Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's awful and lonely, and it's tearing him apart.

But Martin needs to do what must be done. He's always overlooked and always treated as inferior. The weakest link. Unseen. Small.

But now, he has the power to do something. This time, he can save Jon. He can keep him from dancing with death, lying prone in a hospital bed. The price is great, but Martin knows he can do this.

It's not like he'll be missed anyway. The others have barely reacted to his isolation. He's sure Jon will be no different.

A sigh, and Martin draws back his curtain to gaze outside, hoping to catch the last rays of sun before it dips out of sight.

What he sees – or rather who he sees – steals his breath away.

"...Jon?"

His former boss perches on the wall outside his flat, arms wrapped so tightly around his skinny frame that he threatens to snap himself in half. A small scattering of people walk by every now and then, but they pay him no mind. 

Jon waits impatiently, only moving to rub at his eyes as though they’re bothering him, then picks up his phone. 

Martin knows what he must be looking at. A chain of messages, all from Jon to Martin with no response. A chirp in Martin’s pocket alerts him to the fact that Jon has added yet another. 

He steps back from the window and pulls out his phone, reading the new message.

[Martin, please. I can't help you if you won't tell me what is going on. Melanie I understand, but you? This isn't like you!] 

Martin lifts his head and watches as Jon sets his phone back down and looks up at the sky just in time for a big fat raindrop to smack him right on the cheek. 

And then the heavens open on the Archivist, who hadn't the foresight to bring a coat. Within seconds, he's soaked to the skin, hair dripping and sticking to his face, but Jon refuses to move.

Because of course he stays. The stubborn fool. Everything that Martin has attempted to do to push him away, and yet there he is. Waiting.

Well, it's too late now! It's...It's too late. Martin has his mission. He has to make sure that Jon never goes through such a fate again. Whatever the cost.

With an angry huff, Martin shuts the curtain again, ignoring both the presence outside and the further messages from the one contact on his phone he just can't bring himself to mute. He has to stick to his purpose. Never falter. Prove that he can be trusted to do something useful for a change.

And yet he checks the window several times over the next twenty minutes.

He's just checking, with no intention whatsoever of interacting. So what if Jon’s drenched out there? He’s a grown man. He can look after himself.

Martin hesitates, feet shuffling as he fights himself, before he curses under his breath and leaves his flat.

With his gaze fixed pointedly at the ground, Martin marches outside until he reaches this ridiculous stubborn man. He sees nothing. Doesn't even look at him. The noise of the rain striking concrete all around them muffles the sound of the door opening and his footsteps. Martin offers no greeting other than the snap of his umbrella opening to shield the Archivist from the weather.

Jon, meanwhile, soaked as he is, doesn't immediately realise the downpour has disappeared from over his head. He sniffs, squeezing his arms around himself tighter still, then notices the extra pair of feet on the ground next to him. 

"M-Martin?" 

Jon pushes himself off the wall and turns around, eyes wide, teeth chattering from the cold. "C-can we— ah, sorry, I, err..."

Jon pauses, as though picking his words with great care. Once he starts speaking again, Martin realises he’s avoiding asking him any questions. "I-I-I wanted to talk to you. Everyone is...well, avoiding me! Six months, I just, I-I-I-I don't know why you're all acting like this, and I don't want to force any of you to tell me, b-but I can't help if-if-if—" 

He rambles as though terrified Martin will disappear, as though this will be his only chance to talk. But the cold has other ideas, and a sneeze steals the rest of Jon's rant.

Sympathetic to Jon’s plight, Martin finally meets Jon's eyes, and it's his greatest mistake. All he wants to do is reach out and hug the man he thought had died. Wrap him up safely in his arms where no evil will ever reach him again, and there will be no worries about Powers or Entities or evil bosses or the end of the world.

But that's wishful thinking. Because he can't do any of that.

There is...one thing he can do. One thing he hopes and hopes Peter won't discover.

"...Come inside," he says softly, though the words scrape along his throat on their way out.

Jon stares for a moment, then a brightness sparks across his face. He follows Martin inside, pausing to kick his sodden shoes off at the door politely, though his socks are so drenched that he still leaves wet footprints across the floor. 

He stands awkwardly in the living room, looking at the place, arms still wrapped tightly around his torso. "Thank you," Jon says quietly. "Sorry, erm...dripping on your floors..."

"I-It's fine. Jon."

Saying his name makes Martin’s heart clench with pain. He's missed him. He's missed him so much and he's so happy to see him alive. It's torture not to be able to celebrate that.

The umbrella is discarded by the front door and Martin disappears for a brief moment to the bathroom to retrieve a towel. He doesn't give Jon the chance to grab it for himself. Martin wraps it around him, bunching his hands into the material to start patting his head dry. "You...you shouldn't be here. They need you at the Institute. And I'm...busy..."

Busy. Busy, busy, busy. 

"So you keep saying," Jon growls from under the towel, stepping back and away from Martin to fix him with a fierce glare. "So busy you've barely acknowledged that I'm awake! From a six-month-long coma! I-I have no idea what happened while I was out of it, but it damn well seems like you and Basira and Melanie blame me for it! Tim's dead, no one talks about it, you all had six months to grieve, I suppose, a-and I'm here and supposed to catch up with it all, a-a-and I know why you're avoiding me, Martin!" 

His tirade comes to an end, anger dissolving into anguish. "I know why you're all keeping your distance, all right? Just...please. Stop lying to me about it. At least stop lying..."

Does Jon know? Is...Is Martin not doing such a good job as he thought? No. No, no, by staying away he's supposed to be helping and putting a stop to all this madness.

But Jon. Oh, Jon.

"Just...Just shut up!” Martin snaps back. “You have no idea what—! And Tim—! Do you think I didn't miss you?! That I didn't grieve you?!"

