Archive of Our Own ^beta

getting out of The Lonely isn't quite as simple as just saying 'i'm leaving,' and walking. it takes more than putting one foot in front of the other to escape. but that is, at least, part of it.

perhaps there's something deep and philosophical to be said about the path out of The Lonely, off of the beach and away from the fog, being reachable with a little human commitment, and some elbow grease. that it is, unlike many fears, wholly escapable if you just try hard enough.

it's poetic; something he might have once liked to write about. not that he's had the time to write poetry in recent memory. misery is supposed to breed creativity, but perhaps that's not true for him. maybe he's just an outlier.

jon's boney fingers are intertwined with his, clasped so tightly they're beginning to dig into the skin of his palm, and rubbing against a rather raw hangnail martin has been picking at all week. the pain is faint, but it's real. it's not like the aches that are starting to encompass the rest of his body, dull and distracting.

he's horribly damp, and so is jon, and their hands are unpleasantly clammy. he sighs, trying to focus on the seafoam that soaks his shoes in one instant and evaporates in the next, rather than the dull ringing in the bones of his forearm.

it's taking everything in him, every bit of resolve he's ever shoved down, just to keep squeezing back. a voice in the back of his brain, constantly telling him to let go, and an itch in his fingers that's begging to be scratched. if he lets go, he'll be lost again, and he cannot let that happen. but it hurts to hold on.

he has to keep focus, because jon's not going to hold onto him this tightly forever.

he has to keep holding on, or jon will leave him here. he's skating on good will, if he becomes too much of a burden, jon will just go on without him.

will go home without him.

as difficult as it is for him, he's sure it's probably a lot harder for jon- the one leading the way. expending his precious energy to Know, to cut through the fog and find shortcuts. martin knows, without his help, he would probably be wandering this beach for the rest of his life.

the word "leading" is probably.. well, MISleading. it's more like he's being dragged, for all the effort he's trying to put in.

it's hard enough to stay upright with or without jon's fairly bracing grip on him, and he occasionally trips over a stone, or the sandy shoal beneath them shifts and he stumbles. he's almost surprised he hasn't fallen yet. jon, he notes, has not stumbled even once. god, he's even worse at walking than jon is.

he's tired; from months straight of work, from The Lonely itself, and more than a little bit from the effort looking had required. being compelled hurts, leaving you feeling gutted and exhausted and lost, like somethin'gs been taken from you, and even he isn't immune to that ache.

The Lonely is worse than any depression he's felt, though he can't recall precisely when he's felt that either. he hadn't slept the night before, hasn't been sleeping well for a good long while, and despite the pain it brings, the warmth radiating from jon's hand, his arm, his presence, just feels so, so good.

he wants, admittedly, to be carried out, but he knows that's just not feasible.

so god damnit, after everything he's been through, he'll let himself be dragged.

he's not sure how long they've been walking, how far jon's had to drag him. time is .. less than linear, here. with all his effort going into holding on, he's struggling to tell how long they've even been walking. hours, perhaps? maybe only a few minutes, though. maybe it's been days; maybe it took days for anyone to notice he'd been missing. probably days.

he's aware, faintly, that jon is occasionally talking. that the crashing of waves, of wind whipping through their ears, is not the only sound he can hear; under it all, jon is quietly, calmly speaking.

probably not to him, and perhaps not to a tape, but just to cut the silence.

he closes his eyes, letting his mind focus on the baritone mumblings, and frowns. it's not one of jon's statement voices, it's just his own. the words he's speaking are fast, and messy.

he's clearly talking about a personal topic, and martin just can't make out a single word of it. but he wants to, he used to love when jon got going on something ridiculous. it's been a long time since they were familiar enough to just talk.

the muscles in the base of his thumb twitch, and a sharp pain shoots through the back of his skull. he shudders. it's too much, he's trying too hard too quickly. he's going to hurt himself if he forces it.

that's fine. it's fine. there will be time to talk, after they get out of here.. after they... where do they go from here? that's.. that's a really good question. what's outside of this? he knows, logically, if jon is here, then there's more to life than this place.

funny, though, he can't.. quite remember what his life was like before all this. he's certain there was a 'before this,' but much like the specifics of jon's speech, they don't come to him easily.

an office building. a scientific institute, allegedly. a large, old building. he was an office errand boy, he has been for the whole of his 20s, and had been a lowly food service attendant before that.

he remembers as much; remembers peter, and the isolating, Scheeles green walls of that office. it's.. just that he can't really remember any of the faces of anyone who had worked with him.

he never really got to know them, though, did he?.. no, that's.. not true. he got to know jon. he worked for jon. works for.

jon is sharp. a jagged splinter of glass, thrust into his whole being as he knows it. he can see and know and understand all of it at once, and it almost hurts. like it's been forced onto him. it probably has; doesn't he know someone else with that power?..

elias. elias, he remembers elias, too, and he hates that he remembers elias- that's why he's in here. jonah.

he has to tell jon, he has to- but jon already knows. why else would he be here?

god, if only he could speak, but that's hard too. when he does, every time he's tried, his throat feels raw, and his voice comes out sounding all wrong. like it's not his own, like he has no right to speak.

he's drowning, and he can feel his grip on jon's hand slipping, and-

jon's other hand reaches back, grabs his wrist, and he doesn't turn his head, doesn't look back, but he nods.

"almost there, martin." and then again, "stay with me."

and martin is desperately grateful that at least those words are clear, even if the bubbling of static beneath their surface points to supernatural interference, and he chokes back a sob, holding onto jon's arm tightly.

he hopes the way he nods his head, pathetic and slow, gets the message across that he's trying.

he's so pitiful. peter is dead, has no control over him anymore, and he still can't get ahold of himself. he can barely even walk by himself.

he had tried so hard to save someone besides himself for once, and jon still had to come rescue him like some second-rate damsel in distress.

peter lukas is dead.

the realization hits like a dart.

he's dead, jon killed peter.

he died screaming, he suffered for it.

jon... killed someone for him.

a man who's never, to his knowledge, killed anyone before. the one hard line the archivist won't cross. has only crossed for him. that's a lot of effort for your coworker, for your disposable assistant.

jon had come after him, and he hadn't even said thank you.

i don't want to just survive, jon had said to him, in the smoldering remains of a past tense love, as he held martin's head in his hands, ambivalent to martin's sins.

his eyes had been green, bright like a lighthouse, and they had bored into martin's soul, and he had said i need you, and he had meant it.

martin's not integral to the Institute, to any of it, not anymore. he's made sure of it. but jon still has a need for him, something martin doesn't know about. i need you.

"..rather like orpheus," jon says, suddenly.

..no, not suddenly. rather, it's the end of a sentence, spoken plainly, and the only sudden part is that he can understand the words.

his head surfaces from the pooling water, The Lonely relinquishes its hold on his auditory processing functions, and martin gasps in relief.

"j-jon," he chokes out, barely a whisper, and the voice isn't one he really recognizes, but he's delighted that he can speak at all, "are we nearly out?"

"yes, martin. we are."

"who's..?"

"never mind that, now. look," jon turns to him, eyes bright, and he gestures in front of them.

martin's fingers are still intertwined with his, so both of their hands pull forward, and as they do, the fog dissipates around them. the seafoam here is transitory, sparkling and thin like falling sand, and then...

and then they're in London. old, historic Chelsea. the sound of traffic, construction, and people hits like a wave, crashing over them along with a sudden surge of heat.

there is, somewhere just out of sight, a lone songbird chirping. he recognizes it, after a few seconds, as callow street. a few blocks from the Institute. east of it, something deep inside him insists, like a homing compass.

"god," he manages to spit out, before he's gasping for air.

it feels like they've been hit by a bus. or ten.

their hands break apart, as he makes to wipe the sweat from the side of his jaw, while jon collapses halfway to the ground in exhaustion.

"fuck," he says again, staring at his hands through the waterlogged lenses of his least favorite pair of glasses. his fingernails are stained in the ancient smut of the panopticon, and his fingertips are pruned with moisture.

his whole sweater is drenched with mist, his hair plastered to his face. he's wet enough that if he told anyone he'd just been swimming with his clothes on, they'd believe it.

they're in an alcove between buildings, not quite an alleyway, sheltered by the canopy of a sessile oak, in the midst of a warm september afternoon.

he's not quite sure when his life got so grey, but it all feels brighter than it has in a long time. the familiar, leering buildings around them on all sides feel like old friends. he's home. he's alive.

he's alive.

he almost died. he got awful close. too close for comfort.

but he's alive now, and glad for it. he lets out a hoarse, impulsive laugh, and swipes his glasses off, letting the sun hit his face.

he never had time to take walks for pleasure, working for peter. how could he have ever lived without it?

he almost left without taking one last look at the sky, the birds, the ruddy little flowers in lazily city-kept flowerboxes lining the roads.

he spins a little, and sighs contently, arms outstretched like a kid. as he spins, droplets of water drip off him like an umbrella, and he takes in a deep, shuddery breath, basking in the subtle warmth of the september afternoon like a moron.

jon chuckles from behind him, but martin's hardly in the mood to feel embarrassed.

replacing his glasses, he turns to his friend, meaning to throw him a snide remark, but it's only now that martin notices how disheveled he is, still keeled over, a splash of dried blood thrown across his t-shirt.

"jon," he says, "are you alright?"

jon lets out one last heaving pant, then looks at him, red-eyed. and he smiles. stares up at martin with eyes full of a disconcerting sort of devotion, drinking in the sight of him.

it stirs something inside of him, deep beneath the surface of his locked-away emotions.

"yes, martin," he breathes, raspily, "i am."

the Archivist straightens himself up, putting his weight against the brick facade of the building behind them, swaying a little.

he looks like a drowned cat, stiff and awkward, shivering and wet. his oily, overgrown hair falls in bushels over his shoulders and face, and he makes a half-hearted effort to push it back with his good hand.

there's a band-aid plastered over his cheek, and he has a compression glove velcroed too tightly on his left wrist, and he's shivering in the damp shade of the alleyway, a thin puddle of water beneath him as he drips dry. but he smiles.

"we're alright," jon adds, reaching out for martin's hands again, and when martin takes them, they're trembling.

hands that have gone through a lot, rough and scarred with the hottest fire, pock-marked trails left by angry parasites, and still slightly friction-burned from dragging himself out of the buried.

battered, calloused hands that feel like they fit, perfectly in martin's.

"oh, jon," martin laughs, pushing jon's hands away and flinging himself into his friend's open arms instead. "thank you," he speaks into jon's shoulder, "thank you,"

he wraps his arms around jon's neck, burying his hands in the extra fabric gathered at the nape of his now-soaked What-The-Ghost tee, and jon responds in kind, an arm pressing tightly around his back.

it aches, and the direct contact of his cheek pressed to jon's bare collarbone stings like a scrape, and he realizes belatedly that he hasn't had the time to shower in a while, but jon doesn't seem to care about any of it, just squeezing him tighter.

his skin is cold to the touch, chilled from the frigid sea air, and so is jon's, but there is a steady heat between them, where their bodies are touching, thawing him from the inside out.

"martin," jon just sighs back fondly, after a beat.

he likes the way jon says his name, breathy and soft.

jon makes no effort to pull away from him, and that means it's martin who breaks free first. it feels a bit like betrayal to let go first, the way jon's hands linger at his sides after they're apart like a silent protest.

he swipes at the tears building beneath his eyes, grinning back at jon through his crooked glasses. he quickly slides the frames back onto his face, having slid down his nose already. there's a reason he prefers contacts.

"i don't see how you can possibly see through those," jon says, fondly, hand still lingering on his arm.

"oh," martin groans, "y-yeah, um, haven't been able to get these water stains off for ages now. they made everything all foggy, even before. i keep trying to wipe them off, but these cable-knits can't wipe off anything."

"hang on," jon says, and he takes a step closer, reaching his hands behind martin's ears, sliding the glasses off with razor-sharp precision.

his face comes closer than it had with the hug, and something sharp presses against martin's lungs as he does so.

he holds them up between their faces, peering at martin through the murky glass, before he brings them to his mouth.

gently breathing on them, saturating the lenses in a much warmer, moister condensation than martin's breath can quite provide. then he wipes them on his t-shirt, finding a spot on the ratty, white and red thing that's not stained.

he rubs circles into the lense through the fabric, and when he pulls them away, they're crystal clear.

