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When Martin saw Jon sprawled across the floor, his first, heart-stopping thought was that he was dead. There was so much blood (although Martin was hardly a stranger to blood by now) that the sheer amount of it was enough to turn his stomach upside-down. It seemed to be splattered along every wall, dripping off the shards of glass from the cabin’s shattered windows, and it was all unmistakably originating from the man curled in the center of the destruction like the shell of a nuclear bomb. It was such a nightmarish scene, highlighted by the looming horrors pulsating with dread and hunger outside, that for a moment he could only stand frozen in the doorway of the safe-house, fighting down the urge to throw up the breakfast he’d eaten just a few short hours before.
He’d known something was wrong. Had felt it in his bones as he was halfway through his walk, in the middle of amusedly thinking of showing Jon the dozen blurry images of cows captured on his phone, and without conscious thought he’d turned and started legging it back to where he knew the safe-house (and Jon) would be. The sky had darkened only a few minutes before he actually reached the door, but even now that he was inside, he felt the terror it inspired, felt the howling of wind (and something more, something not of their world) that flooded every crevice of his skin and soul.
He was crouching, then. His jeans prevented the glass from cutting him, but he could feel it pressing at him, hungry to shred flesh, as he gripped Jon’s shoulders and called for him to wake up, wake up, WAKE UP, until he couldn’t hold back the panicked slap across the other man’s face.
Jon immediately yelped, jolting upright and opening his eyes – which inspired only brief relief from Martin, before he saw the way his pupils were blown so wide it was like his eyes had been turned completely black, the blood leaking out of their corners and streaking down his cheeks like tears.
He choked out a disorientated stammer of “Martin?” which caused fresh blood to drip down his chin, from where the shredded flesh of his chapped lips was visible. It was as if he’d been trying to bite through his own tongue.
It didn’t matter, though. Not with Martin whispering “Jon” back to him like a prayer, suddenly dizzy with the realization that the man was alive, was able to recognize him despite the blood and tears and whirl of shrieking, wild wind shaking the house.
“Wha– oh god, what happened?”
“I, I don’t, I don’t know! Everything…” And here, tears suddenly pressed against the back of Martin’s eyelids, overwhelming and fearful and he was unable to do anything but stammer out, “It’s all gone wrong!”
Lucidity seeped into Jon quickly; so quickly that it was a bit unnerving, as intensity spread across his face like bared teeth. “Help me up!” he demanded, even as he rearranged his gangly legs beneath him, seemingly uncaring about the glass cutting him further and spilling more blood onto the previously pristine wooden floors.
(They’d scrubbed those floors for hours after arriving at the safe-house, until not a hint of dust or dirt or dead bugs had remained. It had been calming and domestic. It had been so normal that Martin had almost wept, and Jon had given him a lopsided smile, as content as he had ever seen the other man, and for a moment everything had seemed alright.)
Now, Martin stared at the blood and the debris without comprehension. He didn’t want to help Jon up. He could see more blood staining Jon’s fingers, like his fingernails had been ripped out and forced back in. He could see the seep of it spilling from his ears, matting his unruly pepper-and-salt hair that had come undone from its usual messy ponytail. Every inch of him seemed to be stained and cut and Martin wanted to force him back down, to bury his head in his chest and cry until nothing hurt, as if he could heal them both by pure force of will. But Jon was going to try anyway, and so he helped steady him as he stumbled to his feet, his hands feebly grasping at the wood of the splintered windowsill.
And then he was speaking. In a rising frenzy containing awe and horror and hysteria, his eyes dilating as he stared into the sweeping darkness and shifting sky. Martin felt something in himself shrink, like he was recoiling, but it was Jon. That foolish, stubborn man with a voice like velvet, that Martin had known for years now, had loved for years. Except the spiralling laughter that spilled from his throat wasn’t Jon, was more reminiscent of that creature that had trapped him and Tim for days in its endless hallways, of Elias’s smug, self-righteous tone that made Martin want to throttle the man, of something wild and uncontained and… inhuman in its frantic, distorted fear. He seemed to not even notice Martin’s desperate pleas for him to calm down, for him to explain what was going on, to please, please Jon, s-stop laughing, stop, PLEASE.
“Look at the sky, Martin,” he kept repeating. Like a broken tape recorder, his voice clipping and skipping with static. “Look at the sky. It’s looking back.” And then even that was drowned out by the hysterical laughter that dissolved into rasping sobs, loud and hurt like a wounded animal, and the panic in Martin was a storm in itself, because Jon wouldn’t stop and he had no idea what was going on but he sure as hell knew it was bad and he didn’t want to think of what could hear them, of what might be listening, and everything needed to stop, stop, STOP.
