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His fingers are still shaking when he comes home late that day. It’s been hours at this point, and still the image hasn’t faded. Jon takes a trembling breath and tries to keep himself from falling apart.
The clock in the kitchen says it’s past six. It’s not quite dark yet, courtesy of spring blooming, even in the north of Scotland, but Martin is feeling anxious all the same. He knows Jon had to attend a conference at school, and he knows they tend to run late. It doesn’t stop him from worrying. Jon still tends to overwork himself. Even with the tether cut he’s a bit of a workaholic. At least he doesn’t have the need to consume innocent people’s fear anymore. It’s not as much of a relief as Martin thought it would be. Jon is still plagued by nightmares. When the Eye’s tendrils disappeared, they left a gaping hole behind. Martin knows Jon loves him. Martin also knows that a part of Jon loved that awful power nearly as much. Sometimes it seems like he still craves it. It fades after a while, leaving Jon exhausted and unwilling to talk.
But things have been getting better. Their lives are almost peaceful now. They have neighbours who are suspicious of them, yes, but mostly because Jon and Martin are English. Martin doesn’t think he’ll ever adopt the Scottish accent, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he’s rubbish at changing habits, good and bad ones.
Jon, however … Martin has seen him switch between his clipped received pronunciation and a thick Scottish drawl within seconds, something he does mostly to amuse his students. He smiles more, too. Martin loves him so, so much.
The clock strikes half six. Martin runs a hand through his curls and stands to see if he can at least turn on the light on the porch so Jon finds his way home even in the dark. He tries not to worry, even though the conference should have ended ages ago. Nobody knows they’re here. They’re safe. The Eye is gone. Martin grabs a corkscrew, just to be safe.
His hands won’t stop trembling. It’s cold outside, but he can’t step into the house yet. He doesn’t deserve the warmth from the fireplace, the comfort in Martin’s arms. The images, memories, thoughts, and accusations keep coming, barrelling into him with brute force. It’s a bit like Knowing something, except that these are nothing other than Jon’s own experiences and memories.
He’s not smoking again, is he? That’s Elias’—Jonah’s voice. Not Speaking to him, no, just a sentence, a question from one of the tapes, replaying in his head as Jon lights his cigarette and holds it to his lips. He nearly coughs, but restrains himself. He’s made a detour to be able to grab this pack and he’s not going to waste it. Jon takes another drag of the cigarette and tells the tiny voice that sounds like his former boss and tormentor to fuck off.
His hands are still shaking.
A shape is standing on their porch. Martin’s knuckles turn white as he tightens his grip on the corkscrew. There is no way of opening the door without the shape noticing, and Martin doesn’t have anything better to defend himself with. He could of course just stay inside and see what it will do. Maybe nothing happens. Maybe it just wants to stand on the Blackwood-Sims’ porch. But Martin doubts it.
The warm, welcoming lamp at their front door lights up behind him. Jon doesn’t startle, he’s too far gone for that, but it registers somewhere in his mind. He feels a sudden guilt, different than the stabs he’s used to, but he doesn’t know what for.
“Jon?”
He turns around, and in the door, framed by the orange square of the light coming from their home, stands Martin. He’s wearing his fluffy slippers, the ones that look like cartoon heads of highland cows. He’s not wearing socks, and something about that is so utterly vulnerable, so domestic that Jon is seized by a sudden violent spark of panic.
“Christ, Jon, don’t scare me like that.” Martin puts away something that he’d been holding in his hand and steps out into the cold. Out into the rapidly growing darkness with Jon.
“Why didn’t you come inside?” he asks, and he’s so close now, and something flits over Martin’s face before his expression of confusion falls to reveal concern. “What happened?”
Jon wills his hands to be still.
Martin knows Jon is not smoking anymore not only because Jon told him he’d quit a second time around when they’d first arrived in Scotland, and because he’s the one doing the laundry most of the time and knows what Jon smells like. And something he doesn’t smell like anymore is cold cigarette smoke. Martin reaches out, making sure to keep his motions slow enough for Jon to track in the state he’s in, and gently takes hold of the cigarette that’s still between Jon’s lips. Jon doesn’t move, but a small whine leaves him when Martin drops it to the floor and crushes it with the heel of his slipper.