"You're absolutely right! I have no idea!" Jon's voice rises, hazel eyes flashing a hint of green. "Because no one will talk to me! Because you all think whatever walked out of that hospital is not the same as what got carted in!" 

Jon throws an arm back, gesturing blindly outside. "You all think I'm one of them now! Like Elias, o-o-or Michael or Prentiss or Peter fucking Lukas, though you seem less concerned about what monstrosities he could do unto you! Never mind that I could have made you tell me every damn thing in a heartbeat and haven't! Never mind that I damn well agree with all of you – you don't think I wish as much as any of you that I'd died a-as me? It wasn't a bloody option, though!"

"You are not one of them, Jon!" Martin, in a rare moment, raises his voice to match Jon’s. There are tears in his eyes, large and hot and straining to be released. But Martin doesn't let himself cry. He's done enough of that by Jon's bedside. By his corpse. "You're... You're not a monster. Y-You could never be. You... You—!"

He can't do it. The tears break free, soaking his face so that it's nearly a match of Jon's rain-soaked features.

"D-Don't you dare think that I'm not happy that you're alive—!"

"Yes, Martin, I am! I am one of them now!"

Evidently, Jon has never admitted that out loud. The awful truth that's scuttled along after them now settles itself between them, ugly and unwanted. "I am one of them! The Eye stares at me, constantly, awake or asleep! It hungers, so I hunger. That's what we know they all do, isn't it? Feed their patrons. And I see how you all look at me! You're repulsed by me, but God, Martin, I-I-I'm trying to hold on to some shred of humanity, and how the hell am I meant to do that if people won't come near me and other monsters keep getting closer to me?" 

Tears shine in his eyes, and not even the wetness of the rain can hide them.

Martin sniffles loudly, fighting himself on what to do. He knows what he should do, what Peter wants him to do... Push Jon outside, make him go back to the Institute where he'll be safe but... Damn it. He can't. He can't do it.

He's a failure.

Martin sobs, feeling pathetic and weak. "Shut up!" he cries. "Just shut up!"

He does the unthinkable, reaching forward to embrace Jon tightly. He shouldn't. He really shouldn't, but it's killing him to see Jon like this.

"I'm sorry. I have to—! I-I'm sorry...! You were dead!"

Jon's whole body goes rigid with shock. Martin wonders when Jon has last been embraced by anyone, given the man clearly has no idea how to respond. 

But it's...nice. Sure, he's horribly aware of how awkward it all is, and Jon’s sodden clothes are now getting Martin's shirt wet, and his hair is dripping onto Martin's shoulder, but Martin finds he doesn't care one bit about that. 

It’s nice.

Comforting. 

Human. 

Gingerly, Jon brings his arms up to wrap around Martin as best he can. 

"I was," he says. "But I heard someone saying I was needed. If I had any power left to come back, to do it. So...I made the choice."

Martin wants to hold him until time implodes and the stars collide, an eternity together without the dangers of the world to pull them apart. But Jon’s words remind him that the dangers of the world are still out there, lurking in the shadows. Martin has to let go…doesn’t he?

Selfishly, he digs his nose into Jon's hair first, tightening the hug. "When... When Basira told us what had happened I... God, Jon... I'm so glad you're alive."

And if everything goes along with Peter's promises, Jon will stay alive and well. Even if it's without him.

A deep sigh as Martin wills himself to stop crying, breaking the hug and giving Jon a look like he misses him already, despite him being right here.

"I'm...I'm going to get you some dry clothes. And some tea. You... You need some tea."

And just like that, they're back where they were. 

Jon replies with a soft grunt and a stiff nod, wrapping his arms back around himself. While Martin goes to get him some dry clothes, the sounds of Jon’s gentle pacing tells him the other man is exploring his home. 

What will he see? Tea cups. Lots of empty tea cups. Pillows and blankets. An altar to comfort, even though Martin doesn't entertain guests often. A comfort to himself, really. Filling a void.

Martin tries to find something that will fit Jon well, but he has literally nothing in his size. His wardrobe is, of course, full of enormous jumpers and shirts and trousers. A sigh, and he picks out a grey jumper and some pyjama bottoms that have always been a little tight on him. This will have to do.

As he returns to the living room, Martin is gifted with a sight he's daydreamed plenty about. In his absence, Jon has peeled off his soaked clothes, exposing what the coma and Jon's lifestyle have done to his body. Thin. Bony. Sharp angles and points. Scars.

God. What has the Institute done to them all?

"H-Here. This is the best I could find that won't have you swimming in it. I-I'll...erm...take your wet clothes and wash them, stuff them in the dryer a-and...yeah..."

He can't look at him. He really can't look at him or he's sure to announce his feelings with a prominent blush.

"Thank you, Martin,” Jon replies, his voice hovering above a whisper.

Jon takes the clothes, but he hesitates in putting them on. He stares at them for a while before speaking again. "Did—"

Once again, Jon clips his question short, replacing it with something safer. "Ah, I was wondering if anyone visited me. In the hospital. I have no next of kin, so...Well. I just wondered..."

Martin lets out a sad laugh, his path to the kitchen and the kettle halted. "I did. A-A few times." A lie. He was in there so much, talking to Jon about anything he could think of, begging him to wake up. "A-And Basira. And Georgie."

He moves to continue before but stops once again. "Wait...no next of kin? I-I thought no family came because we didn't know how to reach them..."

"Oh, no, no one to reach."

Jon smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "My, err, my father died when I was two. Mother a few years after. My grandmother raised me, but she passed away a number of years ago. No siblings, so..."

He suddenly stops, a guilt slackening his expression. Before Martin can coax him out of his shell, Jon has scuttled back into it. He turns around, pulling the dry jumper over his head. "So. How's, err...how's Peter to work for? At least he's not Elias...No way he could possibly be watching us right now."

