Work Text:
They didn’t talk about it, at the safehouse. They talked about everything but – the weather, the dishes, the neighbors’ cows. They talked about Daisy, but only to comment about her decor, or her taste in books and music made evident by the small collection of vinyl and battered paperbacks scattered across the house. They didn’t talk about what she might be doing now. They didn’t speculate about whether Basira had made good on her promise yet.
Jon didn’t ask Martin about anything he’d said in the Lonely, though the words I really loved you, you know burned a constant hum in the back of his mind. Martin didn’t ask about any of the things he’d Seen. He wouldn’t know what to ask, even if he wanted to. Was it real? Do you love me? He wasn’t sure he needed to ask. What does it mean? Where do we go from here? That was closer to the mark, but terrifying. Everything felt so fragile at the moment. He didn’t want to push. It was easier, safer, to keep things light. Was the tea in Daisy’s cupboards still good? Had Jon seen that grey heron in the stream outside the window? Should they stop by the library the next time they went into town for groceries?
They barely spoke at all when they went to bed. The nerve-wracking reality of sharing a bed, just inches apart, overpowered any instinct to chat. So they said nothing, falling asleep to the sound of the other’s breathing until it was time for one or both of them to be woken by a nightmare.
***
The first night, it was Martin. He tossed and turned in his sleep, badly enough to shake Jon from his own bad dreams, so Jon could hear the second he woke with a hitched, choked breath.
“It’s alright,” he whispered. “You’re alright, it was just a dream.”
“Jon?”
“I’m here.”
Jon reached across and slipped his hand into Martin’s, and Martin squeezed it like a lifeline. They didn’t say anything else, after that, but when they finally fell asleep nearly an hour later, their hands were still clasped together.
***
In the morning, they talked about the crossword.
“How do you spell obstinate?” Martin asked across the breakfast table.
“O-B-S-T-I-N-A-T-E.”
“Hmm. Too many letters, then.”
“What’s the clue?”
“Stubborn, 8 letters.” Martin told him. “First two letters are O and B.”
“What about ‘obdurate?’”
Martin pencilled it in. “It fits.” He frowned down at the puzzle with a contemplative hum. “And if that’s an R, then that means I was right about 4 down from the beginning…” He filled in a few more clues, then looked up from the puzzle and scoffed. “Obdurate,” he repeated, incredulous. “Who uses the word obdurate?”
***
Jon was woken after midnight by Martin’s harsh, shuddering breaths – crying or on the verge of tears; Jon couldn’t tell. He reached out, and Martin breathed out a shaky sigh.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I was on the beach again,” Martin whispered. “I was alone.”
“You’re not alone anymore.”
“I know.” Another sigh as he struggled to calm his breathing. “I know.”
***
The next day, they talked about the laundry.
“We forgot to buy detergent,” Jon informed him after spending the morning inspecting Daisy’s laundry room and its ancient washer-dryer.
“Daisy didn’t leave any behind?”
“You can look for yourself if you want, but I didn’t see any.”
“I trust you.”
Jon settled on the couch and spread the throw blanket across his lap. “How much did you pack? Do you think we can put off doing laundry until after we go to the shops?”
“Sure,” Martin told him, though in truth he hadn’t packed much. “We’ll be fine.”
***
When Jon woke, he didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. He lay on his back, letting his tears slide down his cheeks in total silence, certain that he hadn’t woken Martin. But when he finally had to breathe – the tell-tale hiccuping inhale of someone who had just been crying – Martin rolled over to face him.
“Jon?”
“It’s nothing. Just a bad dream,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
Martin watched him. Jon’s chest rose and fell unsteadily, and in the light of the nearly-full moon outside their window, Martin could see the tear tracks glisten, incriminating, on his face.
Jon finally turned to face him, and they lay face to face for a long, silent moment. A strand of long, grey-streaked hair had fallen into Jon’s face with the movement, and Martin reached out to tuck it behind his ear.
“Oh, Jon…”
He let his hand linger, cupping his jaw, then moved it an inch to brush aside the tears from Jon’s cheeks. His hand was warm, and Jon’s skin was cold, and Jon turned his face to press into that point of warm, gentle contact.
Jon waited for Martin to pull his hand away. Martin waited for Jon to turn away again. Neither of them moved.
Finally, Jon closed the space between them to tuck his face into the crook of Martin’s neck. Martin held his breath for a moment before bringing his arms up to pull Jon even closer.
They woke up that morning entwined in each other’s arms, but they didn’t talk about it.
***
“We’re almost out of eggs.”
“Already?”
“It’s probably my fault,” Martin admitted. “I used a lot of them for my omelet yesterday.”
“Well, we needed to go shopping anyway.”
Martin hmm’ ed thoughtfully. “There was something else we needed. Wasn’t there?”
“There was,” Jon agreed. “God, what was it?”
“We should start writing these things down.”
***
That night, Jon had another nightmare. Martin could hear him trying to stifle his crying once again, and reached out.
Jon froze at the contact, caught like a deer in the headlights. Then he turned to press himself against Martin’s chest and let himself be held.
“Nightmare?” Martin asked, and Jon nodded.
“I couldn’t look away,” he murmured. “I tried to, but– I just stood there and watched.”
Martin pressed Jon to him. “It’s alright,” he said, though it wasn’t exactly true. Then he whispered, “I’m here,” which was.
***
The next day, they went into town for groceries. They chatted a bit on the walk there.
“God, breathe that air,” Martin exclaimed, sucking in a good lungful for himself.
“I’m breathing it…” Jon said. “Is there… something I’m supposed to notice?”
