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Picture a cosy room, curtains drawn. A bright fire crackles in the grate of an old-fashioned iron range, in front of which a large, fluffy tabby cat is industriously cleaning her back legs. Opposite, on the end of a comfortable-looking sofa, sits Jon. Next to him is a small side table, bearing a lamp and a steaming mug of tea. The only light in the room is the lamp and the fire. Martin lies full-length on his back, his head resting on Jon's lap. He holds his own mug in both hands, taking contented sips.
Jon smiles gently, running a hand through Martin's hair.
"Are you sure about this?" he asks.
"Only, the last time it was your turn to pick, you wanted to go to the Ox and sing karaoke."
"I'm complicated, I can do both. And we fucking crushed it, didn't we? Blackwood and Sims, the unstoppable - "
"Martin," Jon interrupts with a pained look, "please don't say 'sex machine'".
"Why not? We were. Everyone loved it."
"Yes," says Jon drily, "I don't imagine that the patrons of the Ox had ever heard 'Pink Pony Club' delivered in quite that way before."
"What are you so embarrassed about, Jon? You have a great voice. I can't believe I've known you all this time and never realised."
Jon looks smug.
"Well, I think it's important to keep some degree of mystery in a relationship."
Martin shrugs.
"Not me. I'm an open book to you, babe."
"Martin... did you just call me 'babe'?"
Martin looks momentarily uncertain.
"Are you okay with it? I'm sorry if it makes you feel - "
"It's fine, Martin. I'm just not used to... endearments. I sometimes get a 'love' from motherly ladies in shops, but... anyway, from you, I like it. It makes me feel... special."
"And also loved?" Martin asks, hopefully.
"Definitely", Jon smiles.
Martin catches up Jon's hand and presses it to his lips.
"Better get used to it then."
"So," Jon asks, "shall we get started?"
"Is the fam all here?" Martin asks.
Jon looks up.
"I see Simone is licking her arse in front of the fire, but I don't see Bertie. He's probably still hunting mice in the basement."
There is the rapid click-clack of the catflap.
"Ah, here he is now."
The big ginger cat casually teleports into Martin's lap, with devastating accuracy.
"AAAGH! OWW! Bloody CAT! No! Stop trampling me! No - NO, don't headbutt me in the mug - " with Bertie's ministrations, a small tidal wave of hot liquid is getting dangerously close to Martin's face.
Jon laughs, deftly lifts the mug out of Martin's hands, and places it on the side table.
"Bertrand Russell Blackwood-Sims," he says severely, "you. Are a very. Naughty. Boy. Go and sit by the fire with your sister."
Bertie jumps down, with ill grace.
Jon hands back Martin's tea.
"Better?" He asks.
Martin, much relieved, takes a mouthful of the amber liquid and settles back down.
"Jon...?" Martin looks hesitant. "Are you... are we... are we happy?"
Jon looks taken aback.
"In general, or...?"
"I mean, we got together while we were fighting evil eldritch things that wanted to kill us, then the apocalypse, and..."
"Martin..."
"...the apocalypse, and the eyes, oh god, the eyes, and then I had to..."
"...Martin..."
"...and it was the worst, the hardest thing I ever had to do, and, and I thought, even if we somehow survived this, would you ever forgive me..."
"...Martin..."
"...and then somehow we did survive, and I thought, I thought there's no way we could still work when we're not actually being chased by monsters, but we did, and..."
"...Martin..."
"...and we've built this life together, and I love it, and I love you, more than ever. I hadn't thought that was even possible, but I do..."
"Martin!" Jon's voice is emphatic, but his face is soft.
"Can I get a word in?"
"Sorry. Go on."
Jon takes Martin's big hand between his two slender ones.
"I don't forgive you for... stabbing me." His voice is quiet, intense.
"I don't forgive you, because there's nothing to forgive. It needed to be done. When there was no-one else to act, Martin, you stood firm. Even though it went against your nature, even though it tore you apart, you did what needed to be done. You were so brave, so very brave, my love. I can never hope to repay the debt of gratitude and... love, that I owe you, but I want to try. Every day, for as long as we have on whatever version of Earth this is. And yes, to answer your question: I am happy."
Tears are running down both their faces now.
"Oh, Jon..." Martin sits up and buries his face in Jon's chest. Jon holds him for a long moment, cradling him like a child.
"It's just," Martin gulps, his voice slightly muffled, "I keep wondering when something's gonna happen, you know? I mean, in the movies, when people are happy like we are, one of them always ends up getting shot, or something."
Jon looks thoughtful.
"I don't have any answers, Martin. I don't know what snatched us out of that moment of chaos and brought us wherever we are now. Maybe we're in an alternate universe. Maybe we're part of some sentient computer program. Maybe the universe thought we deserved some happiness after everything we went through, And, you know, literally saving the world."
"Oh, Jon", says Martin again.
Let us now turn our attention to Bertrand Russell and Simone de Beauvoir, and leave the boys some privacy.
Simone, her ablutions complete, is stretched out full length on the rug, the firelight burnishing her tabby markings.
Bertie, in solidarity with ginger cats everywhere, lies on his back with all four legs in the air and his mouth open, gently snoring.
For some time, there is no sound except the crackle of the fire, and a gentle rustle of fabric.
"Well," Jon says, after a while, "that got a bit serious, didn't it? Why don't you go and make us some fresh tea, I'll put some more logs on the fire, and we can resume our Date Night?"
"Mmf. I was just getting comfy" Martin complains. But he gets up, and soon there are reassuring kettle and crockery noises from the kitchen.
Within a few minutes, the fire is blazing, and fresh mugs of tea and a plate of digestives have appeared.
The boys resume their places.
"Now," Jon says, reaching for a slim paperback on the side table, "shall we proceed? Unless, of course, you're afraid I might bring about the apocalypse again?" He smiles mischievously.
"Don't worry. I'll stop you if you start getting too statementy."
"Very well."
Jon takes a long sip of tea, opens the book, and smooths out the pages.
"Are we sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.
'Now, touching this business of old Jeeves, my man, you know, how do we stand? Lots of people think I'm much too dependent on him...'"