Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Jon."
"Mh."
"Jon."
"Mwhat."

Martin squeezed his eyes closed, wishing.
"Careful." 
Wishing he didn't have to say.
Jon was probably smiling dastardly. "Why?"
God. He was intolerable.

"You know why", Martin pleaded. He wasn't at all in a state to match Jon in combativeness. He was small and huffy and pressed deep into the cushion. It was so hard to form words when this light-headed. Everything about him was just asking, asking for... Kindness. Please Jon. Very good. Now have some mercy.
"Hm." Jon shifted, loosened the hand he had on Martin's wrist.
He should have never introduced Jon to the concept of being held down while kissing. It was like he'd taught a cat how to open milk bottles. Full-fat regret.

Martin shook his hand free, an awkward giggle stuck in his throat.
"You'll make me have to get up. And it's cold outside." Frankly, it was too late for this discussion by far. But Martin still had to make his point.

It was embarrassing. Every time. Staring at the bathroom tiles - pointedly not at the mirror - while touching himself in the stark ceiling light, trying his best to forget Jon knew what he was doing. Trying his best to remember what it was they had been doing, minutes ago. 

Jon breathed the sort of breath that usually accompanied his eye-rolls and leaned in to kiss Martin on the throat. Oh no. He was in it now. What a wonderful fucking problem he was having.
"Johhhnnn", Martin wasn't above whining. Not this late at night. Not with the lights off. He'd made more pitiful noises in the last half hour.
"Just do it here", Jon mumbled.
"Yeah, right." Martin tried to turn, feebly, to get Jon to roll off, have a bit more control of the situation. But Jon was far more awake than him, and in possession of all his blood that was supposed to go in the brain. He soundly interrupted Martin's plan by simply putting both hands in his hair and leaning forward. Jon kissed him methodically, knowing exactly how. Jon was scary when he learned new things. Hopefully he'd never get done learning but - at the moment - Martin knew very well why Jon was sat on his thigh like that, deliberately, just on the one leg, his knee set back. Because Martin was a damn idiot stuck inside teenager's hormone system, apparently. Because Jon had a nonsensical interest in testing out the latter. Because they had talked about this.

"Ugh. OK", finally he managed to scrounge up some annoyance in the place of resolve and began to lift Jon away by the hip so he could scoot out from under him. There was a noise of protest.
"Don't go", Jon said.
This was cruel. He was already reluctant enough to leave this bed, Martin didn't need help. He tried to extract his head from between Jon's elbows.
"It's cold out", Jon said. He wasn't wrong. The nights were getting brutal.
"Well. You made this happen, so", Martin complained while still fighting. Jon was light but he had so many damn limbs.
"Just do it here", Jon said quietly.

Jon had gotten better at it, asking for things, making requests like an adult. That was during the day. But here, in the dark, with his serious voice on, Martin could hear the conscious effort in him.
"...Please."
He kissed him again on the neck, softly, persuasively.
Jon was really warm.

"No, don't be crazy."
Martin lifted an arm off of his sternum but it was very uncooperative.
Jon's mouth was by his ear. "Not so crazy."
Martin did not have the fortitude to deal with this. He was beginning to think Jon was making sense. 

"I wouldn't do that to- you."
Jon kissed him just under the lobe, insistently.
"I asked you." There was a sliver of amusement in Jon, which didn't make anything easier in any way.

It was dark. Jon wouldn't be able to see.
The hand Jon had in his hair touched firmer, Martin felt nails.
It would probably not even take that long.

"I said please."

He said please.
He could do it under the covers.

He said please.

Martin put his hand back on Jon's waist. He seemed to melt into the touch. Some of his palm touched skin, where Jon's shirt didn't close flush with his boxers. 
He put his other hand back. 

This was a dumb idea. 
Jon kissed him on the mouth.
Really really dumb. No way he could do this.
He kissed Jon back.

Jon slid off of him easily now, at the barest prompting of Martin's hands, and settled on his side, one arm still across Martin's chest.
"Are you sure?" Martin was whispering.
Jon nodded, his chin against Martin's clavicle.
He was already so lucky he got to kiss Jon, even. He couldn't ask for this, too.
He said please.

He was so short of breath, and ineffectively wrestling a clingy Jon certainly hadn't helped the situation. When Jon put a light hand on his cheek and a thumb on his lip Martin sure was glad the lights were off. He had zero confidence that he would possibly be able to wipe the look of puppy-longing off of his face. Jon nosed at his jaw, tipping Martin's head back. Martin's eyes fell closed. This was it. This had just become something that was happening to Martin. Despite his best efforts. It was happening because he had no power to stop it. Couldn't stop it because he just wanted it so damn much. 

"Jon", he whispered. Said his name like a request. Jon knew he didn't need to answer. "Jon." Jon. Jon. Jon. Jon.
Martin reached out his left hand for Jon. Will you kiss me, the hand said. The thumb on Martin's lip brushed along it from side to middle, parted his mouth a fracture. This, Jon had learned this from Martin too. But somehow he was already better at it. Slower. Patient.
Martin allowed himself a needy whine.

For some momentous reason Martin had a hand free. A whole one. And... permission.
He'd said please.
Jon. Please. Don't hate me. Martin dipped his right hand below the waistband of his boxers. He did that. But Jon didn't appear to hate him. Jon kissed him. God, did he kiss him. If Martin got to go back in time and offered to undo all of the nonsensical decisions in his life and the heartbleed, he might let himself run into doom all over again in trade for just one of these.

Martin had always liked wanting things. Wanting, not having, then waiting, until it hurt. He knew it was probably bad but he'd always liked getting worked up long before masturbating. And now, the past days it was almost a game, one made so so easy by circumstance. Wake up with Jon. Kiss Jon. Fool around. Put Jon to bed. Wait. Go shower. Rinse. Repeat.

Tonight it did nearly hurt. He'd left it too long to begin with. Been a fool, a rock hard dumb idiot, trying to get away with it. Then Jon asked if he'd stay. He must be losing his mind.

Martin barely touched the taut skin of his erection and his back muscles tensed. He sucked in the air, which is fine to do when open-mouthed kissing, less fine if you're a fan of your dignity. 

Jon's face came away from Martin's face - no no no - and Martin could taste the look, that quizzical look Jon had when he found something new, found it interesting. He really wished he wouldn't (yes he did), really wished he, Martin, was a lot less interesting (he did not).
He really wished Jon would kiss him again, just for a little while. It would only take a little while.

Jon's left hand had a wander across Martin's neck - thankfully staying well away from his right shoulder, because he intended to move that arm. Currently he was freeing his needy penis from his boxers with it. It was already weeping because of course it was, it was Martin's. Always looking to cry.

Martin's hand was shamefully well-practised and it knew what to do. Martin could maybe concentrate on coaxing another kiss out of Jon. He tilted his head forwards, touched his forehead to Jon's. Realised he was sweating. Some of the hair got pushed back and out of his face.

Martin's left arm lay useless on the covers behind Jon's back. He lifted it now, to somewhere between Jon's shoulder blades. Closer, Jon. More, Jon.

Jon had his fingers under Martin's chin now, lifting it slowly. Every muscle below Martin's waist tensed under the weight of Jon's kiss. His right hand was at a strong rhythm now, which was made easy, it was slick with not just sweat. He gripped tighter.
Why. Why. Why did he let this happen.
Their tongues met, softly but not softly. Kissing was best when not thinking, and thinking was something so far away now. He might give it up altogether.

Around this moment Martin lost whatever had held his wilful actions together so far, and the side of his face bumped slowly into Jon's. Their mouths briefly passed each other, as did their noses until they came to a rest. Jon let Martin hold his face to his like that, mouth slightly open against his cheek, and breathe his short blatant breaths. These were all Martin could hear, his own breathing and the rush of blood in his ear. 
How could Jon let him do this.

Long fingers combed into the hair behind Martin's ear - here Martin moaned, he sure did - and the thumb followed, brushing along the outside of his ear. Martin's lids fell closed slowly, slower than his eyes rolled upward.

Jon's head moved a little, pressed a lazy open kiss on Martin's cheek. Apparently encouraged by Martin falling apart in his hands Jon aligned their noses, the tips of them touching. Martin instinctively raised his chin to beg for the kiss, wordless but just as dogged. This was the right move because Jon's hand in his hair dug deeper and made a fist. From somewhere there was a whimper.

But Jon still dawdled - God, he for sure was smiling horribly. Despite Jon holding him -quite deftly- by the hair Martin lifted his head to kiss his mouth. Sure enough, he had been smiling. Martin didn't want to guess at why. 
It was a hungry, wide kiss, because there was no point any longer in pretending he didn't want it far too much, and far too long and all the time. He'd already admitted that plenty. Was still admitting it, right now, with his frantic moving hand. That he was desperate, that he wanted so much, that he'd do just about anything Jon asked. If he only said please.

Please.

Martin drew a loud, stuttering breath. He'd meant to come quietly, without making a mess. He failed. Failed at both. 
He couldn't come into his hand because it wouldn't obey, still ran out the last strokes because it felt - it felt-
Martin was supposed to feel his feelings was he not. They were good for him.

He rode out the last of it with his mouth touched against Jon's, not kissing, just breathing. When it was over he sank back into the cushion it was so deep it sounded to his ears like being underwater.
Jon's hand was no longer holding him, but smoothing down his hair and brushing it out of his face. Some of it was damp. Eugh.
Jon put a calm kiss on the bridge of his nose.

"Was that really alright?", Martin croaked.
"Yes, Martin", Jon said as if he'd had to say it a thousand times already. Yes, Martin. God.

"Did you have fun?", Jon sounded like he was smirking.
Martin still expected the shame to set in any second and hit him over the head like a brick when he heard himself laugh.

"Yes. Fun. Is what that was." He was still hoarse.
"Sounded like it", Jon said smiling. 
Martin kissed him briefly, mainly to stop him talking.

"Now I'll have to change the cover on this-", Martin lifted an edge of the blanket. "...So much for not getting up in the cold."

"Should have caught you in the shower... Well. Next time", Jon said, stretching, releasing Martin's arm in the process, acting for all the world like that thing he'd just said wasn't pure madness.

The fresh bed sheets were downstairs, folded by the door with the other laundry. "I'm gonna get a glass of water do you want one?", Martin said on the first steps down.

"Please", Jon said.

When he came back upstairs Jon had his arm behind his head, cheek resting by the elbow. He didn't look very motivated to get up from the bed and maybe do his own things for the night. He drew Martin close, wrapped himself around him from the ground up. They warmed the freshened blanket together.

Downstairs Martin had glimpsed his reflection in the dark windows briefly, his muddled hair, his blank expression that didn't look at all like the expression he felt like he had on. He felt light somehow. So light that he got startled at the sound of the stairs beneath his steps, even though the sound of them was so familiar now.

"Martin", Jon said, his fingers against Martin's forehead, twirling one of the locks there.

With his cheek against Jon's ribcage the sound of his voice was so so good. Martin. He could have stood to hear it for hours. Martin Martin Martin. Until he fell asleep, and then some more. Mar-

"I love you", Jon said.
Martins eyes snapped open. What, now? Now, Jon? Martin wasn't prepared to speak. To say anything. Not in this moment. Not to that.
Jon kissed the crown of his head, lightly, like there was nothing else he had to add. Just settled his head down as if to fall asleep.

________
________

"God. I miss curry." 
Jon was looking into the pasta tin like it was a hard-to-persuade toddler that had gotten ahold of his keys. He closed the lid with a sigh.

"I miss fast food", Martin said dreamily. "Some fish and chips. I could eat a fried washcloth as long as it comes with ketchup."
They tried their best with cooking but there were only so many soups and stews you could make with the limited portable grocery options available to them.
Jon hadn't looked up from the staple foods he'd laid out on the counter. "Well we could fry something sometime..."

"I also miss standing in line, weirdly."
Martin, who was really only here to liven up the process, drew up his shoulders.
"And the tube." He tried to picture a packed traincar full of sour faces with to-go coffees clutched tight while one loud person on their phone kept the peaceful thoughts away for everyone.
Jon scoffed. "I don't."
Martin smiled at that. "I don't miss my flat. It got all quiet and empty over the year. Nothing like here. I'd miss all the wood I think."
Jon hummed. "Yes. Not that many trees from my view, either. Or sky, even."
"Well there was that one tree by the Institute. The dead one."
"Uh-huh. It really added to the experience, come to think of it now."

"I also miss the internet."
Jon nodded more enthusiastically. "Proper roads", he offered. 
"You can't miss roads."
Jon shrugged and opened a cupboard. "Potatoes?"
"I don't care as long as I don't have to carry anything in my hands. The milk bottles are the worst. I miss plastic."
Jon scribbled onto the shopping list, having crossed out pasta. "I do miss the others. The Admiral."
"So we're back to liking only the one cat now, huh?"
Jon pretended not to hear.

"I miss - no offense to you - wearing clothes that fit me", Jon said after a moment.
"Well I miss my clothes!"
Jon's smile widened.
Martin rested his chin on his hand slyly. "I also miss seeing you in clothes that fit you."
Jon thumbed at a smudge on the paper that was rapidly filling up with his tight, urgent handwriting. Martin could tell he was trying to decide on a response and facial expression, but was coming up short.
The one crinkly work shirt Jon had worn all the way from the Institute to here hadn't been in use since then, though he sometimes saw Jon eye it critically in the wardrobe. Whether he was considering wearing it or throwing it in the fire, that he couldn't say.

"I miss...", Martin searched his heart. "My bathtub."
Turning his eyes up, Jon gave him a look. 
Martin tapped his chin. "The record store down the road... What?"
Jon had made a little huff like something was funny. "I don't know. Sometimes you're really predictable you know that?"
Martin wasn't sure whether to be offended. "So? I know what I'm about."
"Hm. You sure do", Jon smiled.

______

Martin found Jon sat up straight on the sofa, reading something in his lap. Walking up behind the backrest, Martin leaned over it, running his hands over Jon's shoulder and clasped them both over his chest. "I thought you didn't like that one", he said into his ear.
Jon shifted a little but didn't look up from the paperback. 
"Well we didn't bring anything else, so", he said, factually.
"You want I can pick you up something when I go into town?"

Jon sighed. "That's... That's alright."
"I know I know, you're picky. But it can't hurt can it?" He pressed a kiss on Jon's temple. "Unless you do like this one?"
The book slapped shut pointedly.
Martin giggled. He made sure his pout carried into his voice wile digging his nose into Jon's hair. "You know, if you would only give it a chance you might see that there's merit to Patricia's struggle with her dream to become a news editor while so unlucky in love with her world famous childhood friend--"
Jon snorted derisively and stretched his arms up and put both hands behind Martin's head. "Well, Jason has no manners and can't actually play the guitar so..."

Martin gasped. 
"Jon! I hadn't got to that yet!"
"...Oh", he said. "Sorry."
"I can't believe you." - He also couldn't believe Jason. His fortune was built on a lie? - "What's the point in reading if you already know how it ends?"
"I can't help it. With reading it just sort of ...happens." Jon leaned a bit to the side, his nose touched Martin's chin.
"Ugh. Noted. No mystery book for you, then." 
They kissed, lazily and thoroughly. 

"You're still fine going alone...?"
"Will you quit worrying already. You know, some alone time is normal. For all humans. It's not that long a walk and when I get there Gretel will probably tell me about her entire week in detail. It's all good."
Martin dug his nose into Jon's neck and he sighed. Jon's hand tugging on the jacket he'd already put on made a soft crinkling noise.

He tore himself away from the smell of Jon's sleep shirt.
"Besides. I'm not eating any of those mystery tins Daisy left, not a chance."
And he turned to pick up his backpack and get his shoes.

"Wait", Jon said, hoisting himself upright on the backrest. "I'll come with you." He clambered over the tall side of the sofa and for a split second - when he had both his feet on the top of it, hunched and long-limbed - Martin could sort of see it. The 'Scary-Archivist-Is-Haunting-My-Dreams' thing. But he was still Jon. Even in the dark the most threatening thing he could do was cut off the blood in Martin's arm by mistaking it for a pillow.

"Are you sure?"
Jon shrugged, plucked a jumper from the floor and begun elbowing his way into it. 
"Unless that infringes on your 'very human alone time'?"
"No. But you know. The other reason?"
Jon shrugged. "Statistically we're going to be fine, I think. I mean, there was one Highlands statement but that was definitely a Leitner one so -- Anyway. If there is such a thing as a supernatural horror magnet it's me and I've been here more than a week and we've managed not to encounter anything too horrendous."

"Unless you wanna count that cat you let in as an Avatar of the Slaughter." The two long scratches on Jon's forearm were all but healed by now but that was no reason to let him live it down.

____

Martin hung up the phone and stepped out of the phone box. "Basira says she'll get to go back into the Archives Monday."

Jon's eyes went into the distance briefly before realigning. "Okay, good to know."

"Apparently everything's been pretty hectic still all week but they've wound down the investigation now."

Jon nodded.

"Do you think it's too early to try Melanie?", Jon was looking at the mid morning sun, which was dull and distant behind the even cloud cover.
"I dunno. She used to be the most awake of us in the mornings but who knows."
"Can't hurt can it?"
The phone box by the side of the road was dinky and heavily cobwebbed under the roof. Martin watched Jon bemusedly when he squinted upward once he'd stepped inside. He took the receiver in hand gingerly.

Martin wandered slow steps in the grass while Jon dialled and waited out the tone. When he started to speak his voice was purposefully calm.
"Oh, hi. ... I was just calling to ask how you two are doing."
The only thing Martin had gathered was that Jon's last interaction with Melanie and Georgie must have gone quite awkwardly but he seemed to think there wasn't any bad blood.

"...Then may I talk to Melanie?"
Martin's ears perked up and he scolded himself right away.
"... Oh! Oh. Should I call later-" 
Jon's frown dissolved as he listened.
"Heh. I'm sure it'll be fine. I gather she's doing better, then. Mh."
He laughed, put one arm round himself, his free hand on his upper arm.
"Definitely."

After some listening Jon glanced to the side and directly at Martin. "Uh-huh", he said, voice slightly raising. The exact sort of noise one might make when on the phone and trying to conceal the contents of that Uh-huh. A I'm not super alone at the moment phone Uh-huh.
Martin raised both eyebrows returning the look. Jon started a sly smile but Georgie must've said something interesting because he lost his face entirely.
"That's not true! I was nice to you plenty. I- Wow." Jon looked deeply offended.
Martin took a hovering step, considered walking away a bit further but extremely unwilling to.
Jon took a placated breath. "Yes, actually. It's... Really calm here."
There was a longer break.

"...He is. Why?"
"No. No! - Because you just called me a -"
Jon sighed. He lowered the phone.
"Martin?"
"Hm?"
"Do you want to talk to Georgie?"
"What about?"
Jon shrugged.
Warily Martin joined Jon, who shuffled to the side and back while they exchanged the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Hi Martin", Georgie had a pointedly cheery voice. A peace-offering sort of voice.
Martin found himself matching her tone exactly. "What's up?"
"I just wanted to make sure Jon's being a gentleman."
"Uhh."
"Just-- We both know how he is. ...So how is he?"
"Good mostly?" Martin cocked his head and turned to Jon, who was clearly aflame with curiosity.
The phone was old and the connection was tinny. "He's not still being, you know, a disaster factory?"
"Ehm." Martin gave Jon a broad grin. "He tries."
"And he's using his words? Like, properly I mean."
"Yes, actually. I'm as surprised as you are."
"Okay, good. It's nice you two are getting to have some time. You know..." She seemed to hesitate, in an unconcerned sort of way. "He talked about you a lot. Like a lot. When he was staying, back when."
Martin felt Jon's eyes on him.
"Really?"
"Yes. Very. Insufferably so."
"That's... Good to know." Martin was now grinning at the see-through plastic dial of the phone.
"Couldn't shut him up if I told him to. At one point- Oh." Georgie's voice moved away from the phone "You're done? One second -- Martin I have to hang up, have a good one!"
And she hung up. Martin looked at the phone feeling cheated.
Jon reached across, took the phone out of Martin's hand and hung it.
"Melanie is starting to do things unassisted and she was waiting by the bathroom just in case", he explained.
"Oh. That's nice. Sounded like it went okay."
"Are you going to tell me what she said?"
"No way."