And lo, there goes Jon. Dammit. Well. Martin definitely shouldn't have asked about Jon's family. His heart reaches for him now more than ever, hoping to connect with another lonely soul.

Martin winces and retreats to the kitchen so he can avoid giving his own family history in return. It's also easier to lie if he's not facing Jon. Here he can hide his shame as he prepares their tea.

"It's...It's fine!" he calls back. "I feel...useful, you know? I'm helping a lot more than I did when I was working for Elias."

He's also never felt more trapped, but that is something he can't confess.

Minutes later, he returns, a mug in each hand.

Jon takes the mug of tea gratefully, warming his hands around it. "Or working for me?" he asks lightly, then he swallows. The question falls out before he can stop himself; has he been worrying? Or maybe he’s jealous? No, no, surely not. 

Martin doesn't realise he's being compelled until he's speaking. "I don't think you ever really saw me while I was working for you." Martin gasps, horrified by what he's just said. "Jon, I-I'm sorry. I didn't m-mean. I-I-I j-just...!"

A truth. Awful, fearful, terrified, real…and no doubt delicious for the Archivist.

Jon’s eyes roll back for a second, a little more colour returning to his pale skin, a touch more strength straightening his hunched shoulders. Above his eyes, a small cuts slit along his brow bone; another vertically between his eyebrows; smaller bundles cut in clusters beneath his eyes. 

"I—" 

Jon opens his eyes, a dull glow of green emanating from his pupils. Something moves under the new slits above and below his eyes. "I saw you. Of course I saw you, Martin..."

"No. No, you didn't. Not really, you—"

Martin stammers as he’s confronted by...by what? This is Jon. It's Jon. But it's also something else and new and he doesn't know how to feel about it. The gentle glow of his eyes and the...the slits across his face that almost remind him of closed eyelids. He can't help but recall how terrified Jon was of becoming a monster, how real that fear seems now.

Martin takes a step back, involuntarily and startled. "Jon...Jon, what has Elias done to you?"

Even as he watches, new eyelids crack open, eyes dull and unfocused for the moment. 

A feast awaits the Archivist. In Martin's mind, in his soul. A story...so many stories, things Jon doesn't know. Information. Experiences. A pure truth weaves between them, silent and undeniable – Jon is hungry. Starving. Famished.

And the Eye demands Jon to act. 

The Archivist steps towards Martin, making up the space the other has made. He tilts his head to the side, confused. "Jon?" he asks, his tone resonating in the air around them.

"Jon. You're Jon. My Jon. I-It's you." There's a waver in Martin's voice, but he doesn't step back any further. Fear bubbles inside him but he refuses to let it take over. He won't be the scared little fool any longer. "J-Just sit down a-and have some...have some tea. Everything's going to be okay. Don't let it control you, Jon. Please."

Jon doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. "I don't want tea, Martin. You are far more appealing. I see why the lonely sea captain has taken a shine to you." 

His hand lifts to graze Martin's cheek, but he freezes. His eyes widen in shock, in horror. The others, still unfocused, roll back and close, disappearing seamlessly into his skin. "...Martin?"

"Jon."

Now that he looks human again, Martin knows he can safely touch him. There is nothing but pure concern in his expression as he reaches out, one hand on each side of Jon's safe in a bold move. His heart is hammering in chest, fear twirling this and that as he tries to decide if he'd truly been in danger or not.

If anything, this serves to prove Peter's point. He needs to be able to pull this off, to keep everyone safe. To keep Jon safe.

"You're okay, y-you're alright. You're you. You're fine... Okay? Everything's fine. S-Sit down. Please."

Jon blinks slowly, his face void of expression, as though he's just awoken from a very deep sleep. Except, he hasn't. "I saw you, Martin," Jon whispers. "I'm sorry you felt otherwise. I'm sorry about Sasha, about Tim...and I'm sorry I've...I've been quite selfish here. You don't want to go the same way as them, and I-I failed to protect them from the monsters we face. And now, I...I can't even protect you from me, can I?" 

Slowly, gently, he removes himself from Martin's hands. "I daresay you're safer with Peter Lukas, yes..."

Martin doesn't feel any kind of safety working for Peter Lukas. But...it's fine. He is serving a great purpose. Sacrifice the weakest member of the team to ensure the safety of the rest.

He's aching to tell Jon all about this, that he doesn't want to be away from him. Quite the contrary, really, for he just can't stop thinking about him. He's even started talking to the tape recorders when they show up.

But he can't tell him. Not yet.

For now, he has to cut himself off, and this way is as good as any.

"...I think you should leave. Take the umbrella with you. A-And keep the jumper."

──── •✧• ────

Chapter Text

Eyes fixed upon the carpet at his feet, Jon nods, lips pressed into a firm line. "Right. Y-yes, I...I suppose that's...I-I'm sorry, Martin. I'm so sorry I frightened you, I never...I wouldn't..." 

Tears shine in his eyes, and Jon bows his head. "I'm sorry," he says hurriedly, voice cracking. He flees from the room, leaving the umbrella exactly where it is and dashing out into the pouring rain once more.

Words lodge in Martin’s throat as Jon leaves, the tears in his eyes like acid in his blood. It's for the best. This will save him and keep him from harm. He needs to meet his side of the bargain for Peter to keep his and—

Oh, fuck it.

The door to Martin's flat slams behind him as he rushes out, umbrella in one hand and his heart in the other. He's not much of a runner, but Martin finds that, for Jon, he's capable of many things.

"Jon! Jon! Stop!"

But Jon doesn't stop. He breaks into a rush, sprinting through the rain away from Martin without looking back.

But for all his new powers, Jon is still Jon. It's not long before he's wheezing for his speedy getaway, tar-bruised lungs paying him back for almost a decade of abuse. He leans too far forward to try to haul in another breath and—

Splash! 

