered congratulations which sounded exactly as flat and bland outside of his head as they’d sounded inside of it.

“I’m sure you’ll be …”

‘Very happy together’ didn’t sound quite correct, somehow; from what Jon knew of them both, joy was something that they had conscientiously put aside at some point, in their pursuit of other things.

“ … right for each other.”

“I think we just might be.”

Adelard made a nod of acknowledgement to Martin, gave the slightest squeeze to Gertrude’s hand and ignored Jurgen so magnificently that Jon could practically see the burn, before disappearing back into the crowd again.

Gertrude and Jurgen eyed each other for a second, but the momentum was gone and they settled for seeing who could make the silence between them coldest. Gertrude, naturally, was swiftly winning by a landslide.

Jon felt like he, personally, couldn’t get very much colder.

“Well, delightful as this has been, I really think that Martin and I should —”

“Wait a minute, Jonathan. I actually had something I wanted to discuss with you.”

Gertrude glanced meaningfully at Jurgen, who sort of withered away into the crowd, glancing back once at Jon, as if he felt he probably ought to say some sort of goodbye, but couldn’t quite formulate it.

Gertrude rolled her eyes at his departing form, then turned to Jon.

“Well. Now that I’ve more formally partnered with Adelard, we shall be travelling even more frequently than before. And I can’t, in all conscience, leave my cats to be constantly shuffled back and forth from the Shangri-purr pet hotel.”

Jon blinked at her for a moment. Martin stepped up close to him, taking his hand tightly, and turning a glare of stunning anger on Gertrude.

“So, you … what, you only bothered to invite Jon to your wedding because you needed a cat-sitter?”

Gertrude, naturally was unphased. She thrived on confrontation, while Jon found himself often falling into it, but largely unintentionally, and hating himself afterwards.

“And for other reasons, obviously. But this is important. And I’m not asking you just to sit them, but to look after them permanently. They’re getting on in age and they need a more settled environment than I can offer. I don’t trust just anyone with the well-being of my cats.”

Which was true enough. Gertrude cared more about her cats than she did about anything and anyone else; except, apparently, Adelard Dekker.

Jon sighed, aware that he was going to say yes without even a token argument; already mentally adjusting his schedule to fit.

“I’ll take good care of them.”

Gertrude nodded, as if this went without saying and, despite himself, Jon felt himself snap at the scrap of implicit praise like a shark in a feeding frenzy of one.

“I would want to visit them, of course, from time to time. I hope you wouldn’t consider that an inconvenience.”

For a moment, while speaking, Gertrude went unaccountably stiff and awkward, before recovering herself so swiftly that Jon wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. He nodded slowly.

“Of course not. You’re welcome any time.”

“As long as you call ahead first,” Martin added, and when did he get the ability to shoot daggers from his eyes? It was an intriguing new side of him.

Gertrude gave a brisk nod at both of them.

“Good. I’ll pack up their things and deliver them tomorrow morning, if that suits you. And now, I should probably circulate a little. It wouldn’t do to be too absent from my own wedding.

“It was very interesting to meet you, Martin. I can see Jonathan is in good hands.”

They shared a look which Jon couldn’t even begin to parse out, before Gertrude departed; not to be swallowed up by the crowd, but to effortlessly control it.

Jon walked out into the fresh air and breathed long and deep.

Martin had waited until he’d taken Jon to his flat - practically their flat, by now, though it seemed too soon to make that final leap - and they’d settled down together for a while, before raising the subject. He’d meant to wait for Jon to bring it up himself; except that might mean waiting until the trumpets blew time on the world and everyone packed up for Armageddon; and, besides, he found he had an unexpected streak of hurt about the whole thing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jon looked up, slightly startled, from his reflections and Martin sighed and wrapped an arm around him.

“I mean, it’s not as if I don’t have some dysfunctional family issues of my own.”

Jon turned his head away slightly and Martin put some clues together.

“Is that why you didn’t say anything? Because, what, you didn’t want to burden me?”