__

When they started to see the first cottages Martin let go of Jon's hand. Jon looked at him.
"It's really rural here, Jon", Martin said, putting his hand into his pocket.
"So?"
"People are older. They're not used to...", he finished the gesture with a flimsy raise of the arms.
"So we can't hold hands?" Jon was using his 'You're being incorrect again, Martin' voice.
"Yea they- I'd rather not have a whole thing." He drew out the last syllable. A thing.
"Of all the things to worry about you want to worry about conservative Scotsmen?"
Martin gave an irritated huff. He'd have thought Jon would agree with him on this.
Jon calmly hooked his arm into Martin's. "Don't let me forget to pick up some shaving cream", he said, clipped, a transparent attempt at diverting Martin's attention.
Martin tried to think of a compelling point to make about the virtue of laying low but his eyes wandered to Jon's scraggly face. "I think your face looks nice right now. Rugged."
"Psh."

"Oh, before I forget. When she was staying here Daisy used to go by Lynda."
"Whot", Jon said but Martin already opened the door to the shop. A feeble bell rang out.

"Oh hello luv. I'll be right with you", Gretel called out from behind her little counter table, her cell phone nooked between her ear and shoulder because she was still doing her crossword on the side.
Martin waved at her with his left hand because Jon wouldn't let go of his right. Gretel gave him a meaningful, nosey, troublesome raise of the brows as she looked from him to Jon and back. Christ.

The shop was small but the walls were packed with shelves, the produce at hip-height in the middle. It was more of a big room inside a normal cottage except the door had a sign. Technically the only reason the place existed at all was because it was near the bus station and some people preferred the bus to the longer drive to the next town. Still, it was far from busy. Milling about for a moment Martin searched his heart for what kind of apple he was in the mood for today while Jon visibly balked at the book section.

"So you're the famous Jonathan", Gretel said while she put two rubber bands around the egg carton she'd sandwiched between some paper towels for extra sturdy transport. She gave Martin a glinting-eye look.
"The same." Jon managed to look only slightly wary.
"I'm so glad to see you're feeling better."
"Yes, much. Thank you for the biscuits."
"Those always so good when you're not feeling your best aren't they? And you really didn't have to return the favor but the ones you made were wonderful."
"Thank you", Jon said emphatically, side-eyeing Martin, because he just couldn't let it go could he. That Martin had burned his batch and he hadn't.
"Plenty good teas with those."
"I did the icing", Martin interjected, knowing Gretel wouldn't be mad at his petulant tone.

"I know dear, you said." She didn't take her attention off of Jon. "Is it rude if I ask- What's happened to your face?"
"Childhood accident", Jon said easily, making a gesture with his hand as if flicking the side of his face with water. Gretel nodded with uncertain condolence but Jon's unconcerned tone seemed to have successfully staved off further questions. 
Martin wondered how many other flimsy explanations for the scarring Jon had tried before arriving at this one, which seemed just far too smooth for him.

"Well", she gave Jon a wide-open-eyed smile. "You're still good-looking enough for this one here to buy you the plain yoghurt even though he hates it."
"Gretel! That was in confidence."
She gave an innocent-old-lady snicker and lifted the onions onto her scale.
Jon looked perturbed. "You do?"
"No I don't hate it. I don't care about yoghurt. It's yoghurt. Gretel why."
"I was just giving him a compliment."
"Sure you were."
Jon looked back and forth between them silently without moving his head.
Gretel gave him a conspiratorial smile. "I'm just joking around, you know that don't you Jonathan."
"M-hm." When Jon nodded he had his mouth so thin, lower lip between his teeth, and somehow looked troubled and amused.

"Will you kids get some lunch at the pub then? It's pumpkin soup time." 
"Uh." Martin was shouldering his very full backpack. He looked at Jon.
"Sure." Jon was digging in his coat pocket. Whatever he found, he looked unhappy.

"Do you have any cigarettes?", he said.
"Yes, luv. I've got Luckies and-"
Martin frowned. "Did you smoke all of yours already?"
Jon pulled a face. "I'm just thinking ahead." He was such a poor liar.

"So did Miss Snell sell you the cottage?"
"No, we're friends of ...Lynda's."
"Oh that's nice, she doing alright all the way in the city?" The innkeeper's tone was so geniuinely interested it kind of hurt Martin's teeth.
He nodded.
"It's good that house is getting some living-in I think. Are you two honeymooning?"
Martin damn nearly dropped the half-pint she'd handed him.
Jon laughed through his nose. "Afraid not."
Martin carefully put the glass on its coaster. 
"You're not married? Because you can get married now can't you."
The cardboard was frayed at the edges and stained with year-long use.
"That's correct", Jon said, audibly losing some of his confidence in his ability to keep this conversation afloat by himself.
Martin felt solid enough in his expression again to step in. "I think we'd like to order Jon do you know what you're going to order?"

When she walked away Martin felt two long fingers tugging on his red hot ear. 
"She seems nice", Jon said meaningfully.
Martin squirmed Jon's hand away. "Nosy, I think is the word."

Jon was grinning with the corners of his mouth turned down like he was trying very hard not to show teeth as well. It looked rather dopey and Martin suddenly felt like he was sitting far too far away, all the way across the corner of the table.

"It's funny." Jon said, putting his hands on the wood. "Honeymoon. Georgie said something similar. 'Eloped', she said."
Martin scoffed a laugh. "Did she?"
Jon cocked his head, his index finger was fiddling with the nail bed of his thumb. "I can see how it could look like that if, you know, you discount the-" He let the sentence peter out with a gesture.
"The mortal danger?"
"Yes, that."
Martin realised he'd had his shoulders pulled up and his feet kicking out under the table for a while now and sat up straight, feeling childish.
"I get the feeling we'll have to manage some commentary from everyone when we get back", Martin said while rolling his eyes.
"Mh." Jon knit his brow.
"What?"
"I sort of... Hadn't thought about it. Going back to London I mean. I hadn't really thought about it yet."
Martin neither. He dipped his head to nip at his lager.
"I know I said I miss the tube but I really don't, at all. It's nice here. ...The two of us."

Jon smiled that smile he had. The one that made Martin feel like he was being gifted something.

Now he just wanted badly for them to leave. Go home, lock the door, pile onto the couch and watch movies for hours. Never think about the real world again.

Martin tapped a nail to his glass. "We're doing it all in the wrong order aren't we? Moving in together... This is kind of like a first date, I suppose. If you squint, sort of."
"I took you to a bench that one time."
They snorted.
Martin made his face magnanimous. "In fairness, it was a really good bench."
"I agree."

They let them take a bottle of the wine Jon liked for the road. Jon had his arm around Martin when they left. There weren't any too awkward questions, at least not any more. They stopped by the cows. It was a pretty boring trip overall. Boring was very welcome. The kind of boring Martin could see himself take for granted one day, happily so.

"Do you think we could find that bench again? The one we sat on that first day", Martin asked. "We took such a roundabout route there."
Jon had his hands on the straps of his backpack. They'd almost made it but every tin of beans they'd bought had gotten about thrice as heavy on the way. 
"Probably? We can go look for it tomorrow if you like."
"I mean, it looked old enough to be haunted so. Maybe it'll be gone all mysteriously. Only come back if we need to have another heart-to-heart."
Jon hummed doubtfully. "Gerry said there aren't any good powers. Just the fear ones."
"He did?"
"I thought you heard all the tapes?"
"Jon I hate to tell you this but your filing was dreadful at the time."
He didn't have to look at Jon to know he was aghast. Martin was still in the process of breaking it to him gently, bit by bit. That he'd been a shite archivist even at the best of times.

__

They both took off their bags with a groan before they even got inside - Jon had to dig the keys out of his pants pocket and it was difficult for all the layers of clothing and backpack straps on top of it. Martin set down his bag and watched Jon struggle with the door - it was a fun watch every time. The way he pinched his mouth, the grim look on his face. Martin started grinning. When the door finally gave in, he reached out a hand to stop Jon from going inside, feeling a somewhat manic smile on his face.

"What?", Jon said.
Martin faced Jon and put one arm round his back. He seemed to expect a kiss so why not. Martin kissed him a moment. Martin bent his legs. Martin got one arm by Jon's thigh. 
"What ar-Augh!"
Martin lifted from the knees.

Jon fought his balance for a long, awkward second but whatever shrivelled slivers of his self-preservative drive remained did prompt him to put his arms round Martin's neck and hold onto it. And so, Martin lifted Jon off his feet. He wasn't as light as he looked but Martin felt sturdy enough on his legs to give him a little bounce.
Jon blinked at him, not very happy.

"Really?" He raised a brow.
Martin grinned. "Really."
All this honeymoon talk. And, hell, doing things in the wrong order? Might as well make a theme of it.
With somewhat creaking joints Martin stepped onto the threshold and - Jon made an exaggerated show of pulling his head and feet in - through the door.

He stood there a moment, triumphant, feet set wide. Jon laughed, though awkwardly. 
"I've always wanted to do that!", Martin proclaimed. He felt Jon wiggle his feet. He turned his head to face him.
"No more lunchtime beers for you", he said with fake sourness. Martin didn't stop smiling at him. Realising he wasn't going anywhere otherwise, Jon lifted his chin and gave Martin his kiss.

__

One. Two. Three four five six. Seven. Eight.
"What are you doing?"
Martin pressed his lips on a spot below Jon's jawline. Nine.
"I'm counting all the scars." Ten. Eleven.
"Uh. That might take- Hey."
Fourteen was below the neckline of Jon's sweater so Martin pulled it up by boldly pushing his hands along Jon's sides, driving it up. After a second of surprise, Jon let his head sink back onto the sofa and let go of Martin's hands, who resumed laying bare his chest. The fabric had to give a little stretch so he could go all the way up the sternum.

Fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen.
It was lovely here. Jon had variations of dark hair all over his body but on the chest the pattern of the longer hair was all curves and whorls. He held onto Jon's upper arm and felt the tendons there twitch even though Jon was holding still.

"If you really want to do this properly I'll have to get something to read", Jon said attempting to sound dry and failing.
"Don't interrupt."

Twenty-one. Number twenty-two was at the height of the nipple and when Martin grazed it with his lip Jon tensed. 
He lifted his head too slow to gage Jon's reaction. He grinned. "Good or bad?"
"Uh", was all Jon had to say, because his nervous laugh betrayed him anyway. Good. Filed. Noted. Stamped.

Jon always did a little stretch when Martin touched his stomach like this, with both hands on each side, thumbs pointing to the navel. Having reached the lower ribcage Martin had to consider his method a moment -- there were more scars all the way around, where he couldn't reach at the moment. On Jon's arm too but he had a damn sleeve on.
He now had his thumbs below the inside of the ribcage - where he knew there should be ribs, even if shorter than the rest. Or at least there should be scars. But these were two Jon had managed to avoid, not necessarily pleasantly though. He gave a kiss for each side.

"You forgot some you know."
"Oh?"
Jon's right hand came into view, palm first, when Jon pushed Martin's hair out of his eyes. The burn scar there was nasty as ever, but Martin barely noticed it any more. Apart from the veiny scarring warping the silhouette of Jon's hand, it was made almost a perfect handshake-shape. Martin took it and pressed a kiss to each knuckle.

When he had his hand back, Jon gave Martin's collar a tug.
"I'm not done", Martin said.
"What number are you at then?"
Martin allowed Jon to pull him back up and made a point of looking caught. "I lost count."
Jon tsked. "Thirty-one", he said slowly. The corner of his mouth was twitching but eyes were set somewhere on Martin's hairline. "That you've found."
Martin's eyes narrowed. "Are you making fun of my finding skills again?"
"No", Jon said, nodding so minutely he wouldn't have spotted it if they didn't have their eyes locked now.

"Enlighten me, then", Martin said.
"Well for a start you missed the big one." Jon tipped his head, revealing the fading slash scar across his neck.
"I was getting to that", Martin said, sticking out his chin.
Jon looked a bit self-conscious now. He turned his head to the side and brushed the stubborn shorter hairs from the nape of his neck. Martin caught a round scar behind his ear, tucked uncomfortably close to the shell, and two more just where the hair started. Damn. There was a downside to kissing so much in the dark. To closing his eyes so much in the light.
Martin apologised with his mouth. Thirty-two, then? Thirty-three, thirty-four...

"Will you stop being mean?"
Jon laughed. "No. You can't count to a hundred, Martin. Do I have to start teaching you sums?"
"I can. I just chose not to."
"You can't choose not to know how to count."
"I didn't come here to do maths."
Jon put a hand to his forehead. "Lord, I let you do all the shopping-"
Martin swatted at Jon, who was still laughing, shaking them a little where they were sat, Martin sat on one of Jon's thighs, the other knee touching his side, the pants leg still rolled up high to show scar-speckled skin. Martin became more and more reluctant about holding onto Jon's shoulders, terrible person that he was.
"Gretel has a calculator and she'd never overcharge me!"
"Martin I love you but that's mad."
"You're mad. I have a little something called basic trust. That's a far more important life skill, I'll have you... know." He slowed. "...For your information."
He drew a breath even though he'd not yet exhaled all of his upset. "...Jon -!"

"What?"

Martin stopped talking. He covered his mouth with his hands. "You said that you love me."

Jon frowned. "Yes?"
"No you said it the other day!"
"I'm aware."

"I just... I." Martin reached for words but there weren't any.
A berating look furrowed Jon's brow. "Your listening comprehension needs work, too."
"I just now. Now... felt it."
Jon laughed in a way that told Martin he must have a really open-book expression on. "Okay", he said, a bit uncertain.
Martin still had his hands over his mouth.

Jon's eyes were so dark and so lovely.
"I said I love you", he repeated with finality.

"I'm so sorry I-" Martin's voice dissolved in his throat.
Jon put a hand on Martin's chest, pulled himself up. Fingers circled Martin's wrist.
"I said what I said. I don't need it back."

Martin parted his hands and let in Jon to kiss his face. Oddly, he felt like he was about to hiccup.
They kissed while he tried to keep his crying soft. Had his hands around Jon's face now. God, Jon's face. Jon.

"Jon I-" He laughed wetly.

He laughed against Jon's mouth but then it broke. Something broke. Broke loose from his chest and ran rampant. Made itself into a sob.
Martin fell forwards but Jon caught him.
The breathing came in heaves. Tears were forced out of his eyes. Oh hell. Oh. Hell.

"This is- You're not sad are you?"
"I'm not sad", he squeezed out. "I think I'm feeling all feelings. All at once."
"Oh." Jon held him tight. "Alright."
"No", Martin laughed. Sobbed?
Jon put a hand on his head.
Martin managed a long frustrated groan. He wanted to go back to smiling.

"Martin. Just. This is probably a good sign, remember?", Jon said with uncertainty.

Martin shook his head. No, this was awful. He wanted to feel happy, and cozy, and go back to being able to laugh and kiss Jon. Or just kiss Jon, he didn't need to laugh even.
He was supposed to feel happy. He didn't need to be crumbled into a fit. Didn't need his chest to hurt like hell. He held in a wail. This wasn't what getting better felt like.
Jon held him tight. This wasn't what Jon had signed up for.

When he finally quieted down Martin felt very heavy. He felt Jon's lips on his forehead.
"Are you trying to kiss me better?" He wasn't able to do anything but mumble.
"I'm just trying to kiss you", Jon said, his voice rumble-low.
"Good. You're not allowed to kiss me unless you mean it."
Jon sounded offended almost. "I always mean it."

Martin's hand had weakened so, threatened to drop from where it had clasped Jon's shirt.
"Can you tell me again?"

Jon kissed him on his closed eyelid.
"I love you, Martin."

Jon had to mean it. It had to be true. He couldn't lie very well.

Chapter Text

The day before

It was one of Martin's unique talents to always spot when Jon was awake.
Even if Jon kept his eyes closed and face relaxed, tried not to snap to alertness all at once only to feel dizzy and nauseous for the next minutes. Even if Martin was on the other side of the room, just glancing onto the sofa in the mornings. Martin could always tell. 
Jon suspected that he snored. That he snored and Martin wasn't letting him know for nebulous reasons. 

Despite this Jon lay perfectly still for a full minute savoring the unique slope of his body, and the warmth of Martin's chest underneath his cheek. He was trying not to break the moment, not sully it with such things as being conscious or moving a muscle. It took him a while to notice Martin must be asleep as well, that he needn't be that stealthy, even though the heavy hands on Jon's upper back should have been a clue.

Jon risked a move of the head, a sleep-ridden squint. Martin's head had drifted to the left, the arm on that side was going up and was curled around the pillow and his face was now pressed deep into it. He always liked to do that, Martin, have his face against something when he was falling asleep. Jon often tried to be the object Martin fell asleep against whenever the opportunity lent itself but that did rather mean he didn't usually see his dozing face undisturbed like that. Usually all he saw was the swirl of his hair at the back of his head, perfectly placed in the middle.

Whenever Martin and he had a brief doze - Jon refused to call it a nap - Martin always blamed Jon if they left it too long and he got out of it groggy and bleary. Jon waited to grow tired of the gentle rise and fall of Martin's breathing.
Martin didn't often have a still face like this. Normally it moved so much, even if it was just the eyes, searching, going all over. Always ready to smile. A few locks of ginger hair were trapped between his forehead and forearm. His mouth was slightly open.
Looking at Martin gave Jon such calm these days. Or maybe it always had, he'd just not known what to do with calm properly. Calm wasn't something Jon had a lot of experience in.

Jon pushed his weight up with his arms - didn't have to move them very far, dangling down each side of Martin as they had been - and tried to extricate himself from his arms slowly. But he hadn't counted on the small paperback book to also be there, on his back, and he felt it slide off and fall edge-first onto Martin. Damned misuse of a printing press.
"Ow", Martin mumbled.
"Sorry", Jon said with a wince.

Martin was a slow waker. He spent at least fifteen minutes every morning barely uttering real words and fumbling with toothpaste and whatnot. It was one of the highlights of their daily routine, though Martin had begrudged Jon saying so that one time. As if to showcase, the hand that Martin now raised to rub at where the book had hit him was slow like honey.
Jon had meant to give Martin an apologetic kiss on the forehead before getting to his feet. But he found himself hovering a second, watching Martin's slow, grasping fingers touch the heavy-freckled skin of his upper arm.
Martin wasn't saying anything but still at the back of his mind Jon heard his voice. Kiss it better?

He did that a lot these days, hear Martin's voice even when he wasn't there. Berating Jon about showering too hot while Martin was off to the village; or at night, interrupted him rambling his more muddled, darker thoughts into the empty living room.
Jon lowered his face and kissed the spot Martin had just touched. Martin hummed, high and happy and sleep-drunken. Mh. Alright then. Jon laid back down, but higher up this time, so he could kiss Martin's chin on the way. While he did he felt Martin's arm circle him again, his fingertips finding their way into his hairline, his large hand cupping the side of his face. Martin sighed and gently pressed Jon's face against himself. He was right. Getting up had been a stupid idea, come to think of it.

"Didn'mean to fall asleeb", Martin said against Jon's scalp. "How late is it?"
Jon nosed at the soft part of Martin's neck and squinted. He ...didn't know. That was rather odd. He turned his eyes up to check the window but it was still overcast, no help at all. "Eleven", he guessed and tried to push the tide of concern from his mind. As if to help Martin's other hand laid on his head too, the thumb brushing his temple nice and heavy. Jon realised he wasn't yet particularly awake. He could probably go right back to sleep if he let it happen. If he left his eyes closed...
Martin started moving, stretched his back and legs while holding Jon's head close. He probably didn't mean to hold on quite so tight in the process but it was nice. Now Jon wished he would put his arms around him, like in a bear hug, and squeeze. Squeeze the air out of him. Martin tended to touch him like he was afraid Jon would break. He wasn't that thin. He wouldn't break. Couldn't, likely.

He only got Martin to stop being so careful whenever he pushed for it. Whenever he got Martin pink and huffy and needful. If he did it right he could barely speak without stumbling. If he did it right he got careless and stopped worrying so much about being embarassed or where his hands went. And if he did it really right he got strong. Like earlier. In the shower.

Martin's nose ruffled his hair now, his lips coming up against his brow clumsily and Jon smiled. He let out a low sigh, made slow by the stretch of his neck against Martin's clavicle.

"Do we have to get up?", Martin said as though the thought was physically painful.
"Not really", Jon replied. The words came out dragged and unclear because his mouth was against Martin's skin. When Martin laughed he felt it in his entire body. 
"That sounds nice."

Jon managed to not fall back asleep fully, just dozed off once in a while before moving his arm occasionally, maybe turn on the spot to warm the other side of his face against Martin. 
Currently it was his right cheek up against him, right shoulder resting against the left side of his chest and Martin seemed very concentrated on playing with his hair. Then he hummed critically.