(He didn’t even register drawing his hand into a fist, but he felt it when it smashed against Jon’s cheekbone; an action he immediately regretted, not just because Jon was boney as hell and Martin’s knuckles stung, but because the other man’s face was already darkened with bruises, and Martin couldn’t believe he’d just intentionally hurt the person he loved, that he’d lashed out when Jon was so clearly suffering already. He had never had the clearest head under pressure and his time in the Lonely certainly hadn’t helped him in the social skills department, but that was no excuse. A tiny voice whispered to him that maybe he’d just finally developed a response to dangerous things, after all this time, so that the only sensible solution when encountering something unknown was to attack it before it attacked him.)
Except this time, Jon didn’t even flinch.
When they first arrived at the safe-house, the only thing Martin could think of was finding the nearest horizontal surface and passing the hell out. They hadn’t travelled too far, he knew, but they had done it nonstop since escaping the Lonely, and finding the Institute in the shape it was once they WERE out… well, it had spiked Martin’s adrenaline enough to get them out of London as quickly as humanly possible. Either way, he’d only slept in brief spurts on the bus, jerking awake each time with a hammering heart and the nagging feeling of numbness that had yet to fade.
Jon hadn’t slept at all. Martin knew this, because the first time he’d startled back into consciousness the man had been wide-awake, his eyes glinting faintly in the glow of streetlights and almost frightening in their intensity, filled with such an alertness that it bordered on paranoia. He’d been looming over him, and it had triggered a brief panic before Jon’s neatly folded coat had been slipped beneath his head, cushioning his neck against the uncomfortable bus seat, and Martin had understood why he was hovering over him. As the other man pulled back, a sheepish look crossed Jon’s face, as if he hadn’t expected Martin to wake up and was embarrassed at being caught doing something nice. But Martin simply smiled back at him and cuddled into it, not a word exchanged as Jon quickly averted his gaze out the window. The fabric smelled like old books, sweat, and tea that had been steeped for far too long, and by all accounts it should have been gross, but it was so Jon that Martin had felt something in himself settle as he breathed in and out.
After that, any time he jerked awake Jon was sitting upright and wearing that same intense expression. Not that Martin had blamed him for his paranoia, after everything that had happened, but it had still filled him with a gentle fondness that washed away some of the numbness when he saw how focused Jon was at staying awake to watch over him. It was mixed with a concern that Jon should rest as well, but Martin was too tired at the time to vocalize the thought. And so he dozed on and off until Jon had shaken him awake just after midnight as they approached some small town on the borders of Scotland.
Standing in the doorway of the safe-house, Martin had gotten a proper look at the bags beneath Jon’s eyes, drooping like a bloodhound’s, and a pang of guilt wormed its way into his heart. Lord knew when the man had last slept a full night. Probably not since this whole debacle had begun.
Martin voiced as such, and Jon just shot him a tired but still disgruntled look as he said, as dry as only Jon could be, “I was in a coma for six months, Martin.” It was so bizarre and not funny that Martin couldn’t help his giggles, his exhaustion only spurring them on as Jon’s lips pressed tight and his hands hovered uncertainly, like he was debating whether or not he should pat Martin comfortingly on the shoulder or give him space.
(Martin wished he would reach out. He was so bloody cold.)
Either way, when his giggling finally died down, he simply said, “We need to sleep,” and Jon had nodded.
Neither of them bothered taking stock of the house, besides a cautious look-around to ensure that they were alone. It was too late (or early, if he was being technical) to do more than swipe a finger through the layer of dust coating the side table and disinterestedly think about the cleaning and supplies they’d have to pick up the following afternoon. That, and the fact that apparently they were lucky enough that the cottage seemed to have working electricity, so they weren’t stumbling around in complete darkness. Through bleary eyes he watched Jon shake out the sheets and fluff out the pillows on the bed, and it was only when the man was once again staring at him that he realized there was only one bed to speak of.
At any other time, it would have been amusing to see the hesitation and awkwardness beaming off of Jon as he shifted from foot to foot. As it was, Martin was simply too tired to think about it; and so, when he stripped off his shirt and collapsed onto the mattress, it was little effort to stretch out an arm and tug Jon to join him.