"there." jon's hands linger at the side of martin's head, forearms resting against his cheeks, as he gently brushes the hair away from martin's ears. he replaces the glasses, gently, and stares intensely into martin's eyes as they come into focus.

martin shivers. the metal bridge is still warm with the heat of jon's breath.

"you haven't always worn glasses," jon says, curiously.

"after mum's death," martin replies, quietly. "it just got too hard to put contacts in my eyes." he hopes jon can infer what he means, doesn't want to admit to crying that hard, that much, out loud.

jon nods, wiping another soggy curl off the side of martin's face with his thumb. "you look good in them," he says, honestly. 

"th-thanks," martin stammers, awkwardly, glancing for anywhere to put his hands besides back on jon's body.

"peter got on me for wearing t-shirts to work, so i couldn't clean th- hang- hang on, are you actually bleeding?" martin stops, as his eyes catch the spatter on jon's shirt once more.

he gently pinches the stained fabric between his fingers, partway relieved at an out, and partly just curious.

jon looks down, as if he has to think about it.

"not my blood, peter's, i think. no, actually, maybe it is my blood. i can't recall when i last washed this shirt, er-"

"but you're not bleeding right now," martin asks, quickly.

"no," jon affirms. "i am not. as far as i know."

"right, just checking."

"it's a fair assumption," jon shrugs. "i find myself doing it frighteningly often."

"yeah," martin laughs. "especially without me to patch you up."

"i'll expect you to, now that you're back," jon warns, "i'm still your boss." martin grimaces. right.

there's a jonah magnus sized elephant in the streets of this fine London day, and it's waving a jolly roger flag with his skull on it.

"r-right. er, speaking of,"

"we're not going back to the Institute," jon notices his reaction, and says, firmly. as he does this, he quickly pulls his phone out of his pocket, flashing the screen on for just a second.

"right. yeah, of course," martin laughs, tangibly relieved, "that's what i thought. 'cause you said we were going 'home,' and that place is not home. ah, what.. is home, in this case?"

"i'm not sure," jon sighs, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "but we've got time to kill. coffee?"

the walk there isn't as hard as the long walk across The Lonely's rocky shoals had been, but it's still by no means easy. they'd been lucky, apparently, to emerge on the emptiest street on London at 1:27 in the afternoon.

jon had insisted, and he had pointedly not argued, that they walk alongside one another, arms bumping together comfortably.

he'd felt a little bit like one half of an overly affectionate, sappy couple, disrupting the foot traffic of a typical tuesday, and blocking the pavement.

jon keeps grabbing his hand, too, every few minutes, so to the people outside of their little bubble, it probably seems that way too.

huh. to outsiders, they probably look like a couple. what, exactly, is the difference between dating, and.. whatever they verge on? a label, probably.

keeping focus feels nearly impossible, as the crowds get more and more dense towards the center of the neighborhood.

the people that walk right past them barely spare them a glance, and more than a few people had slammed into him as if he weren't even there. blocky shapes of colour, vaguely shaped like human beings, faceless and empty.

it's a warm day, not too hot, not too cold; theoretically, perfect weather. but all he can really feel is a chill, one that creeps up on him between steps.

he feels relieved when jon finally stops in front of a building, yanking him inside.

he's been to this coffee shop before, he thinks, as jon pulls him through the line. he's been to every coffee shop in Chelsea, at some point. this one doesn't stand out, never has, never will. it's familiar, though he can't remember how, or when he's been before.

that's not a compliment, it's an insult. the dark, brown wood tones all blend together, swimming in the cusps of his peripherals. it's the same prissy menu as every other try-hard place in the neighborhood, the concept of infusions and fancy italian names getting lost on him.

it's only half full, every other table standing empty, and he's unfathomably thankful for that, as he tries not to look at the faces of the patrons, their faces smeared, half-drawn, just as the face of every person on the street had been. his breath involuntarily hitches, as he squeezes his eyes shut.

he can feel their eyes on him, the eyes of everybody in the shop, staring at him, boring into him. hating him? jon's thumb runs soothingly over his, and he mumbles a soft "alright?" into martin's ear, only breaking away once martin nods in an unconvincing manner.

of course he's not alright. but there's simply no way around that. god, martin hopes he's not annoying him with all this.

jon's hand pulls away from his again as they step up to the counter, and it feels rather like it's getting torn away, like iron gates being crowbarred apart.

his steadily thrumming heart skips a beat or two, only slowing when jon stops looking at him, and when it does, it starts skipping a few more beats, like it's tired itself out.

"good morning," the barista says, directly to jon, as if she doesn't even see martin. (she probably doesn't.)

"good morning," jon says in return, and as he launches into his order, martin lets himself slip away, only a little bit.

he watches jon's hands move as he talks; jon's always been big on that, and he lets himself stare at jon's face, relaxed and casual, and he realizes that it all feels a little surreal.

is jon not.. hungry, right now? weren't public restaurants the worst of the worst for him? have they just managed to come at a time when absolutely no one here has a story to tell? he glances around, nervously. they shouldn't belong here, but jon seems to fit in just fine.

"ah, black, please- er.. large? plenty of cream, and- martin?"

oh, yeah. shit. 'getting coffee together' implies they both get something. god, when was the last time he had anything besides shitty break-room coffee?

fuck, he hasn't even been looking at the menu, he probably looks stupid; the barista is probably horribly annoyed at him right now. martin shivers, and his eyes meet jon's, and he hopes his expression conveys even halfway how lost he feels.

"right, ah, and a green tea, and- no, nothing in it, thank you, and-"

jon understands. and remembers his order. thank god.

he might cry, if the atmosphere weren't all wrong for it.

he lets himself tune out of the rest of the conversation, butting in only when jon pulls out his wallet, "ah- jon, wait," he says, fumbling around for his own, as if he's forgotten which pocket he keeps it in. he extracts from it a silvery metal card, and smiles.

"use the company card," he says, holding it out between his fingers, rather innocently, and jon stares at it in disbelief.

"right," jon laughs, sharply. a bit cruelly. "a perfectly reasonable business expense," he says, turning to finish the transaction. "i'll wait for the drinks. find us a seat?"

martin nods, and spins around, scanning the room for.. well, don't split hairs. the emptiest, loneliest part of the shop, where the throbbing headache that's settled itself in his head aches the least. what he finds is a two-seater table, behind the self-serve bar that holds the trash can, sugar, and what-not.

he takes the far seat, crammed against the wall, and tries his best to wait patiently as he watches jon from afar.

they used to do this, sometimes, in the strange pocket of time between jurgen's murder and the great wax museum of yarmouth.

in between kidnappings, of which there were many, and the many honest-to-god administrative meetings jon was still forced to attend as a head of department, they had managed to hollow out a very shallow place for themselves in each others' lives, where they could occasionally 'get lunch,' like 'regular coworkers.'

lunches shared over a pile of statements, coffee shop runs, and late-night dinners that lingered a little too long.

they hadn't done it as often as he now wishes they had; constrained by time, and, on martin's end, budget.

jon had offered to cover it many times, but he had never been able to test the strength of that offer. it wasn't jon's job to compromise, to take care of him like that.

no matter how many times it had threatened to veer elsewhere, their relationship was professional. strictly professional.

he's not sure if it still is. the Institute has warped his own lense of professionalism, and jon's as well, but even given the strange interpersonal relationships the Institute tended to breed, their.. whatever it is, still feels.. different. why would jon have saved him otherwise?

especially now. he swallows, and pushes away that thought, a dangerous one, as jon heads for the table, one drink in either hand.

"here," jon says, setting one cup down in front of martin, and sitting down with the other still in his hands. "i believe this is what you used to make yourself," he says, sheepishly. "i'm unsure if that's changed," before he takes a large, long swig of his drink.

"sounds perfect to me," martin says. "thanks." he pulls the cup towards himself, running his finger along the rim of the lid. the barista spelled jon's name wrong. not john, not jon, but.. jhon? were they illiterate?

he starts to point it out, with a laugh, before he notices the face jon's making; one of palpable disgust, almost repulsion. his mouth clearly still full of liquid and hating every drop of it. you'd think he's swallowing acid, the way he has to force it down his throat.

jon stares, at the cup, in severe disdain, and martin stares at him in turn. "they've mixed up our drinks," he says, popping off the black plastic lid. squinting at the greenish, clear liquid inside, his face scrunching up in annoyance. "they told me this one was the coffee."

"i thought you liked tea," martin says, accusingly, and jon just scowls at him.

"i do, but only when i'm expecting it," he says, petulently.. then he slides the cup across the table, the lid still loose, and reaches for the one he'd placed in front of martin, pulling it away, with a look of disdain.

"i'd say you owe me a sip in return, but i'd rather not consume that," martin lets himself laugh, comparing jon's beige, disgusting cream and coffee mixture to his own, a 6th already gone, as he tightens the lid of his own back down, and takes a sip.

"i don't know how you drink stuff like that." the hot liquid burns the roof of his mouth, leaving it satisfyingly numb, but it also leaves a rather unpleasant taste on his tongue. one of bitterness, of improperly brewed tea. 

never mind that his own tea tastes horribly bitter, he's a big strong man who doesn't need a 33/33/33 mixture of cream, sugar, and the actual liquid to get through the day.

he still feels cold; even after placing his fingers around his own cup, holding it between the palms of his hands, trying to let the warmth seep into him, he still feels cold.

they sit in silence for a moment as he watches jon unceremoniously tear 4 sugar packets open, and dump them into his cup.

good lord.

he takes another sip of his own, lets it sit in his mouth, and it's no better than the first. he can't help but imagine that this is how jon must see the world. taste the world?

it's been prepared how he likes it, he knows it has. exactly the way he used to make it, for nearly 4 years; jon remembered perfectly. but it still tastes awful.

he likes bitter tea, but this is ridiculous. it's the taste of taking medication, sucking the coating off aspirin. and underneath it all, there is now a sickening sweetness, like a cheap dessert.

he winces, though he doesn't mean to. he's just too tired to hide it.

jon frowns, the little wrinkle at the corner of his mouth pulling down in an endearing way, as his eyes darken in concern. "is it alright?"

it's not his fault; he ordered correctly. it's The Lonely's fault. things just don't taste the same, don't hold the same weight they used to. he doesn't want to risk offending jon, and he doesn't want to dampen the conversation by letting that knowledge slip, so he just makes something up.

"yeah," he lies, for no real reason. well, it's not a lie. the tea itself is probably fine. it's probably his fault.

"no. i don't know. it- it tastes like the inside of a pen?" jon laughs, and flicks one of his sugar packets across the table. martin takes it, gratefully. he's, hopefully, diverted jon's attention.

"oh? you chew on any pens lately, martin?"

martin rolls his eyes, tearing the paper, and tipping the whole contents of the tube into the cup.

"oh, you know what i mean. it tastes like ink. you get too into writing something, and it explodes all over your mouth. we've all done it." he swirls the cup around in one hand, and takes another sip, without the lid.

as it hits his tongue, his face contorts again. "god, no, this isn't better."

he hopes he doesn't sound too disappointed.

"i feel i can say, fairly confidently, that we have not all done that," jon says, with a wisp of amusement in his voice, "but fortunately for you, i have. hold on, i'll be right back."

jon's fingers brush across the back of his hand, briefly, before he fully pulls himself out of his chair, and walks back towards the counter. back to the faceless barista, away from him. it only takes a few seconds for his heartbeat to slow, for him to feel dizzy again.

martin sighs. he can't keep thinking about jon this way. he's only on the other side of the cafe, still in sight, his hands shooting out as he talks fairly animatedly to the barista.

jon isn't his. he can't let himself get this attached, the fact that jon had saved him means nothing.

well, at least he can let himself feel excited when jon comes back, holding a ceramic shaker in one hand, clearly taken from behind the counter, and a paper bag in the other. it's also labeled with jon's name, bastardized and mutilated, this one spelled 'jan.'

"..salt," he says, in disbelief.