"I think I'll put a bit more conditioner in next time...", he said absently.
"Next time?", Jon echoed. "I can wash my own hair, you know."
"I mean yeah. But- You said I was good at it."
Jon raised his head up. "And so you are", he meant it. "But you don't have to do these things for me all the time."
"But I want to?"
"Well, tough."
Martin went a bit stiff. Jon regretted his brusque tone only for a moment. "It's just- You told me to think about myself more. Take your own advice, it's good advice." He felt the strain of his neck and settled back down. "Besides, I'm going to end up spoiled. I need to do some things by myself, like an adult."
A pout had broken into Martin's voice. "You do plenty things by yourself."
Sighing, Jon put a hand on Martin's forearm as a peace offering. 
"I don't mean to sound ungrateful. But bad habits, remember?"
"I thought I was doing something nice."
Jon took a breath. "I didn't mean- Look, I'm just trying to make sure you think about yourself once in a while." He turned his head again to glance at his face but the angle was too steep and Martin was looking to the side. "I do, I do", he groused.

"It's just not as fun, you know?", Martin admitted with a shrug. "Anyway. What I meant to say then. You should put more conditioner in your hair next time. Might help with these-" He put his palm against Jon's nape, smoothing the hair up that was too short to go into the elastic.
"I will", Jon said warmly, trying to put it to rest.

Of course they had to get up eventually, to revive the fire and have a very late breakfast.
Afterwards Jon made to do the wash-up and when he unfolded a clean towel by the sink he felt Martin's arms circle round his waist and a kiss on his cheek. Jon turned his face into it.
"You'll get soap on your sleeves again", he reminded him.
Martin responded by rolling up the sleeves of his jumper, his arms tightening around Jon in the process. With a chuckle Jon turned on the tap while Martin's lips travelled along the good side of his face. He looked down into the sink, the tilt of his head perhaps a little farther than was practical. Martin correctly took this as an invitation to kiss the back of his neck. Jon checked the temperature of the water. If he stopped doing what he was doing every time Martin got touchy they'd run out of clean dishes and wood and light bulbs and-
Jon missed the plate he was reaching for by several inches because his eyes had fallen closed on their own. Hrm. Martin's arms wrapped around him tighter, one going for the chest.

It was strange. When they'd arrived Jon had wracked his brain, wondering when it had become easy to touch Martin. It must have been some time ago. Before the panopticon. Possibly before his coma, since they hadn't spent much time when Martin was being lonely, and they certainly hadn't done any touching then. And yet he'd been able to hold his hand a full day with no problem, right away. Had craved it even, the touch. Had been able to kiss him, finally...

And it hadn't felt- It had been easy. It was easy every time - well, unless Martin was being a shit and caught him unaware, nearly giving him a heart attack. That was hair-raising. But never these; these little touches that lead up to bigger touches. It was easy to hold still for Martin, see what would happen.

Maybe it was because they'd been through enough other, excessively more alarming things. Maybe it was because it never felt too serious. Because there were jokes and low whispers and because that well-practised awkwardness they had was always allowed. Maybe it was just ...Martin. Because he did things in that sometimes-shy, sometimes-wry sort of way, an intensely Martin way.

The tingle at the back of Jon's head now was low, pleasant even, and the prickle behind his ear when Martin's breath came up against it very welcome. When viewed from behind closed lids the murky daylight was warm and red. Jon's head touched a soft shoulder. Martin moved then, reached across the sink and turned the tap back off. Jon realised he'd stopped hearing it. He was still holding onto the hand towel as well. He put it down by the dish rack so he could reach for Martin's face with that same hand - still a little wet - and crane his neck to kiss his mouth. He could tell Martin was rather pleased with himself at the moment, his hands became a little unruly, his fingertips splayed, one ended up on Jon's jaw.

Jon's mind went quiet. All he could register was Martin's mouth on his, soft and fickle. And his hand by his neck, the thumb resting light on his adam's apple.

Jon blinked his eyes open slowly when the heat of Martin's face retreated a fraction. At this point Jon was barely standing up on his own behalf, all his weight against Martin and steadied by his arms. They could stay like this for hours without him using a single muscle.

"You said we could stay on the couch all day", Martin said apropos of an accusation.

"Erm. I was speaking hypothetically." Jon's voice cracked treacherously.
Martin scoffed. "Rude", he said, drawing out the word, the d shaped into a hollow click.
His soft hair under Jon's fingers stuck to them a little, damp as they were.
"I apologise."
Martin sucked in air through his teeth like he had to give it a hard think first. "Guess I'll let it slide."
Jon smirked, and instead of a retort he let the back of his hand knock against Martin's brow, who flinched and grabbed it away because it was still wet, and cold now as well.
"We can go back in a minute. Can I finish this first?"

"Is that what you meant earlier? The dishes?", Martin asked skeptically, tightening one hand around Jon's ribs and bringing his chin up against Jon's shoulder. His mouth was right by his ear. "When you said you wanted to do adult things?"
Jon laughed.
"Uh. Who's to say?", he heard himself say cryptically, and silently regretted having already picked up a plate as a gesture of finality.

They ended up getting some reading in - Jon was borrowing Martin's phone on which he had saved some old classics, a bit of a motley collection of Austen and Melville and Mary Shelley. Jon found it hard to concentrate since he'd already read them but it was alright. Besides, Martin wasn't faring any better. He was still insisting on his godawful bodice ripper although he clearly was doing it to spite Jon, not because he enjoyed it. It wasn't a thick book, and they'd been here nearly a week and yet his bookmark crawled through it snail-like. Every once in a while he flipped the page, his left arm bumping into Jon's head who was nestled between the back cushions and Martin's chest.

After a while Martin rolled onto his right elbow and reached for his tea to take a sip. Jon, once he'd fixed his own balance from all the shifting, motioned for him to share. 

Martin looked at him.
"What? What does-", he imitated Jon's gesture but made it look busy and pushy, "-mean?"
Jon rolled his eyes. "It means could I have some tea, please. Martin, dear. Would you kindly let me have some."
"Why don't you have your own?"
"I don't have your arms, it's harder for me to reach."
Martin quirked a brow. "The kettle?"
"The table."
Martin stuck out his tongue before taking an overly long sip from his tea. 
"You're just being lazy", he said over the rim, like a detective with a novel observation.
Jon scrolled past a chapter break with a pointed finger. "You said I am not to leave the couch." 
"True. But remember you told me not to do nice things for you so-"
"I didn't say-", Jon paused the sentence. He tilted his head to look at Martin, whose cheeks were already rosy from the steaming mug.
"In that case well done", he said eventually, a trace of earnestness tingeing the joke.
Martin did hand him the tea, but only once he was done rolling his eyes.

They settled back down and let another easy silence roll over them. After a while Martin started fidgeting with the sleeve of Jon's T-shirt, and his right leg which he had up, the knee making a tent of the blanket; that one started tipping left to right. Left to right.

"Can you say it again?"
Left. Right. 
"Mh?"
"The nice words."
Jon put the phone down and frowned, confused. "...Please?"
"No the other -"
Jon studied what he'd said earlier. "...Dear?"
"Uh-huh", Martin said, his voice all smile and air. 
"Darling." Jon laughed at how it sounded out of his mouth, and how Martin's stomach tensed with an upcoming giggle.
"Honey. Sweetheart", he began listing, as dryly as he could. 
"Sugar."
"Sweet Pea?" He made a face. Too old-fashioned.
Martin now giggled that high, comically sweet noise which at the start had made him hide his face every time.
"Ehm. Dove. My heart. Liebchen. Luv."
Martin put one hand to his heart, cackling.

"Love", Jon said, over-enunciating. He moved where he lay and turned his face up to watch Martin, whose laugh simmered down only slowly until eventually he looked like he was wrestling with his amusement as well as something more genuine. His cheeks were red, obviously. Obviously his cheeks were red.
Jon rested his chin on Martin's forearm.
"Martin", he said, wanting to end on his favorite. By his ear he heard the sound of an awful book falling against Martin's chest.

Martin put his right hand to Jon's cheek, adjusted it slightly to rest the thumb on his cheekbone. He had a smile on that Jon used to mistake for a sad smile. But it wasn't that. 
"You should kiss me now", Martin said, no trace of his laugh left.

Jon rose onto his arms and Martin flung the book toward the couch table, soundly missing it.
The armrests of this couch were good ones, they had just the right firmness to rest the elbows against, at each side of Martin's head. Jon moved slowly and Martin, for a change, didn't urge him on. He touched their noses together and Martin didn't giggle now. Just left his eyes on Jon's.
By now he was quite proud of how well he could predict Martin's reactions. How well he could make him forget how to breathe when he wanted to. Not that it was hard to do to begin with. But still. He'd had a rather good learning curve, by his estimation.

It was his own pulse he couldn't quite get a handle on today. Something about the inside of his stomach, restless but calm. Bit unusual.

They let their mouths touch lips-closed, noses bent, get used to each other gradually. Jon pulled himself up further. This couch was a good couch. He didn't feel like he should be taller all the time. Martin had to tip his head further back now, which got a little sigh out of him; also gave Jon a good opportunity to tease his mouth open with little nudges.
It was important to stay calm now, slow. Martin liked it when the flats of their tongues touched, just so. He also liked to put his hands under Jon's shirt, just a little. Sometimes a lot but not right now.
Jon widened the stance of his elbows so he could run one hand through Martin's hair. Martin liked this, too.

Martin didn't lose his calm until about a twenty seconds or so in. Not long enough to give Jon pause or wonder if he was slipping, but certainly longer than usual. First he tugged at Jon's hips, pulling toward himself. Then, when that didn't quite work he grasped the front of his shirt. Jon grinned and let himself be dragged down onto Martin's chest, breaking their faces apart in the process. Martin's other arm came round his back and gave a squeeze, just enough to push Jon up and Martin caught his mouth with his. Jon had to fight his smile down but it took a moment because he'd caught a glimpse of Martin's face, puffy and lost, but then so damn determined.

Jon wouldn't have been able to hold the smile much longer anyway. Not when Martin put so much purpose in it. Jon's arms hung so loose around Martin's head now the wrists knocked into each other.

A hand ran along and up his neck. Into his hair, which at this point had come so undone the tie wasn't doing anything any more. Jon felt his leg dig under and around Martin's, toes curling against the fabric of his sleep pants. Jon carelessly let loose a hum. He let Martin turn his head to the side, push his mouth against his temple, cheek, jaw. His neck. Jon quite forgot how to hold up his head and there was a tension on his hair between Martin's fingers that wasn't unpleasant.

With a distracted grunt Martin sat them up, slowly as not to upset Jon's limp arms. He just seemed to know these things sometimes. How to do... that. Martin tipped Jon's head back far enough to drive a breath out of him that made far too much noise. 
Jon pulled up his knees and tried to recover some posture while Martin put his lips to his throat like he was looking for something he needed. Jon stifled a nervous laugh. Viewed through his own lashes the sunlight had a frayed orange color.
Jon reclaimed his arms and tried to gather some thoughts. Not too many, though.

"Martin?"
"Yea", Martin sounded busy.
"Earlier... In the shower?", Jon said, feeling strange again.
"Uh-huh", Martin said with a twist at the corner of his mouth.
"Would you --?"
He just wanted to see. Check if it still- When Jon looked, Martin had a vicious gleeful look on him. Oh God.
"Hm?", Martin said feigning cluelessness with a half-assed smile. 
Thankfully Jon didn't have enough of his faculties to feel properly embarrassed.
"Ahm", he said; Martin's collar was all muddled again.
Martin shrugged one of Jon's elbows off of his shoulder and caught the hand that landed on his chest. He put their palms together, interlocking their fingers. "This?"
Jon nodded, trying not to think about whether this was a good idea or no. Maybe he should have waited. Tried it out first- See if Martin liked it too, the --
There was a bit of a shuffle, Martin ordered his legs, wiped the blanket off the couch quickly. Then he dipped Jon and his back landed on the cushions, really deep in the cushions, because Martin's weight was on his knees and by his hip. He took Jon's other hand by the wrist. Put both hands against the couch, holding him there.
But he was careful. Martin knew this was an experiment. He'd said it again the other day. We can go back to just holding hands any time. Jon knew this, he did. Had to, always. But still was oddly nice to hear it. He didn't always like it. How careful Martin was. But it was good. For now.

Jon realised he'd gotten quiet. He refocused his eyes on Martin, who'd been waiting a moment.
"This?", he asked again.
Jon tested the feel of his wrists and pushed his fingertips against Martin's knuckles.
"Yes."

His hands sank further into the couch when Martin leaned his weight onto them. Jon raised his head up and met him halfway, on purpose, because he knew Martin would catch his mouth. Would kiss him and- Kiss him into the cushion, deep. Yes, this.

This.

The blankness in his mind didn't surprise him this time. Well, maybe. Usually he didn't know it was coming. Usually it wasn't something he could predict, though he so badly wished it. But now he had. He had.

The moan wasn't something he heard. But he felt it. It rang in his ears, deep. It wasn't Martin's. When Martin brought their lips apart there was a smacking sound. Jon opened his eyes, hoping Martin wasn't discouraged. He didn't look it. He looked surprised, in a far-off kind of way.

"'s this good?", he whispered. Jon could only nod, and not even very much.

Martin leaned down and kissed him on that spot behind the ear, the one he'd pointed out once. Then he kissed him even further back, wandered. He found that spot that he'd found, that Jon hadn't even known about. Jon couldn't find any rhythm in his next few breaths and Martin gave him a satisfied hum.
He pushed Jon's hands further up. Jon's knee rose, found purchase against the back of Martin's thigh. Jon stretched, feeling his back pull straight against the pull on his arms, like a loose string, pliable and elastic. He felt his pulse now, hammering away across his whole chest. He felt Martin's teeth on his neck, grazing the skin only gently. He felt his stomach have that -- maddening, roiling thing -- that sensation he didn't have any idea what to do with. Would it go away? Did he want it to? Should he tell Martin...? No he shouldn't tell Martin. He didn't even know whether it was reproducible.

Jon felt the cold air on his flushed neck. Damn. He'd made a frustrated noise, involuntarily.
Martin blinked himself out of his daze and into befuddlement.
Don't stop now.
Jon didn't know how to explain himself.
The pressure on his wrists abated and he missed it sorely.
Martin looked worried now.
Jon realised he didn't know what his face was doing and he closed his mouth. Swallowed.
"Too much?", Martin asked.
Jon shook his head.
Not enough.
Martin put a reassuring hand on his face.
Put it back.
Jon smiled to banish the concern from Martin's face. It came easy. Martin smiled also.

____
____

Jon tapped his thumb against his temple at a rhythm. He was holding a burning cigarette in the same hand, though he wasn't really tasting it. Sat atop the hollow porch in front of the door, head in one hand, he stared off into the distance with all his might. It's fine, he thought. It's fine. It's been worse.

He should have stayed in bed. Stayed in bed with Martin's arms wound tightly around his ribcage. He wouldn't have fallen asleep, surely. Certainly wouldn't have been able to wander round the house aimlessly, relentlessy having nothing to do. Maybe he could have dozed, just a little. Just enough for it to be dreamless. Maybe he would've even continued to feel that light, empty buzz in his forebrain that kept the thinking out. The constant calculations. Eight days... 

Jon looked at the cigarette in his hand, trailing grey smoke towards the sky. Once it had been such a big part of his life, an ongoing wrestle. First he did it just a bit, out of rebellion, then just to spite the occasional pang of guilt. The sidelong glance of judgement from someone else. Often Georgie. Soon Jon was puking his guts out at a party, not from drink but from tobacco only. The next day he'd thought the experience had put him off altogether. Then he'd found another pack in a different jacket.

Now it was barely an odd memory. Now the small dose of fire had become demoted to a quiet distraction, an excuse to stare into the night sky. A blip of something else to do in the face of a different vice. No, that was the wrong word, wasn't it. What had it become? A worship? An archaic toll to pay? An acceptable level of evil he'd arrived at. A calculated payment that wasn't his own.
When did something stop being an addiction and turned into sustenance? Suppose at some point it became irrelevant. If it felt like dying to the heroine addict if they missed a dose, where was the point in the distinction? Maybe it was time to stop philosophising.

To his left he heard a faint noise. He could guess what it was but he still felt his body tense and his heartbeat pick up speed nonetheless.

But it was no monster, no horror-addled mind preaching yet another Hunt. 
It was the black cat, rubbing its head on the corner of the top stairs. It wasn't the chatty sort - unless you got it upset - so when Jon held his free hand out and laid it down on the wood, palm up, it trod up completely silently. Its nose was wet and cold when it smelled his fingertips and considered them thoroughly. After a moment she let him touch her head, ears laid flat to accommodate his hand. Jon smiled at the demanding bump she gave his palm.

"If I let you back inside do you think Martin will be mad again?"
He gave the white spot of her chin a scratch with the soft side of his index. Large eyes fell closed, trustingly. Hard to say no to that.

Once inside the cat walked up straight to the kitchen range and stopped at the exact spot he had let her have some tuna the other day. 
"I won't feed you every day, you should know."
She looked at him with judgmental eyes.
"Alright", Jon said. "But just this one time."
The cat blinked. Jon grumbled while he fished for a fork.

Crouched and with his elbows on his knees he watched the cat busily lap up the egg he'd stirred up. Martin was right, it was probably not good to have her rely on them feeding her. She might stop going back to her owners regularly. That or she might get herself fed twice and get fat. He sighed and scratched at the corner of his eye.

"It's hard, isn't it?", he asked the cat. It had started pushing the basically empty bowl across the floorboards. "When you're hungry."
He thought about having another cigarette but he was running rather low. The knowledge of it was the opposite of helpful.

The statements were in a box in the cupboard towards the stairs. Recently he'd changed the box out, in the cramped storage room he'd found a wooden one of a good size, the kind with a heavy lid and failing hinges. Good to keep the moisture out. Purely incidentally, it was also good to keep mindless hands out. Jon had also considered putting something heavy on top. But Martin was going to notice wasn't he.

Jon rubbed his hand hard across his face. When he looked down he found the cat staring at him, licking her mouth thoroughly.
"Let's check you for ticks then", he said decidedly, and bent to lift her.

She didn't enjoy the light of the desk lamp so close by her face but tolerated Jon holding her in his lap, parting the fur on her hind leg. He'd been pretty sure he felt one the other day- Yes. He reached for the pincers.
The next seconds became a mild struggle, Jon held the cat to his thigh by her neck scruff as it gave a warning growl. But he made short work of it and let her go right away. 
She rewarded him with a curt slash of the claws, expertly aimed across the entire length of his lower arm. Jon hissed through clenched teeth. She sprang down and stood staring daggers at him, tail swishing.

"That's fair. But now you get to keep your blood, see?", he said sternly and got up to throw the tick into the fire. 
"Unlike me...", he added, angling his arm so he didn't drip any blood on the carpet. He moved to the sink to run water over the scratch.

Jon held the paper towel tightly to his forearm and twisted his shoulder to look at the blooming red line across the white stippled paper. Why wasn't it closing up?

The cat had gone back to looking very unconcerned perched on the armrest, then begun cleaning its unnecessarily sharp paw. 

"This is not the way to get into Martin's good graces at all...", he muttered, dabbing at the wound impatiently. "Which, it's not difficult. It's like you're trying to -- Mrm. Don't give me that look."

Chapter Text

Martin woke to Jon's voice. His urgent voice. He opened his eyes and saw Jon in front of him, vaguely aware that Jon's hands were around his face. He was saying something. Martin concentrated. 'Wake up please. Please.'
Well he was awake now.
Frowning, he swatted Jon's hands away. Tried to. His hand barely came off the pillow. Why was he doing this? Martin was trying to sleep. He closed his eyes again. Jon continued saying things, distressed. He wasn't a calm man was he.
'Martin. Do I have to-'
Tried to tell Jon to leave him alone. The only thing that came out of Martin was an annoyed hum. Figure it out, Jon.
Jon left. Or at least he let go of Martin's head.
Martin wasn't tired but he fell back asleep.

A few more times he became aware of things happening around him. Jon? Probably Jon. No one else was here was there. He was trying his gentle voice now. It wasn't very convincing. Just a sip Martin. You need to drink, Martin.
I don't want to, he said. He didn't say. He wasn't able to speak. Jon if I can't talk I can't drink water. Just go.

