Chapter Text
There’s not really any elegant way to pull off a surprise like this. No smooth transition to be had from the two faces Jon has envisioned Martin pulling: adorable, scrunched up befuddlement; and slackened, shiney-eyed joy. Between here and the threshold Jon cannot wait to step over together lies hundreds of miles of bumpy road. This does not mean that he intends to give up all hope and spoil the surprise.
No. Jon waits until after supper and evening tea, waits until the candles are down to waxy stubs, then wraps his sleepy sweetheart in shawls and a travel cloak, and bundles him, grumbling, into the waiting carriage.
Their cases, already packed - a feat Jon is rather proud of actually - are lashed to the rear. A case of books and several hat boxes are piled on the opposite seat. Everything is ready but the most precious of cargo.
The steward holds the door open as Jon doubles over, to tuck Martin in. The driver motions to him and picks up the reins.
Jon futzes faster. ‘A moment, please?’ he snips.
The stress of this midnight excursion already has him a little irritated and he hates feeling rushed. They can’t expect him to give them leave without ensuring his partner is comfortable.
‘Jon,’ Martin mumbles, a frown folded over his still closed eyes, ‘where are we-’
‘Shh, just sleep, alright? Only a couple of hours.’
‘But where-?’
‘It’s a surprise. I’ll wake you when we get there.’
Satisfied with his work, Jon takes the door from the steward and closes it gently himself. He quickly tiptoes round the puddles behind the carriage and opens the other side. Before he’s even managed to settle himself, Martin is leaning heavily into his shoulder, pouting.
‘I can’t sleep in a carriage.’
Jon smiles. Even grumpy, he’s adorable. ‘Here,’ Jon says.
He bunches up a thick scarf and presses it between his neck and shoulder. Makeshift, and likely not much use once the creaky wheels start rumbling over cobbled streets. But Martin hums and shuffles into it, seeming a lot more content with this development.
A loud thumping on the roof pulls Jon from the reverie that is looking at Martin’s adorable sleeping face. He curses and scoffs, then stammers when the driver calls, ‘is your wife ready, sir?’
He still isn’t used to other people referring to Martin as such. In their house the word is a novelty, a thrill of pure affection, but from strangers it serves as an uncomfortable reminder of the wider world.
If Martin notices his two seconds of struggle, they don’t mention it. Snuggling closer, they call back a slurred, ‘Mm ready.’
Jon wraps an arm around him and pulls him tight as they bounce away, marvelling at the miracle of having someone in his life who is content to be married to him.
A few hours later, Jon is shaken awake by a hand on his shoulder that jostles his entire body like a wave. His voice slurs, his tongue and the corners of his mouth gummed with sleep. ‘Whh...’
‘Jon, wake up.’
Jon groans, rolling his sore shoulder. ‘Where are we?’
‘Lancashire.’
Confused with the unique exhaustion of bone churning carriage travel, Jon blinks. Ow. ‘Bright,’ he mutters.
‘It’s seven o'clock in the morning,’ Martin says. There is a scoffing amusement in their voice that motivates Jon to properly open his eyes.
Still in the carriage, Martin is looking down at him, most of his blankets shed, travel mussed and tired and beautiful, hair haloed in the pink dawn.
‘We’re at an inn, in Lancashire.’ he smiles. ‘And you have some explaining to do.’
‘Ah,’ Jon grins, ‘well...’
A knock on the window. ‘Would you like help with your bags, missus?’
Martin startles, then laughs - a breathless thing with a shaking of their head that makes their overgrown hair flutter, a touch of exasperation that is both charmed and charming.
‘Yes, yes, please, I assume. Jon, I assume we’re meant to be here and haven’t been kidnapped or something?’
The youth who had asked pulls a wide-eyed face of confusion and Jon sits up. ‘No, it - yes, we’re supposed to be here. Yes, please, the bags-’
Flurry leaves them and instead begins to rock the carriage from the outside. Voices more like Martin’s than Jon’s call to one another over the roof as cases clunk about. Martin is still looking at Jon with delighted incredulity.
‘Well,’ Jon huffs without any malice, ‘it was supposed to be a surprise,’
‘Surprise? I mean, I’m surprised but why-?’
‘This is our honeymoon.’
Martin’s eyes widen. He makes the soft, awestruck face that is the exact reason Jon so loves surprising them.
‘You really didn’t guess?’
‘No, of course I- of course I didn’t guess. Jon...’
Jon shrugs, bashful under the tender gratitude. His chest and cheeks are rapidly warming against the northern morning air.
‘Technically it’s just a rest stop,’ he says, ‘we’re only halfway there, but... I suppose it can start now.’
Martin’s eyes are glistening now. Dew on a rich brown trunk ringed with amber sap. Jon cups their cheek, stroking his thumb over the pink creases the scarf has made in their skin. It’s instinct to murmur whatever romantic nonsense comes to mind before he can begin to think about making sense. It always is with Martin.
‘Starts wherever you are,’ he says.
Martin makes a noise that starts off pained and finishes as a quiet whine. He dives for Jon's neck, flushing, and stays there to grumble.
‘You sap. Carriage up North in the middle of the night... you ridiculous sap.’