Archive of Our Own

Today has been a long day. Just, a— a very, very long day.

It wasn’t even necessarily a bad day, just such a long one. Agreeing to work overtime and provide interp for a special event at the Museum tonight had been a good idea in concept when it was still weeks away; actually following through and going had been a bit of a drag, but—

All the same, it still could have been much worse. Sometimes, Martin forgets how much worse things can be— forgets to be grateful for stupid things like working overtime when he knows what it’s like to be the last person on Earth, sort of?

Really, it’s just that working from eight in the morning until seven at night makes for a day that sort of feels like three days. Martin is as weary as he is just bone-deep tired.

And it’s raining, which—

Typically, he actually rather likes the rain. It can be atmospheric, cozy, even inspirational— and that’s a feeling that has persisted despite his, ah. Foggier tendencies, a little while back.

Tonight, though, it feels like the heavy darkness and blanketing rain and distant, encroaching rumbles of thunder are a bit more reflective of the way he’s feeling inside at the moment.

Driving home in the storm is— fine, really. Not a big deal. Just— sort of— one more thing, at the end of a long day, that makes it just that little bit longer, and he’s exhausted by the time he actually pulls up outside of their little cottage.

He’s trying not to feel envious just at the sight of it. It’s nobody’s fault— except his own, really— that he’s been out in the rain, out at work, for the majority of the day. Sometimes, he’s the one home while Jon stays late; often, they don’t stay late at all, and both attempt to insist on being home together. They’ve spent enough extra time at work for a lifetime— or, several lifetimes, even.

And when being at home also means being with Elsie and Kit, well—

Really, Martin is trying very hard not to be envious right now.

It is hard work to take care of them, he reminds himself. Especially when one of them has to do it by himself. He’s sure Jon’s evening after picking them up from nursery hasn’t been a walk in the park. Looking after two four-year-olds alone, without back-up, can be— very stressful. Martin knows from experience.

But—

Still.

They’re two of Martin’s three favorite people. Even on his worst days, he doesn’t mind being with Elsie, or Kit, or Jon. It doesn’t even really feel like being with people, really, it just feels… good. Comforting. Like being at home.

Martin wonders, sometimes, if this is what family has always felt like to other people. He’s a bit obsessed with the concept; it’s just—

Well, he gets it, now. Why people love this so much.

And so, when he can’t be with his family, he can get a little cross. A little. Really not even cross, honestly, just a bit testy.

Well— All the same.

When he pulls into their driveway, drinking in the warm golden lights that seep out from the windows even through the thunderous storm, casting long shadows sprawling across their lawn, he has to stop and take a second and just— breathe. He’s too worked up— too desperate to be home, too frustrated by not being home, too wound-up from his day, too exhausted by his work, too much, too much, too much— and he doesn’t want to bring that energy inside with him. First, he needs to— take a breath, and just— gather himself.

With the radio turned onto some thirty-year-old power ballad, low and slow, the volume turned all the way down, he closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and just breathes.

For a minute—

—two—

—three—

—that’s all he does.

When he finds his heart-rate has slowed, and his mind is calming, and his hands aren’t tingling quite so much anymore, he opens his eyes again.

Those shadows are still moving across their grassy little lawn, even through the rain.

His eyes flicker up, an automatic seeking of the source of the shadows, and finds the shapes of silhouettes moving behind closed curtains. With the darkness of the storm, and the warm, glowing backlight pouring from inside the house, it’s almost easy to make out one of the cats loafing in the windowsill, watching Jon as he moves around their living room—

Though, Martin’s not entirely sure what it is he’s doing, exactly.

He watches with curiosity, observing the strange way Jon seems to be moving in circuits. At first, he’s nearly nervous— nearly scared— but it’s not an unnatural movement, he realizes after a moment. It’s patterned. It’s rhythmic.

Then, Jon turns, his silhouette changing, and Martin realizes one of the children is on his hip, held in his arms as he moves, and a small laugh bubbles up and out of him.

Dancing. Jon is dancing.

And, if Martin knows the outlines of his children— which, he’s fairly certain he does— it’s Kit he’s dancing with.

The shadow-image of Jon dancing with their son— coupled with the concept of getting to see the sight firsthand— is enough of a temptation to not only lure Martin out of his car, but to begin forgetting why he was lingering there in the first place, as well. His long day is starting to slip away at the prospect of the night he still has left ahead of him.

He realizes he doesn’t want to be all alone, out in his car, not anymore. He wants to be inside— in his home— cozy, snug, with his family.

The rain pelts down when he climbs out, speeding droplets bouncing off his jacket like tiny pellets from the guns in the sky. If he hadn’t been wearing his raincoat, he’d be soaked through, and—

—And he remembers, so warm and pleasant, Jon stopping him this morning before they could leave for the museum, catching him with a hand at his elbow. He’d grabbed the rubber jacket from the hook near the door, told Martin, “It’s supposed to rain tonight,” and kissed his cheek as he pushed the crinkling yellow fabric into his hands.

Even without Knowing, he somehow still knows. Martin thinks it might just be Jon.

Dinner has definitely already passed. Martin can tell as soon as he pushes the front door in. The air is still warm, heavy, familiar, spiced and scented with cardamom and cumin and chili and cinnamon and cloves, the aromatic atmosphere of his home at night.

The scent is probably staying so present because his own dinner is still in the oven, and he’s got a smile flickering at the edges of his expression as he nudges the door closed with a gentle heel, peels off his jacket and shoes, hangs his bag by the entryway.