“No!” Jon scrunched up his face and tried again. “I mean, okay, maybe a little bit? Your deeply unpleasant mother was more than enough to deal with, without worrying about my issues …” Jon shrugged, before Martin could get started on that one. “But that wasn’t the only reason. Or even the main one. It’s just that … neither of them exactly like to advertise me, understandably, I suppose, and … well, it’s not only my secret to tell.”

Martin pulled him a little closer, wrapping him up as much as possible in love and caring and the feeling of being wanted.

“Well, they totally should be advertising you. They should be singing you out from the rooftops. ‘Jonathan Sims is ours and we don’t deserve him!’ ”

Jon smiled at him, soft and utterly adoring in a way which Martin wasn’t sure he could take for long without splitting in two. Without his soul up and departing his body, having achieved all it desired in life.

“Thank you, Martin.”

They were quiet for a bit, spending some time in existing together and letting the simple joy of that soak through them to the bone and ease some of the hurts.

Then Jon jumped upright, with a brisk decisiveness and spent the next three hours catproofing the flat, while Martin alternately assisted; watched, with helpless affection; was heroic in the face of sudden attack spiders; and googled, variously: ‘plants, poisonous to cats’; ‘foods which you might not realise are choking hazards’, ‘purrfect treats which will make your cat love you’ and ‘how do I cope with losing my boyfriend to a cat?’.

But Jon’s evident delight, the next day - when the Duke and Duchess had been delivered and immediately decided that his lap was the best place to drown their ‘being-ruthlessly-thrown-in-a-cage’-related sorrows in - was worth even being relegated to third most important being in his life.

Even more gratifyingly, Jon barely acknowledged Gertrude, after becoming absorbed in his new permanent guests. She didn’t depart immediately, though, as Martin had expected; and, after an internal struggle between justified anger and intrinsic hospitality, he made her a cup of tea.

They warily drank at each other in the kitchen, holding their cups like weapons; covertly allowing their gaze to occasionally drift to where Jon was dryly suggesting that there was a limit to the number of tails which should be in one’s face at any given time and that number was zero; before succumbing immediately to the demand for more and better tickles.

“You don’t like me, do you, Martin? Oh, don’t worry. It’s perfectly understandable, under the circumstances. Not that I don’t stand by my decisions, of course. My work is of genuine importance to the world, far more so than one child who was, in any case, perfectly adequately raised … but I do sometimes wish … well. What’s done is done.”

Martin had a whole lot to say to this, most of it scathing, but the look on Gertrude’s face, unexpectedly open, as she turned to watch Jon, derailed him a little.

“You couldn’t just come and visit him, could you? You had to make an excuse, give yourself a reason to drop by, not to see your son, oh no, just your precious cats. Who are you trying to fool, Gertrude, Jon or yourself?”

Gertrude finished up her tea, with an almost supernatural lack of slurping, and gave him a critical stare, one which seemed to surgically examine him from the inside out.

“Yes. Yes, I do believe you’ll be good for him. Thank you for the tea, Martin. Perhaps a little less heavy on the milk next time? And tell Jon goodbye for me, will you? I hardly like to interrupt.”

She swept out regally, leaving Martin frustrated and with a lot of anger and nowhere for it to go.

Time to break out the poetry book then. Lots of sharp metaphors, and things with teeth, in the offing, he suspected.

But, meanwhile, he was in love and a sort of honorary cat uncle and he’d somehow acquired the phone numbers of an entire K-Pop band. So maybe, after he’d purged himself of savage and toothy beasts, he might allow himself a few lines of sunshine and flowers and overgrown kittens, curled up together, blissful in the sun.

The invitations were exactly the same for everyone - with curlicues and a semi-fancy border, at Martin’s insistence - except for Gertrude Robinson and Jurgen Leitner, who each received, folded inside, a small printout of insults they had previously used for each other, in order to avoid repeats, and a polite request that they wait until after the ceremony before thinking up new ones.

Jurgen returned his acceptance and nothing else, but Gertrude added a small note of appreciation for the effort; and an assortment of furry mice.