"yes," jon says back, sitting back down. "salt. as i understand it, sodium suppresses many of the compounds that contribute to bitterness in food, rendering you less able to taste it. something along those lines, at least."

jon pulls the cup from his hand, and taps the ceramic shaker with one finger, such that only the tiniest bit of salt falls into the cup. he takes a sip, from the same spot on the paper rim that martin's lips had previously been, and shakes his head.

his brow furrows, gathering the wrinkles around his eyes. (which are relatively new developments,) and with a look of utmost focus on his face, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out another sugar packet, and carefully adds approximately a quarter of it too.

it's then that he realizes jon's eyes are perfectly clear through his glasses, not trapped behind the sheen of a lense. his lenses are missing. how long has he been..? he opens his mouth to say something about it, but finds himself a little too uncertain about the exact words, so instead, says

"so, does this get pen ink out of your mouth too, or...?"

"no," jon sighs, as he presses the cup back into martin's hands. "there's no easy way out of that one. how is it now?"

martin smiles, weakly but genuinely, as he tips the cup to his mouth, the now significantly less hot liquid only slightly burning his mouth. it tastes a little odd; a little Gatorade-y, and sweeter than he likes tea.

there's still a lingering acridity to it, but it doesn't taste even half as bad as before.

"..better," he says, softly. it is better, he thinks, as he stares at jon's eager, imploring face. he's just not got the heart to mention that it's probably got nothing to do with the taste receptors in his mouth.

jon smiles, too. "good." he says, warmly, putting the paper bag between them. "i figured it would be prudent to try to eat something, as well, and i admit, i'm not as well versed in your pastry preferences, but-"

"jan," martin interrupts, reading aloud, again, the writing on the bag. "it's literally impossible to misspell john. once is a mistake, twice is..."

"entirely intentional, i assure you. there's not a place in London that doesn't have it out for me."

"back to this talk again?"

"it's not paranoia if it's true, martin. they are out to get me."

"you have a point," he concedes. "they'll kill you not with a thousand papercuts, but a million weird misspellings of your name. what were you saying about pastry?"

"ah," jon says, taking another sip as pause, before he elaborates.

"muffin. hope it's alright, i'd really just like one bite, i do miss food sometimes, blueberry. er, i had to guess. you were hardly receptive to questions up there, i'm not sure you've noticed."

"yeah," martin sighs. "i'm sorry. it's still hard."

"nothing to apologize for." jon's hand shoots out, touching his again, and their eyes meet. it's hard to say, but he thinks the hazel-hue of his irises are more brown than they have been recently. he dips his head, looking up at martin, over the edges of his lenseless glasses.

"you're doing remarkably well, martin. better than i did, after The Buried."

"oh," is all he manages to say to that. is it .. a compliment?

right, right. The Buried. jon's already nursed one person back to health this summer. already been through this song and dance. they've already done all this once, how stupid is he for dragging this whole thing out again.

"you guys were in there for three days," he argues, weakly. "i was only in The Lonely for a few hours."

"it's had you in its throes for far longer than that," jon says, soberly. "that was just the worst of it."

"i guess," martin shivers, biting his lip. he's not sure it feels like the worst of it.

"god, i missed you," jon says, or rather blurts out, as if he hadn't expected to let it escape his thoughts. there's something warm and vulnerable and fairly un-jon-like, in his voice.

something genuine about it. martin recoils, a cold front settling in his chest. he swallows, trying to ignore the tingling in his fingers as jon once again presses them against his.

"why would y-"

"come off it," jon doubles down, breathy and slow, leaning halfway across the table now, "i've told you before. you know how much you mean to me, martin."

he's hovering uncomfortably close to martin's face, his hair threatening to knock into his drink, and martin realizes they're close enough to kiss, though he's not sure why they would.

"n-no, i don't think i do," martin stammers, nerves and ache pooling in his stomach, the sound of rushing water filling his head, "i-"

he's saved by the quiet buzz of a phone, and he doesn't even think it's a mercy.

jon glances at his phone, the moment forgotten, and his eyebrows go up in surprise.

"basira," he mutters, and his tone is soft in a different way; sympathetic for something martin isn't personally privvy to.

"i have to take this." he pulls his hands away, and begins to fervently type, sending what appear to be a few long paragraphs in response.

"she said she'd contact me when she could," he explains, and his eyes flit up to martin for a moment, then back down to his phone. then up, then down, his gaze hooked somewhere to the side of martin's jaw when he's not typing.

martin's tea tastes bitter again, dissolving into corosive residue that sticks to his teeth, as he watches jon send off another response curiously.

"right," jon says, after another long moment, setting his cell face-down on the table, and leaning in again. "i believe we're going to Scotland."

"sorry?"

"it's certainly not safe here. what with elias on the loose, like a.. lion escaped from the zoo. there's er,- and what used to be sasha, i'm.. sure you're aware,- daisy has a safehouse. multiple. places to lie low between jobs,"

jon swallows as he says jobs more gingerly than the rest of the sentence, and martin tries not to let his gaze fall to the long, pale scar across his adam's apple. they both pale a little bit, as jon shakes his head. "basira suggests we go there. inconveniently, it's in Scotland."

"..won't she be needing it?"

it's a stupid question, and he knows it as soon as it leaves his mouth. he can read between the lines, here; if jon's alive, if they haven't been mauled to death by the shapeshifter, then that means daisy had to do her job. that means daisy had to...

a flash of.. something, crosses jon's face in reaction. his brow furrows, and his eyes narrow.

"not as such," he says, delicately, darkly.

"oh," he says again, feeling.. infinitely cruel for even bringing it up. "i thought- was it..? because of my-"

"no," jon speaks over him emphatically, catching martin's hand in his own again. "elias's fault. martin, he lead them to us. not you."

and peter's, too. 

it's objectively true, of course, and it's become the archival team's unofficial motto, over the years. who gives a fuck whether you filed that statement wrong, when elias is literally the worst person in the world, ever. if he wanted you to give half a fuck, maybe he shouldn't be keeping you hostage for not much more than minimum wage.

he's comforted plenty of coworkers with the sentiment before, he's sure he's even said these words to jon. it's just hard to shake the realization that it's been a very long time since he's had someone else to tell him that.

it's not really all that comforting at all, actually, to be reminded that you're naught but a puppet being dangled by the strings of elias' middle-management performance, but he appreciates the sentiment.

"is that meant to be comforting?"

"it's meant to be true."

"right," martin nods, shakily, his head feeling heavy. full of cotton. "right. s-so, how're we meant to get there?"

jon hums, tapping his fingers against the back of martin's hand. "we drive, i s'pose. 's about 8 hours, give or take. i can manage it."

"i didn't know you knew how to drive?"

jon just shrugs, flicking a stray sugar packet off the table, as his eyes focus on something rather sharply in the far distance.

"..you do know how to?" he says, hesitantly, a sense of dread beginning to form and meld with the unease, exhaustion and anxiety that's already weighing him down.

jon just chuckles, a dry, ominous thing. "i do now."

he's not afraid of very much, not anymore, but there is something spooky enough, just barely, about the idea of jon just Knowing how to drive, that sets his hairs on end.

"oh, jon, no. you can't ," he says, imploringly, and feels his stomach drop as jon just smiles back wanly. jon laughs again, and the best way to describe his response, dripping with smugness, is that of a purr. "oh, i rather think i can, martin," he leans in, a glint in his eyes.

"shit," martin stammers, "alright, f-fine." he acquiesces, nervously, already dreading the answer to his next question, "but where do we get a car?"

it's not until they're well onto the highway that martin even considers letting go of the passenger-side grab handle, though he has to admit that jon's impromptu mental downloading of total car expertise isn't quite as harrowing as he'd feared.

he drives a little fast, sure, and he turns corners with the voracity of a professional racecar driver, but he hasn't jumped a curb or ran a light so far. still, martin doesn't take his eyes off the road until he's well and sure that they are not going to crash and die, and by that time, he's beginning to feel the silence that's grown between them quite well. they haven't spoken in almost 10 minutes, not since they got in the car.

their escape vehicle of choice is a beaten down red hatchback, from 2005 or so, with a whole slew of bumper stickers, both Ghost-Hunt UK and What-The-Ghost swag slapped halfway on top of each other, and a rather tacky one that says "If you Honk, I will KILL MYSELF," among others. there's a mothman sticker on the back window for good measure, too.

the engine makes a rather odd noise when it's idling, sort of like scraping your fork against china, and the whole interior smells a little bit like cheap perfume and old fast food- which reflects what it's been used for, recently. lunch runs, and short follow-up related errands.

the radio doesn't work, because that would be too easy, and he doesn't see an aux cable either. he frowns.

"melanie's car doesn't even have, like, a bluetooth or anything. how does she live like this?"

jon stiffens in his seat. "er- metaphorically, how does she live like this?"

"i believe she preferred- prefers to take the underground."

he's well aware of melanie's car, and the perhaps... unethical way the Institute's been 'caring' for it since the 'accident,' and he feels a little bad for hijacking it to take on a one-way trip to Scotland, but jon clearly doesn't share the same concerns.

trying to look anywhere but jon's face, just to give the man a break, he instead scans the interior of the car for the third time since they've gotten in.

there are only two bags on the backseat, jon's grey messenger bag and a bag of his own, haphazardly thrown in from the front and slung over one another.

turns out, they'd had the same thought without ever realizing it. jon's had a getaway bag packed for years now, probably since the prentiss attack, and for all martin's life is worth, every belonging he feels any sentiment over can fit into one duffel bag.

32 years, and all he's got to show for it, the whole of his life, everything that matters to him now, is in this car.

it had been a simple matter of him grabbing their stuff, slipping into the archives, past the cops, while jon found mel's car parked on a side street behind the Institute. a silent deal had been agreed upon between them; you don't mention how i got by without being noticed, i won't mention how or why you know how to hotwire a car.

if there was one compliment he could give the cafe, it was that it had a nice backdrop of noise to ease into. they could easily become one of the number of people holding hushed, familiar conversations. the sound of life, driving away the consumption of loneliness and dread.

he's not sure what the silence means, right now. if jon is pissed at him, or tired, or just focusing.

he runs a hand through his hair, mostly air-dry by now, tussling through the curls that have formed, and he shivers. he still feels wet. and c-

"cold?" jon speaks over his thoughts, without prompt.

yes.

but jon runs hot, his jacket having been stripped the second they'd gotten into the car. so he'd feel bad asking to turn the heat on.

"no. well, j-just a bit, it's really fine, though."

"if you're sure."

his eyes flit nervously to jon's hands, one on the wheel and the other on the gearshift. he looks at least half as nervous as martin feels, still, but spares the time to give martin a comforting look. at least he doesn't seem annoyed.

"s-so," martin says, sifting through the tension, still more than a little uncomfortable, "is knowledge a substitute for experience?"

jon sort of half shrugs.

"kind of? i-i mean, i've got no muscle memory, so you'd better hope we don't need to turn on the wipers. it's not encyclopedic knowledge, either," and there's a twinge of disappointment to that bit, "it feels like i've just swiped the knowledge off some poor middle-aged mum, rather than a driving textbook," he sighs.

martin frowns even more deeply. it feels wrong, still, to feed off innocent people. "i'm still not sure you should be.. Knowing," he puts a heavy emphasis on the beginning of the word, "as much as you do."

he's half prepared for jon to fight him on it, for him to hold even a trace of attachment for his powers, but instead, jon just responds with a "you're right."

"it's difficult to control," he explains, further, and his grip on the wheel tightens, his knuckles whitening just a bit as the blood flow gets restricted. "it bends to every intrusive thought i have, and i admit i am a frustratingly curious person, but i should not be taking that as a sign to continue. it could be a rather dangerous habit to fall into, and i believe it's been proven to me that i'm rather bad at controlling my vices."

"feels like The Lonely," martin remarks. "feels good in the moment, but you know how well that turned out for me."

"like The Lonely," jon echoes, solemnly. "it is probably best avoided wherever possible, and only used when important."

there is a sense of admonishment to jon's sentence that he's not sure whether he's making up or not, and so they fall into silence again, and martin swears he might scream, as the dull drone of the road burns itself into his head.

"shame we've got nothing to listen to," he laments, more to pad out the silence than to actually complain. "the one time i want to listen to radio, and it's busted."

jon shrugs. "i tend to have that effect on them."

he looks outside the window, and notices, to his sickening dismay, that the cityscape is engulfed in a very thin fog.