There was light in the room, far too much of it. Made his eyes hazy and his head hurt. Scattered inside the fog. Made it hard to tune out Jon's voice. He was still saying things. With that voice he had, his reading voice but in a relentless rythm. Wait, in a bad rhythm, sometimes stumbling, repeating. He was doing a bad job of it, and sounded annoyed at himself. Martin heard the flipping of a book page.

"Hmm. Let's see...
Something inspires the only cow of late to make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools. Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools... A cider syrup."
He was butchering the meter and he knew it.
"She drools a cyder syrup; having tasted fruit, she scorns a pasture withering to the root."
Martin could tell Jon's eyebrows were pulled together tight just from his voice.
"She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten the windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten. Hum."
Jon shifted, upsetting the mattress. He'd found the book then. Martin had picked it up at the village. For some reason the shop had a tiny book section for tourists. What tourists? Cow tourists, apparently. 
"...She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.
She bellows on a knoll against the sky. Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry."
The silence was followed was awkward like Jon was. Used to be. Like he was when he was trying a bit too hard. Shouldn't Jon be better at this? Reading things.

Martin didn't expect the sound of his own voice, squashed deep into the pillow. "Frost", he'd said.
Jon looked at him, a bit startled.
"Sounds like Frost", Martin elaborated.

Jon glanced at the page. "That's right." He didn't need to sound so surprised.
Martin scratched his nose. It had been itching for a while now.

"Where did you find this?" Jon said, holding up the book. "And how is it all about cows?" The levity he put in his voice was probing, uneasy.

Tentatively, Martin un-squinted his eyes. Closed them again. His voice was withered and dry. "Can you turn off the lights?"

"It's, uh. The sun", Jon said. "I can close the curtains-?"
Martin didn't answer, just kept his eyes closed. Jon shuffled about, got up. The sound of the curtain rails was deafening. These curtains weren't as thick as the downstairs ones. They covered the bedroom in a dirty orange filtered through threadbare ivy-green woven fabric. On the top of them were rows and rows of ugly flowers.

"Better?", Jon asked, closer again.
"I'm so tired", Martin whispered. So hollow, Jon.
"That's okay. Will you have some water?"
Martin let him hand him the glass just so he would stop bothering him about it.

Jon put the glass back on the nightstand. Couldn't he stop looking at him so much.
"Can you hold my hand for a bit?", Jon asked. Dumb question. Martin moved his hand. Felt Jon take it, carefully. He was really warm. Warmer than the rest of everything.
Martin felt around in his chest. How solid had Jon's hand had felt yesterday. How much comfort it had given. He couldn't find it any more. Couldn't quite. Make his own fingers go around it right.

He'd used to do this. Check himself for feelings like checking for lice. Are they gone yet. Did I do it right today. Or did I think about the others too much again. 
But now he'd hoped to disappoint himself. He no longer had to be like this. No longer needed the Lonely to hide him from the eyes. No longer needed its favor. Told it to go away. Just go away. Leave me alone.

Jon's hand left him. Went away. Martin realised he'd said some things aloud. Jon dropped off of the face of the world. He wasn't there any more. Don't do that. You just found me.

"I'm not talking to you", Martin said, quietly. Just because he couldn't feel reality didn't mean it wasn't there. He knew that. Because Jon had been there a second ago. He was there a lot. Whenever Martin asked.

"Who-?", Jon said, not far away.
Martin thrust an arm into the direction of his voice. Jon made a surprised sound.
"Sorry. I can't..." Martin had his eyes open, so open. He felt Jon take his wrist, his hand. Felt- what? Jon's jaw?
"Can't see very well."
"Do you need me to- Ask you something?", Jon said, worried. Reluctant. 
"No", Martin said. It had worked before but. He knew Jon didn't like to. And he was running low. And he didn't want to know what would come out of his mouth.
"Read", he told Jon. "You need the practise."
Despite the worry on him, Jon scoffed. Martin heard him leafing through pages.
"It's either this or the Step-By-Step Guide on How To Clean Your Hunting Rifle", Jon said darkly. He took Martin's hand in his other hand now, so he could flip the page better.
"This one is by... Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts. That seems like a lot of first names."

_____

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." His voice still seemed faint.
"Martin-" Jon scrambled up from wherever he was sat and moved close.

"I'm sorry. It's me. I'm Martin. I love you too."
He squeezed Jon's hand back meekly.

Jon touched his face. "I know."

Far away panic approached.
"I'm sorry I tried- I tried to- I love you now. I'm sorry I stopped. I'm so sorry."

"What?"

Tears rolled. His lip was shaking. "I tried to f-feel it again but I couldn't do it."
"It's fine, don't apologise. You just had a- a-"
"It's not fine none of that was fine oh God."
"I'm sorry. I know it's not. Please don't go to sleep again", he said, putting an unsteady hand in Martin's hair.

"I hate this. It's like - Every time I feel so... Like I'm not Martin any longer. Like I'll never be. Like I broke Martin."
He could tell now that his head was in Jon's lap, and Jon's face was closeby.
"Martin. You're Martin."
"Not all the time. I try to wake up right every day but--"
There was a pause while Martin looked for more words. 

"You know I'd still be here even if this happened every day, don't you?", Jon said quietly.
Martin shook his head. "No, Jon. I don't want you to live with that person. That's not me."
Jon's hand firmed up against the side of his face. "It is though. You aren't-"
"No! That's - I." Martin raised his head up, feeling his voice return. "Well fine, but I don't want to be that person. I want to be me, all the time, not a fucking mess!" 
Jon's frown deepened. "You said it. That we're both not fine. You have to -"

Martin rose up to shout. "I DON'T HAVE TO LIKE IT OKAY!?"
Jon didn't react except he folded his arms.
"Are you feeling mad again?"
"No, I'm feeling bad, Jon."
"Good! That's still a feeling then."
"Well I don't want it!" He wiped at his eyes. He hadn't stopped weeping the whole time. "I wanted to be happy. Jon you made me so happy. I don't know why this happened."

"Martin." Exasperation simmered under Jon's deliberate low tone. "You can't make yourself be happy."
"Well that's stupid."
"You're stupid."
Martin stopped running his sleeve over his face. "'xcuse me?"

"You heard me. You're being stupid. You have to stop", Jon griped at the air, "-pretending like you're not allowed to hurt from what happened! You have to stop pretending like you have to be fine all the time!"
"But I am fine! I'm alive aren't I? It all worked out. And- And I have you now! And you said that you l-"
He sputtered and pressed the wool of his sweater back against the bridge of his nose.

"You're saying nonsense." Jon had his hair open, his eyes raw.
"Great! I'm also feeling nonsense."

He swallowed, then rubbed his entire face angrily. With shaky arms he unwrapped himself from the tossed-up blanket.
"I have to go and do something." The tears persisted.

____

Jon followed him downstairs, watched him put order into the already impeccable pantry cupboard. He had a look as if Martin was a wild bird that had flown into the kitchen and couldn't find the way out. He begun pacing even, his arms still folded and Martin had a hard time ignoring him. He stacked the jars more noisily.

Martin's eyes fell on the kettle. But he didn't want tea. He wanted it to not be morning - wait. Noon? After...? God. He wanted it to be yesterday. He wanted his moment back. Wanted to sit on the couch with his arms around Jon, feeling all kinds of ...at home. Feeling like he was where he was supposed to be. 
Now it seemed like the edges of everything were too hard. The sun was too bright, too grey. He was too...
His vision swam and he had to put whatever tin can he was holding back down. He put his hand to his face and sobbed. Stop, he thought. Stop it.

A while later Jon managed to convince him to go outside for a minute. The cold was biting. Martin immediately lost his will to walk.
"Can we just sit", he asked, barely down the steps.
"Yes. Hold on." Jon held up a finger and went back inside. 

At least Scotland hadn't changed. It was still dreary and so unlike London. A different kind of dreary. One that you could breathe in.
Though it was overcast the view was wide and he could see so far. He walked a few steps toward it.
A starling crossed the grey sky. Maybe it was an Eastern one, just here for the coming winter. Waiting out the cold months.
The grass here was so green, it didn't need any light at all to stay vivid and with that clear sheen. Like it refused to be anything but green.

Jon returned with two rickety folding chairs under each arm. He begun setting them up in the grass in front of the porch, facing the view.
"Found these the other night", he said, straining over a rusty hinge. Martin had already turned back to look at the sky, but he heard Jon give an accomplished sigh after a while. 

When Martin didn't react much, he began walking towards him.

"Jon. Will you give me a minute?"

He knew Jon was looking at him warily without having to see it.
"It's alright. I'm not feeling lonely I- Can you stay there?"

Jon stayed by the cabin, and Martin wandered the hill at a slow pace, well inside his line of sight.

When he got back Jon had lit what looked to be his third cigarette and was biting the nail of his thumb. He made as if he was going to get up from the chair until Martin steered right toward him. He looked at him with searching eyes.
"Any better?", he asked.
Martin nodded and sat down, badly aged wood creaking underneath him.
He exhaled. "Much."
Jon kept observing him.

"I'm sorry I yelled", Martin said.
Jon huffed, but it was far from a laugh. "I was just glad you said something finally."
"You were right." He hated how right Jon was sometimes. Not all the time, but sometimes. "I- did avoid it. The... Feeling bad." He let his voice go wry even though he knew it would sound off. "And 'cozy' isn't exactly an emotion."

He kicked out a foot. "I know it's stupid. We talked about it a lot but I still... sort of thought I didn't have to." He ended with a shrug.
Martin's not-so-serious self-deprecating tone seemed to work. Jon pulled up his shoulders and when they came back down he sat a little looser.

"What, you thought because now we're dating things would just fix themselves?", he said with a cautious smirk.
"Yep", Martin said, with a pop.
He turned to Jon. "What, you thought because we left I would get smarter around you?"
That got him a laugh.
Martin gave the landscape a last long look. "Let's go back inside. It's fucking freezing."
Jon had already ground out his half-smoked cigarette.

_______


"You're still cold."
Jon was holding Martin's hand to his own cheek critically.
"Really?"
Jon reached around him and drew the blanket tighter around his shoulders, comically so. It bunched around Martin's head and swallowed his shoulders, which isn't easy to do with those.
"Not everyone can walk around in a T-shirt in the middle of October."
"It's not cold in here we have the fire going all the time."
The frown persisted.

"I'm just colder than you, Jon. It's probably why cats like you more than me." Martin pouted to see if it would give Jon some reassurance.
"I'll make you some tea", he said, his voice carrying the huff of when he got up too fast.
"I can make my own."
"Will you stay put I will make it."

________

Around nine Martin realised he was exhausted, in his chest and head, but nowhere near tired. Nowhere near bed-ready. Groaning, he dropped the charger cable he was holding and touched his phone to his head.
"I think I'm going to stay up with you a while today", he said.
"Oh?"
"I slept too long..." He tried again fiddling the charger into the phone jack. "What do you do all night anyway?"
"I lure wild animals into the house like you so astutely pointed out", Jon said without looking up from the curling-edge newspaper he'd bought at the shop.
Martin threw him a look.

Jon rolled his eyes, one elbow up on the armrest, steep-angled because of his slouch. 
"Read, mostly. I used to sort through the storage closet at night but I think I put too much order in it now."
"Ever find anything interesting?"
There was a pause. 

"...Define 'interesting'."
Martin squinted. Images of fingernail-pulling-tongs and bonesaws came to mind.

"Things that I, Martin Blackwood, would enjoy knowing about", Martin said, quite happy with his wording after a moment of introspection.
Jon's mouth twitched. "In that case, no", he said and the smile he gave was maddening. Martin drew a breath.

"Jon."

"What, you narrowed it down too much."
"Now I want to know, obviously."
"Mmmh." Jon didn't look very contrite.
"Actually now I want to know if I should be worried about any of it."
"No. Frankly I wouldn't have minded a spare pistol or two? I expected there to be one, to be honest."
"Well it wouldn't be in a stuffy storage room would it. She'd have hidden it where she could get at it easily if she needed."

Jon blinked at Martin.
"You're right", he said, thoughts going fast behind his eyes and then he got to his feet right on the sofa.

"Why don't you, you know. Use your Archivist ju-ju?"
Jon made a noncommittal sound, which echoed out of the crawlspace in the hallway, above the door to the storage room. They'd checked every other inch of the cabin and safe for all the spiderwebs Martin had knocked down they'd come up empty.

Martin tipped back and forth on his feet while holding the ladder.
"C'mon. Just the once. You did it the other day."
"I, uh. Where's the fun in that?"
"This isn't fun any more. And it would be some peace of mind if there was one."
Jon retreated from the hole, flashlight in hand, his face overcast.
"I'm not feeling up for that", he said after a moment. His tone made Martin quit his wobbling.

"Okay fine. I guess we do have the axe."
"There's a second one but it could use sharpening."
"Oh?"

"Well to her credit then, it is good Daisy practised some basic safety I guess."
Martin was sat on the cupboard in the storage room - he hadn't even seen that there was a cupboard against the wall when he'd last looked in here. Jon must have spent a lot of time sorting things through, labelling drawers, boxes. A lot of time.
They'd decided to check for solitary pistol shells in terms of a clue as to whether the last hour had been a waste. So far there was nothing, and Jon seemed to mostly be humoring Martin at this point.

Most of the things in here seemed painfully mundane - probably left over from the penultimate owners of the cabin. Garden furniture, scattered picknick cutlery, hunting memorabilia, empty come-apart picture frames. Guess it was a hassle to get larger rubbish out of here, the gravel path leading up to the cabin would barely allow a small car to bumpily crawl up the hill; something more substantial? No way.

Martin had the second axe next to his leg, leaned against the cupboard, and an old moving box open at his side but all the books inside seemed to be impressively outdated travel guides and he wasn't quite hurting for new reading material just yet.

"Oh, another thing." Jon rifled through a stack of broken appliances on the garden table. "Can't tell if it works because we don't have any batteries that haven't leaked--"
He retrieved a small radio with a bent antenna.
"You think we'd get anything out here? Other than static."
"Only one way to find out."
"We'll put it on the list. Batteries. What's in here?"

Martin reached for a shoe box sat at the end of the cupboard, dented and water-stained and unlabelled. Jon closed the hard plastic back of the radio and looked up. He took a step towards Martin, a rather quick one.

"We can afford Daisy a little bit of privacy I think." Jon put a flat hand on the lid and pulled it away slightly.
Martin pouted. "You got to look."
"Well."

Martin crossed his arms.
They had a brief moment of eye contact where Martin wrote up a mental note of the box' shape and color to come back later and snoop all the while Jon could very clearly read his entire mind. 

There was a long pause stretching tight until Martin poked a hole in it.
"Quit being so sanctimonious! You're a total hypocrite."
"I looked inside because I was tidying. You want to look just to be nosy."
"Yes! Yes I do."
Jon tried hard to look stern but Martin saw the smile creep up him.

Martin un-crossed his arms. "So wait. Is this a 'Horrible truths you can't unsee' sort of box or a-" He made a meaningful gesture.
Jon pulled a face that didn't reach his eyes. "Bit of both?"

Martin snorted. "So you are being a prude."
Jon's head snapped backwards. "What? I'm not a- Hey."
Giggling, Martin put a hand on Jon's shoulder. "I still love you though." He steadied himself against Jon to drop back down to the floor. He picked up the axe, feeling very foolhardy with the weight of it on his shoulder.

"I'm starting to think I don't like you very much when you're on an all-nighter", Jon said as he followed him out of the room.

_

At about three in the morning Martin called it quits. It was late and there was only so much to do to keep the sleep at bay. They would run out of films soon at this rate.
Jon joined him in the bed, laying face-to face at first but then he wrapped his arms tight around Martin's neck and one leg around his legs, as if to keep something away, maybe the sadness out. Martin didn't have it in his heart to pull his elbows down, loosen the embrace even though it was entirely too intense for sleeping. He just returned the hug, though not as tense by far.

Several minutes in he felt Jon's nose press into his neck and up, then the side of his cheek.
"Are you tired?", Jon's voice sounded like bed.
"Mhmm", Martin said.
"How tired?"
Martin shrugged, Jon's arms becoming pinned between his shoulders and head a moment. 'Find out', the thin wavering sound the made was meant to say.

________
________

Martin woke. He woke fine. He woke late. The sun was up. The room was still there. So was Jon.
He didn't look to have left all night.. His head was barely peeking out from under the blanket, his back against Martin, but his feet were probably poking out on the side again. Yep.

Jon had his shoulders drawn up high, telling Martin he'd had an uneasy night of it. Martin made a judgment call and very gently touched his shoulder, squeezing. He got an absent mumble. Jon never said clear words in his sleep but sometimes Martin could tell things by his tone. One time he'd been very sure Jon was in the middle of a whole ass lecture in his dream, possibly directed at someone he very eagerly disagreed with. Martin kissed Jon's ear.
"Martin", Jon muttered, clearly not awake.

Martin's lower lip wobbled under his smile. Sleepy Jon was the best.
"I'm up are you up?", he said softly.
Jon's head moved a little. "I'm up", he lied. Then he rose up on his shoulder all at once with a heavy inhale. He turned around, squinting.

"How are you feeling?"
Martin shrugged. "Normal."
"Good." Jon fell back into the pillow facing up and rubbed his eye with the ball of his thumb. "That's good."
"Did you sleep enough?"
Jon didn't answer, just put one arm across Martin's side and pushed his forehead against him.
Martin selfishly thought about bugging him awake so he'd deal with the wood while he made breakfast. But when he hugged Jon back he made a grumbly-but-pleased noise and all plans dissolved. He hugged him a bit tighter and the sound increased.

After half an hour of more dozing they ended up doing exactly that, though. Jon was outside by the wood stack and Martin set up plates. Then he paused, an empty pan in hand, and walked over to the back window, which was open to get some air in.
He leaned out the window to call to Jon, but Jon was standing by the chopping block cradling four logs of wood and staring into space with abject dread. When he noticed Martin he so quickly and so convincingly un-tensed his shoulders that it became blatantly clear that he must do it a lot.

"What?"
"...Did you want one egg or two?"


"Well I eat them now but at the time I didn't like the texture", Jon explained, holding the salt shaker so deliberately as if he expected the grains to march out in single file.
Martin gave him a look. "Eggs don't have a texture. Not just one, anyway."
Jon opened his mouth as if to object but then opted for a sigh instead, waving the topic done.

Martin eyed him. He seemed all himself, now. Bit tired still, maybe. Martin didn't quite know whether to bring up the- Well. Was it really so out of the ordinary? Jon had been known to occasionally stare at the wall as if he'd seen a ghost before he even believed in ghosts. Or admitted it, at least.

"Just as well I guess", Martin mused over his toast. "I don't think Gretel has much in the way of vegan breakfast options."

"Will you be alright if I go on and deal with the wood for a bit more later?"
Martin eyed the now near-empty wall to the right of the fireplace. The thing ate wood so fast. Like it was its job.
He wanted to say something wry and funny but Jon's face reminded him that in the light of yesterday the question wasn't all that silly. He nodded.

Of course Martin took the opportunity to open Daisy's secret storeroom shoe box. He didn't even have to think about it.

If anything, working at the Magnus Institute had worsened Martin's inherent love for nosing about, Sasha had always encouraged him with her blatant disregard for privacy of any kind, and Tim had been a willing receptor for whatever Martin got his hands on. In truth he was far more curious about what Jon considered private things, enough to make a stink over it anyway. It wasn't like he'd ever flinched at frequent trespassing, or a good stalking, however justifiable.

What he found was... awful. Awful gossip magazines. The nudy mags in the middle almost came as a relief. They were way less shocking as far as Martin was concerned. Not the worst kind, even, but certainly not tasteful. It was almost a bit disappointing, really. After some half-hearted rifling he also found, at the very bottom, stuck between the inside folds of the cardboard, a photo - shiny, proper polaroid. It showed Daisy and a woman he didn't know making faces at an unknown photographer. Daisy still had her hair super short, then, and was wearing her old leather jacket, and she had one arm on the other woman's shoulder. Martin wondered if Jon had seen this. But he wouldn't have left it stuck to the back like that, carelessly. It was a nice picture.

Martin put the lid of the box down and leaned against the cupboard. Maybe he should apologise to Jon, for that time he'd said all those harsh things about her. He was so protective of Daisy still, it hurt to watch.
Thumbing at the corner of his eye he pulled out his phone. He'd never deleted his old pictures, even though he'd thought about often it in the past year. But it had never hindered him at the time, had it. Old memories of people who were gone for good anyway. It was really lonely. Surviving.