The sounds he makes aren’t enough to draw anyone’s attention. Even after only a moment inside, it’s plain enough to see why— or, to hear why, really. Jon has music playing at quite a volume from his stereo, filling the house, the air just as rich with these sounds as it is with the scents of their supper. Martin follows after the music, enchanted, entranced.

He’s able to stop in the open doorway to their living room and take it all in, for a moment.

The lamps are all on, rather than the overheads— though, Martin could have guessed that already, based on the warm glow he saw through the windows. The resulting illumination bathing the room is a snug and yellow-orange, a sweet caramel light that’s bright enough to paint a picture and dim enough to make the finished portrait intimate, and cozy, and theirs.

In that lamplight, Jon has their son in his arms, and he’s stepping easily, effortlessly, spinning as if waltzing with a partner.

Just— one he’s holding three feet off the ground.

Martin knows Jon knows how to waltz— a fact he discovered at their wedding, and he’s not sure he’ll ever forget that moment of surprise, genuine shock, when Jon had quite literally swept him off his feet— but it’s another thing entirely to see him moving through the steps like this, following a rhythm just because, skirt flaring when he spins, hair falling in a curtain when he dips. His gait is slanted, deference given to his leg and its constant ache, but he moves so well still, smooth and steady, even as The Professor winds with insistence around his ankles—

So, it must have been a good day, Martin realizes, and his smile blossoms.

Kit, in Jon’s arms, clings to his sweater, one small hand wound up in the fabric; the other is knotted in Jon’s hair, a fistful of silver-and-black between his fingers. The black of their son’s hair is close to the same shade as Jon’s, though just slightly lighter; his hair is, instead, a dark-brown, a nearly-black, just enough of Martin present in him to draw his genetics away from Jon’s silken obsidian-black. Martin’s influence is evident, too, in its coarser thickness, in its wave, in its almost-curl at the ends. He wears it long— as long as his sister’s, on the children’s insistence— but his braid, as it is now, is always messier than hers, a constant victim of his tugging and fidgeting and playing.

Of the two of them, though, Kit most closely resembles Jon, without a doubt. He looks like both of them, clearly their child— Jon’s slender build; Martin’s dark freckles; Jon’s sharp and angular features; Martin’s smile when he laughs— but he’s Jon’s mirror in the details: the line of his nose, the shape of his eyes, the curve of his cheeks. Perfectly, inevitably, obviously his— obviously theirs.

Kit is their sensitive boy— technically the younger of the two, though by only a few minutes. Already at four, he is so sweet, so emotional, always with his heart on his sleeve, so reckless and clumsy, so excitable and chaotic, always tripping over himself, always so eager, always so kind. Martin sometimes still can’t believe he was capable of making a person like Kit.

His son’s laughing now— a duplicate of Martin’s, enough that even Martin can notice, his chest tight at how nice that feels— when Jon dips him again, letting his long, messy hair swing down just like Jon’s is, shrieking with joy.

It’s only belatedly that Martin processes the other noise he’s hearing.

Or— noises, rather.

Though Kit is half-humming along, loud and proud, to the music— which doesn’t surprise Martin, honestly; Kit is humming some sort of made-up song half the time, and a song he’s gotten stuck in his head the other half— he’s not the only one.

Jon is singing.

Christ, but he has such a lovely voice. Martin’s always thought so. Jon can be self-conscious about it— as long as Martin’s known him, and much longer, even, than that, he assumes— and doesn’t often sing aloud around others, but, whenever he does, Martin almost finds himself wishing they still had recorders popping up around them all the time. He’d love to have a tape of Jon’s singing voice without getting caught. Just for himself, just to keep.

The way Jon’s singing now is low and steady and slow, in rhythm with the music and the waltz he’s dancing with their son. It’s—

It’s also matched with a second voice, and Martin tilts his head for a better angle to find Elsie crouched on the floor behind Jon. Her stuffed ghost, Marvin— so named after mishearing Jon say Martin’s name soon after receiving the toy, and immediately claiming it as her ghost-stuffie’s own— is clutched in her arms as she watches her father and her brother dance, and she is singing along.

Though it’s obvious she doesn’t know all the actual words Jon is singing, she knows the right shape of them, and the tone, and the pattern, and the rhythm, and the music. She’s clearly heard the song enough times— heard Jon sing it to them enough times— to follow along with him.

Unlike her twin, Elsie favors Martin more than Jon in appearance. She takes after him in the shape of her round face, and the height she shares with her brother, and the large, broad build she’s already inherited from him. Like Martin, her hair falls in thick curls; it’s a darker auburn than his, Jon displaying just enough influence to change the shade, but not enough to take the deep-reddish color from her entirely.

Her features are defined by Martin’s, shaped by him, a mirror to him in so many ways— a surprisingly close match, even, to his own baby photos (only remembered, and no longer in existence, as far as he knows), so much closer than he ever anticipated.

Visually, she is soft where her brother is hard, though her personality is rather the opposite— that’s where it becomes ferociously clear Jon is her father. Jon’s stubborn attitude, his quick wit, his blunt nature, they all came through in her in spades. And it’s not just his clever smile she shares, but his clever nature, as well. Between that, and the bite she inherited from Martin, she is bright, and shrewd, and astoundingly sharp for someone her age, in his opinion.

She can be a bit terrifying; Martin adores her so deeply, as deeply as he adores her brother, that it makes him dizzy if he thinks too hard about it.