(If he was being honest with himself, he also didn’t want to be alone again. He knew how the Lonely worked, knew how the numbness would persist for days but would fade faster if he forced himself to interact with another living, breathing person. He knew how horribly cold it made him, so that no matter how many blankets he slept under, all he would feel was a bone-deep ache that made him shiver and shake. And if he was being honest with himself… he was scared that if he fell asleep now, alone in this dusty cabin, he’d taste the sharp tang of saltwater and icy fog, and he’d once again be drawn into being alone, of being numb and so intoxicatingly uncaring of any hurt or worry or fear that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to return a second time.)
(More than anything, though, he just wanted Jon. He wanted his warmth, and his smell of musty books and black tea, and he wanted to know they were both alive and safe and allowed to rest for just one night. He wanted to not be Lonely, anymore.)
Jon was surprisingly agreeable with the situation – or maybe, like Martin, he was simply too exhausted to kick up a fuss. It surprised Martin a bit when the other man practically melted against his side, though. He definitely wouldn’t have picked Jon for a cuddler, but he didn’t even hesitate in pressing himself sidelong to Martin’s side, his skin dry and almost feverish in its heat. It was enough to make Martin flush, despite being half-asleep, as memories of old feelings rose above the numbness and shimmered beneath his skin.
Then Jon let out a sigh – long and breathy, almost like a cat, and Martin felt something in himself settle yet again as he recognized the contentment and relief expressed in the sound. He hadn’t taken off his shirt like Martin had, and he could feel the softness of the fabric as he wrapped a careful arm around the man’s chest. Immediately Jon leaned into it, shifting so Martin could comfortably sling his arm across his body. It was a bit awkward, but only because Jon was so much smaller and thinner than Martin, and he had the brief, irrational thought that he might accidentally crush him before Jon tucked himself into a tiny ball against Martin’s chest and made a soft, sleepy sound that banished all remaining thoughts from Martin’s brain.
(It was another thing that surprised him, although maybe it shouldn’t have: Jon eagerly accepting the role of little spoon.)
Martin already felt himself fading; not in the Lonely sense, but in the sleepy, day-dreamy way someone fell into unconsciousness after a long day, something which had become rare over the past several years. It was nice. He felt… warm, and safe, and he could feel the tickle of Jon’s hair against his nose as he tucked his chin over the man’s shoulder. Martin’s hands slid down his body – not in any sort of, um, indecent way, god no – but just so he could readjust to a more relaxed position that wouldn’t compress the blood flow in his arms. But as he shifted, Jon’s shirt lifted, and the pads of his fingers pressed to Jon’s side, and the skin dipped and seemed to sink against the touch, and Martin knew that there was supposed to be bone there, oh god, why wasn’t there–
On pure, raw instinct and the burst of adrenaline jerking him wide-awake like an electrical shock, Martin recoiled violently with a thrash of his legs and a strangled shout. Jon made a sleepy, confused sound and craned around to look at him, obviously only half-awake himself, and Martin unthinkingly drew back a fist and punched him directly in the face.
He couldn’t see details in the dark; only shadows and the approximate shape of limbs, but the noise Jon made woke Martin up from whatever blind panic he’d fallen into, and he immediately stilled in his frantic flailing. “Oh, Christ,” he swore, scrambling to try and cup Jon’s cheek, to inspect the damage despite the darkness, but the man was already pulling away. Martin’s stomach did a flip and he resisted the urge to whimper pathetically at that. A second later, however, the room was flooded with dim light from the lamp on the side table, and a dishevelled Jon was staring at him with a tired and confused expression. Martin could only express a brief moment of relief (because Jon hadn’t been pulling back because he was scared or disgusted by Martin but because he’d been reaching for the light, and that should have been obvious to begin with, god, he was stupid), but it was washed away when he caught the bruise already darkening over Jon’s right eye and the scratch over his eyebrow from where the corner of Martin’s thumbnail had caught the skin.
“Martin, what on earth.” His tone was sharp and his eyes darted around the room, the doziness snapping away from his eyes like a rubber band as they searched for some sort of threat. “What’s wrong? Is something–?”
“No, no! Nothing like that, I–I don’t think, at least, sorry. Christ, Jon, are you alright?” Martin hesitated, his hands hovering over Jon as he stammered apologies. He wasn’t sure if Jon would want to be touched, especially after Martin had just clocked him for seemingly no reason.
But the man just blinked up at him – again, remarkably cat-like in its disgruntled intensity – and shifted further upright. The blanket tumbled off his shoulders, revealing the scrunched material of his shirt and the frizzy ends of his hair. If it wasn’t for the bruise Martin had just gifted him, he would have been the most beautiful sight Martin had ever seen.