Martin’s heart breaks for him. He grabs Jon’s hand and pulls him in, and suddenly it’s like a dam has broken and Jon shatters into a million pieces, tucked into the crook of Martin’s neck, held by him, the pair slightly swaying back and forth.
They don’t try to speak or even move. Martin holds him tight, and Jon claws at his jumper desperately, as if trying to get even closer, and Martin presses a soft kiss to Jon’s messy hair at his temple, and hopes that for now it is enough.
Nobody knows him as well as Martin does. Jon’s hands are no longer shaking because they can’t when they’re holding on tight to Martin instead. He’s sobbing, dry cries, but no matter how he tries, no tears come to ease the way of his toxic concoction of guilt, longing, pain, and despair. And Martin holds him through it, not talking, only soothing him with his presence. How could Jon have ever thought anything to be his anchor that isn’t Martin? He clings, and he cries, and not a single tear falls.
After a while, he turns his head, not quite leaving his sanctuary, but enough to signal Martin that he is aware, and possibly receptive to attempts at conversation. But Martin just smiles down at him, not the wide grin of delight, nor the soft smiles for every customer he meets, no, a private, sweet smile, one of the many Martin reserves just for Jon. A smile that says I’ve got you and you’re safe and I will not leave you. A smile that says nothing you say or do will ever make me love you less. It’s one of Jon’s favourite smiles.
They somehow manage to make it into their house and onto the couch without extracting themselves from each other’s embrace. Jon keeps burrowing closer, and Martin reaches up and takes out the hair tie, allowing Jon’s long locks to fall over his back. He doesn’t try brushing it, although it very much needs some seeing to, but instead he finds the spots he knows Jon loves to be scratched at, and gently scrapes his short nails against his scalp. The effect is immediate. Jon goes boneless, moulding himself perfectly against Martin.
“Do you want to talk about it, love?”
Jon shakes his head.
“Alright,” Martin says and kisses Jon’s forehead. “Alright. Is there something else I can do for you right now?”
Jon shakes his head again. “You’re comfy,” he slurs.
Martin can’t help but chuckle. It jostles Jon a bit, who glares at him weakly, but Martin kisses the tip of his nose. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m not leaving.”
“Hm,” says Jon. “You’d better not.”
They fall silent after that. It’s getting late, and they really should be having dinner, but Martin makes no move to get up, and he doesn’t think Jon is aware of the time.
“It was Peggy Stoker’s parent, you know.”
It’s a bit muffled, but Martin understands Jon just fine. They’d had a bit of a panic the first time the name had come up. But Peggy had never said anything, and neither had anybody else, so they just assumed that there was no relation.
“They look just like Tim,” Jon continues. “Didn’t talk to them, of course. But—it hurt.”
“Oh, Jon.” Martin tightens his arms around him.
“But it’s not. It’s not Tim, they didn’t seem to recognise me, and there weren’t any worm scars or burns from the Unknowing’s explosion.” He sits up, and Martin’s hands drop to steady him around his waist. “I—I know Tim is dead—,” his voice cracks, “—but for a second … for a second it seemed like he was standing there, looking at me.”
“Jon,” says Martin softly, “look at me. Tim’s death is not your fault. I know you feel guilty about it, and I understand you can’t just not feel like that, but let me tell you again, it wasn’t your fault.”
“Martin, I—”
“I know, Jon. I know.”
He picks up his pack of cigarettes—not Pall Mall because they remind him of statement number 0122204—and looks at it for a long time. It cost him almost fifteen pounds, nothing he can’t afford to throw away, but it’s a lot regardless. Jon glances back at Martin, who’s haggling with one of the sellers at a market stand. His ginger hair gleams in the rare Scottish sun, his hands waving around animatedly as he tries to get a net of apples for a more reasonable price. Jon loves him.
He drops the cigarettes into the bin and returns to stand next to his husband, fitting perfectly into his side.