The twins are dissimilar in so many ways— Elsie is intense, and quiet, and observant, and impatient; Kit is impulsive, and loud, and expressive, and thinks all his thoughts aloud— but similar, too, in so many more, Martin thinks. Not just their identical hazel eyes, a flecked mix of brown-and-green from their parents, nor their matching dark-tan skin shaded in between Jon’s and Martin’s, nor their shared height (already, even at four), nor their near-matched sets of freckles-and-dimples. Their physical similarities are many, but—

They’re so alike inside, too, in so many ways Martin could never have anticipated, even seeming so outwardly dissimilar.

Before them, he only had a vague outline of an idea of what a child of his would be like. He was so wildly, vastly unprepared for the reality of them, for the people he and Jon made.

Or—

He put in most of the work, but. Still. Jon did play his part.

That part is obvious enough just looking at their children— paternity test certainly not needed, and especially not when listening to them talk. Particularly Elsie, in Martin’s opinion; a glance at Kit would be enough proof for him, but a sentence from Elsie is enough for her.

In reality— in practice— their children are people. They are their own people. They are honest, and determined, and funny. They make Martin and Jon laugh, all the time. They can be envious of the attention the other gets— constantly jealous for more of their parents’ notice, always aware enough to sometimes even be resentful of Jon or Martin for giving each other attention— and Jon often shoots Martin a dirty look whenever they get prickly about it.

But, they want their parents’s attention, and that won’t last forever, and sometimes Martin clings back to them a little bit. Sometimes— he knows— Jon clings, too.

They’re courageous children, too, bold, always willing to try something new— and they’re creative, inventive, forever coming up with new games and puzzles and stories— and they’re determined to learn, piecing together the world around them with every minute— and they’re a bit weird, odd, forever so captivating in their own unique ways—

Christ, but Martin loves them.

Elsie’s eyes— her seaglass eyes, her brown-green hazel just like her brother’s, a color that made Jon jump when he first saw them before Martin reminded him that his own eyes are naturally just a really dark green, Jon, it’s probably alright— are fixed on Jon and Kit as they dance, apparently content to watch for now. The whole while, she sings almost mindlessly, as if she doesn’t notice she’s even doing it.

The same as Jon with his singing, and Kit with his humming, it seems. Just doing it because they want to, because it’s automatic. Making music together.

Martin’s long day slips further and further from his mind— away from the forefront, away from the background, receding until it is hardly even a consideration anymore.

In fact, it has vanished from him nearly entirely when Kit spots him, stops humming, and exclaims, “Daddy!” with a vigorous point over Jon’s shoulder in his direction.

Jon’s singing cuts off, as does Elsie’s— a tragedy, really— as he swings around, eyes catching on Martin and brightening. His whole face brightens, really. Martin’s not sure he’ll ever get tired of this— the way love so fiercely agrees with Jon, the way contentment suits him like a bespoke gown, the way fatherhood has fit right onto him so perfectly.

“Martin,” he says, his warm greeting. He’s not so much smiling as his entire expression is smiling, a delight that shifts every detail of him. His next steps are automatic, moving towards the stereo to turn the volume down; his voice is clearer, then, when he adds, “You’re home,” unnecessary and so lovely all the same.

“Yeah, sorry it took so long,” Martin apologizes. “I had to stay to help clean up, and when the—”

He’s cut off with an, “Oof—” when Elsie flings herself at him, collides with him, throwing her arms wide around his middle, burying her face in his belly. She’s not usually quite so expressive, but— he supposes he’s been gone just a bit too long.

“She’s been missing you,” Jon tells him, voice a low and informative rumble. “They both have, but she’s… Mm. Having a tougher time. Not sure.”

Martin runs his hand over the top of Elsie’s head, fingertips tugging lightly at the base of her braid to guide her head back, meeting her dark-bright eyes, the wonderful contradiction of her. Her face is flushed; he sweeps his thumb over her cheek, traces the curve of her jaw that’s so much like his.

“I have just missed you all day, sweetheart,” Martin tells her, and she’s almost smiling when she reaches up for him. Both children are bigger every day, but not that heavy at all yet, not really; crouching to scoop her up isn’t all that difficult, swinging her up into his own arms while she huffs a breath of laughter right into his face. He turns into her and presses a kiss to her cheek, relishing in the way her arms toss around his neck next, holding him tight— and bonking Marvin into the side of his head. Sacrifices, and all. “Have you been good tonight?”

“Yes,” she promises him. “Baba made rice and chicken. The good kind.”

“Oh, the good kind,” Martin echoes. “Well, isn’t that lovely? Did you thank him a whole bunch?”

“Yes,” Elsie insists to him, just before Kit demands, “Daddy! Hello?”

“Yes, hello, love, I see you there,” Martin tells him, used to this song-and-dance by now.

When he steps up and leans in, he earns a kiss first on the cheek— from Kit— and then on the mouth— from Jon. He’s smiling again when they separate, just barely parting, and he can feel the last of his long day start to slip away.

“I missed you, too, you know,” Jon tells him, lips brushing Martin’s when he speaks. “Not the same without you.” They part, and Jon informs him, “Your dinner is in the oven, if you’re hungry.”

He ate a bit at the event, but— even if he hadn’t, he’s not sure he would— or could— leave the room right now. The food will keep warm; this moment won’t last.

“Nah, I’m alright for a minute,” Martin replies, and Jon’s answering smile is acknowledging and knowledgeable and indulgent. “What was that you were singing just now?”