He found the photos of that one office party and at first he laughed. At Tim wearing a party hat and a glittery boa to a Thursday afternoon brunch amidst copy paper and barely-loosened shirt collars. Laughed at Jon, who was striding past in the background with such an appalled look on his face he might've pulled a muscle that very moment. He was almost unrecognisable in his starched collar shirt and the dark green knit vest he kept around for when he had to go into the stacks.
Then he saw Sasha, mid-gesture directed at someone off-camera. Not Sasha. Though at the time she'd still been Sasha. Just her photos got all... Sasha'd.

Sorry, he thought, flipping to a different photo. Your name isn't a verb.

At some point Tim had stolen Martin's phone to catch him, red-faced and trapped between a desk and Rosie, posing awkwardly. This was when Mum had still lived at his place and she'd always needled him into wearing collared polo shirts to work at least, even though they never fit him on the neck and arms. Tim had once found Martin's spare one and put it on and he and Martin had laughed so hard he'd gone home light-headed. A tear landed on his wrist.

"Are you crying?", Jon said alarmed when he caught Martin's face mid-movement while putting more logs onto the hip-high stack he'd got done already.
"No. I'm done now", Martin said with a lax smile. He'd long had to accept that, no matter how good he was at crying silently, his face just did that, betrayed every damn tear he ever shed even hours later. He'd pulled up the sofa blanket and circled his head with the hood of his sweater but it really wasn't any use. 
"I was looking at old photos. It's all good."
Jon frowned, put his hands on his thighs and got up with a huff. He looked at Martin as if inspecting his face. Martin stuck out his tongue and that seemed to help the dire expression on him a little.

"Felt kind of good, actually", he added after a moment. His chest felt lighter, somehow. The feeling wasn't unfamiliar. Almost nostalgic.

Jon looked undecided about something. Martin raised up an arm towards him. Jon walked over and sat on the sofa beside him, leaned across, one hand against the backrest. He was still wearing Martin's orange jacket, it was so ridiculously big and puffy on him he couldn't even close the zipper. Martin sat up and put his hands on his waist, going under the jacket. Almost without his doing he put his ear against Jon's chest and closed his eyes.
Jon's good hand came round and touched him above the cheek, cutting out all the light of the room. It smelled like sawdust and rain.

"This is what getting better feels like", Martin said. He could feel Jon's confusion in the minute hesitance in his hand, but he hadn't really said it to him. He just wanted to remember later. When everything felt like he'd been sad forever and would stay it.
He heard Jon kick off his shoes by the side of the sofa.

__


"Martin. I have to ask something."
Oof. This was Jon's very serious voice. Martin had good sense so he took a seat across the table from Jon. Jon, who was trying so hard to look calm but he radiated unease.

Jon opened and closed his hands.
"I need you to hold onto the rest of the statements for me."
"Okay?"
Jon put one hand flat, hovering just above the table top, and he seemed to find it real interesting. "...I'm running low."
Right. "How many did we start with? That you hadn't read I mean."
"Eleven."
"How many are left?"
Jon didn't look up. "...Three."
"Three? That means you've had nearly one a day!"
"I realise that."
Martin drew in the air. "Well I didn't. ...Wait a minute, how are you recording them again? The tape-"
"I'm not recording them I don't have enough tape."
"I didn't know you could just... read them."
"Well I can."

This was bad. He'd know this was coming, obviously, but he didn't enjoy the numbers a whole lot.
"Why didn't you say sooner?"
Jon pinched his fingers together, plucked at some splinter or other. This limp morose calm Jon exhibited didn't sit right with Martin at all.

"What for, Martin? You can't do anything about it. No more than you're already doing."
"I don't know, maybe to let me know what's happening? It's not like you're just running out of cigarettes, is it?" Martin's raised voice made Jon sink into himself further.

"I didn't bug you about this one thing, Jon, because you're an adult and you know better than me how it works and frankly I don't want to have to deal with any more statements any longer."

Jon closed his eyes and breathed.
"I'm saying it now."
"With three statements left?"
There was a heavy pause.
"It'll be fine. I can last the week."
"Do you know? Like, do you actually know that?"
"Yes. I won't like it but it will be alright. I'm just asking because, because-" He tucked his hands under his elbows. "The last one I didn't even mean to read it I just looked and I - sort of ...ended up. Having read it."

Well I won't like it either, Jon. I didn't like you on the bus, not then.

Jon leaned his arms on the table and unfolded them as if to reach out towards Martin. "Will you hold onto them for me. Please, Martin."
"What am I supposed to do? Hide them? From you, Jon? You'll just know where they are."
"Just have them by the bed, I do okay during the day." The way he said okay was not a promise.

Martin tried to stay mad. To hold onto the anger. But he could just stare dead ahead, not at Jon, and be very still while he blinked.
"Am I supposed to not give you them if you ask?"

"No! No, Martin. I just. I want to have to ask, you know? I need to have a- a barrier. And I can't think of anything else to do. Or I would be doing it."

Just because Martin knew that he could, he could hold it down if it came to it, that didn't mean he couldn't hate it.
"...Okay."
Monday Basira would go back into the Archives. Add two days by post, maximum. That wasn't too bad.
"Okay", Martin repeated, more firmly this time.

___

Martin stepped out of the shower. It had been slow, somewhat disappointing and not warm enough, but he felt much calmer now. He towelled off his hair, and wiped the steamy mirror with his hand unsuccessfully. He opened the bathroom door so it would clear up and wrapped the towel round his hip.

Earlier he'd put the statements underneath a heavy magazine in the bedside drawer. He also put, without Jon seeing, a handful of things from the toolbox, the loudest and jangliest kind. Shut the drawer tight.
On the top of the night stand, under the reading lamp they'd moved to his side now, he put the poetry book. Making Jon read him sappy cow poems had proven to be plenty distracting, he got very concentrated when feeling out the stressed and unstressed syllables, especially in the less well-written stanzas.

He was shaking the water out of his comb and into the sink when he felt Jon's arms wrap around him from behind coming round Martin's belly. Whenever they faced each other and Martin stood straight Jon had to stand slightly on tip-toes to kiss him fully on the mouth. It was way too endearing. To kiss Martin behind the ear while he was slightly hunched like this he had to reeeally stretch. Martin took pity and straightened, leaned back into Jon, enjoyed himself a moment. A long moment, because Jon kissed the back of his neck, too. And by the spine and shoulders.
Martin caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, brows furrowed high and ears reddening. Caught a glimpse of Jon, too, his chin coming up just over Martin's shoulder, his eyes low.

"I'm not mad, Jon", Martin said. Jon paused.
While in the shower Martin had thought about all the things they'd weathered together. Slapping a statement out of Jon's hand once in a while didn't seem so bad, after all.

"I just... I hadn't realised- You have to tell me things."
Jon's hands retreated from Martin's stomach a bit.
"I'm sorry. I-"
"We have to tell each other things. Even if..." He took a breath. "Even if you think it's a bad time."
He looked into the mirror until Jon looked back.

Yesterday had been... tough. On the both of them. He wasn't going to ask now how many statements Jon had had left before Martin had gone all catatonic on him for half a day. He really didn't want to talk about it. Unfortunately that was part of the point he was making.
Jon didn't look him in the eye long. Unless he'd had Martin thoroughly distracted he'd been treading on eggshells ever since. As if there had been a way to prevent him from randomly waking up wrong.

"It seemed like a really bad time-", Jon tried to pass it off as a funny understatement.
"I was fine by the evening you were just being all--" Martin made a dramatic gesture. 
"I know. I'm sorry."
Jon looked him in the eyes. He looked sorry.

"And I'm fine now", Martin said, raising his tone at the end. He put his hands on Jon's hands.
Jon pressed his lips to the very back of Martin's jaw but he was still looking at his face.
"All I want to hear." 
Now it was both their hands wandering, curving round Martin's lovehandles.

"Want to know who I am mad at? Elias. He kind of put a dampener on this vacation."
He felt Jon breathe a weak laugh against his bare skin.

"But we're making the best of it I think." Martin turned his head, trying to find Jon's face.
"I think so too", Jon muttered. They managed a kiss, but a clumsy one, because Martin's neck wasn't all that limber, and Jon couldn't make up for his height and hold them upright at the same time. They broke apart smiling over it.

Jon let his hands travel up to his belly and Martin let them go, his fingers brushing along the arms as they went, opted for cupping the elbows when they came into reach. Martin sighed and found himself leaning back harder, Jon seemed to hold up pretty firm. 
Jon's fingers parted, applying pressure.

"Are you envious?", Martin asked after a moment, smiling crookedly.
"Wha-?"
"That I still have all of my ribs."
Jon's confusion fluidly bounced into an eyeroll.
"You can count them they're all there, promise."
"I'm happy for you", Jon muttered sorely, dark eyes peeking out from behind Martin's neck as he nipped at the soft part on the side of it.
"Speaking of, some day I'll make you count all of my freckles and make fun of you for losing track."
Jon cocked an eyebrow. "We'll have to schedule an entire other vacation for that."
"Maybe someplace warmer..."

Jon's hands wandered further, testing the trail of hair at the center of Martin's stomach, going up. His chest hair was there in texture only, so light it barely showed up against his heavy-freckled skin. Jon let his fingers run up slowly, finally getting a hold of Martin's hefty chest and giving a squeeze on both sides. Martin closed his eyes again, let Jon kiss his ear and behind it. He didn't even need to lift Martin's hair away, flattened back as it was.
Between the dampness of his skin and Jon the only big difference was the heat of his mouth. Some of Jon's hair fell against Martin when he tilted his head, put his teeth to his neck, lower lip trailing. He could hear Jon's breath so clearly, feel every one of his fingers, so attentive and deliberate.

Martin sighed out loud.
"Careful", he mumbled.
"Why."
Martin thought a moment. Or he made an effort, at least.

"Don't be careful then", he mumbled around a smile. He was unwise that way, Martin was.
Jon squeezed tighter experimentally and Martin chuckled a high note. Jon nipped at his skin, very much less careful.

"Mh?", Jon asked him.
"Hm", Martin replied.

His hands weren't so much holding Jon's arms any more but holding onto them. The ceiling light was bright red against the inside of his eyelids. 
He turned his head away from the light. Jon brought a hand up to touch his face. Two fingers on his jaw, the thumb just under his lip. Turned his chin up slightly. Martin's left nipple got caught in a part between Jon's fingers, maybe accidentally, maybe not. A brief whine escaped Martin; his breathing was steady, but fast.
God. The impossible face he probably had on. Martin couldn't stop himself looking at the mirror. The damned mirror. Maybe they should go to the couch-- The bed. Anywhere else--

Then he saw Jon. He wasn't looking at Martin's dumb, lost expression, he wasn't looking anywhere. Having spent the entire afternoon with his posture coiled tight and distractedly tapping his fingers on the table, on the kitchen counter, on his jaw -- His brow was smooth, eyes nearly shut. His hands were all sinews and so slow, unplanned. Jon looked as though he had nothing to do on this Earth but find the softest parts of Martin, minding the shapes of him, where they connected. Mapping the gradual slope of his neck using just his lips. Oh. Oh.

Martin let his face be tilted further. Jon found a spot where the skin was soft and he could gather it up easily with his teeth. Martin's breath hitched.
He put a hand on the sink to steady himself. His knees got weaker by the second. He raised his other arm, felt around for Jon's head.

From his low sideways loll he glanced at the white tiles of the shower. Where he'd had Jon up against the wall, his mind empty, head under the heavy water... The last time he'd pictured that moment again in his mind he'd had put Jon's hands far higher above his head, had gripped them tight, hadn't been so desperately careful. Not by far. Had pushed him hard. Had held him there until he fought back--

"Jon", he said, his voice small.
In the corner of his eye he saw the glint of Jon's eyes. Martin didn't return his look, couldn't chance having to see his own face deeply colored with whatever flavor of shame he'd arrived at. The careless kind. The You-can-hate-yourself-later kind.

"Can I-"
The towel around him was barely holding onto his skin any more, disturbed by Jon's body coming up against Martin's backside more and more firmly.

"Go ahead", Jon said. Martin cast his eyes to the ceiling. If only Jon didn't sound so together, enunciating impeccably. If only he didn't say it like he'd been laying in wait to say the words. If only he'd say more.

Martin didn't bother putting the towel away, just let it fall around his feet. The air rushed at him cold, a sharp contrast on his blood-pounding skin. It wasn't unwelcome, in that bittersweet sense. He was starting to get a whole lot of strong feelings about this bathroom...
At least this mirror was small. He could barely see below his own chest even standing close. Small blessings.
Not that he had any illusions about the fact that his face would telegraph every. Goddamn. Thing that he did and felt. Martin bit down on the inside of his lip and took himself in hand. It felt like a decision. He looked down at himself and Jon ran hard fingers through the hair at the crown of his head. Martin squeezed his eyes shut. He begun working his hand. 

Maybe Jon would let him hold him like this next time in the shower. His back against Martin, Martin's arms going all the way around him. He could put both hands in Jon's hair until he became weighty in his arms. Kiss him noisy. Maybe he would let him put him against the wall, facing it this time. Elbows up against the tiles. See how far he could push them up... Hold him by the hair and--

"Martin..." Jon's breath touched Martin's damp neck.
Martin mumbled Jon's name in response, his face burning.

"Martin."
He felt Jon's fingers around his right wrist. Trailing down. Martin froze.
"May I--"

Martin's head snapped up. He shook Jon's hand off his wrist. 
No? Of course not that's...

"Why?", Martin blurted out.

Jon met his eyes, startled, but didn't form words.

"Jon. Why. What do you get out of it?"
Jon didn't look like he'd expected to have to speak. He took his hand off Martin's face.

"I'd like to", he said finally, his eyes to the side and his lips against Martin's shoulder. 
He had that half-conceiled curiosity on his face he sometimes got. That Martin was sure he'd had the other night, in the dark, in the bedroom.

Martin tore his thoughts back out of the muddle of his rotten mind.
"Do you- Is that something you want?"

He knew it mattered. The why. Whether Jon was asking he thought it was something Martin wanted. Whether he was just curious. Or he - felt like it? That seemed like wishful thinking.
Martin desperately wished he could bring himself to care about the answer. That would be the right thing to do wouldn't it.
But what if it was just Jon's curiosity? He was all curiosity. Was that so bad?

Jon still looked a bit caught. "Yes?" 
His hand that had curled away from Martin's face came to rest on his collarbone.
"Yes", he repeated, more resolutely.

Martin steadied himself and let go of the sink. Looked at the shower wall one last time.
"Right. But. Let's go to the living room maybe."

Chapter Text

It was early morning. Martin was touring the office - just the Archive parts, because whole the institute was far too big and poorly lit. And they were ground floor and basement anyway, so the worst of the worms got to them. He had half a phone book for squashing and a warped metal dustpan for collecting. Burning them was satisfying, if gross. Martin had once tried salting one, to underwhelming effect.

He was crouched by Tim's desk, lighting underneath it with the hefty flashlight that had quickly become his trusty sidekick once he'd found it in a clutter cupboard.
The door to the office wasn't loud, but he knew the sound of it by heart, could probably have picked it out through a cacophony of slamming doors and wailing children. Martin snapped his head up, visions of Jane fucking Prentiss slamming down on him, materialising bit-by-bit through a barely cracked glass door---
It was Jon, giving the ceiling lights a puzzled look. Martin must've made a sound because Jon jumped about three feet into the air.

"AAAhhhrtin--", he said. "It's you."
"Sorry! I thought you were-" Full of worms and also wearing a tacky red dress. Wait. That was a thought--

"Could you not give me a heart attack??"
Jon was actually clutching his heart. How old was he, eighty-five?

"I'm really sorry", Martin said again, straightening with tired legs. 

"You're up early."
"Yeahh... Couldn't really sleep."

Jon's eyes fell on Martin's hand, still cradling his flash light in the crook of his arm because he was also holding a dustpan and . "...What on Earth are you doing?"
"Oh, um. Sweeping for worms."
Jon eyed Martin's equipment with brows carefully arched. "I see." 
Stiffly he stepped away from the entrance and pushed his glasses further up his nose. He walked a lot straighter than when he'd entered, chin slightly too high. He paused, halfway to his office, struck by a thought.

"...How are you faring?", Jon asked.

"Apart from being scared all the time?" 
Martin surprised himself, hearing his voice go high and fried there, his "haha understatement" voice, something he'd never used in front of Jon. Sneering, unpleasant 'That makes me your boss' Jon.
Wait, had he ever used quite so muted a tone in the morning? With Martin?

"Yes. Apart from that", Jon said, benevolent, generous with his patience.

"Okay, I guess. I'm alive? So... I don't quite know what to do about food...", Martin said, weirdly relaxing under the familiar eye-searing inspection of Jonathan Sims, who unbuttoned his peacoat absently.

"You want I can pick you up something... I can afford a lunch break today probably."
Jon glanced at his watch as though it wasn't still in the lower half of the A.M.s, and Martin debated whether he should mention that lunch breaks were an every-day sort of thing, Jon, not a I-have-to-feed-the-office-Martin-sometime-this-week sort of thing.

"You'd do that?", Martin said, accidentally letting on his bone-deep skepticism.

"Unless you want to ask Tim or Sasha", Jon said, undoing the flimsy illusion of human decency he'd so carefully spun just now. Ask somebody else.

He stretched to hang his coat by the door of his office. The hook was a bit high and he had to adjust the hem of his vest afterward. "Though they'll both make a fuss about it, I'd wager."
Huh. Maybe don't ask someone else ...?

"Yeaah. I think I'll avoid giving Sasha the opportunity to snoop out my credit card number...", Martin said. 
Jon looked at him, clueless. Oh, shit. 
"I mean. Just an inside joke that we have." 
Way to rat out Sasha's concerning habit of being able to 'guess' people's bank balance.

"Right. Let me know what you need by eleven or it'll just be canned peaches for you I'm afraid", Jon said while opening up his office. Martin was afforded a bare three seconds to react with a hurt "Hey!" before Jon let the door fall shut behind him.

Martin woke to a faceful of Jon's hair, a bit confused. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand a few times, getting the tickle off.
Jon mumbled something and kicked at the blanket. He had an arm lodged round Martin's head, far too tight.

This was new. Jon tended to be the one holding Martin to his chest, not the other way around. When Martin moved, Jon's nose slipped even deeper into the dent made by Martin's shoulder and head. Almost felt like he was trying to climb inside his collar and take up residence in his shirt. Adorable, but uncomfortable if Martin wanted to keep dozing at all.

Martin unearthed the offending arm and gently angled it to fold against Jon's chest, who seemed to be under deep. The pull of his hold had been all leftover tension, no muscle.

Watching the slow rise and fall of his pointy shoulder, Martin recalled the odd nostalgia of his dream. Maybe another memory one. He didn't remember what about, just felt a lingering uncertainty in his throat and jaw. He pulled the blanket over Jon, past his torso.

__


"I don't see the point, it's just going to grow back."

Martin pulled harder at a particularly deep-rooted weed. These gloves weren't exactly sturdy enough for this kind of work any more.

"I'm just trying to give the ivy some space to grow." Without looking he gestured at the reddening leaves that scaled the wall on this side of the cabin. The lower parts of the plant were all wood-y and the leaves there hung loose and sad. 
"I just want to leave something in a better state than we found it in."

He could tell Jon was watching him work while he considered this.
"Alright. Let me know if I should bring you out some tea or something."
"Yep."

To be honest, it had crossed Martin's mind multiple times that he was fighting a losing battle here, and everything would just bramble over again come spring, but the more he did it the more he realised he missed the work of it. He'd even eyed the flower pots out front, but he had nothing to plant in them, nothing that would keep the winter anyway. And anything he brought inside the house wouldn't last once they...
Martin sighed and leaned his weight into it.

____

Martin came back inside looking crestfallen. When he turned away from the door he was cradling a few violet flower heads.
"I think I accidentally pulled some Woundwort...", he said while filling a low glass to put them in. He had the air of someone who was directing a funeral.

"I'm sure the land will recover", Jon told him over the disassembled plastic radio arranged on the table he was attempting to clean the dust out of. And hopefully put back it together in the right order.

Martin put the flowers on the window sill, almost pushed up against the glass, as if the cloud-smothered Scotland sun might re-root them if he just showed enough contrition.
"They're really good for bees..."

"The bees here probably already stopped swarming in these temperatures", Jon said, fiddling with a screw cover. Martin gave him a look. Probably annoyed again over Jon being a know-it-all. Jon put his screwdriver down and leaned back in his chair.
"If it helps I think I'm doing more harm than good here as well..."