Martin shook that thought away, since he could already feel how flushed his cheeks were with embarrassment and lingering adrenaline, and he didn’t need to make it worse. It also seemed like Jon wasn’t going to say anything; he was just waiting, obviously expecting Martin to bridge the gap and explain himself.
“Sorry,” he repeated, and as Jon’s eyes narrowed in slight impatience, he quickly stammered out, “I–I didn’t mean to do that, I mean, I did, but I wasn’t thinking straight–”
“Martin.”
Swallowing roughly, Martin blurted out, “Your skin felt wrong.”
A silence fell between them as Jon visibly struggled to understand that, and Martin felt his blush deepen. “My… skin felt wrong?”
“When I touched it,” Martin explained weakly, refusing to make eye contact. “There was nothing there. I–I forgot that you’re missing a rib. That’s all.”
“And you punched me. Because you thought I might be…”
Martin shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know? Some sort of,” (he didn’t want to say monster; he knew Jon was probably thinking it, but he refused to say it, to feed into his foolish belief that he was somehow no longer human just because he’d been tricked into feeding some sort of voyeuristic fear god) “…doppelganger maybe?”
“A doppelganger?” Jon repeated, and Martin couldn’t tell if he was simply baffled or weakly teasing him. “I, um, yes, I guess that’s understandable.”
(Martin couldn’t help but remember Jon’s nervous voice asking him if he was a ghost, in simpler days when Prentiss and her worms had been their biggest issue. Back then, it had been laughable, but now Martin didn’t think it was too out-there of a question. Lord knew they’d dealt with stranger.)
“Come on,” Martin said, shifting out of the bed and ignoring the small nip of cold that snaked up his exposed ankles. “Let me, uh, let me look that over.” He shot a pleading glance at Jon when he started to protest, and immediately his mouth snapped shut and he followed Martin out of the bedroom and to the closet-sized bathroom next door.
The light flickered briefly, dim and dusty from years of disuse, and it reflected dully off the wood paneling. It was small, definitely not made for two people to use at one time (and especially not for someone of Martin’s size), but they squeezed in anyway. Jon folded himself down on the closed toilet seat as Martin searched the creaky cabinet above the sink, relieved to find a basic first aid kit crammed into the back. Beneath the shadowed light, Jon looked even worse than before; his eyes bloodshot and slightly swollen, his hair hanging limply and continually falling into his face as he half-heartedly tried to comb it back with his shaking, scarred fingers. Martin winced and concentrated on wetting down a cloth, waiting impatiently for the water to change from icy cold to passably lukewarm.
It was difficult to dab at Jon’s face without making eye contact, but Martin managed it anyway, determinedly pushing down the jitteriness that made his hands shake against Jon’s bruised cheekbone. The silence was deafening, only broken by the dull humming of electricity running through the walls and the gentle drip of water in the sink. “You know,” said Jon, in a forced conversational tone that was obviously meant to break the silence but only succeeded in being painfully awkward, “I’m actually missing two ribs.”
Martin stared at him. Jon’s face scrunched up, obviously realizing a second too late that what he’d just said was, in fact, troubling. It reminded Martin of their conversation after he’d been kidnapped by the circus, the twitchy way he’d tried to laugh off how healthy his skin was. And suddenly, Martin wondered just how many other traumas Jon had gone through in the past year that Martin didn’t know about, lost as he was in research and the Lonely. The thought made him vaguely ill.
“Wha, what do you mea– two ribs?” Martin’s hands shot down, brushing against the bottom of Jon’s shirt before he realized what he was doing and jerked his hands back like he’d been burned.
Jon flinched back a little, but then waved a hand at Martin’s apologetic expression, hurrying to reassure him. “It’s fine, Martin, really. I’ll probably have to remove my shirt at some point anyway.” At Martin’s confused look, he grimaced. “You, uh, may have kicked me across the chest and I suspect they might be bruised, too. I-it’s fine, though!” he hurried to say, as Martin let out a strangled, horrified noise, “really, Martin, I just… I, um, assumed you knew?”
It took Martin a second to discern that he was talking about the rib thing and not the fact that Martin had apparently injured his chest, too. “Basira said you’d removed it to create an anchor before going into the coffin, but she never mentioned two.”
“Yes, well, when I went to see Jared Hopworth–”
“The Boneturner?”
“Yes, the Boneturner. When I went to him to remove a rib, I offered a second one in return for his statement. A rib for me, a rib for him.” He chuckled weakly, as if he was only then realizing the absurdity of the statement.
Martin leaned against the bathroom wall, wondering for a moment if he was going to pass out. Judging by Jon’s expression and his hesitant question of “Martin?” it seemed like he was wondering it, too.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Martin said faintly. “I, just. It’s a lot to take it, give me a moment.”
