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'And what, exactly, are you going to do with that?' Jon's voice is tight with barely restrained amusement as he watches Martin from his spot under the covers. Martin tips back up onto his tiptoes at the side of the wardrobe to check that the large knife he had taken from Daisy's rather striking collection is within easy reach. He turns back to Jon with grit in his usually soft gaze.
'Hopefully, nothing.' He replies simply.
***
So many days go by in a comfortable, domestic blur that the knife on top of the wardrobe starts to collect dust, almost forgotten in its readiness for protection. Tonight, Jon tackles Martin onto the bed, stealing kisses that taste of toothpaste and sleep, grinning as the larger man writhes underneath him.
'Say it.' He insists. Martin tries to twist in his grip, forgetting that the Beholding has bestowed an unlikely strength into Jon's wiry frame.
'No,' He breathes a laugh, 'Come on, you're just being silly now.'
Jon rests his nose against Martin's, mouth hovering barely an inch away from the other man's. He delights in the heat radiating from Martin's cheeks. 'Say it.'
'Ugh.'
'Say it, and I'll let you go to sleep.'
'How very generous of you, Jon.' Martin can't help but smile into his sarcasm, at the ridiculousness of them both, and Jon flashes a grin in response. 'What if I just fall asleep like this?' He turns his head to the side and lets his pale eyelashes flutter shut in a parody of sleep. The small curve in his pink lips ruins the effect and Jon presses a feather-light kiss to the cluster of freckles on his cheek.
He moves his lips to Martin's ear to whisper: 'Just say it.' Martin whistles in a breath before twisting, viper-quick, to kiss Jon's jaw and laughing at his shocked gasp.
'Fine.' Their eyes meet as he acquiesces, pupils blown and glinting in the lamplight. 'I, Martin K. Blackwood,' Jon nods, amused crow's feet by his eyes at the rare appearance of Martin's middle initial, 'Am a perfectly adequate-'
'-Er, that's not what I said.' Jon interjects.
'Fine.' The man underneath him huffs, 'I, Martin K. Blackwood, am a good poet and I should write more poetry if and when the mood strikes me.'
'Exactly.' Jon says with a kiss. He makes no move to actually get off Martin but releases his tight grip on Martin's forearms to nestle down onto his chest.
Martin has just about wrapped both arms around Jon's slender shoulders when they hear it. A loud, unmistakable clatter from the kitchen. Jon goes stiff as a board in Martin's arms and lifts his head to meet his eyes with his own panicked hazel dinner plates. He slips off Martin and onto the bed. The rustle of the bedsheets sounds incredibly loud in the otherwise quiet cottage, especially when there might be something in the kitchen, stalking towards them, ears twitching for any sounds of life. Martin thinks back to the calm assuredness in Basira's eyes when she'd given them the key. You'll be safe there, she'd promised. But were they?
Martin moves first, bravery blooming from the deep-seated roots of protectiveness he's been growing for Jon for years. He holds out a hand at Jon's shuffle forwards and shoots him his best don't you dare look. The warm, happy glow in his chest at Jon's playfulness has been gripped by an icy panic and he tries to keep his breathing in check as he steps slowly and carefully to his feet. There's another bang from the kitchen and he jumps as Jon's hand closes tight around his wrist.
I'll go. Jon mouths and Martin shakes his head vehemently. He pulls free of Jon's grip, knowing that, the minute he steps out of the room, Jon is going to tail him like a shadow. That's okay, Martin thinks, as long as he's behind me. From the gap underneath the door, there comes the distant tinkling smash of glass and Martin doesn't hesitate to reach up to that spot on top of the wardrobe, letting his fingers close tight around the dusty handle of the knife he'd stashed there. He holds it out in front of him with both hands, the way that only someone who has never really held a weapon before would. A startlingly clear memory pops into his mind, of sitting in one of the annual For God's Sake, Stop Carrying Knives, You Little Shits assemblies in high school. Every year, the charity workers came to insist that you're far more likely to get hurt if you carry a knife yourself. Well, Martin grits his teeth and steps softly towards the door, that's why I'm holding it and not Jon.
The stone flooring is freezing cold underneath Martin's feet as he swings open the bedroom door and steps into the hallway. He holds the knife out at almost arm's length, like he doesn't really want to associate with the thing at all. Another loud bang from the dark entrance to the kitchen stops him still in his tracks and he twitches as he feels Jon's hand fist in the back of his T-shirt. He shuffles forwards, barely daring to breathe.