Martin looked over the table and then gave Jon a silent half-amused look that he didn't enjoy. The same sort of look he had when Jon was making dinner and finally had to cave and ask Martin's advice on something or other. The fact that his eyes were full of fondness didn't take the sting out of it entirely.

"Ah well", Martin walked round the table and absently touched Jon's head on the way. "At least we had good intentions, the both of us."
Jon snorted and without looking reached for Martin's sleeve as he tried to wander away. 
"If only good intentions were money. We'd be rich", Jon said, stretching his back.

Martin hovered behind Jon and put his hand back where it had been, just above his ear. It was cool from the outdoors.
"Filthy rich, for sure. Big golden manor in the countryside rich."

Jon made a face. "The country, really? I'd prefer by the city."
"Pff. Buy your own manor then."
Martin wobbled Jon's head unnecessarily and then walked off to the shower.

When he heard the bathroom door fall shut Jon buried his face in his hands. He'd meant to ask Martin to... do something. Do a crossword, play cards, have a tea party, anything. Maybe go on a walk. Take him out of this house. Anywhere. Maybe just have a conversation. Those helped. He could go join him in the shower maybe? But that seemed... a rude way to ask for a distraction. 
He should keep it together. He should be able to, by himself. This wasn't Martin's problem.

Jon looked over the table from between his fingers. He'd thought if he adhered to a strict system he would remember where everything went. But there was no chance. The screws ordered by size were already blending together before his eyes.
It wasn't caused supernaturally but he still was reminded of the shifting patterns of Fractals, how people tended to describe the effect - hazy, confused, always modified with addendums and reassertions of reality. Almost as if moving - seemed to move -- playing tricks on your eyes...

Jon stood to bring some distance between himself and the table and decided to leave the radio alone for now.

Maybe he could eat something. This morning Martin had splurged on some bacon and all Jon had been able to do is stare at the strips, the layers of the meat separated neatly in color and texture; you could pull them apart so easily, divide them out into flat strings like an oily dissection.
Aren't you hungry?, Martin would say and Jon just reached for the fruit bowl. Jon stared at it again now. Sometimes, when he looked at food, all he could see was objects. Liquids, piles, substances. They were supposed to go in your mouth, some healthier than others but the distinction between dirt and nutrition was so ill-defined, haphazardly decided. Troublesome.
He went outside.

At the side of the cabin he found the bucket of torn weeds Martin had put up against the wall, probably unsure where to dump them. There wasn't really a compost site anywhere near here. Jon followed the lines of the climbing vines up the exterior. A few of them were sneaking underneath the lines of the roof, probably in the process prying through the insulation. 
Jon narrowed his eyes, trying to estimate whether their ladder was tall enough to climb up and snip the more intrusive branches away.

Grant Walker, his mind offered, something unspooling. He placed his foot on the lowest rung and began to climb. It was slow and watching it was almost as painful as my shattered bone. His neck was rigid, stiff with the will not to look down. He was barely ten feet off the ground, and--

Pinching the bridge of his noise, Jon walked away.

____

Martin was shampooing his hair when there was a knock on the door.
"What's up?"

Jon didn't open the door. 
"Do you want to go on a walk later?"
"It's about to rain I think", Martin yelled almost. Couldn't this wait? He turned off the water. In the resulting silence he heard the tail end of a groan, as if uttered directly against the wood of the door. 

"Jon?"
"It's fine", he heard Jon say, and then footsteps retreated.

____

Jon stared into the fire. He'd gotten quite enamored with it. The wood, the ritual of lighting it. In the nights he did his best to keep it going but low, so the warmth would last until the next day with as little waste of wood as possible. It was a fun game of balance and expedience. Soothing, like washing clothes by hand or punching a nail through the wall. Good old-fashioned handiwork. Lately whenever he looked into the white hot parts in the middle, though, he felt a faint pounding in his right hand, and it felt hotter against his knee. He'd always thought the scar tissue there looked waxy, a little too shiny to be real skin. Almost as if he could get his nails underneath and peel--

"Are you okay?"

Jon dragged his eyes away.
He considered lying. Considered it so long he ended up not answering at all.

Martin was rubbing his hair with a towel but he'd paused.
"Maybe a walk isn't a bad idea. We've got rain jackets", Martin said, a crinkle between his eyebrows.

"What about your wet hair", Jon said. They didn't have a dryer.

"I can put on a hat", Martin said, resolved. He tossed the towel over his shoulder. "You look about ready to crawl up the walls."

____


The rain wasn't so bad. Not until the sky got darker and the ground got soggy and ate the soles of their shoes hungrily with each step. Jon was back to his old walking-too-far-ahead posture and eventually Martin just grabbed his hand and let Jon drag him along. He couldn't even be properly mad at him, he had a face like he was on the run from something.

He did slow down after a while, if only to curse at his less-than weather-appropriate footwear, and then later to help pull Martin out of a muddy pile of loose earth.
"Oh fucking... shoelaces-", Martin said when he felt his foot come loose in his trainer. Jon steadied him while he bent down to tug at the lip of the heel. It came lose with a hefty sucking noise and Jon caught his stumble.

Martin took a tight breath. "Can we go stand under those trees for a bit?", he said, instead of cursing some more.
Jon mumbled something and steered them towards the nearby treeline.

"Alright. So are you gonna talk about it or -?" Martin had his hood pulled back and stood nearer to a big oak with lots and lots of layers of leaves. They held up pretty well against the onlsaught of the sky.

Jon hovered a moment, watching the rain come down in sheets. When he turned his expression was a bit of a mystery because his glasses were speckled with water droplets.

"...Maybe you were right. I am getting a little cooped up", he said, turning on his heel, hands in his pockets.

"I'm always right, Jon", Martin said flatly, and when Jon walked over and was close enough he took the glasses away from him and fished for a corner of his jumper to wipe them dry.

Jon smiled faintly into one corner of his mouth when he let Martin put them back. 

"Actually. In truth I... could use a statement when we get back", he said then, his mouth set tight.

"Is that it? Why you've been weird?"

"Yes I... I'm starting to have trouble concentrating."
Every word that left his mouth sounded like there should be ten more of each. Like Jon was condensing a novella into one sentence, and not bothering to convey any of the actual gist of it.

"Coming right up then... Are you okay to wait out the rain? I'm thinking maybe we'll catch a break."
Jon looked at Martin like they were at sea and he had the only boat; and nodded.

Martin was sat down with his back against the oak and Jon, once he got tired of pacing, joined him and tucked himself against Martin's shoulder.

Martin had his head back against the bark. "So when you... it gets hard to concentrate?"
Jon nodded again. Against the plastic of Martin's jacket it made a pesky swsh swsh sound.

"That's kind of...", Martin wiggled his toes in his soggy shoes. Gross. "I used to think it was so distracting when anyone showed up in my office, when I was working for Peter. Like they were taking something away from me."
Jon hummed grimly. "Definitely gave me that impression, yes."

"I've been thinking. I think I'm fine now, to have some alone time again? -- In small doses! The other day... You snapped me out of it and stuck with me and that was important but. When I couldn't stop crying it was almost like... I felt you worry? And I. Christ this is gonna sound bad but. I had to walk in the grass alone just to only feel ...my own mess. Sorry if that's..."

"No that makes... a small amount of sense actually."
"Does it?"
Jon lifted his head and his hand, palm loosely upwards.
"Well the goal of the Lonely is to curb empathy, in a way. To starve it, mangle it so the only feeling that remains is absence. So it stands to reason that when coming out of it... The effect must be rather startling."

"Oh", Martin said, surprised at the length of thought Jon had to offer. "I hadn't thought about it like that."

"I'm glad you're feeling better about it now."
"Tch, yea. I can hardly ask you to hold my hand for the rest of your life."
Jon smiled now, a bit oddly.

Martin pulled his woolen hat down a little, poking some hair back underneath with a finger. Then he let his hand drop into his lap.
"Anyway. It was bad and really just - eugh - but I think I... figured out a few things. During.

Thing is, time went all funny, you know? In the Lonely. And for a while after it was like... Whenever I started feeling lonely here it felt like I'd been it forever. Like I'd always been lonely, and it wouldn't be alright ever again. But now I know that's bullshit. It's not real, it's just a feeling. And it'll pass."

Jon fumbled with his sleeve and snuck it underneath Martin's arm, eventually lacing their hands together.

Martin looked into the clouds. "You know how in the Lonely... There's the beach. And it's sort of beautiful? Quiet and empty. You leave little footprints in the white sand and the waves will wash them away after a while. You've seen it. It's like... it would be nice. If you could leave again. If it didn't do that thing where it fogs over and the ground turns all sharp if you try to go back... If it didn't go on forever. I think that's what scared me the most. The forever part."

He looked over at Jon and he looked absolutely harrowed.
"Jon?"
He swallowed. "Could you... not talk about that now please."
"Oh. Okay..."
He noticed Jon's angled knee shake over a restless foot. "I'm- I want to hear it. Later. Not now. Is that alright."
"Sh...ure."

"I don't think it's gonna stop raining", Martin said a moment later. "We should get going."
"Re-tie your shoes first."
"Right."

__

Martin came back downstairs and Jon was fully asleep, still wearing his rain jacket, getting the sofa all soggy. Martin took his glasses and lifted his hand off of the statement on the coffee table and gave the sleeve a tug. Jon came alive a little and retreated his arm, twisting himself out of the rest of his jacket that was mushed underneath him.
"Sorry. Sometimes it's...", he muttered.

"Feeling better?"
"Mhm."
Jon got up on one elbow and put a hand to his nose, before he realised his glasses were gone. 
"Thank you", he said when Martin finally wrested the jacket away. Martin took it and Jon's shoes, knocked over by the foot of the couch, and put them near the fireplace.

____

Jon blinked a few times, trying to shake the images of dried ocean flats and cracked ground. A sky that bent sharply around a blank featureless mountain like a maw, casting negative space so deep it mimicked the Mariana Trench, but in the inverse. Only going down, down into empty blue that promised nothing, not even the silence of a dark cosmos. The earth wasn't round, it was only endless, and a trap.

Martin stood back up by the fire, his clothes rustling. His hair was all bent into novel shapes by drying underneath cable knit wool pulled on tight.
"You should take your socks off, too, they can't be dry", he said. Eugh. Christ. He was right. Trousers, too.

__

Lunch was good. Martin talked about his potted plants he'd left behind in London. Not quite mourning them, but he came close to it over the hydrangeas. Pink and blue mixed, sometimes blending together --

"Jon if you put any more salt on that I will climb over this table and hunt you."
Jon paused. "Wha- Why?"
"'s not healthy, first of all."
Jon snorted. "What, you're worried about my cholesterol-"
"Also it's real rude to the cook."

Jon put the shaker down with a plunk. "Sorry to say this but you always put too little."
"Yeah! Because salt is bad for you!"
"Please. Next you're going to watch my amino acids."
"Don't give me ideas."

Jon raked his potatoes across the plate thoughtfully.

Martin put his fork hand down on the table. "I'm not joking."
"I know", Jon said, still smiling.

__


"I thought about what you said. About leaving the house better than we found it. There are some spare roof tiles in the back, I'm thinking of maybe fixing that leak, if the weather breaks."
"I dunno. It only comes out in the other room and we got plenty of buckets."
"It'll run over sometime if we're not there to empty it."

"Hmmm." Martin shifted, stretching his shoulders. Jon heard a joint pop somewhere deep. "I'm not liking the idea of you climbing on the roof is all."

Jon scoffed, and suppressed the urge to point out that if he broke a bone, he'd probably be fine in minutes. "I'll be fine, you can hold the ladder."
Martin made a noncommittal noise to this and just buried his hand in Jon's hair and kissed the top of his head.

"Did you want to get a little more sleep in?", he asked.
Jon thought about it. "I don't think so."
He reached for the remote on the coffee table and with one fingertip inched it into his hand and turned off the TV that, it having reached the end of the cassette, just ran a backlit black screen now. The resulting silence was a different one than before, the subtle electric hum now gone all at once.

When he settled his chin back down on Martin Jon's body immediately changed its mind. He closed his eyes.

"Right then, I'll go get us some tea then", Martin announced and started to get up.
"I don't need tea", Jon said, eyes still shut, a dead weight on Martin while he scooted out from under him stubbornly.
"Well I want some", Martin said in return and Jon grumbled. He caught Martin's arm, but he was already up on one leg, the other knee on the sofa still. Their eyes met. Jon glowered. Martin countered. Until he snorted, bent down and gave Jon a kiss.

Martin very clearly thought he could get away with just giving him a soft peck and then leave. But Jon still had his arm, so he pulled himself up and bargained for another one. Martin's weight changed. Then he touched both hands to Jon's face like a trap that had snapped shut and kissed him on the face, repeatedly, randomly, until Jon laughed and tried to turn away, but he could only roll on his back, legs curled into the blanket.

"Let go", Martin said, pouting. Jon still had a handful of his jumper. He gave it a tug.
"No."
"I want my tea."
"No."
Martin's face was barely an inch away.
"Quit being a brat", he said quietly, making Jon's grin wider.
"I'm not."

If Martin was annoyed he had an interesting way of showing it. Because he leaned over Jon and kissed his mouth, quite hard and instantly nudging his tongue in deep. He held Jon's head between his hands firmly and opened his mouth so wide it was obscene almost. Maybe he thought of it as punishment. Spitefully, Jon let out a contented sigh, to let him know it wasn't working.
Somewhere by his thigh Jon felt Martin put his weight back on his knee, and let his elbows come to rest on Jon's upper chest. The result was that Jon found himself very out of breath in the next few moments. Martin noticed and immediately let up. Jon put his own hands around Martin's head, stopping him from going anywhere. The tips of their noses were nearly touching.

Sometimes Jon forgot how Martin's eyebrows actually were wider than they looked from afar, how the individual hairs fanned out so perfectly towards the middle of his forehead, almost invisible. And how the creases of his eyelids normally nearly connected with the inner corner of his eye, but never when he looked down.

Jon found he could move his head enough to bring their lips together again, just the lips, mouth open a fraction. Just that, moving slightly, exchanging challenging nudges, uncoordinated and languid, until the sound of their breathing became louder and stronger and there rose a sense of them both daring the other to give up. 
Feeling lazy, Jon increased the pressure of his fingers on Martin's scalp, letting them climb more tightly into his hair, tight enough to hurt. As expected Martin made a noise in his throat and took the dive. Jon pressed him close, and Martin took this to mean he could lean harder, finally. He tipped Jon's head further back until all he could hear was the rustle of Martin's hands by his ears, one moved up, turned into Martin's forearm against his ear. And that was all. He could ....hear.

To Jon it felt weirdly like getting the breath knocked out of him, except gently and confoundingly, and instead of running out of air it was the constant rattle of his thoughts that went away. What was left was just... quiet.
He only registered Martin giving him a kiss on the side of his face because it was wet. Martin's knee knocked against Jon's leg and he moved it so he could put it between Jon's thighs and get back onto the couch fully.

Dimly Jon noted his left hand had fallen against the backrest of the sofa. 

He cleared his throat. "So no tea, then?"
"Oh hush", Martin said, pushing his face to the side with his nose. He'd ended up with one arm circling Jon's head, his other hand swiped his hair to the side and then laid against his neck, not still though, fingers roaming, curving. 

"I thought you love tea."

"I do", Martin sighed. He dragged a wet line from the side of his jawline to the cheek with his lower lip. With his left hand he muddled up the part in Jon's hair. Jon heard himself make a pleased sound.

"I can love two things", Martin said defensively and pursed his lips against Jon's upper lip only.
"Is that supposed to hurt my feelings", Jon mumbled.

Martin smiled and whispered, "You should talk less." Jon huffed, but it wasn't quite a laugh any more. "Never heard that one before."
Martin breathed a 'Huh', then made a point of occupying Jon's mouth awhile, making the problem moot, in a semipermanent fashion.

The blanket was clutching Jon's legs, Martin's knee having pulled it taught in the middle. Jon pushed against the draw of the fabric, just to feel it. When he fully straightened he felt his spine pop in two places. 
Martin hummed against his mouth thoughtfully. He'd touched a thumb below Jon's lower lip, off-center, pulling his mouth open ever so slightly.
Without looking Jon could tell the expression Martin must have just by his intake of air in that moment. That lost-in-thought one, eyes ahead but far away.

Cool air met one side of Jon's face when Martin took his hand away. Two fingers ambled over his collarbone, tugged the collar of his shirt to the side. Some of Martin's hair brushed past the side of his nose when he dipped lower to dapple kisses to his shoulder. Martin usually ended up taking a route. Chin to forehead. Ear to jaw. Knuckle to elbow. Shoulder to neck.

Jon turned his head, nose touching the crook of Martin's sleeved arm. It smelt like watered plants and Darjeeling. He put his arm against Martin's, circling around it lengthwise, then pushed his face further in, breathing deep. Concentrated on the skin of his neck reacting to Martin's gentle relentless mouth. Jon remembered he had a second hand. Somewhere. Where was it.

"Are you falling asleep?", Martin said softly.
Jon was very reluctant to retreat from Martin's worn out sweater. 
"No. Not exactly."
Martin had something like offense on his face, pure theatre. Jon found his left hand and put it on his face, trying hard to look more present. 
Martin grinned and twirled a finger into his hair. "Better watch out, I could do this for hours."
Jon couldn't blink very fast. "I won't stop you."

Martin narrowed his smiling eyes like he was solving a problem. His torso moved a little. Then a hand drove under Jon's shirt and up it at speed, pushing a startled sound out of him that ended up a laugh. His head raised from the cushion a moment with the involuntary curl of his back, goosebumps rising against Martin's hand and the evil chuckle against his jawbone. His hands and flown up at some point to hold against Martin's sides with zero intention to stop him.

"I'm awake, I'm awake", Jon assured him but Martin wasn't finished. He descended on his neck with a mission. Jon had foolishly put his head back to laugh. He was still laughing, voicelessly, stomach constricting on its own, feeling Martin's forearm upset the hair on his chest. His laugh was turning a bit frantic, high, and even though Martin was hardly moving, Jon couldn't help but squirm.

Jon squeezed his eyes shut, willing his senses to not tip over now, not now. It wasn't fair, not him, not to Mar- 
Ah. Oh, hang on.

____

"Martin."
Martin let go of Jon's face. He recognised this. Jon had had that same strained voice he'd had the other day, that same arch of the brows, high and drawn together. Except he had his eyes closed still.
"You okay?", he asked.

Jon cracked a smile, somewhat out of breath. "Uh-huh. Listen-" He gathered one hand to his own chest, then looked hesitant. He squinted one eye open and looked Martin in the face with it. He felt Jon angle his left knee slightly underneath him.
He had both eyes open now, visibly looking for what to say but without much hope in him.
"Uh", he finished. Full stop.
"Jon", Martin said warily, like he always did when Jon was being so obtuse he made himself borderline slappable.
Frustrated, Jon closed his eyes and took a breath. He shifted where he was and dropped the hand from Martin's lovehandle. 
"What", Martin asked again. Jon needed reminding, a lot, that he couldn't tell with him. He simply --

Jon put firm fingers to Martin's thigh and pulled down. Martin let him, even though it was a bad idea. Baad- 
The fabric of his joggers was thin. So was that of Jon's boxers. Like, really- Really thin. And the - The.

Martin stared at Jon. Jon looked back, a bit sheepish.
"Jon", Martin said blankly.
Jon nodded.

"Jon!"
Martin's heart got very busy having to decide between delight and a full-blown panic.

"What do you want to do?", he said, eyes wide.
Jon laughed. He made a clueless sound like 'I don't know.'
"God could you be more unhelpful."
"I'm sorry." He was still smiling. "It'll probably go away soon they never last."
"Not if I can help it", Martin, zero thoughts in his head. 

Jon bit down another smile, unsuccessfully.
Martin frowned at himself, then with concern. "Can...I?"
Jon rolled his eyes. "You let me touch yours", he said as if this was all rather self-evident. Martin fought the urge to shake him by the shoulders.

"Well. Jon", he said pausing between each word, brows drawn high. "It's not a transaction. Do you want-"
"Yes, Martin", Jon said, impatience obvious.
Martin nearly inhaled his next words and died. For the sheer trust in Jon's eyes. The one curl of hair resting against the side of his chin.

Jon's hand raised from his chest and moved between them, not that much, to hook a finger into the collar of Martin's shirt.
Martin drew a breath that fought him with a shiver. But he'd learned, learned he had to breathe more in moments like these. So he finished filling his lungs tight and let it go slowly.