Jon nodded and they descended back into silence. Martin focused on his breathing, trying to figure out if the churning in his gut was from horror or rage. It had been a long time since he’d felt anything this strongly, and he supposed it was only fitting that Jon and his self-destructive behaviours were the reason for it.
(He’d always felt too much, when it concerned Jon.)
“Alright,” he finally said. Then he leaned forward again, swiping the (now chilled) damp cloth over Jon’s face. His eyes followed Martin’s movements, a hint of concern shining through as he placed a careful hand over Martin’s wrist. Martin didn’t move to shake him off and Jon only winced a bit as Martin prodded at his cheekbone, his hand dry and warm as it lingered over the delicate veins of Martin’s wrist. His pulse probably betrayed the hammering of his heart, but Jon didn’t say a word or pull back, even when Martin set down the cloth and switched over to some sort of ointment that was supposed to numb pain.
As he finished, Jon cleared his throat and dropped his hand, fingering at the rim of his shirt. “Should I–?”
Martin nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. He busied himself with wetting the cloth down again, focusing on making sure the water was warm, and cast his thoughts away into a fog before he realized what he was doing and forcibly wrenched himself back from such a Lonely state of mind.
(He wasn’t going to do that anymore – he didn’t NEED to do that anymore. He wasn’t alone. He had to force himself to FEEL things again, instead of watering everything down to nothing. He wasn’t going to take the easy way out, anymore.)
The breath caught in his throat when he turned and was presented with Jon’s slim, shirtless frame. Beneath the single fluorescent light, it looked bad. His skin tone wasn’t the same lovely dark brown when they’d first started at the Institute, and instead had an unhealthy, faded sort of look that seemed almost purplish, like an old bruise. It probably didn’t help, of course, that there were actual bruises now darkening over his ribcage, so that they made a mesh of sickening blacks and blues and reds over the span of his chest. And yes, Martin could easily see the missing ribs, now; the indent on one side where there was no longer anything solid to keep the shape, while Jon’s other ribs stood out stark against his skin in a mockery of how they were supposed to be.
And then there were his scars.
(Martin had never known how many worms had gotten at him. He’d known, logically, that it had had to have been bad, but the way they peppered his sides all the way up to his neck in clusters of warped flesh was worse than he’d seen on Tim. There was a stab wound curving down the right side of his chest; probably from Melanie, he thought, although he’d only heard bits of THAT particular story. He knew for certain that the thin, neat lines around Jon’s throat were from Daisy. It wasn’t like he could forget that particular day at the Archives, and god, wasn’t it funny how murderous so many of their allies were, or rather, had been? No, that was a bad train of thought, considering how Melanie had ended up and Daisy… well, best not to dwell on it.)
The point, though, was that Jon looked like he’d been to hell and back. It made Martin want to throw up. It made him want to cry and hug him. It made him want to gently trace each scar, to feel the way Jon would shiver and arch against his touch, to whisper how beautiful he was into every square inch of abused skin and bone until Jon pressed against Martin and begged him to touch him more–
“Martin?”
Startling from his (horribly embarrassing) thoughts, Martin’s gaze darted up to meet Jon’s. He could see the discomfort there, the awkwardness as he hunched in on himself, and sadness became the dominant emotion settling in the pit of his gut like a stab wound. It was kind of nice, actually, Martin thought to himself. Not that he wanted to feel sad, per se, but with it came an urge he’d solely been lacking recently: the tight curl of concern, of wanting to help.
(Martin had always been a caregiver. It was what he was, to his bones. And yes, he’d admit that in the past he tended to be a bit overbearing or lacking in the backbone department, and that perhaps he’d taken on the role simply because it was something he’d had to do with his mother from such a young age, because there was resentment tied up in it too, he knew; a bitterness at feeling so obligated to serve others before himself, but something necessary nevertheless. He’d swallowed down his own discomfort out of love for his mother and an ingrained desperation to get a half-way decent paying job to support them and it had been that way for the majority of his life. It had always, always, been habit to swallow down his own misgivings and laugh it off, to make those around him comfortable and never burden them with his insignificant problems. Because deep down, he knew that what he could offer others was all he was worth.)
(And yet… not all of it was some elaborate act. Because Martin did like providing. He liked making others feel safe and happy. He might be clumsy and take up too much space and not be all that smart, but he could throw himself heart and soul into taking care of someone else. And as he concentrated on that, on the concern swirling in his stomach and the pangs of grief and the urge to scream, the numbness swelled and seemed to drown, and he relished it, in the overwhelming sensation of living and feeling and wanting that he’d forgotten.)