—Jon comes crashing down before Martin is able to catch up with him. Martin screams out his name again, alarmed. He kneels by the man's side, breathless and just as soaked from the rain as he is.

"A-Are you okay?" It's a stupid question, considering the events of the past year alone. "God...Jon. I'm sorry. I can't... I can't have you believing that I- w-when I really...Good God... Here. Let me help you up, Jon."

But Jon snarls to himself as he pushes himself up to his hands and knees, ignoring Martin’s offer. A few drops of crimson ribbon through the puddle he finds himself in, a dark graze bleeding under his chin. No doubt it will be healed before he even gets to his feet. For precisely the reasons he keeps trying to flee; the reasons he mistakenly believes Martin wants to avoid him for.

"Don't!" He lashes out blindly at Martin when he senses the other man going to help him up. "Don't, I-I don't..."

But Martin refuses to be pushed away. He needs Jon to know and if he won't see for himself then he will make him.

"Ask me!" he cries out, grasping onto Jon's arm for dear life. "Ask me what I think of you! Compel me! Do it!"

Jon looks up at him, wide, shocked eyes peer out from behind wet clumps of hair as he stares at Martin like he's lost his mind. 

"N-no! No, I-I-I...I can't hear you say it! I don't need to hear you say it...!" he pleads, scrambling to his feet and trying in vain to pull his arm free. "Basira, Daisy, Melanie, I know what you all think! How you all look at me, how you all wish I-I hadn't ever woken up at all! I don't need to compel you to tell me you think I am a monster, Martin! I can read the signs loud and clear!"

"You! You're...such an idiot!" Martin yells back, not caring that they're causing a scene in the middle of the street. "You're not a monster, Jon! You're kind and stubborn and strong and...an absolute idiot!"

It's out of character for Martin to be calling Jon such a thing, but his frustration is great. Jon won't compel him, so Martin makes a rushed choice. He pulls on his arm to bring him closer, not giving himself the chance to hesitate or Jon the chance to scramble away. He doesn't even give himself time to do this the way he'd always imagined it to be. Not that it matters. The outcome is definitely not going to follow his daydreams.

His free hand reaches for the back of Jon's head, holding it still with a gentle but firm grip, before pressing their lips together.

He prays it halts the constant stream of noise in Jon’s head; the pressure of that ocean behind the closed door; the clawing demands to feed on knowledge. 

For one moment, Martin hopes he can halt the world around them.

To show Jon he’s here.

Martin, who has hidden away from him in supposed fear for weeks. 

Martin, who seemed practically despaired to see Jon had woken up. 

Martin Blackwood, who spilt tea on statements, accidentally let a dog into the Archive, who Jon had once delighted in sending out for the afternoon on research tasks. 

Something snaps inside Jon. Something so intensely human that the joy of realising such a thing still exists within him sends him giddy with relief. 

Jon's hand don't push him away. They don't slap against him or pinch him or do anything to break this moment. Both hands tear up through the rain, clamping handfuls of Martin's soaked golden locks. He crushes his lips further into Martin's, kissing him as though it would be his last, slipping and skidding on tiptoes in an effort to stay close. 

The man Martin loves is kissing him back.

Martin tilts his head, not caring about the inevitable pulling on his scalp, and deepens the kiss with a happy and relieved exhale. He wants to laugh and cry at the same time. The impossible has happened and it can't be his to keep but...perhaps only for the moment. Only for what's left of the day, he can infuse Jon with all of his love for him, enough to hopefully have him feeling wanted and cherished while Martin completes his mission.

He breaks the kiss, because they're in the middle of the greatest downpour of the year and he's lost his umbrella on the way. Martin's at a loss for words, breathless, but he finds it in himself to press his forehead against Jon's, wet blond hair and against wet dark hair, and whispers to him.

"You're not a monster. Not to me."

Jon moves forwards a touch, lips parted, clearly wanting to dive back into that blissful kiss once again. He falters, however, breathless and giddy, confused and stunned. 

A curl of laughter escapes him, riding a wave of relief, of incredulity, of disbelief. "And you thought I didn't see you..." Jon whispers back around a beaming smile.

Martin finds himself laughing. He can barely believe this is happening. Any moment now he's going to wake up and lose this moment. He waits, but it doesn't happen. The moment continues.

"Pardon me for not being able to see past the grumpiness." Jon is so close that he could kiss him again. Maybe he should. But they are still in the rain. "Come back to my place. I'm sorry for what I said. Please come back, Jon. Let me take care of you."

"I...But what if Peter…?"

Like it or not, whatever deal Martin has with the Institute's new overseer, it leaves Martin in the firing zone of an avatar's wrath. Then again, if Jon's hunch is correct, Peter is an avatar for the Lonely. Seeing all is not in its jurisdiction, it's in Jon's. 

Jon strokes back Martin's hair just above his ears. "I won't let him hurt you, but...but I don't fully know what he can do. I don't intend to find out via you being subject to it."

Martin lets the tip of their noses graze against each other. He'd been feeling so alone, and this closeness feels like a gift from above.

Jon's scent is exactly the same as before, despite everything.

"...I'm...I'm going to need you to trust me. To see me, Jon. I know what I'm getting myself into, and it'll be worth it. It also means Peter can't know that I've been talking to you."

"I trust you," Jon says, brushing his nose back against Martin's. Ridiculous. Sentimental. 

He doesn't care. 

"But that doesn't mean I won't be keeping an eye on you. Actually, I don't really have a choice in that regard," Jon points out dryly. "H-has Basira told you? I don't...Well, she said you hadn't been speaking to anyone much, but...A-a conversation for indoors, I think." 

He cranes his neck up, looking at the falling rain with a laugh. "I think I'm soaked to my organs right now...!"

"You can tell me all about it over tea and dry clothes,” Martin says. “But first..."