The issue with there being so many Goddamn entities - and with them all wanting a bit of his Archivist - is that it's really hard to predict what's likely to be smashing up their kitchen. Could it be some kind of flesh-monster? A giant spider, knocking everything on the counters flying as it struggles to squeeze its legs through the window? His stomach clenches. Could it be those hunters that came to the Institute, shoulders shaking with laughter as they make just enough noise to lure their prey towards them?
He wishes he'd told Jon he loved him just now.
Martin musters up every last ounce of bravery he can find and steps through the open door into the kitchen, hand sliding across the wall to find the light switch. He hisses against the sudden shock of brightness and, at first, even as his eyes roam the space, rapid and unblinking, he doesn't see it. He spots the half-open window first. Fuck. The window frames are held apart with one of his books. Exactly how it had been since that afternoon. I must have forgotten to close it, he thinks with dread in his gut. Along the countertop is a path of destruction, mugs overturned, a glass shattered, the newspaper open and torn.
'Ah!' Martin jumps violently, waving his knife in the general direction of the small, dark shape that appears on the floor around the side of one of the counters.
'Martin!' Jon's hand is tight in his shirt, holding him back while staying clear of the swooping path of the blade. 'Martin! Stop! It's okay!' Jon's words sink in very slowly through the haze of Martin's panic. His hands on the knife stutter and he blinks.
'Oh.' He manages, chest heaving. The creature struts forwards, casual as you please, and the tiny bell around its neck jingles. To Martin's ears, it sounds like a taunt. It's a fucking cat. He lowers the knife and one of Jon's warm hands rise up to grip his shoulder. He feels Jon's head collapse against his back with relief and a little huff of laughter before he sidesteps Martin, squatting down to the floor and holding out a hand to the intruder with a small smile. 'Jon,' Martin starts warily, 'You don't know that it's really a cat.'
Jon shoots him a look. It's haunted enough to read I do Know and sarcastic enough to imply: what kind of self-respecting avatar would be caught dead with a bell around its neck? The 'cat' blinks its bright green eyes and head-butts Jon's palm until he takes the hint and starts scratching the fur behind its ears.
Martin stands there in his boxers and T-shirt, feet going numb on the tiles, holding a deadly weapon, feeling incredibly stupid.
The 'cat' starts to purr as Jon moves to stroking along the length of his back, banded tail pointing straight up at the ceiling. 'Ah, hello, yes.' Jon murmurs, 'I do like your stripes very much indeed. Yes.' The sight of the happy tilt to Jon's mouth as he mumbles endearments to the pacing creature fills Martin with such fondness that it almost overwhelms the remaining panicked tension in his body. He catches Jon looking up at him, eyebrows raised in askance, 'Don't you want to come and say hi?'
'Um,' Martin stalls, palm sweaty on the knife in his hands, 'Hello!' He grimaces at how false the cheer in his voice sounds to his own ears.
Fortunately, Jon chuckles, shuffling to sit cross-legged on the floor, 'Put that down and come sit with me.'
It's scary, dropping the knife onto the counter. A part of Martin is sure that the minute he loses contact with the handle of the thing, the 'cat' will morph into something monstrous and it'll be his fault for leaving the window open and then leaving them undefended. He puts the knife on the counter-top, theoretically within easy reach. Jon extends a hand to Martin, lacing their fingers together on contact and pulling him down to the floor. The cat, a fluffy, grey tabby, is actually quite sweet once Martin lets himself get to know it. It permits Martin to stroke the intricate branching stripes on its forehead before winding its way between their bodies, clearly getting its scent all over them.
'We've been chosen.' Jon murmurs, content and self-satisfied.
'I wonder who its owners are.' Martin buries his hand in the soft fur to try and feel for a nametag on the collar. He's not surprised that it doesn't have one. Cats rarely do. 'I'll have to ask around in the village tomorrow.' Jon's silence speaks volumes and the kiss that Martin plants on his cheekbone doesn't budge the unhappy crease from between his eyebrows. 'Let's make it up a bed for the night and have a think in the morning?' He compromises. Jon nods at this, something heart-breakingly hopeful in the way his teeth sink into his bottom lip. 'And let's hope that it's not some demon-creature Elias-Jonah-whatever has sent to spy on us.'