“Are you alright?” he blurted out, and that was such a foolish thing to ask that he shut his eyes out of frustration at himself. Obviously Jon wasn’t ok. Neither of them were, really – hadn’t been for a long time.
Jon just grunted, though. “I’m fine, Martin. Just a bit of bruising. You barely caught me at all.” And oh, Martin realized, the silly man was trying to reassure him, thought Martin was blaming himself (which he was, but that wasn’t the point), and was acting like it wasn’t some big deal. Like the fact he had become a punching bag for everyone and everything to take their anger and curiosity and fear out on was perfectly normal.
The fact that it probably was normal for Jon was enough for Martin to burst into tears.
In retrospect, he should have seen it coming. What with the abrupt return of feeling emotions and everything with the Lonely, it made sense that Martin was going to have a meltdown sooner rather than later. He’d always been a pretty emotional guy, even if he’d become good at repressing his own needs and wants, and he’d been told time and time again that he wore his heart on his sleeve. Still, he could probably count on one hand how many times he’d actually cried in front of another living, breathing human being, and even then, it had been nothing like this: loud, gasping sobs that punched the air out of his lungs and tears so thick and wet that it felt like his eyes were bleeding. At any other time, it probably would have been amusing to see how frantic Jon was, his hands waving and the way his face twisted in panic, but as it was, Martin could only bend over at the waist and gulp down any air that made it past his closed throat. At a certain point, he wasn’t sure whether he was still crying or laughing hysterically, or if it was some warped combination of the two.
“Martin, Martin,” Jon babbled, making shushing noises between the repetition of his name, and it was soothing but not enough to get Martin to stop. His knees buckled, then, and Jon struggled to slow his descent as he slid to the bathroom tile. He definitely wasn’t strong enough though, and Martin’s head thumped against the wall as his lower back protested the way he’d crumpled into such a small space, crammed between the sink cabinet and the peeling wallpaper. He buried his head between his knees, trying to remember how to breath, and then Jon’s hands cupped his face and it was the only thing he could concentrate on as he hyperventilated.
Jon’s thumbs rubbed over his cheekbone; one was rough and cool, while the other had a smooth texture that Martin knew came from burns that had never healed right. It was enough to send him into a fresh wave of tears, imagining Jon being grabbed like that, being forced to endure the agony of his own cooking flesh and the tightening of blistering skin that had hardened into shiny, inflamed scars. He remembered how awkwardly Jon had held the injury when it was still fresh, bandaged and hurt and his hair a flyaway mess. The way he’d tried to calm Martin down when he got upset over not knowing where Jon had been or what had happened to him after he’d been kidnapped. And god, Martin could remember when it hadn’t been like this. When Jon had been a scowling asshole that nitpicked Martin’s work and complained at length about the disorganization of the Archives, and Martin had tripped over himself to help, embarrassed beyond belief at the crush he had on his scrawny, ill-tempered boss and the fact that everyone seemed to know about his feelings except, evidently, for the man he was crushing on. That had been when Martin was so desperate to prove himself, so frustrated at Jon’s dismissals and so scared of losing the first stable job he’d ever had, that he’d almost gotten himself killed by a Worm-Woman.
More than anything, he remembered how things had slowly changed. The way Jon had listened to his statement, how he’d offered him a safe place to stay without hesitation (and gotten into quite a few headache-inducing arguments with Elias as a result), and in those months Martin had lived in the Archives, his crush had bloomed into something intense and steady. Maybe it was because of the rumpled softness that would come out of Jon when he was too sleep-deprived to even know Martin was in the same room as him, or the way he’d fall asleep at his desk, the lines of his face smoothing out as he huffed little breathes out of his nose. Maybe it was because Jon would come in on weekends, when it was just him and Martin, and there had been a peace to it that Martin had never experienced before. They’d shared takeout a few times, and Jon’s tie had been loose and his sleeves had been pushed up in a casual display of his forearms, and afterwards Martin had laid on his cot with the door propped open (despite his fear of invading worms) so that he could listen to the indistinct rumble of Jon recording statements down the hall. And then they’d gotten trapped together, and Jon had been bleeding and in pain and unable to walk and yet he’d bared his heart and his fears to Martin and, and…
(Well, the rest was history, wasn’t it?)