“Oh, that— Nothing, that was n-nothing,” Jon stammers out, as if Martin hasn’t heard him sing the same songs to the twins dozens— now maybe hundreds— of times. “I wasn’t even thinking, really.”

“Oh, well, even more impressive.” Martin glances down to Elsie, and she looks right back, bright eyes fixed on his. “What do you think of Baba’s singing, hm? Do you think it’s so lovely?”

“Leading the witness,” Jon mumbles under his breath, suppressing a smile. Martin lifts an eyebrow without looking up at Jon, an amused smile flickering on him; a quiet, puffed snort of laughter confirms Jon’s seen it all the same.

“Yeah,” Elsie agrees. “It’s pretty.”

“I love when Baba sings,” Kit gushes from Jon’s arms. “It’s so good.”

“Christopher, please,” Jon pleads with him. “It’s not anything special—”

“Oh, no, did you hear that?” Martin asks the twins. Jon groans; neither of the children hear it as Martin gleefully continues, “Baba doesn’t think he’s special.”

“Why? Baba, no!” Kit exclaims.

He speaks with such ferocity that The Lieutenant, previously asleep in the windowsill, lifts her head and mrows; The Professor, watching the proceedings now from the sidelines of the sofa, glances in her direction as if questioning what she’s talking about.

Martin's attention is reclaimed once more by Kit reaching up to plant his palms on either side of Jon’s face, flat against his cheeks. “You’re very, very special! You shouldn’t say that you aren’t special. That’s mean to you.”

“You’re special, Baba,” Elsie insists from Martin’s arms. She rests her cheek on Martin’s shoulder, eyes fixed on Jon hardly a step away. “You tell the best stories. And make the monsters go away. And you know everything.”

Martin breathes a fond laugh as Jon tells them, “That’s very nice of you both to say,” punctuated by a kiss to Kit’s cheek. Their son beams in delight. Jon adds, “Thank you very much. And thank you, Eloise, my love.”

“You’re very welcome, Baba,” Kit tells him with a swing of his legs, knee grinding up into Jon’s belly and driving his air out with an, “Oof,” of his own in the process. His head spins to locate Martin, and he asks, “Can we dance still, please, Daddy?”

“I don’t see why not,” Martin agrees easily— as if it isn’t what he’s wanted since he walked in the door.

No, before that— maybe even before he caught a glimpse of his family’s silhouettes through the storm. Maybe he’s wanted it since this all first became a possibility. Maybe he’s wanted it since the moment he told Jon he loved him, or the moment he fell for him, or the moment they met. Maybe he’s been wanting it his whole life.

“Do I get a turn with Baba?” Martin asks, already smiling, already knowing the answer.

“No, it’s my turn now,” Kit insists.

“Then mine!” Elsie chimes in, unwilling enough to be forgotten to make her willing to speak up.

“Alright, so, let me see, here,” Martin says, closing the step between himself and Jon again. “First is Kit-Kat’s turn—” and he kisses his son’s cheek, earns a squeal of a laugh, and doesn’t think even once about how terrified he’d been to be this boy’s father the first time he learned about him. “—Then Elsie gets a turn—” and he turns into his daughter to kiss her cheek, next; she clutches him closer, arms about his neck, grinning wide enough that he can feel dimples under his kiss.

“Baba next,” Kit insists, eager, bouncing himself in Jon’s arms, a miniature excitable version of him.

“Thank you very much for the reminder, Kit,” Martin says with a dip of his head. Their son laughs again. “Right, and I'll get to dance with Baba after Elsie’s turn, then.”

“I’m afraid I’ll hold you to that,” Jon warns him, a playful smile still on his face. Martin never knew what it was like for someone to be happy that he’s home before Jon— and their children, now, too.

“I’m afraid that’s sort of the point of dancing,” Martin says, a tease. “So, hold me tight as you like, I suppose.”

Jon laughs his low, warm laugh, a rich dark chocolate melting in Martin’s mouth when Jon presses them close again and passes his laugh from tongue to tongue. Martin dissolves into him, chasing the sweetness of him, forgetting himself in remembering Jon.

Fleeting and half-chaste though their kiss is, Elsie still interrupts to ask, impatient, “Can’t we dance now, please? I waited for ages for you to come home, Daddy.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry I had to work late, darling,” Martin tells her as he breaks from their kiss, feeling genuine remorse. “I really am.”

“It’s alright,” she replies, matter-of-fact. “I just want my turn now.” She tosses Marvin over Martin’s shoulder to join The Professor on the sofa before she pushes in closer to Martin, one hand grabbing for her father’s. When her palm is pressed to the center of his, swallowed by his breadth, she beams, triumphant. “Dance like Baba does.”

“Unfortunately, I’m not quite as good as he is,” Martin warns her. “But I’ll certainly try my best.”

“Alright,” Eloise allows, apparently acceptable. Her little head turns, fast enough that her braid is a tiny whip against the side of Martin’s head; he exhales a laugh when it catches him. “Baba, keep singing, please.”

It’s more a polite direction than a question, more an expectation than a request. She asks with such genuine joy and affection for his singing— for his voice, for her father, for him— that, all the same, Jon smiles, indulgent again.

“Thank you for saying ‘please,’” he replies. “And since you asked so nicely, I will give you… one more song.”

“Ten!” Kit exclaims.

“Two,” Elsie barters.

“Three,” Jon counters.

“Five,” Martin tries.

Jon lifts an eyebrow at him. “Whose side are you on?”