“It’s fresh!” Martin told him. “It’s good, country air! I don’t miss London right now, I’ll tell you that.”
“No.” Jon glanced at Martin, bundled in his worn peacoat against the highland chill. “I can’t say I miss London either.”
They chatted more in the grocery store.
“Where are you going?”
“I just want to look at the tea selection…”
“We already have so much back at the house.”
“I’m just looking!”
And more, on the walk back.
“Ooh, look there! Is that a falcon? Or a hawk?”
“A hawk.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, it’s a Eurasian sparrowhawk.”
“Know-it-all.”
“Yes, Martin, that’s sort of the idea.”
And more, when they got back to the safehouse.
“Geez,” Martin said as they walked through the front door, “it’s getting a bit nippy, isn’t it? Should we have a fire tonight?”
“Yes, that’s probably–”
Martin dropped the tote bag he was holding with an abrupt clunk.
“Laundry detergent!”
Jon didn’t have to ask what he meant; he just swore under his breath.
“Damnit!”
“We forgot laundry detergent.”
“Look, Martin, you finish putting the groceries away and I’ll run back to the shop.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t have to. It’s a long way–”
“I want to.”
“Alright.” Jon bit his lip around the urge to smile. “If you’re sure.”
***
It was Martin’s turn for a nightmare that night. It was too much to ask, it seemed, that just once they both sleep soundly.
He was crying. Quietly, but not so quietly that it didn’t stand out starkly against the silence of the house. He had his back to Jon, and Jon watched his shoulders shake for a single hesitant moment before he wrapped his arms around Martin’s waist.
“Was it the same dream?” he asked in a barely-there whisper, and Martin shook his head.
“You were there this time,” he said. “In the Lonely. But you… you hated me. You didn’t say it, but I could tell– I knew– you wanted me to go.”
“I’m sorry.”
Martin sniffled. “It was just a dream,” he said, as much to himself as to Jon.
“I… I don’t want you to go.”
“I know. You don’t have to… It was just a dream,” Martin repeated.
They let the silence hang in the air for a time, Jon holding Martin in a wordless embrace, Martin letting the tears come without trying to fight them this time. Jon broke the silence to murmur,
“I was prepared to stay.”
“What?”
“When I went into the Lonely, I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull you out – I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull myself out. I just knew…” he took a steadying breath, and pressed his ear to Martin’s back to hear the quiet beating of his heart. “I’d rather be there with you than leave you there alone.”
“Oh.”
Martin took Jon’s hand in his, pressing it to his chest like a talisman, like it could ward off the Lonely. Maybe it could.
“Thanks, Jon. I…” Another sentence he couldn’t finish. “Thank you.”
Jon turned his head and pressed a kiss to the back of Martin’s neck. In that moment, it felt natural. It felt simple. It felt right.
Martin sighed. The sound was warm, and gentle, and content, and it felt so loud against the silence of the room.
They didn’t talk about it.
***
The next day, they did laundry.
The washer seemed up to the task, but the dryer, which Jon had been dubious of since the moment he set eyes on it, gave out halfway through the first spin cycle. In the end, they had to hang it up to dry.
They worked as a team, Jon handing Martin clothes and pegs and Martin hanging them on the laundry line that stood in the yard behind the safehouse.
They chatted while they worked.
“I’ve never seen you wear this in my life,” Martin remarked as he hung up one of Jon’s old tee shirts from uni.
“Yes, well, I was in a bit of a hurry when I packed…”
Martin read the text printed in too-small serif across the front of the shirt, and his face split into a grin.
“Wait, am-dram? You did am-dram in uni?”
“Very briefly.”
“This explains so much about you.”
“Shut up, Martin,” Jon muttered without any real venom.
“Well, let’s hear something! You must have a bit of Shakespeare memorized.”
He did, but he wasn’t going to say as much while Martin was mocking him.
“I’m not a performing monkey.”
“Oh, come on, just one quick monologue! Just a little, ‘But soft, what light through yonder window breaks…’”
“It is the east, and Juliet is the sun,” Jon finished rotely and without intonation. “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou her maid art far more fair than she – and that’s as much as you’ll get out of me.”
Jon bent over to grab more laundry and did his best to hide his face.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
Martin grinned. “Very.”
“Well… that’s good,” he said stiffly. “I’m glad.”
Martin looked at Jon – desperately embarrassed, surrounded by sodden tee shirts, windswept silver-black hair gleaming in the late September sun – and felt more fond than he ever had of anyone in his life.
“I love you.”
The words slipped out before he realized what he was saying. Jon’s head swung around to stare.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t– I mean– I know it’s–”
“You do?” Jon’s words were quiet and utterly serious.
Martin gave an anxious little nod. “Yeah.” His voice came out smaller than he expected. “I do. I really, really do.”
Jon let the pair of trousers he was holding fall to the ground as he surged forward to kiss him.
***
Another nightmare. Another round of whispered reassurances.
“It’s alright, you’re alright, I’m here.”
When the shock wore off and they were able to shake the residual dread from their respective bad dreams, they turned to face each other on the mattress. The light from the barely-waning moon painted everything in shades of dusky silver.
For a long time, they didn’t speak; they simply studied each other’s faces. Eventually, Jon brought his forehead up to rest against Martin’s.
“I love you.”
Martin swallowed. He still wasn’t used to hearing it. Jon wasn’t used to saying it.
“I love you, too.”
Their lips met in one soft, slow kiss, and then they pulled away just enough to gaze at each other as they fell back into sleep.