"there IS a cd player," he notes, instead of letting it get to him, beginning to scan the car once again. "wonder if it works."

he tilts his head, seeing nothing in the backseat. the glovebox contains, like, 6 canisters of pepper spray, as well as a torch, but that isn't something with entertainment value- at least, not while jon's driving. he'll shelve that thought for later.

there's a little plastic Godzilla secured firmly onto melanie's dashboard, which he gives an endeared flick before he moves onto the compartments overhead.

the flip-down sunshades have a few stray bits of mail folded under them, and there IS a detachable CD sleeve to the driver side one, but it's entirely empty. he's almost willing to give up, when he spots a semi-opaque sheen in between his seat and the center console.

"oh! oh-, hold on, look!" he laughs, gleefully, bringing his knees up to his chest as he shoves his arm between the gap.

he fishes around, fingers grasping at various plastic cases, before coming up victorious with a playing-hand of CDs. "i KNEW she had to have something!" he says, victoriously. "take that!"

"there you go, then," jon says, supportively. "what's she got?"

"mmm," martin reads the discs off, 4 of them. "the Pretenders. Cranberries, the Cardigans. hang on, this one says 'Grifter's Bone'? it's hand-labeled, i don't think that's very funny of her. some odd choices here," he says, fishing around for the remaining lost CDs.

all the rest are mostly obscure punk bands. one home-burned CD that's labeled "space pirates :)" in what is definitively not melanie's handwriting. the last one he looks at, a burned, faded red cover, is coincidentally one he'd pick even without the strife of deficit.

"Kiss Me," he reads the faded letters off the spine, fondly, running his hand down the sun-bleached plastic cover. he's sure the relief in his voice is tangibly observable, even for jon.

"sorry?" jon responds immediately, curtly pinched. and oh. yeah, that probably sounds bad to say out loud, huh? especially, especially to jon.

"oh, um- the Cure," martin lets out a squeaky, embarrassed laugh. "the album. melanie has one of my favorite albums. that's what i- yeah."

"ah," jon says, rubbing his eye with one hand, "that's what you meant."

"yeah."

after a minute of awkward silence, every second of which feels agonizing, he snaps open the case, only to find it completely empty, missing even the lyric booklet.

"oh," he says, his heart sinking in childish disappointment, "'s not in there." he tries not to let it show on his face, knows he's failing, and that just makes it feel worse.

"are you alright without it?" jon asks, far off and masked in ice, like he's underwater.

martin glances at him nervously, his vision wobbling, and sighs. "yeah. it's not the CD, it's the silence," martin says. "i'm tired of silence, jon. i never had any time to watch anything or talk to people, back there. peter wasn't keen to even let me listen to music."

jon exhales quietly, his eyes closing for a minute. before martin can complain, they snap back open.

"the pocket on the back of my seat, between two paper napkins and a sleeve of saltines."

"i thought we just said-"

"it felt important enough." jon says, firmly.

"right," martin sighs, trying his best to sound more annoyed than fond, "thanks." he blindly reaches back, slipping his hand into the sleeve on the back of the driver's seat, and finds that there is, indeed, a CD there, exactly where jon had Known it would be.

when he hits the eject button on the stereo, another hand-ripped CD comes out, this one not labeled but rather donning a crude doodle of a cat, and he places it delicately in Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me's case instead.

he sighs in relief, as the CD quietly spins a few times, before the music finally starts to play, filling the car with a comforting backdrop of noise. if the indicator of The Eye's hold on jon is a rising of static, for him, The Lonely's is the sound of rushing water against his skull.

jon spares him a single glance of amusement.

"sorry, it's just.. one of my favorite albums. one of my favorite bands, actually." he says, comfortably. "it feels like i've won the lottery, for mel to have it, in her car of all places."

"really?"

"yeah," martin sighs, resting his cheek against the glass, letting the music sink into his head, the jangly bass guitar lines familiar and nostalgic. "my mum never liked them, but i swear they got me through secondary. my favorite song's not on the album, but all of the other ones are good enough to make up for it. er, sorry, you probably don't care,"

"i collect marbles," jon says, in response. casually, so nonchalantly that martin's almost sure he's misunderstood, or imagined it.

"what?"

"peter was right," jon shrugs. "we don't know much about each other. but we can start. now i know your favorite band, and you know about my most elaborate hobby."

"we know plenty about each other," martin argues. "he wasn't right about anything."

"well, now we know more, then. i collect marbles. i grew up near the sea, so every kid i knew had a seashell or two they liked. it was never for me, sea creatures are too.. detailed. they weren't too hard to find, and they were more unique than seaglass. ergo, marbles."

"that's so stupid, jon." martin laughs. "god, that's so like you."

"my favorite was this little clear one, sort of bigger than the regular ones, but not big big, someone clearly made it by hand," jon continues, and he's smiling, wistfully. "it was swirled, like a snail shell, with this nice gold filament. georgie found it for me, said she found it 'somewhere on campus,' but i think she really stole it from the antique shop we used to go to. they had this large marble collection the whole time we attended university, but they would only sell the whole jar to you, so i never did."

"sounds quite eye-catching. you'll have to show me sometime," martin says, and he finds himself smiling as well.

jon shakes his head ruefully. "lost," he says. "i believe they were sold off along with the rest of my apartment while i was predisposed earlier this year."

"you can't just Know, like my CD?"

"i can," he shrugs. "i don't want to. it's hardly the most pertinent thing on my mind."

"right. you went to Oxford, right?"

"horrible place," jon says, immediately, "full of snobby academics who think they're better than everyone else."

"the call's coming from inside the house, jon."

"indeed."

"er, well, you already know about my uni history. there is none. i used to take poetry classes at a library, though. call it a casual hobby of mine?"

jon huffs. "i'm not sure how we ever became friends," he sighs, then, backtracking before the words leave a bitter residue on their souls, "er- who's your favorite?"

"hmm?"

"poet. your favorite,"

"oh," martin laughs, dizzily "um, Keats, i guess? that's a cop-out answer. i don't know, i like reading lots of different stuff. i write, actually."

"really?" jon responds with a surprising curiosity in his voice. if martin had expected him to take an interest, he probably wouldn't have even said this to begin with. "...do you ever show it off?"

yes.

no.

not to jon.

he's been to a few poetry slams, swapped a few lines with basira. he'd rather not reveal his hand here, just how many haikus and villanelles he's written about the same muse, tall, dark, and handsome.

"not really," he lies, "and- and i left most of them at the ol' prentiss flat, anyway. your turn."

"i'm allergic to lavender," jon supplies, in return.

"really," martin yawns, "that's a weird one."

"and highly inconvenient, at that," jon agrees. "it's impossible to avoid. you're walking through a shopping mall, and you have to steer yourself away from the soap shop like a ship. popping down to the grocery store? you better hope there's no florist on the way! and what if i wanted to visit a spa?- i don't, but i'd quite like the option!"

martin laughs, but jon's clearly not done with this topic. "and you think you're safe, at least, until you're at the pub with your uni friends, and someone's wearing perfume, and they're all too- too plastered to care that you're seeing spots! they just laugh at me! it's outrageous, and somehow i'm the twat for complaining about it!"

martin rests his head against the glass window, and smiles as he observes jon speak.

dedicated enough to not taking his hands off the wheel, but clearly passionate enough that he wants to gesture, which only results in him impatiently tapping and sliding his hands on the wheel, uncertain of how to emote otherwise.

he's a bit of a one man show, when he gets going on any given thing. martin's reminded of emulsifiers.

"i mean, they're lucky it's only a moderate allergy, what if it were the type to send me into anaphylaxis?! they wouldn't be laughing then, now, would they? martin, you're not to let lavender come within twenty metres of my funerary arrangement, or so god help me,"

"of course, jon," he assuades, letting his eyelids lower a little as he settles down more.

"and now they're putting it into drinks, is that not too far?! have we, as man, gone too far?"

"what's it,- ah," martin finds himself yawning, "s-sorry, i'm not yawning at your story, i'm just.- what's it even do to you?"

"swelling, blistering of the skin. typical symptoms. the worst of it is the headache," he grumbles, "there's not enough paracetamol in London to get rid of it, either. are you alright?"

"sorry- ah," martin starts, getting caught off with another yawn just as soon as he starts. "i don't know the last time i've talked this much to anyone," he admits, softly. "maybe tim's funer- maybe before you left for Yarmouth."

"quite alright," jon responds. "i can be utterly exhausting. you'll be trapped with my horrid stories for the forseeable future, so you might as well rest your eyes, while you can," he says, a little ominously.

"thanks. wake me if anything happens?"

"it's unlikely anything will. but i suppose we've defied likelihood before, so, yes."

he can't be sure, not really, but as he lets his eyelids flicker open and shut, as he drifts in and out, he would swear jon is smiling at him.

it's not a particularly deep sleep. it's shallow, and he's at least semi conscious for nearly all of it, but the quiet croon of the stereo, and bumps in the road keep him just above the surface of his thoughts as to remain pleasant. he doesn't sink into anything particularly lonely, and finds his mind refreshingly blank.

there's one moment, fairly early on, where jon says something to him, only a few words, and he opens his eyes only to find he's a little too late, that the moment has already passed.

and, a few minutes later, at a light, he feels the slight rustling of jon reaching for his jacket, and of it getting stuffed between his shoulders and the cold metal adjusters of the headrest. besides this, he remains, otherwise, disturbed.

when he at last, finally gets woken up, it's gentle and slow. the windows have been cracked, just a bit, and the heater is on high. the cold air mingling with the warmth feels about as close to falling asleep under a heavy quilt in the dead of winter as one can get in late september.

his body is warm, there's a thin bubble of accumulated heat beneath the brim of the windows, keeping him warm, like a blanket. he half opens one eye, searching lazily for the source of what stirred him.

it could have been nothing; a particularly rough pothole, or another car, or the CD skipping. perhaps his body just got tired of resting. but the most likely culprit seems to be jon himself, who is quietly humming under his breath, along to the song on the stereo.

he subtly pulls his head out of the crook of his arm, and finds, when he does so, that the air in the rest of the car isn't so cold, either. jon had turned the heat on while he was asleep.

the exact words jon's singing sound a bit like gibberish, like he's trying to sing both the vocals and hum the main tune at once, and it takes a lot of effort out of martin to stifle his own laughter. jon's singing to Why Can't I Be You, and he sounds insane doing it.

he's quite sure it feels like a strange dream, curled up in a comfortable car, with someone else's windbreaker under his head, acting as his pillow, and the sound of jonathan sims quietly, earnestly singing "i'm smitten, bitten, i'm hooked, i'm," seemingly without a care in the world. this can't be real, he thinks, fondly, as he stares at jon, still singing to himself.

god, 24 hours ago, he had believed, quite earnestly, that he would die alone.

if he pretends, right now, that everything was all a dream instead, a bad one, he can almost believe that jon is carefree. that he is too. he could reach out, and grab jon's hand again- jon would allow it- and pretend that their love is reciprocal, that they're just on their way to a romantic getaway.

maybe they're eloping, he thinks. running away together. that's not far off from the truth, the dingy, living nightmare that is their lives.

part of him wonders what would've happened if he'd said yes to jon, months ago.

they'd have gotten away, but he wouldn't be able to look at jon. to admire the sharpness of his collarbones, to notice the way the cold, swirling air conditioner pushes jon's hair repeatedly into his face, and the little micro grimace jon makes every time it gets in his eyes, not quite annoyed enough to roll the windows back up.

"i know you're awake, i can see you looking at me." jon says sardonically, staring at martin out of the corner of his eyes.

martin grumbles, the sugary grog of sleep weighing down his words, "fine, fine." he sighs, knocking his glasses back onto his face, and rubs his eyes.

from the looks of it, they're quite deep into the scottish countryside, a thin creek running alongside the section of motorway they're on. it's dark, just after sunset, bathing the surrounding highlands in an azure light.

"good morning, sweet prince."

"i didn't know you could sing." martin groans, lifting his head. he tries to open his eyes fully, but he can hardly see jon in the darkness. he reaches up to hit the overhead light on his side, and it certainly helps, but the sudden flash sends another shooting pain between his eyes.

"i can't. i've never even tried." jon replies, instantly.

"uh huh. god, jon, what time is it?" he says, rubbing deep, soothing circles into his eyelids. when he pulls them away, he can see just a little bit better, even if he's also faintly seeing stars.

"just past 7, i believe,"

"god, i've been asleep for almost 5 hours," martin groans, "why didn't you wake me?"