“My own,” Martin replies. “Selfish, sure, but— I just got home. It’d be nice to spend a bit of time together after such a long day.”

“Playing dirty,” Jon accuses him.

“Oh, absolutely filthy,” Martin agrees, cheerful. “So? How about it? Five songs? Do we have a deal?”

Jon hesitates for a long beat, but Martin can tell from the softening expression on his charming, pockmarked face, too pretty for words— at least, not the right ones, not while he’s this tired— that they have already won him over.

“Alright. We have a deal,” he acquiesces, and Elsie and Kit both cheer alike. It draws a smile to Jon’s face that Martin knows reflects on his own. “But then. Teeth. And bedtime.” To Martin, in the same pointed tone, he adds, “And you are going to eat your dinner.”

“Oh, sir, yes, sir, Jon. Hear you loud and clear,” Martin replies, just as the tape Jon is playing from the stereo starts the next song. “Alright, hold on tight, Miss Eloise—”

Elsie clings to Martin’s neck, his hand, clutching him tight as he whirls her in a circle. He hadn’t been lying— he’s not much of an organized dancer, and he’s certainly not an elegant one, not like Jon and his waltzes with all their dramatic flourishes— but Elsie doesn’t seem to mind, particularly not when Jon’s low voice picks up singing again.

Self-conscious at first, his volume gradually picks up from quiet to confident with time as Kit hums along with him, delighted to dance while Jon keeps teaching him steps he can’t reach the floor to do himself, still happily swinging on Jon’s hip.

“I don’t know this one as good,” Elsie confesses to Martin as he spins her in another circle, then rocks her to one side, the other, and back again. She buries her face in his throat, hand dragging from his back up into his hair to worry strands between her fingertips, a comfort-habit she’s had nearly from birth.

“Oh, well, that's alright,” Martin assures her. “Just dance with me, hm? I don’t need you to know the words, I just love to see your face.”

She lifts her head a bit, peeks up at him. Martin takes advantage of the opportunity to press a quick kiss to the center of her forehead before he’s dipping her again, a hand supporting her head while the other holds her close, dangling her low enough that her braid trails towards the floor— and she gasps with shocked delight, hands clutching at him, trusting him not to let go.

When he swings her upright again, she laughs a breathless, “Again! Please, Daddy, again, again—” that has Martin saying a silent prayer to any potentially-listening deities for his back, the cherry on top of a day of standing and short-distance-pace-walking.

He’ll take it, though. Gladly, he’ll take it— another little while upright to dance with his daughter, and his son, and the love of his life. It’s a fair trade, even if it hurts sometimes. Aches, really, anyway, more than hurts.

Jon lightly bumps his side, a soft tap with his shoulder as they pass in their small circles. Their eyes meet; Jon doesn’t break pace, doesn’t lose the rhythm of his dance, doesn’t stop singing the song, and Martin is smiling again when Jon steals a fleeting kiss before they are spinning apart again.

Elsie only takes a couple more swings and dips before she’s patting Martin’s shoulders and asking him to stop, preferring to be held against his chest instead while he just— well, basically turns in a circle and rocks her, which is so familiar it feels like cheating, but it’s not like she’s bothered by it. She’s content enough to reach up and cling to him again, rubbing his hair between her fingertips once more, sighing.

It’s simple enough to follow Jon’s slow, easy rhythm, his low voice matching the even pace of the music rumbling from the stereo. The song is so cadenced, so measured, so metrical; Martin feels like he could keep time to the lilts of Jon’s voice.

He glances down, just for a moment; he doesn’t catch Elsie’s eye, only the top of her head. Her cheek remains pressed to his shoulder as she clings to him, letting him move her, and he presses a kiss to her hair, enjoying how her arms tighten around him when he does.

The familiar feeling of eyes on him pushes him to look up, and he finds Jon watching him— watching them. His dancing is barely paused; he sways still, and Kit, his arms around Jon’s neck, valiantly attempts to keep humming around a wide yawn.

Jon twitches an eyebrow up in Martin’s direction. Martin replies with a tip of his head. When Jon’s lips twitch, he knows what they’re doing, what their plan is. Easy as.

The soft vibration of Jon’s voice comes to a close.

Of course, there’s no hesitation before Elsie is lifting her head to insist, “My turn with Baba.”

“Hey, now, I thought you were falling asleep,” Martin says, shifting his grip on her.

“Not until my turn is over,” she replies. Tilting her head back, she instructs Martin, “Change me with Kit.”

“Alright, alright, as you wish,” Martin allows.

He and Jon step up alongside each other to exchange the twins, a move they’ve long since perfected. It’s only a moment before they’ve swapped, and Martin finds himself with his arms full of Kit, Jon’s face in miniature beaming up at him.

“I missed you, Daddy,” Kit tells him, legs swinging to kick against his stomach.

“Oh, I missed you, too, love,” Martin says. “But, you know what? Tomorrow’s a day off. I’ll be here to drop you off at nursery and pick you up, how’s that?”

“Okay!” Kit replies, excited.

“Baba, you haven’t started singing yet,” Elsie informs Jon, as if it might have escaped his notice. “We have to sing and dance.”

Jon tells her, “Of course. My apologies.”

It’s Martin who gets the side-glance, rather than their daughter. He has to bite back a laugh; it’s about time Jon had to talk to Jon. See what it’s like for the rest of them.

