Chapter Text
Jon knew it was too good to be true.
Since arriving at Daisy's safehouse, Jon and Martin have been doing a skill they've each perfected; keeping busy. Easy enough to do, given that the place is not exactly an Airbnb.
The first week was a rush of stocking up on essentials, as the house seemed to have been abandoned for years. They made several trips to the nearby village, (which was actually rather nice) for food, a few changes of clothes and household items like toilet paper and cheap dishes.
Meanwhile, they were each experiencing an overwhelming cocktail of relief and anxiety. They were constantly looking over their shoulders; convinced that at any second, a door would open that did not exist before, Julia and Trevor would bust down their front door, or that Daisy's growl would be the only warning they got before their throats got ripped out. But, nothing happened. No one came.
Jon and Martin did experience some awkwardness upon realising that this safehouse was made for one. i.e. their sleeping options were either to share the queen-size bed, or put one on the awful couch with questionable stains. it wasn't difficult to agree on sharing the bed, but for the first few nights, they were each so dedicated to staying on their side of the bed, in an effort to make the other more comfortable, that they were both nearly falling off of it.
That got better over time.
During week two, they began to fix up the safehouse, given that they were going to be staying there for a while. Martin picked up some cleaning supplies, and tackled the grime and dust that coated every surface in the house. With his experience taking care of his mother, he was able to make relatively light work of it, and by the end of the week, the house actually looked liveable.
Jon was able to See the little things that were wrong with the house that could quickly snowball into big things while they were living there. He took care of the carpenter-ant colony that was starting to form under the deck with some insecticide, and patched up a hole in the roof that would have leaked once the rain started. He was lucky that there was a rusty old ladder kept in the shed. He was, however, reminded repeatedly both by the Beholding and by Martin how badly a fall from that height would hurt.
They were slowly starting to relax. Well, maybe not relax, but they didn't have to check quite so many times that the door was locked before going to bed.
By week three, the house had begun to feel like a home. Jon and Martin, although trying to keep a low profile, were getting on good terms with the local shop keepers. Martin had started writing poetry again; as he told Jon, he was inspired by the Scottish countryside. He left out that he was also inspired by his eldritch housemate. Jon even bought a few 'luxuries' for the house, like a candle and some chocolates. He had always been frugal, and so had a good amount of savings to draw from.
It was at that point though that Jon started to feel that hunger again. He had tried to ignore it; he was privately hoping that after discovering Magnus's body, after putting distance between them and the institute, he would somehow be free from that hunger. However, sure enough, that nausea came back.
He felt physically weak, despite getting better sleep than he had in years, eating regularly, going out for walks and all in all living much better than he used to. The hunger pooled in his gut, gnawed at his bones, and although he knew Basira was working on sending statements over, that knowledge did little to comfort him. He didn't let it show, though. Not when Martin was in the room. Not that he didn't trust him with it; the exact opposite. After everything they had just been through, he couldn't show him how much his statement dependency was affecting him. He couldn't worry him like that.
Besides that, it also dawned on Jon that he had accidently moved in with his boyfriend? Partner? More-than-friend? Within a month of 'getting together'. That came with certain connotations. In all the time since getting out of London, catching their breath and getting used to some type of normalcy, they hadn't had the chance to sit down and discuss their relationship. What they are.
This was all running through Jon's head as Martin produces a white package full of paper. His eyes light up with relief. "Ah, these are the statements," he reached out to grab a pile of them, to see how many he had and do some quick maths to determine how much he'd need to ration them out. However, when he touched them, his hand came away damp. "Wait, what-?"
"Yeah, that's the bad news," Martin rubs the back of his neck with a look of sympathy. "I think the package was left out at some point and caught in the rain. A lot of rain. I don't know what Basira did to get it up here, but I guess she traded anonymity for security. If it was anything but, well, loose paper and cassette tapes I'd suggest leaving them to dry, but..."
Jon felt his heart sink as he understood the end of the sentence. He carefully took out the block of papers that had essentially fused together in the wet conditions, and leafed through it to see if there were any salvageable statements. As he tried to do so, they began to come apart in his hand. On the top page, big dark ink smudges had smeared out the vast majority of the writing. He could just about make out the name "Hazel Rutter," and that it had something to do with a fire, but nothing else was legible. "Ah... I see."
"Don't worry though, I'll call her," Martin says hurriedly, on seeing Jon's face fall. "I'm sure she can send some new ones up way faster, now that the institute isn't a literal crime scene anymore, heh," He chuckles weakly, fidgeting with his hands as he sees that the humour isn't landing. His face softens. "Hey, are you doing alright? I know it's...hard on you, when you go for long without statements. Are you holding up okay?" He touches Jon's shoulder, which causes Jon to look at him, quickly fixing his expression into a more neutral one.
"Hmm? Oh, yes, no I'm doing alright, thank you Martin," Jon coughs once to regain his composure. "It hasn't been as hard as it used to be, maybe my connection to the eye has weakened a bit, you know, after everything that happened at the institute. But ah, yes, calling her would be greatly appreciated."
Martin frowns, "Okay...well, if you're sure you're okay...I'll head to the phone booth now so she can send them as soon as possible. You were right by the way- the phone box down there does appeal to my retro aesthetic."
Jon chuckles, "I thought so. Alright, see you soon. Let me know if you see any good cows."
Martin scoffs, "Obviously I’m going to tell you if I see any good cows." He grabs his coat off of its hook and heads out, waving at Jon as he closes the front door behind him.
Jon smiles and waves after him. As soon as the door is shut, he sinks to the floor, clutching his stomach. He exhales through his nose, closing his eyes. "Just a bit longer." He mutters. "No problem."