"you needed the rest," jon replies. "and there's been nothing of note since we left Inverness."

"not even any animals?"

"mmm, a few cows, i s'pose? i wasn't sure you'd consider that 'worth it.'"

he can't quite believe what he's hearing.

"jon ." he hisses, shooting his driver a withering look, or at least as close to one as he can manage.

"cows are always worth it, jon," he says, "i'm honestly offended you'd think otherwise."

"well, i don't think otherwise," jon argues, "i'm just not sure anyone else finds them as interesting as i do."

"think again," martin scowls, sitting up and waving his hand in what he hopes is a comedically threatening manner. "we're in Scotland! these are highland cows! they're even better than normal ones, jon!"

"i'll keep it in mind for next time then," jon replies, dryly. "are they your favorite?"

"obviously," martin sighs, placated. he sits back in his seat. "none of the others are even worth my time."

"i quite like longhorns, i saw a few in America. did you know there's a breed called 'Beefmaster?'" jon offers, "they're American, too, of course."

"i guess i do now," martin sighs. "i'm always on the lookout for good cows, but i might skip that one. sounds a bit like the murder pig from New Zealand."

"oh, speaking of," jon says, "d'you still have that bag from the cafe? with the muffin in it?"

martin nods, sitting up a little more so he can properly reach into his pocket, pulling out the crumpled paper bag, 'jan' and all. he hadn't touched it, earlier, hadn't had the time to before jon had rushed them both out, towards the Institute. it's a little crushed, but he's sure they're both well past caring. "oh, god, i'm sorry, are you hungry?"

he's sure he should eat too, but still can't quite feel hungry. maybe if jon eats, it'll be easier for him to as well.

"just a bit," jon says, "tear me off a piece?"

he does so, ripping into the rather large muffin with his fingers, and tearing out a large chunk of the top, passing half of it, the larger half, into jon's outstretched hand.

he pops the other half into his mouth. it's quite good, very heavy on the blueberry flavor, and the base dough mixture beneath it isn't too sweet, or dry. it's perfectly pleasant.

wait. he quickly swallows, choosing a possible choking hazard over speaking with his mouth full. "how is this related to cows?"

"mmfh?" jon takes the opposite approach.

"you said 'oh, speaking of,' like cows and muffins are related."

jon huffs through a mouthful of bread, "they're bofh delicious, mar'in."

"they are not," martin gasps. "i would never eat a highland cow."

"i woul'."

"you're weak of heart, then," martin responds icily, with no real vitriol behind the words. for jon, he supposes, he can forgive even this, the most scandalous of transgressions.

jon laughs, and stretches out his hand to pull a chunk off of the muffin in martin's grasp. he lets out an irate yelp. "you could ask for another bite," he scolds, indignantly, making absolutely no move to push jon away.

their fingers meet, lingering for a split second longer than necessary. he makes no effort to move, either, ignoring the aches that ripple through his fingers. for a minute, he thinks they might just hold hands again. then jon pulls away with another fistful of bread, shoveling it into his mouth.

jon doesn't tend to eat human food anymore, or at least he's not sure he's seen it more than twice since he'd woken up. it's nice to see it, so he can't really be mad.

"hey, jon?" he asks, as he reaches up to hit the overhead light, bathing them again in the subtle darkness of only the countryside and ambient gleam of the headlights.

"mmmh?"

"aren't you usually hungry for.. y'know, statements, by now? not just muffins?"

"peter was quite filling," jon shrugs. "as an entree, not as a person."

"i can't believe you killed him,"

"i can," jon replies, malignantly. his lips tighten into a thin frown. "it was hardly a second thought, after what he's done to you."

'after what peter has done to him' is a rather succinct, naive way to put it. it implies martin hadn't, in any way, wanted The Lonely, or done it to himself. he opens his mouth to argue, but jon cuts him off.

"he lied to you, martin. and then he tried to keep me from you. i won't have it."

"you're right," martin says, instead of whatever he was going to before. "and he was horrible at middle management."

he shakes his head, fondly, staring back out at the swiftly moving countryside again. it's only as jon beguns to hum again that he realizes how odd it is that they're still listening to his music.

"have we been listening to this album the whole time?"

jon shrugs. "i was unsure when you would wake up," he says. "i thought i'd let myself get familiar with your 'favorite band,' in the meanwhile."

"what, you've been listening to it on loop, then?"

"only three and a half times," jon says. "my favorite song so far's coming up again,"

"what's that?"

"Just Like Heaven."

"jon," martin laughs, scandalized. "you can't just pick their most popular song and say it's your favorite."

"i didn't," jon replies, slyly. "that would probably be Friday, I'm In Love. it's technically their third most popular song, and by a longshot."

"you knew that off the top of your head, did you? so you like the one that's just unpopular enough you won't be called a poser!"

"hardly," jon sniffs, fixing him with a look. "i find i very much appreciate the song lyrically."

"right," martin laughs, "of course."

"fine, then, what's yours? i'll expect it to have at least a hundred thousand fewer streams on Spotify."

"Pictures Of You, thank you, very much, jonathan."

"i, ah, haven't listened to it."

"ha!" martin exclaims, pumping his fist energetically. "what.. do you listen to, then?"

jon makes a vague noise.

"oh, is this our next topic? quite a wide variety of things, really. folk music? no one ever manages to guess that. i like radio dramas. not, er, like i've had time to listen to anything else, lately. daisy always insisted we put on the Archers while we worked. it was either that, or i re-listened to our own tapes from over the years. it was like our own personal podcast."

"sounds horrible," martin laughs, "i know what you mean. checking the tapes for follow-up reference was the only way i'd get to hear your voice, sometimes,"

"i listened to every tape you left. my favorite was the one you recorded right after we left for Yarmouth." jon offers, an air of amusement in his voice, "i'm quite glad we don't have a suggestion box."

in other circumstances, martin had felt quite proud of that quip. but he remembers that day, remembers the conversation, the exact words he had said to elias bouchard.

so his stomach falls, a little bit. "s- so you've, heard everything i've said about you."

"yes," jon says, softly.

"so you know,"

jon's hand falls away from the wheel, and searches for his, pulling it out of martin's lap and into his own.

"i do," he nods, slotting his fingers into martin's.

"oh,"

jon licks his lips. martin can feel himself getting faint.

he has to double check that they haven't, in fact, gotten into a horrific, jolting car crash, because he feels rather like they have. his heart quickens with the pace of the adrenaline hitting his system.

"jon," he says, and he's struck again, this time with with the familiar urge to kiss the man, a conscious desire. it's been quite a while since he's felt it. certainly not since jon woke up.

his breath hitches, and jon seems to be aware of what's going on inside his mind, because he gently runs his fingers over the back of martin's hand, and shakes his head.

"we shouldn't be doing this right now," jon manages, his voice quivering. he blinks four or five times, and tilts his head away from martin. "i'd rather not crash melanie's car,"

"right," martin breathes, "s-sorry," he says, pulling away as well. he would call himself stupid for even thinking about it, but.. right now implies coming back to this later. god.

"she'd never let me hear the end of it," jon adds, in a much more leveled tone.

"you're right. sorry," he says, again, pressing his face into his hands. "how- how long until we get there? i think i need some fresh air,"

"we've still got two hours to go," jon says sympathetically, eyeing him. "if you'd like to stop, we can, but it's more efficient to keep going and rest once we get there."

martin nods, squirming rather uncomfortably. "i- i might try to get in a few more minutes of sleep, then," he says, "if that's alright?"

"of course," jon murmurs sheepishly.

he tries to shove down the fluttery feeling in his stomach, pulling jon's windbreaker back into position, behind his neck, and as he closes his eyes again, pressing his face against the glass, and his hand to his face, the familiar intro of a particularly recognizable song fading in, jon begins to quietly sing again.

jon hums, "when will you know that i'm in love with you," coming in more clear than the rest, and martin sighs.

"those aren't quite the lyrics, jon," he mumbles, through his fingers.

"i know,"

not right now implies that later could be fine.

martin is woken up once more, by the sound of jon quietly cursing under his breath. the stereo is off, now, and the overhead light is turned on on the driver's side. "jo- jon?"

jon's door is swung open, filling the quiet countryside with an annoying dinging alarm. there's a faint breeze slipping in past it, and he's squinting at something in front of them.

it's fully dark, now, and probably quite late. they must be hours from any real city, leaving the sky a pristine, black and purple blanket, and the trees and tall grass stand out against it like cardboard cutouts.

there's every chance it could be beautiful in the day time, but under the light of nothing but a waning moon, it all looks rather eerie. he tries to imagine the cows they'll see tomorrow, rather than the possible werewolves and ancient rings of burning trees that could be here now.

"we're here, martin," jon says, voice terse, "damn! i can hardly see, er- do you have your phone on you?"

martin nods, fumbling through his back pocket for it."get the torch on, mine's died."

he shakes it until it turns on, blinding the both of them in a white light while he fumbles to turn it around.

jon points, somewhere in the distance, to a place shone on with the headlights, and if martin squints, tilts his head just right, and surrenders all his hopes for hospitality, he can see a white stone cottage, somewhere underneath all the grass.

"i believe that's it there, but the path has clearly not been maintenanced, and we'll have to walk a ways."

"oh," martin yawns, turning his phone over in his palm, letting it warm his hands. "great. isn't that just lovely?"

"basira has warned me about the condition of the place, and a possible.. lack of electricity, so we'll have to stick together, if we don't have an extra light."

"oh! wait, jon, there's an extra torch in the car," martin says, overcoming his fatigue long enough to clumsily open the glovebox. he searches for a moment, brushing aside the pepper spray and finding a fairly hefty Maglite torch. quickly closing it, he tosses the heavy metal tool into jon's expectant hands.

"that certainly streamlines the process," jon says, satisfied, clicking the light on towards their feet. "then we're free to split up."

martin reaches for his bag, and grabs jon's for good measure, before he swings his own door open.

"got them?"

"yeah," martin nods, shuffling both bags onto his shoulders.

jon slings his jacket over his back, and shines the light into the moor ahead of them.

"right." jon sighs, staring at martin fondly before he turns to the cabin looming above. "then i guess home awaits us."

the house is perhaps only 12 meters from the car, but is certainly a very harrowing walk nevertheless.

part of the pathway takes them underneath some sort of large tree that blocks out almost all of the moonlight, its trunk dark and thick, and branches spreading out like a large, straggling web. he shines his light up, into the branches, and squints.

"some kind of fruit tree," he says. "looks nice."

"a cherry tree," jon supplements, without even looking. "sorry."

when they're on the porch, jon sets his hand to his forehead, and sighs.

"there'll be no food," he says, steeling the both of them for what they're about to come in on. "we're 20 minutes from the village by car, but i believe it would be a much more scenic walk. basira warned me that there may be, ah, some leftovers strewn about the place, but we chose this one, in part, because of how few 'kills' daisy pulled off here. and, in part, because it has functional plumbing and a full bedroom."

the door to daisy's safehouse opens, heavy and loud, and martin makes a mental note to get a can of WD-40 at the shops tomorrow. it's a large, wooden thing, quite old-fashioned, with wrought iron hinges, and the stones of the cabin are a pale, washed beige.

what escapes through the open doorway is a heavy coating of dust, and stagnant air. it feels like a mausoleum.

jon reaches in, running his hand along the wall. after the telltale sound of a light switch flipping three or four times, he retracts it, and lets out a loud, irritated groan.

"right, i don't believe the electricity is working."

martin groans equally as loudly. "can it get any worse?"

"yes." jon responds dangerously, a single word heavy with more weight than Murphy and his stupid law could ever dream of.

"right, right," martin squeaks, peering in as well. "bad question. what can we do about it?"

jon whips the torch around, staring into the darkened house beyond them. 

"i'll have a look at the fusebox tomorrow; we'll see whether she's stopped paying her bills, or if it's simply a busted breaker," he sighs, "but i suppose we'll have to make do in the dark, for tonight."

"fine by me. i'm knackered." he shivers, trying to force a yawn. he very much does mind, he's not fond of this darkness. but this is perhaps not the hill to die on, as jon's not yet learned how to control the rising and falling of the sun itself nor will electricity into existence.

"you slept nearly 7 hours in the car, martin."