The low rhythm of his voice starts up again, and Martin tucks Kit against him, taking up the same swaying that had been satisfactory for Elsie. He’s starting to grow tired— his long day catching up on him— but it seems the same is happening to his son, leaving him content enough to rest in Martin’s arms while he rocks him, his cheek pressed to Kit’s hair, soft and nearly dark as Jon’s.

His next glance up at Jon reveals him bent, near-crouched, Elsie standing on his feet and clinging to his hands, insistent on dancing herself— to an extent. Jon can barely move, like this, but he doesn’t seem to mind, delighted all the same. Martin’s heart actually clenches. It would be embarrassing, if he didn’t love them so much.

She’s also drawn The Professor’s attention, bringing him to twine around them again, demanding to know what they’re doing with curious, continuous mrows upward at the both of them.

“Wait. I have to dance with her, too,” Elsie informs Jon.

“Of course. I understand,” he replies, serious, always treating them with such gravity and respect, their two tiny adults-in-training. “And what about The Lieutenant?”

She glances towards The Lieutenant in the windowsill, discovering her to be fast asleep. Her answer to Jon, accordingly, is, “She’s busy.”

“Right you are,” Martin agrees, still swaying with Kit— essentially a contained bundle of yawns and increasingly sleepy weight in his arms. “How are you going to dance with The Professor, then?”

“Like a cat would,” Elsie replies, a moment before she’s releasing Jon’s hands to lay herself flat on the floor beside the cat. Martin doesn’t fight back his laugh this time, letting it come right up; Jon’s smiling, too, watching her turn to bury one hand in The Professor’s fur.

“That— Of course, that would do it,” Jon comments. He’s barely stifling laughter; it’s audible in his tone.

Against Martin’s shoulder, Kit yawns again— a jaw-cracking yawn, enormous, as he stretches in his arms. When it’s ended, he curls up again, closer this time, and Martin smiles, readjusting his grip to let him tuck against him more comfortably.

“I suppose it is nearly bedtime, isn’t it?” Martin comments.

“No,” Kit and Elsie complain, a whine nearly in chorus.

“You haven’t even danced with Baba yet!” Kit exclaims in addition.

“That’s a very good point, actually,” Jon points out, and Martin’s whole being feels like it lights up with fondness, a smile flickering onto his face again. “You did say you would.”

“Put me down,” Kit demands. “Please, Daddy, you have to take your turn!”

“Alright, alright, if you insist,” Martin acquiesces, as if it’s some hardship to have Jon in his arms, leading him in a slow dance, the rumble of his voice guiding their rhythm.

The warm weight of Kit leaves his arms when Martin crouches to set him down again, letting him stand on his own two feet. A moment later, he’s off, heading for the sofa, climbing right up onto the cushions. Elsie is rising— maybe to engage The Professor more in her dance, maybe to join her brother on the sofa.

Either way, Martin’s not sure what she does next, because Jon is there a moment later to claim his attention. His cold fingers cradle Martin’s chin, tilting his head down until their eyes meet.

“Hello up there,” Jon says, teasing, tender.

“Well, I’m not letting you stand on my feet,” Martin warns him, fighting and failing against his smile. He’s ribbing, but— honestly. If Jon actually asked, he might just let him.

Jon, though, just outright laughs, says, “Well. I suppose I’ll just have to make do, then, won’t I?”

“Yes, I suppose you will,” Martin agrees. The tape in the stereo moves to the next song; the music is so calming, so slow, and Jon draws him close, cold fingers seeking his warmth, pushing him into proper position. “How was your day?”

“It was alright,” Jon replies. Step, move, step, step, move, turn, spin— and Martin is laughing when Jon catches him, dips him, his hand so firmly planted between Martin’s shoulder-blades. His heart sweeps up into his throat; Jon’s hair swings down, a curtain to conceal their faces. Martin loves him, so much it could crush him. So much it has crushed him— and yet, here they are. “I missed you.”

“I wasn’t gone all that long,” Martin points out. “Just a few extra hours.”

“All the same.” Jon scoops him back up, guides him upright once more, returning to their dance. “How was it?”

“Long,” Martin admits. “Tiring. Like, it went fine, really, but I’m just exhausted. I’m glad to be home.”

“I’m glad to have you home,” Jon murmurs in return, pushing up onto the balls of his feet to press a kiss to the curve of Martin’s jaw. “What do you s—”

“Baba, don’t forget to sing,” Elsie reminds him.

“Right, sorry, of course.” Jon returns to the flats of his feet, tugs Martin in just a little bit closer— enough that Martin can’t see his expression anymore, his face tucking against Martin’s shoulder, but he can hear him start to sing again. He can feel it, too, a low rumble in his chest that vibrates through into his own. Not only that, but he can feel Jon’s skin flushing, his face warming— but he doesn’t stop singing or dancing with him, all the same.

Martin glances to the side, curious, and catches sight of Kit and Elsie leaning into each other. They’re not really dancing— more hugging and spinning, too tired and clumsily uncoordinated for more— but the sight makes him sigh, all the same.

“Picture,” Jon murmurs, halfway sing-song, working into his lyrics.

Martin fishes his phone from his pocket, takes photograph after photograph of their children dancing with one another. Jon can take his pick later of his favorite(s) from the bunch.

He can tell just by watching them that they’re not long for this world. They’re both clearly half-asleep; it’s not a surprise when Kit eventually withdraws to collapse on the sofa again, nor when Elsie follows, claiming the cushion beside him.

“Look,” Martin whispers, quiet as he can, and Jon follows the direction of his eyes over his shoulder, turning them in a slow circle to do as he’s been told.