At long last, Martin allows himself to celebrate Jon's return to the world of the living. He kisses him again, a kiss that tastes of rain and leftover blood and is absolutely perfect, only to embrace him with a loud laugh as he lifts him up and twirls him around.

"You have no idea how happy I am that you're alive!"

The kiss is gladly taken, but Jon breaks it off to yelp as his feet leave the ground. 

"Ah-aaaah! A-all right, Martin, p-put me down!" he protests, though he blushes furiously through it all. "I-I-I can walk, I swear!"

"No way," Martin answers, still laughing out loud with glee. "You died. Let me have this, even if it's only until we get back inside."

Jon is a lot lighter than the first time he did this, making it easier than ever to adjust his hold, one arm under his back and the other under his knees.

True to his word, Martin carries Jon the full three minute walk back to his flat. They're both dripping pathetically all over the carpet, but Martin doesn't care in the least.

──── •✧• ────

Chapter Text

The entire three-minute journey back to Martin’s flat is punctuated by Jon yelling to be let down.

"As promised," Martin says, allowing Jon to recover his freedom. By this point, the Archivist has nailed the impression of a very soggy, very grumpy cat. 

"Marvellous. Wonderful. Soaked again and carted around like a wet sack of potatoes to boot," Jon grumbles, starting to wriggle out of the now-drenched jumper Martin had let him borrow not half an hour before. It's clear now that Jon has gained a few more scars in Martin's absence; one on his right shoulder, and a strange, ghostly mark over the left side of his ribcage.

Martin takes the chance to get a good look at them. He can't tell what's new and what isn't, but considering what he's heard has been happening around the Archives, it's a safe assumption that they're recent.

"You're...still getting attacked left and right, aren't you?" Martin asks as he wrestles his own way out of his jumper and shirt. He has no scars to reveal. The only marks that pepper his skin are his freckles and moles.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, you've missed a few, haven't you?" Jon says. He points at his shoulder. "Melanie. This was a thank-you gift for some unplanned surgery I performed on her. Err...oh, this one" – he points to his ribs – "is courtesy of the Boneturner himself. I needed a rib. He took two. Bit of a bastard, to be honest with you, but needs must, and I wasn't going to dive into the Buried without an anchor left behind. Ahh, what else...oh, this?" 

Jon holds up his hand, showing a scar that encircles one finger. "As it happens, I heal very quickly. So quickly, in fact, that cutting my own finger off proved so arduous that I decided to go on the aforementioned trip to the Boneturner's new house." 

He turns away then, folding the sodden jumper neatly over a radiator. "If it wasn't so painful, I'd be quite proud. I think I have a scar for almost every Fear now, you know. Most people don't live to get a scar from one, let alone...what, ten now?"

Martin stares at him, dumbstruck and with his drenched clothes in his hands, as Jon describes and shows off his scars. Like someone showing off their stamp collection. It's... It's bizarre.

"Proud...?"

Martin isn't having it.

"Jon, if I had my way about it, you wouldn't have a single scar or have met any of the Fears! It's not something to be proud of!"

Like a fretting mother hen, Martin tuts and sets out his clothes on the radiator, without folding them. He then scampers into the kitchen and puts the kettle on, again, and fetches dry clothes, again.

When Martin returns, that affection from before has returned to his gaze. "H-Here, try not to run out into the rain this time. I don't have any other grand romantic gestures to pull."

Jon takes the clothes with a smile, dries himself and changes into them. These fit even worse than the last set, and he spends a while folding up the sleeves so that he can at least use his hands. "Does that mean the next romantic gesture is my responsibility? Right. I suppose I'll...stage a heroic rescue against Peter Lukas. Might earn me a scar from the Lonely too."

The thought of Jon doing any sort of romantic gesture for him, grand or small, has Martin's heart fluttering in his chest. Luckily, Jon wanders into the living room before he can see Martin’s face turning pink. 

With his dry clothes and fresh cup of tea, a spring in his step that hadn't been there before, Jon seems almost normal. Settling into the cosy little room with Martin, wrapped in dry clothes and nursing a warm drink. Delightfully human and blissfully normal. 

Jon sits down on the sofa, curling his legs up and looking around the place again. "You're much neater than I am..."

"Force of habit. My mum hated messes,” Martin explains. “Though I still like a bit of clutter here and there."

He decides to quickly change the topic. There are other things he would rather address than his mother.

He sits down beside Jon, his own mug steaming between his palms. "I...I still can't believe you kissed me back. That you...you like me back. I never thought..." Martin's gaze focuses on his tea, a sad smile on his face.

Jon looks sideways at Martin for a while, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "What can I say? I gave it my best shot, but you make it incredibly difficult not to enjoy your presence. For a while, that bothered me. For a long while, I'll admit."

He takes a sip of his tea. "I...am not very accustomed to, erm...warmth, I suppose. It was easier to consider it some sort of naivety in others than it was to accept it was something I'd been robbed of."

Martin starts, looking at him with genuine surprise. "W-Wait, hang on. This isn't recent?"

His thoughts inevitably go back to the past, to all the times Jon had shot him down every time Martin had tried to guide them towards this. "So every time you shot me down, you actually did like me?"

Jon, mid-sip, almost chokes on his tea. "Erm, ah, well...I...I wasn't shooting you down, really, I-I mean...technically, I was your boss...and then...well, I might be...I'm not even human anymore, am I...and well...Peter is your boss now, really, and, err..."

Jon clears his throat, putting his mug down on the table and thumping his chest clear with the other hand before trying to continue. "Ah, well, I suppose it was around the time Pren—Wait a minute."

Jon turns his startled gaze to Martin. "How long have you been...having feelings for me?"