“Martin, please, I–I don’t know, I don’t know what to do,” Jon stammered, his hands still cupping Martin’s face, his voice raspy and desperate as he stared wide-eyed at Martin. He wanted to tell him that it was fine; that what he was doing was enough, and that Martin would shut up and stop blubbering soon anyway, but all that came out was a weak hiccup. Jon’s hands pressed tighter in response.
“Martin,” he said, “Martin, look at me.”
With a gasp, Martin did. It wasn’t like in the Lonely. Jon didn’t just seem to manifest before his eyes, melting out of the fog. He’d always been there. He was solid and real and kneeling awkwardly on the cold tile of a bathroom in Scotland trying to wipe away Martin’s tears. It was so surreal that Martin’s next sob tapered off into a hysterical, choked laugh. Understandably enough, that did absolutely nothing to reassure Jon of his mental state, and the hands on either side of his face squeezed harder before forcibly relaxing again.
Eventually, his breathing steadied. He was still letting out weak little giggles, and tears continued to leak from his eyes, but Jon’s hands kept stroking up and down, wiping away the tears, and his eyes never left Martin. Like Martin was the most important thing in the universe (which was ridiculous, but still made him feel achingly happy). It was a lot, but not too much.
When Martin felt relatively calm again, he chuckled. “Sorry about that,” he apologized, “I’m alright now.” Jon didn’t move to retract his hands, and after a moment Martin forced himself to make eye contact again. He was too tired at that point to decipher whatever emotions were splayed across Jon’s face, but he thought he detected some sadness there.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Jon said lowly. One of his fingers lightly traced Martin’s cheekbone. “I’m sorry if I did anything to upset you.”
“You didn’t. Just… just suddenly realized where we are, is all. Or, or, I guess, what’s been happening? Christ, I don’t know, Jon.”
Jon huffed out a small laugh. “Yes, I suppose I understand. I suspect we should have…”
“Seen this coming?” Martin guessed. “Yeah. Probably.”
“You’d think the Eye would have helped me with that.”
Martin squinted at him. “Was that a joke?”
“Not a very good one, but yes. I don’t really care about the exact population of Scotland or that the farmer down the road is scared of sheepdogs, but I would care to know when our next emotional breakdown is coming.”
That finally got a real laugh out of Martin; not one bogged down by sobs, or high-pitched and hysterical. Just a nice, gentle belly-laugh that reverberated through his chest. “That would be handy, wouldn’t it?”
The both of them sat in silence, then, and Martin became aware that Jon was practically in his lap at that point. There wasn’t much room in the bathroom and even less in the space Martin had collapsed, so it made sense that Jon was leaning so much into his space, but at that point he was almost nose-to-nose with the man. He allowed himself a moment of indulgence and just drank in the sight; the darkness of Jon’s irises, the sharp curve of his jaw, the stubble growing in along his chin and cheeks, the chapped quality of his lips, and oh, he’d… he’d like to kiss Jon, he thought. That wasn’t exactly a new thought, mind you, but it did seem more… plausible, maybe? Like he could reach up and actually do it.
He didn’t, though. Partly because he was a coward, partly because he was still so damn tired and couldn’t imagine moving at that moment, even if it was just to tilt his face into Jon’s. He settled for nuzzling Jon’s hands wordlessly, humming gently with the pleasure of skin-on-skin contact.
“Can you stand?” Jon asked, and even though his voice was low, it still seemed too loud in the stillness between them. “We… we should go back to bed. You need rest.”
Martin nodded. Jon was right, but that didn’t mean he was particularly enthused with the idea. Jon straightened up a bit, finally removing his hands from Martin’s face, and under the glow of the light Martin once again caught the darkening bruise spreading across Jon’s jawline. Guilt coiled in the base of his gut; it was stronger this time, heightened by the fragility of just recovering from a breakdown, and Martin forced himself to reach up and grab the edge of the sink to help haul himself to his feet. Jon’s arms immediately hooked under Martin’s armpits, attempting to help even though Jon was barely upright himself, and it took some maneuvering for them both to get fully standing and out the door.
Martin collapsed face-first onto the bed, ignoring the squeaking protest of the springs as he huffed out an exhausted sigh. Neither of them had shut the light off in the bathroom and it cast a slight glow around the edges of the bedroom, seeping in through the open door. Otherwise it was perfectly dark and quiet – something that would have thrilled him any other time, if he wasn’t feeling so shaky and desperate for reassurance. Even when in the grip of the Lonely, he hadn’t been able to fully shut out the bustle of the city, the noise and light and countless lives going about their business at all hours of the night outside his flat. Here, there wasn’t even that.