They catch sight again just as The Professor leaps up onto the sofa— and The Lieutenant leaps down, having jumped from the windowsill to the back of the couch, curious and compelled to curl up with the children. Jon nudges him; Martin takes another series of photographs on his phone for them both.

Still, Jon doesn’t stop singing. The even rhythm of his voice lulls their children further, deeper; honestly, it’s lulling Martin fairly far and somewhat deep, as well, phone returning to his pocket, melting into Jon.

He is all too content to be here. Their cats, tiny loves of their lives, observing them all with pleasure; their children, folded into each other on the couch, contentedly unconscious; their arms, wound around one another, held close through the movements of the dance—

—and Jon, refusing to release him, singing in that low and steady voice that Martin can just close his eyes and dissolve into.

The song draws to a close. The tape comes to a stop. Jon ends their slow waltz gradually, until they are still in the center of the room, unmoving in the silence.

The only reason the quiet shifts— shifts, moves, but doesn’t break— is because Jon murmurs, careful, “We should take them to bed.”

Martin opens one eye, glancing over the top of Jon’s head to find a messy pile of four-out-of-five of his favorite people-slash-living-beings. Immediate family members, succinctly, he supposes.

Said immediate family members are deeply asleep, children and cats alike. Elsie has tucked herself into the corner of the sofa, all folded in, Marvin crushed to her cheek; Kit sprawls out on top of her, his hand clutching hers, the both of them dead to the world. The Professor has laid herself across Elsie’s legs and made herself comfortable— while The Lieutenant, however, has curled up on the arm of the sofa, head on top of Elsie’s, and returned to elevated sleep.

“Martin, take—”

“Already on it,” Martin assures him, phone camera framing the shot.

Jon leans against Martin, head on his shoulder, tilted up to watch him take picture after picture. After a long moment, he turns around, twisting in Martin’s hold; he snakes a hand upward to cradle the back of Martin’s head, fingertips sifting through curls.

He doesn’t speak. Rather, he just guides Martin down, the hand on his head coaxing him into a kiss as slow and steady as the music, as his voice, as their dance.

Martin’s glasses slide down his nose to collide softly with Jon’s. The tips of their noses bump when they part to tilt their heads and deepen their kiss, just a bit. Jon’s lips are a little dry— chapstick, Martin adds to his mental shopping list, knowing without asking that Jon will forget to restock before running out— and he tastes like cinnamon and citrus. His hand wanders to Martin’s phone, fumbles it from his fingers, and stuffs it in his own pocket; Martin’s resulting laugh nearly breaks their kiss apart.

It’s perfect. Martin has waited all day for just exactly this.

When they separate, Jon keeps his hand firm against the back of Martin’s head, insisting he stay where he is. He steers him down, pushes and pulls until they’re intertwined, foreheads meeting and bodies close and tangled-up together, a knotted and inextricable embrace.

“Hi,” Jon says again with a smile, warm and fond. Martin cracks in half, a bit. “Welcome home. You’ve still got to eat dinner, remember.”

“I will,” Martin assures him. He closes his eyes again for a moment, inhales the scent of Jon, and relaxes, muscles unwinding. “Just— One more minute.”

“You’re worse than Kit,” Jon accuses him, endlessly fond.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, honestly.”

“Good. You ought to.”

“Good,” Martin murmurs, reopening his eyes.

Jon is still here— still right here, smiling back up at him. It’s a small smile, affectionate, as if Jon’s default expression when looking at him has slowly shifted to become— and remain— this. Martin never feels less lonely than when Jon has this look on his face, and his face turned towards him.

“You’re a lovely dancer,” Martin compliments him, and relishes in witnessing Jon’s face blushing dark. “And you know you’re a gorgeous singer. Why don’t we do this more often?”

“Yes, well.” Jon shifts, letting their foreheads part if only so he can smush his face into Martin’s shoulder, instead. “I suppose I was singing with a bit more… enthusiasm than they’re used to at bedtime. And… dancing. A bit. In the kitchen.” The mental image makes Martin smile, unable to stop himself; as if he knows, even without looking, Jon adds, “I mean, I was making dinner, I really wasn’t even paying attention, but— Eloise caught me. She told her brother before I could stop her. They both insisted on having a song and dance of their own.” He keeps his voice low; it rumbles through Martin as he embraces Jon close, their chests pressed together, his cheek against the crown of Jon’s head. “I could only get them to stop begging by promising I would sing another song after dinner.”

“Mm. One song?” Martin asks.

Jon is still flushed. Martin doesn’t need to see his face to know his truth. “We got carried away.”

“Right, yeah, right, of course.” Martin pauses. “And the dancing, then?”

“Well, we couldn’t sing and not dance,” Jon recites back to him, an almost-impression of their son. “Kit’s words.”

“They sound like his,” Martin agrees with a grin. “Elsie was singing along with you, you know.”

Jon hums a rich, muted sort of sound. “She has a nice voice. Just naturally.”

“Wonder where that came from.”

“Mm.” Jon tilts his head again. Martin tilts his own. They meet in the middle, eyes on eyes. “Have you ever considered having another?”

Apropos of nothing, by the way. At least— to Martin’s mind, for sure.

Martin, who just blinks at him.

After a moment, he gathers himself, reaches down, and pinches the back of Jon’s hand.

“Ow,” Jon states, dry, more pointed than pained. “You could have just said no, by the way—”

“No, sorry, I was just checking to see if I was dreaming or not,” Martin stops him.

Jon pauses.