'Martin.' Jon says, voice heavy with sincerity, as he rolls over in bed to press closer against Martin's body. Martin, who had been staring up through the dark at the ceiling, is slow to wrap his arm around his boyfriend. 'I don't - It's not your fault the window was left open.'
'Of course it was.'
'No,' Cold hands on Martin's jaw, tugging him down so Jon can reach to press their foreheads together, 'Checking the locks is not solely your responsibility and, in any case, I distracted you.'
'Jon-' Martin protests, trying to shuffle out of Jon's grasp.
'Martin. Even if it had been something awful, I'd never blame you. Never.'
'I'm sorry.'
'I know you are. But don't be,' Jon yawns, 'I love cats.'
***
'Morning!' Jon calls from the living room as Martin pads into the kitchen, grimacing at the way the morning light glints off the blade of Daisy's knife. He often has moments where he feels generally grateful to be alive, but this morning the feeling is particularly acute. Even the Scottish weather is playing along, if the sun streaming through their windows is anything to go by, as if to showcase everything they would have missed if they'd been murdered in the night. Martin makes them both a tea as though performing a ritual, dedicated to the task but so practiced as to make the movements look unthinking. 'I didn't want to wake you.' Jon smiles as Martin joins him.
Martin takes in the scene. Jon, stretched out on the sofa, bare feet hanging over the armrest, a cloud of purring grey and black fur on his chest. He's not stupid, Jon had gotten up at the crack of dawn to play with their new guest like a kid on Christmas day.
'Good. I didn't want waking up at 6am.' Jon looks at the sleeping fluffball on his chest a little sheepishly. 'It's good to know who you'll get up early for a cuddle with, though.' Jon bends his knees so that Martin can sit down on his feet and warm them up. The things I do for this man, Martin thinks but can't help the blossoming warmth in his chest that he and Jon have made it here. Together. The cat on Jon's chest blinks awake and the two pairs of green eyes stare at each other, each sussing the other one out. She must deem Martin not to be a threat because she stretches out and repositions herself on Jon's chest. Martin rolls his eyes at Jon's smirk.
'I'm calling her The Commodore.' Jon says fondly as the cat nuzzles into his burnt hand. Something falls into place in Martin's head with a click. He sips his tea. The tapes. There were tapes he'd listened to back when he'd started locking himself away from the rest of the Archive, drinking in Jon's voice until he was drowning in the pain of it. He'd found that the ones Jon had recorded when he was staying with Georgie hurt the most, the warmth and familiarity they shared that he'd thought he'd never have. Ever. Georgie still had their once shared cat, The Admiral, and Jon -
- Jon must miss him more than he lets on.
'Everything okay?' Jon asks with a twitch of his feet, nudging Martin back into the room.
'Ah, yeah, yeah. Of course.' Jon doesn't quite look like he believes him. Martin pictures this same scene but in Jon's flat in London. The pair of them could take a lazy morning, using Jon's old books as coasters, Martin smiling as their pet cat's ears twitch as he recites them some poetry. Getting ahead of himself like this is a special kind of torture but still . . . Maybe one day. Maybe, without someone else's cat. 'I'm going to take a walk later.' He announces and sees Jon's hand pause in its repetitive stroking. 'Down by the Loch. Might pop into the village.'
'Right?' Jon's voice is tight, like he's struggling to get enough oxygen in. He tries to cover it with a casual cough that Martin sees right through.
'I won't - I'm not going to explicitly mention the cat.' Jon's face lights up like the sun breaking from behind a cloud and it makes Martin's stomach feel funny to have to continue, 'But if anyone says something or there are posters up, I'm going to say something. Okay?' His Archivist nods enthusiastically and Martin hides the twist in his mouth behind a sip of tea. The Commodore appears to tire of Jon's affection and walks down the length of his body to curl into a ball in Martin's lap. Martin stares down at her, face softening despite his concerns about getting too emotionally attached. Jon's intense gaze feels hot on his face. He blushes at the feeling and mimics Jon's move of affecting a cough just as unsuccessfully. 'So,' He asks, 'Do you think The Commodore likes poetry?'
'Hm, probably only derivatives of Keats.'