"i'm honestly not sure i've slept in a bed in over a week, jon. it hardly counts." he protests.

they split up, of course. because scooby doo has taught them nothing. jon had agreed to take the kitchen, check for what few supplies they had, and martin to find the bedroom, which basira had insisted was real.

daisy's safehouse is furnished in perhaps the exact opposite style of daisy herself. he can hardly imagine her, with her slicked back hair, combat boots, and a grey wifebeater, living in an ornate little thing like this.

it's small, delicate, and entirely disheveled in a way that reminds him of an antique dollhouse.

"she has wine!" jon yells, from the distance, and martin whistles back. he's beginning to wish he'd offered to take the kitchen. as he whips the torch around, illuminating various pieces of daisy's eclectic decorating sense, he's struck with a rather upsetting sense of deja vu.

of a rotten, fissured woman in a long grey coat, and of dropping his phone.

a chill runs down his spine, through his fingers and toes, and he tries to still his thawing heartbeat.

he knows he's not back in that basement, but this all feels reminiscent of it nevertheless. telling oneself that there could never be any intruders here, because no one would ever be stupid enough to trespass upon the grounds of The Hunt, isn't helping.

he's generally not bothered by it anymore. there are worse things in life than the shuffling reanimated corpse of a homebrew witch, ambling around his apartment block with a fetish for giving him specifically nightmares.

fire, getting buried alive, the endlessly looping clamor of a tinny calliope, and mainly, losing jon again. they'll have to do worse than bugs.

it's not like vittery's basement was even the scariest place prentiss ever chased him.

all things considered, he escaped with nothing but a disdain for canned peaches and a preference for doorbells. pretty good time in his life, if you compare it to everything that came next. he got off easy.

but the resemblance here is uncanny, the feeling too familiar, and he hates it. he looks over his shoulder, at jon, a thin sliver of his torch beam breaching across the hall, and through to the dark living room, and shudders.

it's dusty, here, not in the earthy, thick way that prentiss was, but it's more than close enough.

if something's here, no one will know where to find him. no one will come looking for him.

that's the kicker, really. he's always been alone. he was alone before. if something happens to him, it will happen to him alone.

maybe it's best they stick together after all, he thinks, swinging himself around, and as he opens his mouth to call for jon, he promptly walks directly into a dresser.

"shit," he yelps instead, and as he shines the torch onto the culprit, the beam hitting the table, something rolls just out of the thin aperture of the light and off the table runner, onto the ground.

whatever it is, it's metal, and heavy, and it hits the hardwood floor with a resonating thud, rolling and resonating on the floorboards.

"are you alright?" jon calls from behind him, far away, and he quickly returns jon's worry with an "i'm fine! sorry!" before shining the light on the floor.

what he expects to see, when he shines his torch onto it, is a priceless vase or something otherwise tragically useless. what he finds instead is a lantern, and when he picks it up, he's delighted to see there's both a bulb and the heft of a 9-volt battery inside.

"jon! jon, c'mere,"

he injects his voice with a little more alarm than is probably ethical, because jon comes rather quickly, and when he shines the light onto his face, it's carved with a hesitant fear.

jon turns to him, in the dark, and he can already identify the concern growing on jon's face as he opens his mouth, but it's cut short, his expression taken over by one with relief, as martin flicks the lantern on, bathing them both in a warm yellow glow.

it's bright enough to illuminate nearly the whole room, to cast a faint sheen onto every item in daisy's garish living room. "look what i found," he says, gleefully, as both their shoulders cave in relief.

"thank god," jon says, "i've had quite enough of the dark in my lifetime."

martin grins, swinging the lantern by its handle triumphantly.

"find anything else in the kitchen?"

"just the wine. looks to be a merlot, the label's half torn off. the fusebox must be outside. any sleeping arrangements?"

"not yet," martin says, grimly. "i'll bet anything it's up there, though."

there is a shallow, especially darkened set of stairs in the far corner. it had been hidden previously, and is only barely visible even now, with the lantern's light.

martin swallows. is there no end to the nightmares of this world?

"come on," he says, grabbing jon's sleeve. "i refuse to die alone up there."

the stairs are dusty, and he has to take extra care not to fall down them, or break his neck. at the top, there is a door. there's not even a landing, it's just one step, two step, three step, door.

the door swings open, and when the light fills the small room, it's clear that this is the bedroom basira had mentioned. there is a bed, placed directly opposite a rather large window. there is a fireplace beside it, and another door off to the left side.

a bathroom, he presumes.

the walls are a faint pink, the trim painted white. there's a vanity in the far right corner, instead of a nightstand, and a painting of a battered looking mountain overlooking the room. he's not as fond of that one as the rest of the decor.

the window looms over it all, adorned in maroon curtains that can't possibly deign to block even a fraction of the view.

if he adjusts himself, stands on his tip-toes, he can see roughly where the car is parked from the room, and that cherry tree jon had probably supernaturally identified.

it's probably a picturesque, perfectly romantic view during the day. as it stands, it's an ominous scene that only lets in a few strands of moonlight, and he is horrified at the implications that he might fall asleep looking out the window and wake up to something staring back.

the bed itself has an ornate metal frame, curving and spiraling, painted white as well, and a rather comfortable looking quilt with strawberries embroidered on. it looks cozy.

besides the dark, rust-metal stain that's splattered all down one corner, he means. that part's not comforting in the slightest.

it really puts a damper on what could otherwise be a lovely cottage bedroom. throws off all the feng shui.

he looks at jon- jon looks at him.

"rather small," he says, nervously, and jon replies, "indeed."

"did you see any clean linens while you were down there?"

jon hums from behind him. "there's a closet in the kitchen, i believe. hang on," and before martin can object, he's halfway down the stairs again.

he means to call after jon, to tell him to take the lantern, but he's honestly not quite selfless enough to want to.

once he hears the sound of a cabinet door slamming open somewhere downstairs without any incident, he relaxes a little, and throws his bag to the ground, beginning to strip the sheets.

the mattress is in good shape, soft. even as he sinks his hands into it, he can tell. the bedframe is a good distance from the floor, and it only creaks a little bit.
but it's just impossible to ignore the obvious, here.

yeah, martin grimaces, there's no way this isn't blood.

what he is uncertain about, however, is what the chunks are. little red clumps pilling off the fabric, that shrivel as he creases it.

he gets all of the blankets and duvets off, and is more than halfway done with the sheets, when jon returns.

"will these do?" jon says, holding up a stack of pale yellow fabric, clenched in one hand.

"anything's better than this," martin mumbles, yanking the final corner of the dingy beige undersheet off. "so much for daisy not using this place as a kill site."

"as far as i can tell, this is the only, eh, point of interest in the whole cabin. i find it highly unlikely she actually executed someone here, this is more than likely her own blood."

"lovely. let me, just..." martin tosses the offending blankets into the corner, behind the door. there's simply nowhere else to put them, not without venturing downstairs, which he refuses to do alone again.

"it's still rather cozy," jon comments, "despite the viscera."

he can't disagree. his eyes drift to the fireplace in the far corner of the room. with a well-lit fire, and perhaps an extinguisher on hand, he can imagine it being something akin to nice.  he wishes, wistfully, that there were logs already waiting for them.

it would certainly feel one step closer to home. especially with jon by his side, pressed against him, watching the embers spark and die. he shakes his head, sadly. that will have to wait until tomorrow as well.

when he looks back, jon's unfolded the fitted sheet and is attempting to fold the corners over, and rather struggling.

"it's inside out, jon."

"i knew that," jon huffs.

"and oriented the wrong way. beds are rectangular."

jon groans, hitting the far end of the mattress in frustration. "i've always had some finely picked words for the inventor of these things," he says, and as he hits it, the other three corners of the fitted sheet come flying back up, curling into a misshapen bag once more.

martin stifles a snort.

"here," he laughs, pushing jon aside with his hip. he shakes his head as he slides his hands in the seam of the corner curve, fitting it around his fingers like a glove. "oh, just let me do it,"

he's spent plenty of time making beds for both himself, and his mother. she had always been very insistent about a fresh set of sheets bi-weekly. the trick is to do the opposite corners, to spread the tension evenly, all at once.

he glances up at jon only once as he flicks the last elastic corner beneath the mattress.

jon's fidgeting with his flashlight, looking rather like he's got something to say.

"i suppose i should find a place to retire as well," jon says coolly, as he wrestles with the torch in his hands. "will you be alright on your own?"

martin stops, pausing his layering of multiple top sheets to compensate for a lack of a non-gorey duvet, and frowns. something in his stomach rips, a cord cut, all the scaffolding coming down at once. jon doesn't have to sleep with him, of course, in here. but he's not sure he's ready to be alone.

"do you .. not want to sleep in here?" he says, trying not to let his heart panic, or his voice betray him.

is.. has he misconstrued... this? but jon had said-

"would you let me?" jon says, warily.

"of course," martin says, subtly shaking the ache out of his fingers, beneath the cusp of the bed, where jon can't see. "i was hoping you would, are- are you telling me you'd rather sleep downstairs?"

"n-no, not really," jon cuts in, relieved and rapid. "i was hoping you'd offer, i just- just didn't want to overstep."

he lets out a gasp of relief.

"i'm insisting," martin corrects as he throws the final layer of sheets that jon had brought over the whole thing. "please don't leave me alone in this madhouse."

"i won't, then."

"g-good."

"sorry for scaring you," jon apologizes, shakily.

"it's alright," he replies, relieved, "um, anyway, my method looks insane," he says, as he spreads out on the bed, "but it works. hand me the pillows?"

"if it works," jon shrugs, equally relieved to move on, and throws the pillow squarely at his chest.

"not that hard!"

jon scoffs. "i did not throw it that hard."

"you very much did! if i threw a pillow at you that hard, you'd probably fall over, or something."

"are those fighting words, martin?" jon crosses his arms, an evil smile spreading across his face.

"no, no, never - never mind. we're not having a pillow fight," martin backs down, nervously. he quickly slides the pillow into the case, and gestures for jon to hand him the other one.

"not tonight," jon agrees, still smiling as he only lightly flings this one.

"you've been smiling a lot," martin says, folding the ends of the pillowcases into themselves, and jon makes an uncommittal grunt.

"i have a lot to smile about, i suppose. more than i've had in a long time."

"there," martin sighs, tossing the second pillow against the headboard, and throwing himself on top of the pillow. "hand me my bag?"

jon does so, handing martin his duffel bag with significantly more grace than the pillows.

he rifles through the bag lazily, examining what clothes he'd managed to keep on hand. perhaps they could have stopped by his flat before they left, but it's too late now.

he quickly pulls out his toothbrush, a purple one, once he sees it, and a few seconds later, the accompanying toothpaste.

he's got enough clothes, sure, but not a lot of them are fit to sleep in. hopefully jon won't mind him sleeping in just a sweatshirt and boxers, he's apparently not got any more fitting bottoms.

come to think of it, he hasn't packed any winter clothes, either. he doesn't even have a coat. maybe the village will have a charity shop, or something. he's not exactly sure how large it is, nor where they even are. he can't even google it, there's no service.

he's too busy worrying over this for the idea of 'jon and i sleeping together' to quite permeate his mind, just yet.

"ehm, martin?"

"yeah?"

actually, he's not too keen on the knowledge that there's no service here.

if jon were perhaps 5% less hinged, he might have to worry about one of them becoming a rogue ax murderer. he knows jon owns one.

heh. here's jonny, and all that.

"do you recall this afternoon?"

"...mostly," martin says warily, taking a heavy breath. "nothing before callow street, not well, at least-"

"do you recall asking whether i was bleeding?"

"um... yes?" martin pulls his head up, looking at jon on the other side of the bed. he's got a rather strained expression on his face.

"i'd like to take a rain check on that," jon says, wincing. "i'm bleeding now."

"oh, honestly, jon, how did you manage it this time?"

he tilts the lantern, giving jon's end of the room a bit more light, and jon holds his finger up like it's some sort of prize, a dark streak trickling down his hand. his messenger bag is on the night-stand, and as jon lets go, it slouches and falls to the floor.

"i knew i left a pocket knife somewhere in here, though i'd forgotten which pocket," he explains, awkwardly. "i believe i've found it."