Then, he snorts a laugh.

“I think you’re supposed to pinch yourself, Martin.”

“Oh, where’s the fun in that, though?” Martin asks. He lets one arm drift tighter around Jon’s shoulders, held closer against his chest. “Have you been thinking about having another?” A shrug under his arms. “Jon.”

“Well, only sort of,” Jon confesses. “Just… idle thoughts, really. Nothing very concrete.”

Martin adores their twins. Really, he does. He didn’t even mind them as infants. The monstrosities he had built them up as in his head before their birth had been ridiculous; the reality of them had been far simpler to manage than he had feared. They’ve had their hiccups— both of them have— but Martin thinks he’s been doing better than he ever had any right to expect of himself or of Jon.

Their children seem happy, at least. That’s more than he thought he’d ever be able to say. Sometimes, it really does even feel like everything.

But, then again, another baby means another pregnancy. Another chance for multiples, apparently. Another nine months of Martin being a loose cannon, as well as putting his body through hell all over again— a hell he could handle, but a hell nonetheless.

And, at the end— Another child to pay for. Another mouth to feed. Another brain to develop. Another person to teach. Another vulnerable, fragile life to protect. Another living soul to demand his attention, and affection, and constant care, because he chose their existence, not them, and now he is responsible for it, not them.

Well. He and Jon.

And, now, they would still be responsible for their two existing children on top of whatever— else— happened.

Another baby.

They would have another baby, though. At the end of it all.

Another baby that might look as much like Jon as Kit does, or as much like Martin as Elsie does. Another baby that they would plan around, and prepare for, and welcome into a place in their lives carved out just for them. Another baby that they would help become an entire whole person of their own, part-them and part-themself. Another baby that smiles and laughs and learns and grows and waits up for Martin to come home. Another baby that dances with Jon in their living room, unaware of the storm raging outside. Another baby that would be theirs.

Martin would be lying if he said he hadn’t tossed the prospect around in his mind. Just a bit. Just out of curiosity. Just…

What did Jon say?

Right. Just idle thoughts.

These thoughts aren’t feeling so idle between them right now, though. Shared like this, they feel like they’re actually hustling quite a bit.

“I— Well, I don’t know,” Martin eventually replies, as honest as he can be. He turns it into a tease, asks, “Why? Did you figure out how to carry them yourself this time?”

“You know, I would if I could,” Jon says, contemplative. “Unfortunately, I am not so sure my hips would allow for it.”

“Weaponized incompetence,” Martin accuses, dry and mischievous, and Jon laughs.

The laugh settles. The quiet does, too.

Then—

“We don’t have to.” Jon, his voice even lower now. “I’m happy, Martin. Our lives… Our life is… I— I don’t need more. I am… happy, I am so happy, it— It was just a thought. That’s all.”

It is, somehow, the exact right thing to say. Jon always frets that he doesn’t know how to do that, and yet, here he is, displaying the skill so masterfully. Maybe they have grown quite a bit; maybe this isn’t out of the realm of possibility.

“Well,” Martin murmurs. “Why don’t you hold that thought for me until I’m actually awake, alright?”

Jon perks up a bit. “Oh. Yes. Yes, alright. I can do that.” His arms wriggle around Martin’s middle, holding him closer, snugger. “You should eat soon, though. If you’re that tired.”

“Let’s put them to bed first,” Martin counters, and Jon tips his head in a nod.

Neither of them move.

They wait for the other to move.

Still, nobody moves.

After a syrupy-long second, Jon ventures, “...Or.”

“Or,” Martin suggests, “five more minutes.”

“Thank you, five,” Jon mumbles into Martin, and Martin chokes a laugh off into his hair, clutching him closer.

“Insufferable,” Martin says into his hair, meaning every sound and yet, not a syllable. “You know, one more dance ought to do it, I think.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“That’s all,” Martin replies, as if Jon isn’t already starting to turn them in a slow circle. His waltz is forgotten, abandoned in favor of holding each other close and rotating— a classic, Martin believes. He’s seen it in all the romantic comedies, and aren’t those his life now, rather than the horror movies?

And so, the last of Martin’s too-long day slips away. Just like that.

Just like that— years of clawing-slash-working towards mutual respect with Jon, then friendship, then affection. Just like that— building their foundation of genuine love, then constructing the house of their relationship on top of it, framed and built around compatibility and dedication and hard work and sacrifice and devotion. Just like that— enduring the end of a world and the birth of a new one together, because of one another. Just like that— falling in love over, and over, and over again. Just like that— starting their lives over, and over, and over again.

Just like that, making a home together. Just like that, starting a family together. Just like that, raising their children together. Just like that— over years, and years, and years— over, and over, and over again— together, and together, and together.

Just like that, Jon solves everything by solving nothing at all.

Martin’s day was long, but his night is perfect. And through his last song-and-dance— hummed into the silence— with Jon, and through coaxing the children into brushing their teeth and climbing beneath the bedcovers, and through reading their bedtime stories before kissing them goodnight, and through his devouring of the warm meal left for him in their oven, and through their own bedtime routines and collapse into bed—

Well, through it all, everything that isn’t this just… slips away. It was all worth it, if only as a vessel to land him here— in this moment to bask in— and, now, it is forgotten.

“I love you,” Jon whispers in the dark, a low rumble, a vibration through their bones. Rhythmic, musical, even now.

“Love you more,” Martin whispers back. Jon’s softly-whined complaint in protest is so like their children’s—

Martin smiles. He just can’t help himself.