Now it's Martin's turn to look alarmed. And awkward. And to blush furiously. "Erm...since...befooooore...Prentiss?" he says, his voice already higher than it normally is. It's a vague answer, not truly giving Jon the information he wants and, after a sip of his tea, Martin relents.

Might as well go in. "...Please don't judge me for this, because you were so mean when we first met but...I started crushing on you a few months after I was hired on."

Jon blinks at him, stunned by the revelation. 

Then he pales, horrified realisation dawning.

"Oh no. I-I asked you a question...Shit, no, I-I'm sorry, I keep doing that! I swear, I'm not doing it deliberately, I-I just never realised how many bloody questions I asked until it became a...a weapon."

Jon looks away, worrying now that he's compelled Martin to speak yet again about something he didn't want to speak about. Worse...that receiving the knowledge, new and intriguing, feels good. "Your taste in men is appalling," he mutters.

Martin laughs, although he's not sure if it's from how absurd this is all being or out of embarrassment. "I-It's fine, I'm not saying anything I don't want to say. Besides, then you had to be so cute when you asked me if I was a ghost a-and then you opened up to me about being afraid. Next...oh, God...next thing I know I'm dropping chocolate boxes on your desk every Valentine's Day only to go back and grab them again before you came back, just in case it would make you angry."

His face is beet red now, unable to meet Jon's eyes.

Jon, meanwhile, gapes at him. "You did wha—haaaa, aaaah noooo, that is a question, Jonathan,” he scolds himself, catching himself this time. "Err, I what I mean to say is...I would very much like to know, err...if that is true. Because I'm quite partial to sweet things."

A long pause.

"Like...you,” he adds. 

Pure joy releases inside of Martin at those words. Jon likes him. Jon thinks he's sweet. He's been able to kiss John twice now.

"...I did. Every single Valentine's. Like a lovesick idiot. I'd then pretend I'd bought them to share with the office and would leave them in the break room."

Martin takes another sip of his tea, willing his blush to settle down. "You...you had to know something. I'm terrible at being subtle a-and I acted so jealous about Basira."

Jon snorts. "Basi–ah! Oh! Oh, right, that makes a lot of sense now, in hindsight."

Jon leans over, settling himself comfortably against Martin as he thinks back over all his interactions with him regarding Basira. "I don't think anyone's ever been jealous regarding me before. Again, your taste in men is dreadful."

Martin lets his head drop to rest on Jon's, completely unable to get rid of the dreamy smile on his face.

Come morning he will have to act like the last half hour never happened, like Jon had never been here to begin with. But, for now, Martin is more than happy to pretend that their lives and the world aren't constantly at risk.

"Horrible, really. Pining after him for years and caring after him, trying to make sure he doesn't die at every turn..." His smile becomes wider as he attempts a jest. "You know, maybe I should reconsider."

He reaches for Jon's hand, because he doesn't want to ever let go.

"And with the whole world seemingly against you in its efforts to kill me," Jon adds as an afterthought. "Myself included, really. Climbing into coffins and whatnot. No wonder you washed your hands of this nonsense."

He laces his fingers through Martin's when the other man reaches over, watching the bound pair in front of him for a while. His expression turns stony, however, his voice dwindling to a whisper. "I know you'll have to disappear off again for Peter. Whatever deal you have with him...Well. I trust you that it is necessary. But..."

Jon sits up, turning to face Martin. "If he betrays you, o-or you want to back out. If you think he's going to hurt you, Martin, please – please promise you'll come find me. That you'll tell me. Let me help you for once." He squeezes Martin's hand. "I know better than most what these entities can do to a person. What they do to your mind. It'll make you believe it, make you need it. But Martin, try to remember, whatever it tells you...you are not alone. Nor would the world be better off for it if you were."

The words move Martin. They wrap around his injured heart and bandage the wounds his grief had left him. Jon. Dear precious Jon.

Martin releases a shaky breath and squeezes Jon's hand in return, blinking back the tears that pool in his eyes. "I-I promise. I won't give you reason to worry, but if things don't go as planned...I'll find you."

He brings Jon’s hands up to his lips, a promise sealed in a kiss to his knuckles. "You have to try to stay safe in exchange, okay? Peter was already upset about me helping you get out of that coffin with the tape recorders. I can't risk him knowing that we're having any contact whatsoever. He needs to believe that we're upset with each other."

"I do try. It's everything else around me that seems eager to put me in danger," Jon huffs without much dedication to being annoyed. "And yes, of course. I will be suitably disgruntled at work. Plenty of practice on that front."

Jon smiles, then checks the clock above the mantelpiece. "I...suppose that means we ought to make the most of our time away from work. Perhaps we co—" 

His brain catches up with Martin's words then. "The tape recorders on the coffin. That was you?"

Martin grins widely and nods, proud to have been useful and able to help in bringing Jon back from such a horror. "Don't ask me why, as I don't really know myself. Just felt...right? Anyway, stop putting yourself in danger and...and pulling out bones or there will be nothing left of you for me to take care of."

He laughs again, because it's so easy and wonderful to get wrapped up in the joy of whatever this is blooming between them. He squeezes Jon's hand again. "Anyway, you had a suggestion?"

Jon stares at him in amazement. Then again, it’s not like Martin hasn't displayed this sort of resourcefulness and cunning before. The fire extinguishers. The corkscrew. The plan to distract Elias. The tapes getting Elias arrested. Whatever he's up to with Peter now. 

No, it's not the fact that Martin thought to do this that stuns him. It's the fact he did it for Jon. 

"I-I...thought the rib thing would work..." he mumbles, trailing off, feeling deeply embarrassed about it all now. Tape recorders. He's always been able to sense them. Why the hell didn't he think to use them as a back up? 

Jon snaps himself back to the present. Their time together will be stolen in bursts, and he can't waste it scolding himself. "Show me your favourite movie," he blurts out. "The one your mother used to complain about you watching too often, that one."