"..right," martin exhales through his nose, picking up his duffel bag, "of course you did. come on, then. let's check out the bathroom."

the bathroom is indeed through the door to the left, and it's a small, frilly room with teal tiling and pink trimming on the walls.

he rests the lantern on the seat of the toilet, and jon throws himself, and his hand, now bleeding fairly profusely, over the eggshell white porcelain sink.

"hold still," martin sighs, standing beside him. he fishes through the bag on his shoulder, until he finds the small first aid kit he likes to keep on hand, and plucks a roll of gauze from it.

"i sort of expected this, to be honest," he explains defensively. "i know you well enough, by now."

"i'm unsure if i should be offended by that," jon replies self consciously, pressing his bleeding thumb between his teeth. a thin trail of blood is steadily running down his chin, and dripping into the sink.

the faucet is sticky, and it creaks like joints rubbing together as martin twists it on. just another thing to oil, he notes again.

the tap, by nature of the plumbing not having been used in quite some time, runs a salmon-copper colour at first, looking rather like the stained blanket had. jon runs his non-bleeding hand under the stream, continually shaking the water off until it runs clearer.

as the water runs clearer, it mixes with the droplets of jon's blood, swirling into an unsteady pink and circling the drain.

martin motions for his hand, and jon willingly places it in his.

he runs his stinging fingers over jon's wrist, disrupting the practiced stream of blood. jon's blood is thicker, and darker than he thinks is normal. but it's still red, it's still a resting temperature of 37 degrees, and it still oozes at a normal, albeit fast, rate.

his hip bumps against jon's, as they both stare, himself looking at jon's real arm, and jon looking at the reflection of it in the mirror on the wall.

jon's blood is volatile. it itches against his skin, setting the places it had been on fire, and leaving a faint red rash. he's actually not sure whose fault that is, The Eye, or The Lonely. perhaps, both.

"i'm always quite relieved to see it, to be honest," jon remarks. "some day i'm going to knick myself on a paring knife and it'll be, i don't know, green , or something."

"yeah," martin sighs, wiping his bloody thumb onto the roll of gauze. "i can't believe your eyes used to be brown."

"it's thrown my ID into all sorts of doubt, believe me." jon laments through his teeth, as martin takes his hand again, testing the water. 

it's icy cold, and they both separately jolt in shock. martin takes a precautionary breath as he plunges jon's hand into the cold water, gently washing the blood from their forearms. 

"mmh," jon whimpers after a moment, pulling away. he brings his finger to his mouth once more, holding the offending wound against his tongue. "i'm not sure the gauze will be enough."

"hang on," martin says, "i've got band-aids too. they'll stick better."

it's just an Institute necessity, he's afraid, and he's sure that no matter how much time he spends away, it's one of many habits that will never quite break.

they're not plain ones, they've got a green, ivy-like design running across them, but at least they don't have unicorns or something ridiculous on them. back in the day, back when sasha and tim were around, he often bought the childrens' branded ones, just to lighten up the place.

he can't count how many times he's done this. cleaned tim up after a particularly bad papercut, or helped tend to jon's supernaturally inflicted wounds. he was there after the hopworth attack, he was there after The Unknowing.

he seems to recall a particularly bad incident when jon had tried to sneak into work too soon after prentiss's attack, and popped a stitch.

he squeezes jon's finger for a moment, wiping the blood off once more, before unwrapping the adhesive tab. "there," he says, tenderly smoothing down the edges of the band-aid with his fingers.

"thank you, martin," jon says, sheepishly. "i've missed this."

"i have too, you know," martin laughs, warming the adhesive with his fingers. the band-aid is probably secure enough, he just doesn't want to let go of jon's hand. "is that bad to say?"

"no," jon says, "i can't tell you how many times i've considered hurting myself just so you'd patch me up,"

their eyes meet, in the mirror, and they both stare for a moment before jon recoils, breaking away.

"that.. sounds bad," jon squints at his hand. shaking his head. "maybe it is bad."

"yeah," martin responds, "er.. we- we might as well freshen up for bed?" he says, quickly. he chooses not to think about how many stupid things jon has probably done in the name of his absence. not right now.

it's not any nicer to think about jon being alone than it is for him to be alone himself. he shakes himself out of it, putting the first aid kit back in his bag, and finding his toothbrush instead.

"alright," jon nods. "i'll be out there if you need me."

"i said we. you're not getting into bed before you've brushed your teeth, jon. The Eye doesn't cover dental." he sprays the tips of the bristles with a quick jet of water, rubbing the excess off onto the back of his hand.

"as far as you know," jon wags his freshly bandaged finger, pruning the tangles out of his hair with his hands.

"do you want them to rot out of your skull?"

"no," jon sighs, petulently, meeting his eye in the mirror again. "as far as you know. i'll go get mine."

jon goes for his bag, and martin just shakes his head.

he starts with his top teeth, like usual, and he's more aware of the effort involved in the action than usual. that's probably a good thing. he's pretty sure he's been running 100% on autopilot for months, now.

his stomach will probably hurt in the morning, he's sure he hasn't eaten since the day before last. in fact, the muffin jon had bought is probably the only thing he can actively remember eating.

generally, the numb pangs in his stomach don't bother him. The Lonely tends to render most pain inert. but he has a feeling, as he looks over at jon, that it won't be much of a crutch anymore. so he'll probably be in hell tomorrow.

oh well, he thinks, as he moves onto his bottom molars. let hell come.

"i hadn't thought to buy toothpaste," jon says, returning with a green toothbrush in his hand. he wrinkles his nose as he rinses his own brush under the tap. "just the water will have to do."

"a'solu'ely noh,, jon. use mine," martin says through a mouthful of foam, without a second thought, holding the tube out.

their hands brush again, and martin only half feels the little sting this time. it's a vast improvement from earlier. "you've been doing that all day," jon observes, as he takes the tube onto his side.

"doing wha'?"

"flinching," jon says, curiously. "when i touch you. you flinch. i'm not sure you're aware you're doing it."

"oh," martin says, "'s cause of The 'one'y."

"what?"

he spits the excess froth into the sink, long enough to speak. "what, you think you're the only one with 'urges'? you become a word-sucking vampire when you're hungry, and i get all achey when i'm not alone. jon, why do you think i avoided you all summer? cause it hurts."

jon stares at him like he's just spoken in fluent Sanskrit. he's only mostly sure he hasn't, of course.

"but i've been with you all day," jon sputters, his toothbrush clattering into the porcelain basin. "i've been touching you all day."

"mmhm," martin says, handing it back to him.

"and you didn't think to tell me?! that it hurts you?!?"

"i didn't want to- i don't know, deter you, or something!"

"martin,"

"don't 'martin' me, jon, i knew what i was doing."

"i'm sorry," jon says softly. a little shell-shocked. "i'm sorry anyway."

martin swallows, the taste of wintergreen blinding the rest of his senses. he turns to jon, the real jon, not the reflection, and sets his hand on his shoulder. "i'll tell you about all of it tomorrow, jon. i promise, i just- wanted to know how long i could skate by without it."

"i'll hold you to it," jon mutters. "do you still.. want to share? then? if-"

"yes, jon. please just stay,"

jon's eyes fix themselves on his reflection, studying his face. "if you're sure," he says, and promptly shoves the toothbrush in his mouth.

"very," martin insists, locking his eyes with jon's once more. they're still hazel, and still leaning more on the brown side than usual.

jon's eyes soften a little, and he reaches to touch martin's shoulder with his non-brushing hand.

he gently sets his toothbrush on the counter, leaving enough space for jon's to sit beside it. a sign of good will. purple and green mingled together.

"do you have any deodorant?" jon says suddenly, around a mouth of toothpaste, when he's halfway through. he awkwardly looks back down at his hands.

"sorry?"

"if- plegh- we're going to- to share, i mean. i'm- haven't showered, i figure at least i could- but i forgot to pack any."

"jon," he sighs, "i don't really care about that."

"r-right. right, sorry."

"but if it means that much to you, i think there's some in my bag."

"no," jon says, quickly, "it's alright."

he cups the cold, tangy water in his hands, pressing his fingers together, and brings them to his lips. the water runs down his throat, leaving a path of scratchy, irritated skin in its wake. his throat hurts rather bad, come to think of it. not in the way that it might feel when he's sick, more like he's just swallowed a particularly sharp crisp.

then he wipes his face on his sleeve, unsure if he's willing to trust the sunflower embroidered towel hanging from the thin metal rack just yet.

"i'm going to bed," he says, to jon, as he gently pushes past, "hurry up."

"i need a smoke first," jon says, tearing his eyes from the mirror at last, to follow him.

"you just brushed your teeth," martin says, in disgust, as they spill back into the bedroom.

"i'll.. brush them again," jon says, hesitantly, bending down, reaching into the messenger bag that had fallen to the ground earlier. he comes back up with the metal torch in one hand, the freshly bandaged one, and a small red box in the other. "i just need a moment to think."

he searches jon's face, trying to identify the exact emotion that might be contributing to jon's urges. he knows it's something jon only does when he's overwhelmed. something he's not proud of, something he quit before they transferred to the archives.

something jon has been doing an awful lot without martin around. he knows as such, because the back entrance to the archives almost always has half a dozen cigarette butts smeared onto the pavement.

jon doesn't look stressed, not right now. there's not more fear in his eyes than normal, his brow is no more furrowed than it always is. and he's generally very bad at hiding his feelings.

martin sighs.

sometimes, an addiction is just an addiction.

sometimes, jon is allowed to gather his feelings in a semi-normal, semi-healthy manner.

"fine. alright, jon. don't take too long."

"i won't," jon says, looking back at him with soft eyes and a sickeningly sweet expression. "i wouldn't dream of it."

in the stillness of the night, the imposing walls of the safehouse, there is an air of inherent safety. like.. what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas; the logic follows that what happens in daisy's safehouse stays as well. whatever he does, the red brick walls won't talk, and neither will jon. so long as the garden spiders don't catch them holding hands, this is as much a sanctuary as anywhere else on earth.

they've spat on the grave of peter lukas, of The Lonely.

somewhere in between tearing a muffin apart like rabid animals and bickering over deodorant, he feels human again.

it takes 20 minutes before jon comes back. he slips in without a word, and sits beside him, and it feels fairly right. martin doesn't have the heart to get on him about brushing his teeth again.

he just reaches out and pats jon's hand, fondly. he's not sure he could have ever imagined this 4 years ago. last year. last month.

but here they are.

never mind that they haven't touched in 11 months, forget their precursory relationship as coworkers, screw the fact that they're meant to be responsible adults. he's got no spare time to skirt around his more human inclinations like a schoolboy hiding a crush. he's long past chaste, uncomfortable apologies over sharing toothpaste and the single can of spray-on deodorant he had thought to pack.

they've slipped back into their old places together, almost as if nothing ever happened.

they are perhaps better off than they were before.

regardless of this familiarity, the idea of sleeping in the same bed as jon is still fresh and naively exciting. he's still not fully in tune with his emotions, but he's quite sure the thrill of sharing a bed with jon could cut through even the thickest of numbing fogs.

he doesn't regret asking, pitifully, like a child begging to sleep in his parents' bed after a nightmare.

please, please don't leave me. you don't want to spend the night tossing and turning on the couch any more than i want to be alone.

the lantern has long been turned off, set on the bedside table on martin's side. it's better that they conserve power where they don't need it, but that leaves everything awash in a coat of darkness.

the dark countryside is a heavy blanket of peace, an endless ocean of silence, and despite it all, he's just a little nervous to break the surface. if he speaks too loudly, it might go away. if he's too annoying, too eager, jon might find another place to sleep after all, make an excuse and dare to leave.

martin knows he won't. not with a capital K, but as close to it as he can get. the simple truth is that jon doesn't want to leave him, and he doesn't want to let jon leave, either. it's just that... knowing doesn't stave off the fear.

"thanks for staying with me," he says, voice low enough it could almost be a whisper, and husky with overuse. he's spoken more today than he has in 8 or so months.

ever since he stopped reading at jon's bedside, he hasn't spoken much at all.

it hurts; if he doesn't start pacing himself soon, he'll be at risk of going hoarse. but much like the way jon had pressed against the wound, letting the blood trail down the valley between his fingers, and across his palm, relishing the crimson threads of humanity, he just wants to keep pressing. the pain is what reminds you you're human, it's the only difference between a man and his patron.