Jon didn't move safe for the increasing weight of his hand on Martin's shirt. So, Martin followed it. When his chest was about to touch down he took Jon's hand by the wrist to make space. He put it by Jon's head, not meaning to trap it. Just aside.

He didn't kiss Jon, not yet. Instead he put his face against the side of Jon's face, dragged his nose and lips across it. Breathed him in. He didn't manage enough gentleness, felt Jon's head roll to the side under the motion. Just as well, he could kiss his exposed neck, then. And throat. Oh, his shoulder.

"Jon", he whispered. "Can I take off your shirt?"
Jon didn't answer right away. His head moved minutely. Nodding? 
"Yeap", he said eventually.

Jon moved very slowly now. The arch of his back was a bit delayed when Martin tried to pull up the hem of his shirt underneath him. Once he pulled it over Jon's head and off his arms Martin immediately forgot the shirt's existence.
Jon brushed the stray hair out of his face with both hands.

While Jon's arms were still up Martin touched the underside of them, starting just above the elbow and travelling down, then across the ribs. For all his scars his skin was so soft. So soft. His body hair, where it was stronger, followed clean lines, solid directions. Martin was so caught up in feeling his way to Jon's hips he only noticed Jon come back to life when he kissed him, both hands holding his head, pulling himself up with his whole torso.
Instinctively Martin grabbed Jon more firmly at the waist, helped him stay upright and angled. Adjusted his knees for balance. Between his legs he felt something tense up at the touch of Jon's pelvis. Lots of tensing up, actually. Not all of it... his.

He wasn't done processing all this but he also wasn't done kissing Jon just yet, who'd loosened his hold to draw a breath. Martin's hand came loose and held the back of Jon's head close.
Jon's fingers curled more tightly into Martin's scalp. Jon groaned. Groaned.

They were all off-balance now. Martin did his best to slow them down before they fell back into the cushions, heads-first. Jon's back was still coiled tight, their stomachs together, hips- -
Air left Jon's lungs loudly but he didn't loosen his hold one bit. Martin withdrew his hand from between Jon's head and the cushions, pushed his other along the side of him, his thumb came to rest somewhere under his chest.

Martin smiled into the wound-up needfulness in him, and Jon. He nudged his mouth against the corner of Jon's mouth, kissed it until he smiled too, though briefly. He seemed preoccupied. Martin allowed some of his weight to come down on Jon, kissed him until both his ears touched the couch. Until there was a sigh. Nice. Seemed to work every time.

When Martin sat back a little he was pointedly, bodily reminded what it was they were doing at the moment. He touched his hands to Jon's elbows, bringing them down from around his own neck, easing the hold on him, just to check Jon's face. 

Poor planning on his side though -- the sight of Jon, befuddled and shiny-lipped made him skip a heartbeat or ten.
He touched the knuckle of his index finger to the side of Jon's mouth, wiping it dry. Watched Jon's neck move as he swallowed.

Had to pick his thoughts back up, one by one.

Tearing himself away and out of Jon's light fingers Martin sat up and scooched back a bit, gently let his palm settle flat on Jon's stomach.

"Jon. I won't do anything unless you ask", he let him know sternly. Jon gave a small huff, turned his head to the side, the pool if his hair dragging across the sofa on one side.
"Please?", he said quietly. But then he gave a small laugh, as if at himself. He lowered his chin to watch Martin. Martin's hands, rather. Martin followed his gaze and watched them too. Running around and under the band of his boxers, coaxing them down, hypnotically.

Judging by the frayed edges of these pants they'd never seen such care in their life. Martin began wondering if he wasn't going rather too slow until he met Jon's eyes. If the world crashed around them now and put him to death this was all he had really needed. Jon's eyes right now, so warm. Not quite smouldering but getting there. Maybe one day.

Martin cast his look down without really thinking.
He'd seen it before, of course he'd seen it he wasn't blind was he. And he wasn't self-restrained, was he. In the bathroom, in the bedroom, from behind the book he wasn't reading. But. There was a difference. Seeing and... being let to look. Being shown. A huge difference.

God, he had a pretty penis. But then he thought everything about Jon was pretty. He'd always been fascinated by Jon's body hair, it was so well defined and mesmerising and he had that happy trail that just...
Good bones, a voice at the back of his mind offered and he very nearly laughed. He didn't have the facial tension to laugh, thankfully. Wouldn't that be rude.

Jon angled his knees, allowed Martin to get rid of the boxers whole. They also ceased to exist.
Jon looked a bit self-conscious now, the back of one hand by his mouth. But he still watched him with something like curiosity. But Martin didn't want him to be self-conscious. Keeping his eyes in check now he drew himself up, then put his weight onto his hands again, resting on each side of Jon's waist and dipped down to kiss Jon's chest. He didn't often get to do that. Jon welcomed him with a chuckle, an arm against his upper arm, a finger touching his ear before the palm even got to his face.

Kissing the dip in Jon's clavicle he tried hard not to overthink this. Martin reached his right hand down, really hoping his hand was steady.
First he touched below Jon's navel, because it was just too tempting. Just follow the trail. The short hairs rustled gently under his nails. Jon had closed his eyes again.

"You tell me if it gets too much, yea?"
"Uh-huh", Jon said slowly, and then his breath climbed in pitch when Martin's hand took a detour, pinky brushing the thigh as he followed the route of his pubic hair until it got wilder, juust rounding Jon's penis. It had laid against his hip slightly curved still, he wasn't quite hard yet. And Martin was made of patience.

Jon inhaled and Martin felt how his jaw set. 

Martin lifted his head. "What? I said I could this for hours", he said, grinning madly. Jon opened one eye and frowned, then rolled his eyes, groaning. One of his hands clapped against Martin's head, pushing him against Jon's neck, unceremoniously burying his nose in deep. Still grinning, Martin nuzzled against it and felt Jon's shoulders shake with a silent huff.

This was where his fingers touched the base of Jon's shaft, just two, and lightly travelled up the underside of it. Martin held still a moment, observing the change in Jon's breathing, slowed and then stalled. His hand remained tight against Martin's head. Somewhere at the end of the sofa he heard Jon's foot rustling the blanket.
Before he'd travelled the entire length there was a twitch, the head pushed against Martin's palm and Jon released a breath.
Martin kissed Jon where his mouth had landed and turned his hand, fingers circling, and with his thumb - more confidently now - rounded the head of his penis. He raised eyes to watch Jon.

He still had a faint frown over closed eyes. His lips parted and twitched a little. Having crested the tip Martin's thumb came away wet and he spread a little circle's worth across the top of his penis.
Jon's face became very interesting then, some obscure muscle pulling his ears back. Martin gave a squeeze. The crease between Jon's brows deepened. From somewhere Jon's foot came up against Martin's calf, tensed and pushed Jon's hip further up and into Martin's hand. He pulled against the draw, rubbing down. Felt him stiffen nicely. Jon released a noisy breath. 

Martin ignored the sound of rushing blood in his own ears and steadied on. Back up. Down. Building rhythm slowly, and then helped by the movement in Jon's pelvis. Jon turned his face toward him and Martin let him settle the side of his nose against his chin.

This was when the sound of Jon's breathing got ragged. And loud. Like, loud. Martin laughed, surprised. Jon bit his lip and curbed his breathing. Grinning, Martin kissed the side of his mouth. "Worried about the neighbours again?", he whispered.
"...Shut up", Jon said, strained. He turned his head and made an attempt to kiss the grin off of Martin's face.

On a hunch, Martin squeezed his right hand quite hard and something stumbled out of Jon's mouth that wasn't a quite a word, not quite a moan. 
The heat on Martin's face was now outdone by that in his own groin which was dangerously close to Jon's thigh. Martin could trust his muscle memory enough at this point to kiss Jon hard on the mouth, feel his next moan against his teeth, in his skull. Jon's curled fingers made their way loosely into his hair. He still had his other arm round Jon's head, tightly now because Jon had pushed himself up, spread out long over the couch. Making noise. Lots of noises. Fantastic noises. God. If Martin had an ounce less self-control he'd not be above dry-humping Jon's leg at this point. Honestly, Martin.

After a moment he could feel Jon's hand stiffen and he bit down his next breath, frustration invading his expression.
"Jon you have to breathe", Martin said. Jon winced, chest held tight, and turned his face away sharply. Oh, oh. What a beautiful idiot.

"C'mon. It's nice, do it more. There are no neighbours."
Jon groaned against Martin's arm, inhaled sharply. Martin kissed his throat.
"Pleeease?"
That might have been a laugh.
"Jon please."
Jon hissed from between his teeth and mumbled something rude probably. He moaned again, then looked angry about it.

Martin had his face against the length of his neck now, which had tensed up dramatically. "Am I not doing it right Jon?"
Martin was going to have a sore arm after this. Nails dug into the skin behind his ear.

Jon had his lips closed so tight every breath ended in a Mh. Martin kept waiting for him to resign, let his voice and lungs do what they had to but he was a stubborn, stubborn man. Sweat shone on his forehead now. God, hopefully he wouldn't burst a -

All at once Jon's body became tight, curled, gasped loud. There was a jerk from round his stomach. Martin felt something warm on his hand. He smiled.

Martin continued a moment longer, until Jon squirmed under him. He let go, fingers carefully closed, gathering himself. 
Kissed Jon's jaw briefly. Oh, why weren't there any tissues -

Jon breathed deep, still fast. He swallowed thickly and put a hand own his face.
When he opened his eyes he looked shocked.

Martin froze.
"Are you okay?"

Slowly, Jon nodded. He wasn't breathing any slower still.

"Sure?"
"I'm sure."

Martin sighed a relief. He turned carefully on his hip and laid his head down on his arm. Laid his hand on Jon's chest, palm-up.

Jon blinked a few times. "That's... never worked before", he said.

This information took a while to land.
"Really?"

"Mh. With someone. There."

Martin bit down a giggle. "Oh my."

Jon looked at him. His eyes were all soft. Then they changed. "You get very irritating, you know that?"
Martin laughed.
"Yup."
He didn't apologise.

Chapter Text

"So that was a good face you made then", Martin said to the ceiling. 
He felt Jon's face do something where it lay mushed against his chest.

"Pardon?"

"The other day when we were kissing. I thought I'd gone a little too far? But you made it again just now."
There was a pause. Martin wasn't quite sure if Jon was being predictably mute on the topic, or simply falling asleep. He didn't quite want to let it go, though.

"Why'd you let me stop?"

Jon turned his head slightly. A hand crawled up to rub at his nose. "I don't know. ...Didn't occur to me, I suppose."
"Well", Martin picked his words carefully. "You know it goes both ways, right? You can say Stop anytime. You can also say Don't stop, anytime."
"...Right", Jon said, to the tune of a penny dropping.

"'Cause unlike you, I can't read minds."

"I can't read-", Jon said sullenly before he decided to take it as a joke. He raised his head, finally, his chin coming to a pointy rest on Martin’s sternum. "You seemed to be doing alright on your own", he said slowly, verging on accusatorially. Without his glasses he always looked a little drowsy.

"Jon I'm serious. You're not great at, you know. Letting me know things. I just wanna know what we're doing."

Jon raised a brow, like he wasn't sure what the hell Martin was talking about. Martin raised a brow also, and tried to imitate Jon's unhelpful expression. Now they were just staring questions at each other. 

"Figuring it out", Jon said, fluttering a hand.
"Figuring what out, Jon?"

Jon raised both hands off of Martin's chest. Dropped them.
"The-", Jon began confidently and then seemed to lose conviction. He sat himself up half-assedly. Ugh, his knees were so sharp.
"Me. I suppose", Jon shrugged and made the face he made when he was trying to be self-deprecating, "Which, is a little late in the day, I realise... I just never felt the need."
"Jon", Martin said. "I don't need you to change or anythi-"

"No, Martin", Jon was half leaning against the backrest of the couch. "I do now. I do. It's not -- for you, because that would be ludicrous." 
He glanced to the side. "Because of you, rather."

"Oh."
The sides of Martin's face began to heat up. "That's, uh. Good."

Jon interrupted the rushing tide of fondness in his heart by tilting his head, suddenly concerned. 
"Martin. You keep asking me-- I hope you don't ever...? Do something you don't want? To be ...helpful?"

Without his doing Martin's head bobbed backwards a little, struck.
"No. No, I learned that lesson", he said lightly. Jon's face remained complicated.

Martin sighed, twirled a lock of his own hair between his fingers. Pulled one corner of his mouth inward, an approximation of a smile. "Having sex young is bad. Don't do it."
He laughed at himself but Jon just looked perturbed.

"I'm really not liking the sound of your highschool boyfriends ", he said, shifting to cross his arms.
Martin waved a hand and picked at the frayed end of his sweater. "You can beat one up if we ever see one", he offered. Jon's face cracked a little, potentially at a mental image Martin would have paid money to view.

"You make it sound like there's a lot of them."
Martin shrugged, meaning to look cheeky in the process. Seemed to work because Jon took a moment to decide whether to look scandalised or endeared and then picked both. 

For a moment Martin watched Jon dig himself deeper into his madness of a sitting position, squeezing an ankle under Martin’s knee. In the end he managed to look actually snug, squinting lazily against the windows.

"So", Martin followed up. "Did you like--?"
"Yes, Martin." Jon rolled his eyes. Yes, Martin. Stop making me repeat myself.
"Heh. Good", Martin smiled. "Okay. Would you want to do it again sometime...?"
Jon opened his mouth, then shrugged, his head tipping to the side, rolling on its resting point on the sofa to face Martin. "I think so? But I... Like I said. I rarely... feel, you know. Up for it, I suppose."
"That's fine. I think you know by now I am very often, uh, up for it so", Martin grinned, "The probability shakes out nicely, if you ever do want to."

Jon huffed. "How romantic."

"We have a fireplace, it's already plenty romantic."

The smile Jon smiled was singularly inscrutable.

"I'm not- I'm not trying to be difficult", he said soberly. "Or cryptic or...", he gestured both intently and impotently, "When you ask me things. It's just that, whenever- When you ask me if, if it's okay , sometimes... Sometimes I don't have a good answer?"

Martin snorted. "Jon. You're allowed to not know things, you know. 'I don't know' is a perfectly good answer. It's not the end of the world."
Jon gave him a glare that seemed to run mostly on instinct.

"Actually, if you asked me any deeper stuff about sex I bet I wouldn't know how to answer most of it either."

Martin had meant to say this reassuringly. He could instantly tell he'd made a mistake. Jon's shoulders straightened.

"Alright", he said, angling his elbows as if to table a discussion. "In porno, when one partner lifts the other-"
"You watch porn?"
"I've seen porn. ...Is it because it makes it more gratifying or do they just”, he twirled his wrist. "Like the exercise?"
He had a frown on that suggested this had been bothering Jon for a while.

Martin laughed. Then joined him in frowning about it.

"Both? I think."
Jon still had one hand slightly raised. "It looks interesting but. I suspect I'm not quite understanding the motivation right."

"Uh, I think that can be hot to think about but I guess it's not really that practical."
"That's another thing. People fantasise about things that aren’t feasible to actually do. Comfortably. Positions and... What's the point?"
"Uuuh."
"It's as if it doesn't make any sense on purpose", Jon added, agitated.
"Ehm. I dunno. I think it's just fun? I don't think it's very, uh, deep.
You have to understand the rest of us are stuck thinking about sex quite a lot so. Might as well switch it up?"

Jon hummed, dissatisfied.

"And sometimes there's, uh, other emotions that go into it?”, Martin tried, picking at the fluff on his collar, “And it gets hard to draw the line between... why something turns you on, you know."
Jon pursed his lips. He glanced at Martin but then went back to looking dissatisfied on a sort of conceptual level.
Martin did his best to not look too amused at this. Curiosity was something that had never changed about Jon.

He gave Jon a smile. "It's fine if you wanna ask more stuff."

"Do you ever... fantasise about ...us?" Jon asked the question slowly, deliberately. Placing the words with care like he'd used to do way back when, once he'd realised he could compell people accidentally. For a while he'd barely dared asking anything directly, engaging in wild grammatical gymnastics on the way. Hadn't helped his stammering, at the time. He'd gotten a handle on it eventually. And now he made a conscious show of it, the utter lack of supernatural compulsion in the words.

Which was good because Martin wanted to instantly put the entire question back into a bottle and screw the lid tight.

"Uhhmm", he breathed.

And he saw the flicker in Jon's eyes, whichever part of him activated spring-loaded when there was something someone wasn't telling him, some secret, delicious mystery. The brimming, desperate part of him that used to shake even the old Jon out of his usual concrete-thick reservations.

But it was brief.

"I'll take that as a yes", he said generously, and put his hands in his lap like that was all he'd meant to ask. Yes or no.

___

A soft hand on the shoulder woke Jon. He cracked a heavy eyelid.
"Hey. Do you want to eat dinner sometime today? Right now it's warm, even”, Martin said.
"Mhm", Jon informed him and pushed his face back into the pillow. When had he gotten himself a pillow?
Martin giggled mean-spiritedly. "Someone's sleepy." 
Jon's hair was being ruffled. He glanced upward. Martin was dangling a pesky arm over the backrest of the sofa, a glistening spoon in hand.
"Sorry, I didn't actually... mean to fall asleep."
"Yea you were knocked out."
Martin was already turning back towards the kitchen range. "Like, properly. I was not being quiet over here..."
Yawning, Jon aimed his hand for the room temperature teacup he remembered arguing over.

Jon hadn't yet had the heart to admit to Martin that, really, the only time he did get some good, proper sleep was down here, on the sofa, to the sounds of Martin cluttering away in the kitchen, or humming to music on his headphones, or just being there, awake and daylit and real.
At night before dawn there was too much dark, too much quiet rustling outside, and low, spacious memories in the air, too vague to shoo away, and too recent to call unlikely.

But here, in the light of day, the cracked window stirring the drapes and Martin gently humming while near-cradling the pot he was stirring, everything was settled, right-angled, correct.
"Oi, sorry", Martin said to the spoon he’d just knocked off the counter. Jon watched him from over the back of the sofa.

When Martin was alright, everything was alright.

_

"Thank you", Jon said animatedly, and accepted his portion of porridge fresh from the stove. He held it aloft while he crossed his ridiculous legs. Martin sat down on the ledge of the porch beside him, wrapping his hands around his own hot bowl. 
The rain still hadn't let up, but it was sort of serene out here, shielded just-so under the overhang of the roof, especially while eating the world's best food for shitty weather. Buttered porridge, heavy on the spices -- one of the few things Martin had seen Jon finish a whole portion of without delays.

With a satisfied sigh, Martin looked towards the distant hills. They were becoming a familiar sight. Well-viewed. Homey. 

Jon was looking into his bowl with long scrutiny.
"What?", Martin asked.
Jon looked a bit caught then.
"Er, where’s the- ?" He pointed a long index finger at his porridge, drawing a loose circle. Martin took a moment to remember that last time he'd felt fancy and did a smattering of cinnamon across the surface before giving one last decorative stir.
"Well there's cinnamon already in it, I just didn't put any more on top."
Jon hummed and looked at his spoon.
"Oh for God's - go on, go get the cinnamon then, I'll put some on top."

Jon made a face. "It's fine."
"I'm not making fun Jon, I'm serious."
"It's silly, really", Jon said, and plunged his spoon into the bowl like a soldier diving into mud.
"So? I've seen you put sillier things on your food today. If you want the cinnamon you should have some. What's the harm?"
Jon gave him a look like he was double-checking if Martin was pulling his leg. He wasn't, but he did have to school the light amusement off his face. Evidently he managed it, because Jon clambered back onto his feet.

They were in the middle of eating when their four-legged neighbor slunk up from behind the cabin. She wasn't even damp, so she must've been sticking around here for a while. Maybe by the wood, where there was plenty of plastic tarp to keep things from getting soaked. 
As usual the cat deftly ignored Martin, and walked right over to Jon to headbutt his elbow. He ended up leaning back awkwardly so he could be harassed more conveniently from the vantage point of his lap.

Martin watched this, Jon trying to stay focused on eating, up until he had to wrestle his bowl away from under curious paws.
"Leave it to you to spoil someone else's pet", Martin muttered.
"She was like that already- Hey." Jon put his porridge down to un-hook several claws from his sleeve.
"She'll start bringing you dead mice next."

"Wouldn't be the strangest thing I've gotten delivered to me." A long-straightened tail bumped into Jon's face hard enough to lift his glasses.

"You learned your lesson yet, about feeding strange animals?"
"Yes. What horrible fate I've brought upon me."
There was some rather loud purring.