A beat. A realisation. "...Fuck. You...never...told me that..."

The more time they spend together, the more Martin learns of just how far Jon has stepped from humanity. Is stepping. It worries him, but those are not thoughts he wants to have right now.

Or his mother.

Martin has been dealing with her death by living in blissful ignorance, focusing exclusively on the tasks Peter gives him and trying not to let his thoughts linger on Jon for too long. Everything concerning his mother is pushed to the very far back of his mind, along with the pain, the grief and the relief.

To have her be mentioned suddenly, here in this moment that has so suddenly become theirs, has his smile vanish away as if it had never existed to begin with. "I-I'd...uh..." A sigh escapes him. "...I'd rather not. I'm not...in a movie watching mood..." He forces out a chuckle, like this whole interaction is trivial. "B-Besides, your hair is soaked. Let me g-grab a hairbrush and help you with that."

Distractions and Jon. That's all Martin wants.

Meanwhile, Jon nods along rapidly. "Right. Yes, no, of course, I-I'm sorry. It's...Basira hates it too, I just, sometimes, know things, just pops into my head like I've been told it a-and obviously, I appreciate it's disconcerting, I—"

Jon trails off, apparently defeated, bringing Martin’s full attention back to him in a hurry.

"No-! No, Jon, that's not why I don't want..." Martin pauses, grief sitting tightly in his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut and exhales sharply through his nose. He doesn't let go of Jon's hand, even as he stands up. "I-I'll tell you why, just...let me care for you first. Yeah? I'll be right back."

"Right you are."

Martin heads off to his bedroom, intending to gather up everything he needs. Though he has never let his hair grow past his ears, he takes a little pride in keeping his curls hydrated and bouncy. As such, he has a few hair products at his disposal. While Jon's hair has looked like it's been screaming for all of them to be used, Martin settles for the leave-in conditioner and a hairbrush.

When he returns, he waves a little 'hello', like it hasn't been barely a minute since he slipped away.

Pulling over a chair from the breakfast bar, Martin gestures for Jon to sit there.

Jon does as he's told (for once) and heads over to where Martin has indicated. 

He hesitates, then sits right on the edge of the chair, back ramrod straight, hands folded neatly in his lap. "You don't have to, you know. I can do it. Just pass me the comb," he offers, extending a hand over his shoulder.

Despite all the hardships and atrocities Jon has endured, he's still the same stubborn fool that Martin first fell for. It brings comfort to his heart that Jon's core remains unchanged. Grumpy stubborn fool. "I know I don't have to," he says as he applies product to the still-wet hair. There's about a thousand tangles he can spot already. Thankfully the conditioner will make this a lot less   painful than it needs to be. "But I want to anyway. I care about you, Jon. Deal with it."

The words are harsh but spoken softly, heavy with all the affection Martin has been wanting to give him for months. Years.

Carefully, he begins to brush the ends.

"Let me know if it hurts, okay?"

"Honestly, Martin, I can—"

Jon jolts out of his skin as gentle fingers gather up his over-long hair, a comb finding its way through tangles without tugging. He clears his throat and begins staring, unblinking at the wall opposite. He looks at the framed pictures, not really seeing them. His hands twist into fists in his lap, knuckles white, shoulders bunched. 

Martin, meanwhile, is slightly alarmed by how quiet Jon is. It almost convinces him to stop, but he's also very aware that Jon is a person to loudly speak his mind when he's unhappy about something.

So, he continues.

The conditioner is a great aid, allowing the brush to glide through untangled locks and slowly working through the tangled ones. He works in silence for a few minutes until all of the ends are perfectly soft. Then, he moves on a little higher. The back of his fingers graze against Jon's neck as he gathers up the hair, gentle touches that he allows to become caresses.

"Christ, Jon," he mutters in feigned disapproval. "When was the last time you brushed your hair?"

Lured into a false sense of confidence, Jon opens his locked jaw to answer Martin's question just as his hands find his neck. 

"I was in a—aaaaahh-aaaaaaaah..."

He sinks back to the touch, eyelids fluttering. The tight muscles in his neck quiver, desperate to relax for the first time in...in...years? 

Jon almost falls off the chair in his haste to sit back upright. "Ah! Ah-hem! I-I, err, well, coma, six months, got...tangled, haven't had time. Statements! Haha, exactly, and then...all that."

Martin quickly pulls his hand back, assuming this new sound he's hearing Jon is one of pain.

No. That's not right. Martin, unfortunately, knows what Jon in pain sounds like. Then...is this a happy sound? Did he like it? He had leaned into the touch...

He hums quietly in thought, nodding along to Jon's babbling as he brushes a little more. He keeps his fingers away from the man's neck for a few moments. "Still. If you're going to let it get long, you should take care of it. Otherwise you're going to look like you were dragged through the Institute's gardens. I'm surprised I haven't found anything alive in here." Martin lets his smile slip into his tone as he speaks, brushing again and again until he's finished with another section. As he reaches for the next clump, he purposefully lets his fingers drag along the man's neck, almost drawing a line to where neck ends and scalp begins.

"I'm not letting it get long,” Jon continues, “just...things keep happening, and I haven't had time to cut it in the last few years, and—aaaaah–s'nice..." he practically purrs, letting himself flop backwards again and close his eyes. 

Once again, however, he yanks himself bolt upright. "Ah, it's nice that...ah, I don't have to worry! About cutting it!"

"No, you don't have to worry about cutting it at all. It looks good on you," Martin answers, his smile amused yet affectionate. "Or, it will, once it's brushed and actually looks like hair."

Seeing how the man has relaxed into the caress, Martin shows no mercy. He's eager for Jon to feel good and cared for, and just as eager to learn everything he can about him. This new piece of knowledge is precious and beautiful, and Martin absolutely plans to use it against him in the future if Jon insists on becoming the personification of stress.