The Lonely can't cry for help, and it certainly can't give gratitudes. peter lukas could never. would never.

the moments of silence between their exchange frightens him, though only about 8 seconds pass between the words leaving his lips, and jon's mouth opening in response.

either of them could easily play this whole thing off, make a comment about the sketchy stain on the sofa downstairs having no sleep appeal, or shoot back an insult with no bite.

instead, jon lets the emotions in the air linger. blooming and measurable, heavy enough to weigh. he whispers back "of course," gentle and certain.

jon does this sort of thing a lot now, he's noticed. steps up to the plate, as it were, and refutes martin's emotions with his own.

he fidgets, shifting in the fresh sheets they'd put on only an hour prior, so that he can see jon just a little better.

it's hard to tell in the dark, but jon's figure is still hunched over on the other side of the bed, legs tucked to his chest and elbow haphazardly propped against the ornate headboard. he hasn't moved more than a few centimeters away from the edge of the mattress, let alone slid under the warm linen sheets yet.

when they had arrived, the bed had seemed alarmingly small. now that he's in it, without the sensation of touch nor the ability to see anything more than a dark silhouette of a friend, it feels almost unendingly large. 

he doesn't want jon on the other side, he wants jon on his side. it would be too much to ask he crawl inside martin's skin , but he could at the very least let himself lay on the pillow, a normal distance away from him, like a normal person.

"you don't have to sleep on the edge like that," he voices his thoughts more eloquently. "when i said we could share, i meant.. share."

"it hurts when i touch you," jon points out, and he's not wrong. like touching your hand to a poorly optimized light bulb, every touch they've shared today has felt like a static shock, and left an ache deep in his flesh. his hand still hurts.

"you've been touching me all day," martin points out, with a huff.

"mostly your hands," jon refutes. "we're bound to touch if i lay beside you, and i don't want to risk hurting you."

"jon, i'm asking you to touch me."

"you drive a hard bargain," jon replies, over the distinct sound of glasses folding shut and clunking onto the wooden nightstand. like he's been waiting for permission. "i'm just making sure."

it only hits a second later how pitiful please touch me probably sounds. it's not wrong, nor could it lead to any type of unwanted outcome for him, but he probably shouldn't let it end at that.

"it doesn't hurt as bad right now," he elaborates, "besides, i th- it's the only way to fight it. The Lonely. when you had your hand on me, in the cafe. it helped. and," he swallows, his throat dry, as he tacks on the last bit, "i'd like to think we're more than awkward coworkers at this stage. so i would feel better if i knew you were comfortable."

"what do you mean by comfortable?"

"anything, jon. anything you want."

jon sniffs, the sound of his legs unfolding and shuffling with the sheets momentarily filling the room. "i must warn you, i've been told i'm not the most pleasant man to share a bed with," he says dryly.

"did georgie say that?"

"i am, in her words, a 'serial cuddler'. she used to hate when she woke up with my hair in her mouth."

"just like a cat," martin laughs.

"yes, well, it's exceedingly difficult to fall asleep if i'm anything but comfortable, these days." jon says it like he's snapping in anger, but there's nothing behind the voice but fondness. he's pretty sure he can hear jon trying not to chuckle. "you're sure you're okay with this?"

"anything," martin repeats, as softly as he can manage.

neither of them move. for a few long seconds, he wonders if jon's somehow comfortable where he is, or if he's somehow thrown him off.

then the sheets get kicked off their legs, and jon slides under them. he shifts onto his stomach, setting himself in the place between their two pillows. an arm stretches over martin's ribs, and jon's breath hits his shoulder.

the shock that sets off between them when they touch is almost enough to make him whimper, but the ache that usually follows never comes. it doesn't hurt to touch, not like this. not right here. when he tilts his head down, he can see jon looking at him. as intent a gaze as he's ever seen. their faces are only inches apart.

"is this alright?"

"yeah," martin breathes. "yeah, of - of course. i said anything,"

he can't quite tell, not in the darkness, the thin line of moonlight above their heads providing only enough light to suggest the shapes they're made up of, but he's certain that jon's smiling.

"i don't sleep often," jon says as he lays his head down, presses it to martin's forearm. "i hope they can forgive me of this, just this once."

"i see you in my dreams either way," martin jokes. "you should be apologizing to me."

the silence that follows is less daunting. thinner, and warm. like it had been in the cafe, hours ago. his own heart beats slowly; has done for quite some time. the ticking of a clock low on battery, close to its end. but he can hear jon's heart beating twice as fast, enough up for the both of them, and he can feel the pulse through jon's wrist, resting haphazardly on his navel.

he wonders, faintly, if it's later right now.

"jon?"

"yes, martin," jon replies. it comes out breathy, distracted, as if it's less of a question and more of a reason to say his name out loud.

"is this.. what i think it is?"

"d'you want it to be?"

"more than anything."

"then it is," jon whispers, his hand finding martin's, and pulling it into his lap where jon's arm had been previously. squeezing his fingers, methodically.

"is kissing part of... this?"

jon lets out a long suffering sigh that could be excused for refusal, if not for the fact that he retracts his hand and pulls his head off the mattress.

"so much for getting comfortable," he grumbles as he shifts again, propping himself up on his elbows, and then sitting up a little more. more gradual, lazier than before, but he sits up nonetheless, and pulls himself closer to martin's face.

martin's spent the whole evening wishing daisy had paid the electrical bill, but in this moment, he's rather glad for the darkness. it gives the both of them courage he's sure he wouldn't have in daylight. he doesn't need to worry about how stupidly happy his face probably looks as jon's lips brush against his, how clumsily his hand presses against jon's collarbone.

jon lets out a rather raw whimper as their mouths meet, and responds in kind by placing a hand on the side of his jaw.

his own lips are chapped, and jon's are patchy, scabbed over in parts where he's clearly been picking at them. his hand travels up to jon's collar, grabbing a fistful of the fabric, pulling them inexorably closer. the dull sting of The Lonely prickles up like tears in his eyes, and dies like smoldering ashes as he pulls jon down with him, entirely too much contact for him to handle and yet not quite enough.

he's hungry now, he realizes, as he threads his fingers through jon's salt and pepper hair, twining a coarse grey strand around his ring finger. how have they done this so out of order, he wonders? dying for each other, eloping, kissing, and they haven't even put a word to it yet.

he can still taste the cigarette on jon's breath, and he makes a note to search their luggage in the morning for the offending pack, and toss the whole lot.

he's a little overeager, and jon's clearly out of practice, if he was ever good at it in the first place. he feels rather like a horny teenager, no matter how distasteful jon might find the description.

still, when jon pulls away, panting, a string of spit running down his chin, martin feels like it's barely enough. not like it could ever be enough enough. "disgusting," jon wrinkles his nose, wiping his mouth off with his sleeve, but there's only fondness behind the grievance.

fuck it. he'll put a word to it, right now.

"i love you," martin mumbles, putting his hand against jon's jaw. his thumb traces the bone, moving steadily down until it rubs across one of the worm marks. "i love you too," jon rasps, letting out a heaving gasp. "very, very much."

"god," martin breathes, similarly winded. "i can't believe it took so long,"

"i didn't want to be pushy earlier, but me neither."

"pushy?? you wanted me to elope with you last month!!"

"that wasn't what that was," jon pants above him, but martin can recognize the look of embarrassment crawling into his voice by now. "it was- different. i wasn't thinking about the long term. spur of the moment. i've- i've been considering this all day," he half-laughs, tilting his head.

"why didn't you?"

"i didn't.. save you because i'm in love with you, martin. i need you to know that. i knew i couldn't have pulled you out if you hadn't let me. but i didn't want to breach your trust."

"but you are in love with me," martin sighs fondly, "when did that happen?"

"oh, don't make me pick an answer, that's so hard," jon replies, his own voice full of an infatuation martin's sure he doesn't mean to let loose.

"well, try,"

with a high pitch to his voice, one that rather makes him sound like he's got a cold, jon says, "i lied on my cv," and it's then that martin realizes jon's trying to imitate his voice. "it was rather helpful to the whole affair, to know that you weren't trying to kill me."

"i don't sound like that," martin argues, weakly. "can't you do a better impression than that?"

"perhaps the time you manhandled those plastic explosives, then." jon chortles. "you're good with spiders, too. i missed that."

"i think you've got horrible standards," martin breathes, running his fingers down the front of jon's chest, "because those aren't my best qualities. i still don't understand how. everybody's better with spiders than you are."

"you're not the one laying your heart bare to be examined, let me have this."

"still," martin whispers, "can't you at least love me for my tea?"

"as if falling for me wasn't infinitely harder," jon whispers back, "i should be questioning you. i'm an incessantly difficult man to love, and you still found a way."

"not much to say on my end, is there?" martin sighs, fondly, "i was never subtle, and i'm a masochistic fool."

"i don't think i knew until after you were gone, though." jon admits. "the tapes you left. i'd never dwelled on them before, not like that. not until i was listening to them just to hear your voice."

"right," martin laughs. "my pitiful feelings for jon."

"yes," jon agrees, and in the dark his hand reaches to squeeze martin's again. "i was probably the last to know."

"i did treat you badly, martin. but i didn't hate you. i'm sorry i ever let you think so."

"so why did it take us so long?"

"you said it in past tense-" jon stilts for a moment, his words trailing off. he pulls away, and collapses back onto the bed beside him. "- earlier. you said loved. past tense."

"oh," martin says, softly. his cheeks feel colder without jon's face pressed against his.

he does remember this. each moment of The Lonely is a bit hard to recall the intricacies of, his memories much like a castle built on that never ending, periwinkle beach. pronounced and sharp at the time, sure, but the edges softened by wave after wave.

it's rather hard to feel lonely like this, even without jon halfway on top of him, but he does remember saying as much, letting the D roll off his tongue with a certain sense of smugness. he does remember the way jon's face had fallen as he'd professed his rotted, dead love. "i think i just wanted to hurt you," he admits, "i'm sorry,"

"it worked," jon huffs. "i'm quite sure it would have gotten to anyone else. as it happens, i am an exceedingly stubborn man."

"surely it occurred to you to just Know the answer,"

"of course not. it didn't feel right, even if the fog weren't a blind spot for compelling."

jon falls back onto his stomach, back into the position he'd deemed 'comfortable' before, with the small amendment that his leg is now thrown over martin's, intertwined in an irregular manner.

"i didn't need you to love me back, martin. i would've saved you regardless. as soon as we returned, you could have left and never looked back. so long as you were out, i'd have understood."

"so you didn't Know whether i was lying or not, back there."

"no. but i had hoped."

"i loved you then, even if i couldn't feel it." martin says softly, freeing his other hand from the sheets just long enough to grasp jon's hand with both of his own. "i love you now, too."

jon hums. he lifts his head from martin's side, just enough to see through the window.

"look outside," he says. martin squints. after frantically reaching into his pocket for his glasses, he follows jon's outstretched hand.

"out by the tree," jon points out, an audible smile spreading across his face, and in his voice.

it's hard to tell, against the starkness of the almost-full moon, but there, littered across the hills, across the rock wall out front and in the tall brush, like the bug tracks on his lover's skin, are tiny glowing dots of light, entirely separate from the stars and sky.

they're only fully visible when they intersect with the wild cherry tree in daisy's yard, but they are there nonetheless. tiny, green, glowing lights, flashing in a form of morse code no human could ever comprehend.

jon's eyes are sharper than he gives him credit for. it's just not one of his standout talents, martin supposes.

"what are they?" he asks, though he can already guess the answer. maybe he just wants to hear jon talk about it.

"glow-worms. they're like fireflies, martin." they hadn't seen them coming in, because the headlights had bleached them out of view. but they're more than visible now.

"i thought only Americans got those?"

"hardly. they're just exceedingly rare. they're native to Scotland as well, i believe, although this is... far outside their window of activity for the year. worth looking into, actually."

martin sighs, shaking his head with fond dismissal.

"is the eye trying to feed you pillow talk, jon?"

"i'm allowed to know things, lowercase K, martin."

"i know," he laughs. "'s why i love you."

"surely that's not the only reason," jon protests.

"nope, that's it. i knew i was yours from the moment you derailed my ice cream birthday party with the wondrous powers of soy lecithin."

"i don't recall," jon laughs too.

"don't worry; i do," he smiles, as they watch the green flecks, statistically anomalous and entirely wondrous. a little more light in his life than he'd expected to have.