Jon ruffled the cat's neck fur with his knuckles. "I really don't see the problem you're having. She's quite sweet."
"Well, there's sweet and then there's well-behaved."
"When have you ever met a cat that's well behaved? That's not really how they operate."

He looked at Martin challengingly and, if the cat had been wearing glasses, it would have given Martin that exact same look, at the exact same moment.

__

Martin sneezed. 

"Please tell me you haven't caught a cold", Jon said, staring at him from his spot. "If you get sick because I dragged you out into the rain-"
"I'm fine, Jon", Martin said, reaching for a tissue. "It's one sneeze."
"Is your tea still warm? Let me make you a fresh one."
Martin rolled his eyes as Jon breezed past him and towards the kitchen. 

"I can already tell you'll be a handful if you ever get sick", he said, voice raised over the shoulder.
"You want an orange? I think we have one left", Jon declared over the sound of a tea tin opening. "And don't think I haven't noticed how cold it’s getting upstairs..."
"It's not so bad. I've got blankets."
Martin didn't feel the need to share that he'd started to keep his next day's change of clothes near the bed so he could pull them under the covers to warm them before even thinking of getting out of bed.

When Jon got back to set a steaming mug on the sofa table he pressed a passing kiss on the crown of Martin’s head. Then he hovered there a moment, watching Martin's hands as he struggled with the fiddly fabric of the boxers he had in his lap. He was re-doing the hasty seam he'd put in so that Jon could actually wear them, and it was slow-going.

"You should teach me, so I can do the next one myself."
"If you want. I'm not an expert or anything."
"Martin I can't even sew on a button. That's just impractical."
"Your gran never taught you?"

Jon scoff-laughed. "Not that I would have been the most receptive", he said pointedly. "I think it would've seemed awfully boring to me, at the time..."

"It still is though. Pretty boring."
"Somehow boring doesn't seem so bad these days", Jon said with an audible smile, and sat cross-legged next to Martin.
“Well if boring’s your jam I did see some knitting manuals in the box with all that plastic sheeting. ...Dunno why, but it kind of really upped the serial murderer factor, for me.”

Jon hummed, and caught the roll of thread that nearly toppled off of Martin’s knee.

_

"Just grab the whole bottle."
"It'll get... room temperature", Jon replied, with such contempt. Cut right through the first prickles of Martin's pleasant buzz.
"Fine, if you wanna get up every fifteen minutes...", he said snidely, and held his near-empty glass out to Jon, who stubbornly took it and walked it over to the fridge, stride a little too wide for the sober man of high tastes he was trying to act.

"You were right though. Really nice wine", Martin said and received his fresh glass with a smile.
Jon hummed. "I used to dislike rosé. I thought, you know. It should be one thing or the other. Not half white, half red. Like a drink for indecisive people."
Martin turned his glass in his hand, amused. "But that's changed?"
"I don't know. It's never really like that, is it. Nothing is ever just one thing."
A thoughtful crease appeared on Jon's forehead. "Nothing of substance, anyway."

"You're getting all big truths again."
"You'd rather go back to arguing?", Jon said and sat down in his chair with momentum, challenge on his face.

"Mhh, I think I'm alright for now...", Martin said, tapping his chewed-up pen on the open crossword page. Jon watched him from his side of the table, being that he was no longer allowed to participate. Martin managed to ignore him for a good ten seconds or so.

"You don't get to pout. You brought this on yourself", he said.
"I am not pouting ."
"Sure you aren't."
"It's not my fault you do them so slowly... Also you already have two wrong again."
Martin pulled the crossword close and shielded it from Jon's eyes with his arm. "Stop. Knowing things."
"I'm not, I'm just looking. With my eyes."
"I- no. Shush. I'm doing it."
"I'm feeling very excluded."

"That's not my fault! Between the novel and the cards and the riddle collection, we're really running out of rainy day activities that you can't ruin the point of."
Jon pretended to look hurt.
Martin stopped and paused to double-check that he was pretending. He shouldn't be so harsh, even in jest. But it was frustrating. Martin liked playing cards.

He put the pen to paper fruitlessly. After barely a minute he pushed the book towards Jon. "Fine. You can tell me the ones I got wrong. Only the ones I got wrong", he said sternly.

Jon leaned forward on his elbow to point his finger at the paper. "First of all, it's LITHE, not LIGHT. "
"Ugh", Martin said and began erasing. "So this isn’t GLASGOW, then-"
"No, Glasgow is only fourth in-"
"Oh hush." Annoyed, Martin wiped the accumulated eraser-fuzz from the page. It got all caught in the crease of the small book and he mashed at the bigger ones to no avail.

Martin felt Jon's eyes on him and waited for him to say the damn thing anyway, like he always did. When he looked up he saw Jon mash his teeth into his lower lip sourly. He stopped as soon as their eyes met.

Sighing, Martin pushed the book and pen away. "Right. Any other brilliant ideas?"
Jon shrugged in capitulation.
"I'll just 'ruin the point', apparently", Jon said, head cocked.
"You know I didn't mean that."
"Doesn't make you wrong."
"Well, it's not really your fault, is it? For the most part. It's not like you have an opt-out for not cheating at Bridge."
"Not if I want to go on having eyes, no."
"...Would that even still work? Now?"
It was odd, these days, how casually you can talk about some things once the thought is no longer novel, and you've already had infinitely worse conversations about these things altogether.

"No", Jon said simply. "I'd be more likely to die. Or... something else. Hard to tell."
"Not that your Boss would tell you, really."
"Hm."
"Hang on. I just thought of something."

"Isn't it for children?"

Martin rattled the puzzle box again. "The box says ages five to 'cheats-at-crosswords' Jon Sims", he offered helpfully. "Any way that we can think of how the Great Eye can piss me off over this?"
Jon looked earnestly thoughtful. At Martin's behest they'd switched to the coffee table, no need to clutter the dinner table. Jon sat on a pillow on the floor, knees angled with a mean lean going on. He was way more of a lightweight than he had any right to be.

Martin sat across from him. "I'm thinking -- Your powers were never really helpful with big-picture things, were they?"
"No... If anything it would make it hard not to hone in on details and I'd spend too much time on single leads..."

He seemed distracted, studying the image on the front of the old, squished-in-the-middle box: a faded image of sort of cartoony meadow with animals that didn't look familiar but had a sort of lived-in feel to them. Maybe some sort of children's book illustration only popular locally.

Martin lifted the lid and the rest of the box took a long moment to adhere to gravity properly, held up by the inward-bend of the corners. It came loose with a satisfying clatter. At the sudden noise the cat by the fireplace raised her head up, surveyed the scene and reapplied the Do Not Disturb sign of body language it had put on earlier: a gentle sway of the tail, the only limb not integrated into the prickly cat-loaf perched on the increasingly hairy cardigan on the floor.

Jon took a glance inside. "Hum. There are nine pieces missing."
"Any of them corners?"
"No."
"Then we're all good", Martin said, and upended the box onto the table.

"And then she said 'I don't know about that, but my friend Lati's husband was found chopped up in several dumpsters, I could tell you about that'."
"Uh... And did she?"
"In great detail."
"You didn't put that in your report."
"Well yeah. Sounded to me like Lati did it and she sounded like a proper normal angry housewife, no weird witchy powers required."
"But her opinions on jigsaws made it into your notes?"
"You’d asked specifically for puzzle related old lady stuff! And I was going to tell you about the murder and ask if you want it in there but you went so off on me for the entire thing I couldn't get a word in edgewise!"
Jon pressed his fingertips against his eyelids and emitted a frantic chuckle. "God Martin."

"Let's just agree we'll never work with each other again", Martin said.
"Fine by me."
Jon maintained his oddly mixed smile while he returned to his side of the puzzle - he was on sky duty - and scrutinised some washed-out blue pieces he had piled up.

"I do have another question though... The Hatendi case. What exactly made you file those images of Robin Patton?"
"Those were the only pictures of him I could find! I swear. This guy's online presence was atrocious, I don't believe he owned a single shirt. And I knew that wasn't, uh, going to go over well so I sort of. I did sort of shuffle the pile when it was time for Tim to record and I kiind of hoped... you wouldn't look so much into it when you came back."

"You put them out of order?", Jon said as though he hoped he hadn't heard him right.
"What? The numbering system already didn't work. They weren’t chronological, even."
"Right..."

Jon's tone was odd. Martin raised a brow. "What?"
"I don't know. I… At the time, I thought, maybe, you did it on purpose?"
"What, to piss you off?"
"Er, no. I don't know." Jon rolled the corners of a puzzle piece between his fingers. "Us, we were going to lunches and, and actually talking -"
"...Okay?"
Jon looked very intently at the back of the piece now. "I mean, at that point- it took me a while- but I had caught on that you weren't being nice to me out of charity or, or, pity, or… er, sinister reasons. You know.”

Martin was twirling his empty glass between his fingers. Then stopped abruptly.
"You thought I was dropping you hints?"

Jon ducked his head even lower like some sort of reverse shrug, and made a squeamish noncommittal noise.

Martin snorted heartily. "I mean I definitely was, but not like, in the research materials, Jon!"
"Oh", Jon said. And then, because Martin was still giggling, "I believe we've already established that I'm not good at... signals. Seemed just as likely as anything else, really... It's not that funny."
"That's extremely funny, Jon. You thought I was trying to flirt via Additional Information Sections! Not even flirt, just going like Hey, I'm gay! I'm a fruit! I like abs."

Jon leaned forward and confiscated Martin's empty glass while he got to his feet. "It was just a thought."
"Wait", Martin called after him while he stalked to the fridge. "Would that have worked? Jon! Was it working?"

Jon pretended not to hear while he rummaged in the drawer for a corkscrew.

"We could have done this a lot sooner, then, maybe", Martin was still grinning madly.
"I get it", Jon said, voice raised over his turned back. "It was a stupid question."
Martin chuckled, raking pieces around between the puzzle corners.

Jon said a very rude word then. Before Martin could take offense, he groaned, "I broke the cork."
Martin hopped to his feet. "Leave it alone, I'll do it."

When Martin made an effort to concentrate he always stuck the tip of his tongue between his teeth, often visible between parted lips, and his eyes became very serious. It was almost cartoonish and very, very endearing. It rather made sitting with the awkwardness Jon had conjured up a minute ago quite a bit easier, Jon thought. Especially when he stuck his chin out like that with the effort of carefully jimmying the half-cork out of the bottle without breaking it. He managed it, too, with a relieved sigh.

"There. All good", he said, presenting his work like he'd just fixed a toddler's favorite toy.

"Lovely", Jon said, having broken it in the first place. He reached for the neck of the bottle, but when he took it Martin didn't let it go, just stood rather close.

"So anyway. For the record. Yes in fact I am into men", Martin declared, gently tugging the bottle towards himself.
"Ah. Excellent. That was, ah, the hope", Jon said, being tugged.

Jon felt a bit off-kilter still, somewhat ambushed between awkward topics, and Martin and the kitchen counter. And then he received a very deliberate, pointed kiss.
Martin must've put down the corkscrew because he put a hand on Jon's waist. When Jon leaned into the kiss this seemed to have been Martin's goal, because he broke the kiss and simultaneously let go of the wine bottle, leaving Jon to nearly drop it.
Before Jon could curse him out Martin pressed his nose into Jon's cheek and pulled him closer with both hands. 
"Shiny, shirtless, waterfall-spelunking men...", he added lowly.

Jon rolled his eyes. "Good to know", he replied. He was starting to remember why he had been so eager to get the second bottle open in the first place. It would be helpful, being more drunk, to tolerate this level of smugness from Martin. "Thank you for sharing. Hah."
Martin had dragged a kiss up Jon's cheek. Jon hand shot out to steady himself against the counter.
"Beefy, outdoorsy manly men. Hunks -", Martin leaned even closer.

"Oh shut uUHwait-"

Without warning Jon was being lifted bodily off the ground and deposited onto the counter behind him. Jon clutched the bottle hard over the sudden loss of balance and blindly reached behind himself because there was a cupboard behind him right at head-height, somewhere-

"Did you, did you want me to spill wine on you?", he breathed, realising the cupboard was actually well out of head-trauma range.
Upon this, Martin deftly took away the bottle and put it somewhere out of Jon's reach. His grin bordered on dangerous.

Internally, Jon blamed the first wine bottle, as well as his suddenly elevated heart rate, because he did push his glasses up onto his forehead and kissed Martin, even when he was being this annoying. In Jon's defense, he was marginally less annoying while kissing.

And it was just very convenient, his arms fit so perfectly around his head from this vantage point, and Martin was such a sturdy pillar to lean on and, really, they had a lot of time to kill in this shit weather, did they not.

Martin just had a face like that, one that was hard not to kiss. The longer they stayed here the more Jon forgot how he'd ever looked at Martin and hadn’t wanted to push his lips up against the bridge of his nose. It was shallow and soft, hard to tell where the nose ended and the cheek began. It had to be like that, really, the skin needed to be soft there, so that the cheek could run smoothly into the brow, and it in turn had to slope just so, because the corners of his eyes needed this dip into a crease, for Martin to smile into, or squint, or scrunch up his face, making his lids nonexistent in the process.

When Jon looked at Martin's face, his silly face, a wine-induced blush drowning the freckles, he just needed to hold it awhile, dip his thumbs into his dimples left and right, nudge the tips of their noses together, collect a kiss, maybe more.

At some point Jon remembered himself and rested his forehead on Martin's. "I'm glad you're contending with me while you're looking for your ideal Adonis-like gentleman."

Martin smirked lazily, breath high in his throat. "Yeah well. Might take a while. Finding someone prettier than you."
Jon snorted. "Surely."

Instead of laughing also, Martin frowned. "I'm saying you're pretty", he said sagely. "It's called a compliment."
Jon laughed again, at the sincerity.
Somewhat perturbed Martin dropped his hands off Jon's sides. "What, I can't call you pretty?"

Jon shook his head, still amused. "I do have a mirror", he said, gesturing to the ruined side of his face. And neck, and arm, and so on.
"I mean. I - I was alright. Before." He didn't mean to be self-deprecating, it was just something he'd come to terms with quite a while ago. He'd gotten fairly used to the looks and unconcealed unease, it was fine. He'd always looked a bit odd, to begin with.

Martin continued frowning stubbornly. "Jon-"
"It's fine, really", Jon said calmly.

"No, Jon", Martin said, his tone changing. "Do you really think that? Did you... think that I crushed on you for your winning personality ?"
"What?"
"You think. Jonathan 'Your shoelaces are laced asymmetrically' Sims hooked me with his riveting conversational skills?"
Jon raised a finger. "Well, I still don't quite -"
"So your reasoning was, all this time, that I bought you the fancy Earl Greys because I'm such a glutton for librarian glasses and punishing glares?"
"Why're you-"
"'Alright-looking' my ass. I'm sorry to tell you this, Jon, but I used to be very shallow, and for a while that was the only reason I put up with your sour-ass, demanding, 'I can fire you anytime' bullshit, you wonderful, absolute, stunning idiot."

Jon blinked. It seemed to take about an hour.

"You didn't have to get mean about it", he said eventually.
"Well you can be really thick sometimes."
"Thanks. "

This seemed an odd argument to have with their faces so close together, and Jon's ankles touching Martin's thighs. Then Jon remembered Martin was also wrong.
"You're also wrong", he said.

"Oh?", Martin said with unnecessary amusement.
"I may not be a good judge but I was told several times how out of my league you are."
"What?", Martin exclaimed, scandalised. "By who?"

Jon raised a finger and pressed it to his other palm, beginning a count.
"Tim", he began.
"Tim doesn't count."
Two. "Helen."
"When has she ever known shit."
Jon raised three fingers. "Melanie."
"Doesn't like you. And she's literally blind."
"Martin!"
"What? You said they joke about it now!", Martin said in his defense, and ducked a perfunctory swat of Jon's hand, laughing.

"How did you turn this into an argument?", Martin said, giggling still.
"I didn't. You called me an idiot, and thick, and-"
"You called my boyfriend ugly, excuse me!"
"Well! He did get his face eaten off by worms."
Martin caught Jon's face between his palms, presumably to laugh at him better. "It's still there. It's a good face. It healed well."
His thumb crossed Jon's cheekbone, very softly.

"I didn't say ugly", Jon corrected. "Just. Out of the two of us." He'd crossed his arms and gestured with one hand from himself to Martin, who only raised a brow.
"Yes?"
Well now he was just being obtuse.
"Between the two of us", Jon said, pulling Martin's hands away by the wrists. "I’m not the catch."
Martin snickered very loudly. And then laughed very loudly.
"I know. You're the worm food!"

And this was when Martin had to cover his face with both hands. It was, regrettably, very infectious.
"You're terrible", Jon managed, before he was ambushed by a grin. "Also drunk."
"And you're so pretty. Jon! I can't believe you didn't know. Knowing things is your- whole-" He inhaled some air wrong and coughed.
"You've already admitted that your taste in men is questionable at best."
"That's-", Martin fought for breath and wiped one eye, "Not wrong. Maybe. Maybe we should both agree that we- We made some weird choices, didn't we."

Jon shook his head. Then he remembered how little he needed to move to touch his nose to Martin's forehead. "Speak for yourself."
Martin was still laughing, though quietly, his shoulders bouncing. Jon kissed him on the side of the face.
"If I've made one good choice...", he uttered. Martin straightened, rose again to his full height. Their lips brushed.
"And you can't change my mind", Jon added. "Although, this conversation hasn’t ex-"

This was when something shattered in the back of the house.

Martin froze solid instantly. Predictably it would be a good twenty seconds before he was any use again. Jon slid to the floor, though he had to swing his one leg free. By now he knew blindly where it was, behind the unused waffle iron by the fridge, the fileting knife, the sharpest one in the house. Jon didn't take his eyes off the hall. He was fairly certain the noise had come from the store room - it being the only room with a window. It was silent now, bated breath across the entire house. Jon inched towards the open doorway to the hall to peer around it.

"Jon ", Martin hissed. Jon quickly motioned for him to stay calm, or at least quiet.

They kept all the lights on habitually, for this exact reason, and doors cracked, for Martin reasons. So the hallway lay unassuming and bright, only the door to the storeroom slightly ajar, cutting a wedge of darkness onto the floor. Jon listened for movement, and he was almost ready to conclude silence until... 
Something wet? Water? Odd. He'd have assumed the hunters, or - Maybe the cult had caught up to him? That was bad. If he tried to Know what was in the room, he may not be able to stay upright-
A floorboard creaked behind Jon. He motioned for Martin to stay put . He glanced behind himself. Martin definitely wasn’t staying put. So Jon got ready, crossed the hall and pushed open the door.

"Christ."

Martin's running footsteps were quick, surprisingly so. He came to a halt inches behind Jon.
"Oh thank God ", he exhaled with all the weight of a falling boulder.
Jon reached out to flick on the light.

The leak bucket had split open at the side, the old cracked plastic finally giving in. It had spilled itself across the floor and, apparently, had knocked over the empty tin watering pot with the weight of the water. The leak was worse than they'd thought, the insulation was soaked through and would soon get too heavy for the ceiling. The current rain precipitation was over 43 mm per hour, wind notwithstanding, it would likely last past the next 360 minutes. 12 miles from here a hill had already slid onto the roadside, no resulting crashes.
The window was still intact and firmly shut.

Jon put the knife down on the nearest surface and ran a hand through his hair. 
"We're going to have to, uh."
"Hmyeap", Martin said, sounding like he’d run a marathon. "I'm- Do we have more buckets? Somewhere?"
"Wash basin", Jon mumbled. It was outside somewhere, where they'd last upended it.
"I'm- Also towels...", Martin said unsteadily, but didn't move from his spot. 

He turned to Jon.
"Uhm, quick question. Jon. What the fuck was your plan here?"
"I, uh." 
"With a knife?"

Jon's legs felt a bit wobbly now. "Would you have preferred I fetch the axe?"
"Jon", Martin said, still tense.
"I have dealt with hostile avatars before, you know."
Martin just stared at him.

"What were you planning to do? Hm?", Jon replied sharply. "Walk behind me, make yourself as easy a target as possible?"
"Excuse me?"
"Martin. You. Can get hurt ."

Jon received a look like he’d not just stated fact.

"And you can't?"
"I get better!"

Now they were both staring, equally bewildered.
Martin opened and shut his mouth a few times. He covered his face with his hand. "God. God. I'm getting towels."
He walked towards the laundry cupboard, fists balled. "...I want a gun”, Jon heard him grind out between steps.