“I’ll be right back,” Jon said, and Martin bit his lip. He’d be fine; it wasn’t like he needed Jon next to him at all times. Which, come to think of it, had they even been apart since they’d reunited? There had been a couple times they’d each had to use the bathroom, but otherwise Martin didn’t think he’d strayed further than a few feet from Jon since they’d walked, hand-in-hand, out of the Lonely.
He strained his ears and was rewarded with the shuffling sounds of Jon in the next room over. Probably the kitchen, if Martin remembered the layout right. The room around him was so goddamn quiet and his entire body felt chilled to the bone. He was so, so tired.
Eventually – after what was probably only a minute or so but felt like hours to Martin – Jon’s shadow blocked the light of the hallway as he shuffled back into the room. While he closed the door a bit, he didn’t latch it, nor did he go back to shut off the bathroom light. Personally, Martin was grateful for that; he suspected that he’d never be able to sleep in full darkness again, knowing what he did now.
“Martin?” Jon asked.
Sighing into the sheets again, Martin managed to turn his neck enough that he could make out the smudged outline of the other man hovering next to the bed. Clutched to his cheek was an ice-pack that immediately caught Martin’s attention (and which caused another bout of guilt).
With enormous effort, Martin turned over to properly look at him and make room for him to sit down, which he did. “Where’d you get that?” he asked. It was mainly an attempt to convince Jon that he wasn’t about to start crying again, but he was also dully curious. Hell, he hadn’t even thought to check the cabinets for food, let alone check to see if the refrigerator was running.
“Well, this IS Daisy’s safe-house,” Jon said dryly. Martin snorted. That would explain it, then – Daisy was nothing if not prepared. “I suspect there’s enough knives in the kitchen drawers alone to supply an army. Another first-aid kit under the sink, too.”
“Any food?”
“Some,” Jon said, “although I didn’t really check. Nothing in the fridge, at least. Just some perishables in the cupboards.”
“Still,” said Martin conversationally, “it’s something, isn’t it? We can check more in the morning.”
Jon shifted a bit and made a small noise of agreement. Silence once again settled over them, and this time there was a stiffness to it that Martin both couldn’t discern and certainly didn’t have the energy for. With a tiny grunt of effort, he slung an arm around Jon’s waist (he could feel the dip of his missing ribs again) and half dragged, half flopped the other man down onto the mattress with him. Jon let out a surprised yelp but relaxed immediately in Martin’s arms, squirming until he was comfortably situated. The awkwardness vanished as quickly as it had come, and Martin sighed, letting his eyes drift shut and his chin rest on the top of Jon’s head; his meltdown had sapped any remaining energy in his body and he was content to lay there, not thinking, until he was asleep.
“Martin?” Jon whispered.
It was too much effort to form words, so he hummed in response.
“I… I know there are, there are – things, we need to talk about. But, well, this is, if I’m not misreading anything, um, this is… nice.”
Fondness bloomed in Martin’s chest and he hugged Jon tighter to him. “Less talkin’,” he mumbled, “more sleepin’.”
“Yes, yes, I–I know you’re probably tired, but Martin, I, um.”
Martin blinked his eyes open. He couldn’t see Jon, tucked up against his chest, but he could feel the tension radiating from the man, the tightness of his grip as he struggled to articulate what he wanted to say.
Gently, so as to not startle him, Martin removed one arm from its position hugging Jon and settled it in his hair, stroking through the unruly locks like one might do to a fearful cat. Jon jolted a bit, obviously surprised, but didn’t move to escape the touch, so Martin figured it was alright to continue. “It’s alright, Jon,” he said, the words coming surprisingly easily. “I know. We can talk more in the morning.”
Finally, finally, Jon relaxed fully, returning to the limp exhaustion Martin had witnessed beforehand, at the start of the evening. He somehow wormed closer into Martin’s space, his nose pressing into Martin’s shoulder and his breath blowing warm and slow over the nape of his neck. His knees pressed to Martin’s stomach, a bit boney but not pushing hard enough to be uncomfortable, and Martin hummed lightly as Jon curled into the tightest ball imaginable once again. He let his hands linger in Jon’s hair for another moment before curling them back around the man’s midriff, skimming his fingers lightly over the bare skin and hooking a leg over Jon’s slight form. It was warm. It was safe. It was the most happy Martin had ever felt, even with the exhaustion and guilt hanging heavy over his head, because he was holding Jon and he could feel the way their chests rose and fell in sync, Jon’s slowing as he drifted into sleep.
They had time, he thought. They had time to rest, now. And they’d have time to talk, and heal, and maybe… maybe things would be alright, in the end.
And so Martin slept.