That same hand now crawls up Jon's head, fingers splayed as it travels up his scalp. Martin's hand is so large it nearly takes up his entire head, so he keeps the caress slow and deliberate, activating all the nerves endings that must have been dormant since before Jon even began working in the Archive.

"You're safe here, Jon," Martin whispers. "Nothing is going to get to you in here. I won't let them."

Jon's bottom lip juts at the little swipe at his appearance. He's never been particularly bothered about it, but he does like to feel neat and tidy. 

He's about to snap back when five soft fingers rake through his hair all at once. Jon, mouth open to fire a retort, instead emits a highly embarrassing groan, arching his neck back to press his scalp deeper against that relaxing hand. 

Then, in a wild flailing of limbs, Jon is on his feet, nearly tripping over himself. 

"Ah! Sorry! Sorry, sorry, err, just, err, you got an itch there for me, haha. Right. Sorry. Hair brushed? Lovely! Sorted! Thank you, ah, haha, yes!"

"...But I'm not done?" Martin asks, perfectly innocent and like he isn't at all aware of what he was doing, holding the hairbrush in the air midtask.

Jon stares at him, mouth agape. "Ah...w-well, it...is much better now! Don't want to waste your whole night sorting me out, eh? Erm...w-w-w-we could, erm, m-m-maybe order in some food?"

Martin smiles at him, the curl losing a little of its innocence and adopting something a little more devious as he pats the chair. "We can't leave it half-brushed, Jon. I'm nearly finished and you were enjoying it. Come on, I'll even braid it for you."

A frown of delayed understanding appears. 

"...You devious little..." 

But Jon smirks back at him. "Fine. But on one condition."

He sits himself back down, folding his arms resolutely. "You agree to let me take you out for dinner. Properly."

Martin is very glad that Jon can't see him blush right now, because if the heat he feels in his face is anything to go by then it is a deep blush. "L-Like a date? You and me? A real actual date?"

He needs to do something with his hands or he's bound to start flailing or flapping his arms like a crazed overgrown chicken, so back to his task he goes. Martin brushes with one hand while the other makes sure to properly give attention to Jon's scalp.

"Yes, Martin, like a real actual date. And preferably with you and me. Unless there's someone else you'd like me to arrange it for?"

His smugness doesn't last long, as Martin's hand scritches over his scalp again, earning a gasp and turning the uptight Archivist into some sort of liquid. 

He flops backwards, making it very difficult to brush his hair, prevented from toppling off his chair only by Martin's broad chest.

Martin laughs quietly, feeling his fingers tremble from sheer joy. "That's...That's perfect,” he says.

Oh, how he wishes he could tell his past self about this development.

He works in silence, enjoying both being able to take care of Jon and seeing him so relaxed. It's new and wonderful and Martin wants to kiss him silly for the rest of time.

But, they have a date.

When at last he is finished with Jon's hair, he lets his fingers glide through the now completely smooth salt-and-pepper locks. Not a tangle in sight. Perfect.

"There. You're a new man,” he announces.

Jon, however, does not hear this declaration. 

A soft snoring rises from the floppy pile of gangly limbs snuggled against Martin – lips parted, face finally relaxed and free of its usual perpetual scowl, Jonathan Sims has fallen fast asleep on Martin like some overgrown cat.

Martin's heart skips a beat as he realizes Jon is asleep.

He doesn't have the heart to wake him, so he just stands there instead, looking down at this man he is risking everything for.

"You have no idea what you mean to me," he whispers before slowly and gently gathering Jon up so he can lay him on the sofa.

Jon has other ideas, despite being thoroughly unconscious. 

Thin arms link around Martin's neck, and he refuses to let go even when the sofa touches his back. 

His face creases into a little frown, a nonsensical grumble bubbling at his lips.

Martin makes a surprised little hum when he finds that he is quite and truly trapped. Jon has his arms locked around his neck with surprising strength, and even though Martin could just duck his head out of the death grip, he finds he doesn't want to.

It's silly to feel such a thing with something as insignificant as this, but the fact that Jon looks so deeply displeased about breaking this contact – even in his sleep – makes Martin feel wanted. It fills him with purpose and love, a teary smile on his face as he tries to process how lucky he is to have his affections returned.

"Okay, okay..." he whispers, leaning to kiss Jon's cheek. "You always get your own way, don't you? Well, make some room, then."

His sofa is large, but still not large enough to have both of them lay comfortably side by side. Martin finds he has to choose between squashing Jon or letting the other man sleep with half his body draped over his. The idea is a welcome one, but this is all so new that Martin isn't quite sure what he should do.

Oblivious to the problems he's causing Martin, Jon keeps clinging on, burrowing his face deeper into the crook of Martin's neck. Comfort, warmth, safety – three things all but forgotten by the Archivist of late. 

Short, sharp twitches jolt on his face as he dreams. Unbeknownst to Martin, those dreams are not simple images dancing through Jon’s mind, however…

Jon stirs in Martin's arms, a ripple of discomfort reaching out from his dreams. Telltale slits begin to reappear around and between his eyes, movement beneath newly formed eyelids as though each set dreams independently. A faint glow of green builds around his head, taking the form of blurry, unfocused eyes...

Martin's in the middle of working through some equations to shift Jon to be on top of him without waking him when Jon starts moving. 

Martin frowns. Nightmares? Not unlikely, considering the horrors they've witnessed.

No. This is different. New. Martin has no idea what to do. He stares, helpless, as Jon shifts once again into...something. Martin can't describe it or name it. He can only watch as eyes emerges in impossible places.

"J-Jon...? I-I think you need to wake up. U-um, like, right now." Is that the best course of action? Martin has no way of knowing, but it sure is better than doing nothing. "Jon... Jon. Jon!"

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