Archive of Our Own ^beta

Something is tickling Martin’s nose. 

Without waking fully, he lifts a hand to scratch the itch. Or rather, he tries to. As soon as he moves, the familiar, wiry form he’s pressed up against follows suit. Jon turns over in his sleep, instinctively cuddling closer to him.

Bleary-eyed, Martin puts his arm back around him. Jon nuzzles up against his chest before sighing contentedly and going still again. Martin smiles and kisses the top of his head. He can’t help it — he’s just too adorable to resist.

Jon’s hair, on the other hand, not only tickles but kind of stinks right now. Martin wrinkles his nose and draws slightly back. They both need a bath. Then maybe some food, and definitely tea, if he can find any around here.

Here. Upton House.

Suddenly it all comes rushing back. The distant sight of green lawns lit by impossible sunlight. The stately building and flourishing gardens around it, so pristine and incongruous amid the post-apocalyptic landscape. 

It hadn’t seemed real. Yet here they are, in a beautiful, well-furnished room, complete with decorative light fittings, lacquered chests and wardrobes, and a four-poster bed with actual curtains partially drawn about them.

More than the material extravagance, though, it’s the feel of this place that strikes Martin as undeniable proof that they’ve reached some sort of oasis. He’s at ease here in a way he’s forgotten to be in the weeks or months they’ve been walking. His muscles are a bit stiff, but he feels properly rested, instead of existing in a sort of suspended animation: neither energised nor exhausted, always somewhere in between.

“Jon,” he calls softly, wanting to share this sensation with him. He shifts so he can see more of his face, and suppresses a chuckle as Jon makes a low, grumbly noise in the back of his throat. “Come on, already. We must’ve slept for ages.”

When Jon finally opens his eyes, they look subtly different. It’s hard to pin down why, until Martin thinks in terms of what’s not there anymore: the Beholding, peering out through those same pupils with steely detachment or voyeuristic eagerness. Or even boredom, since the end of the world — the expression of a god grown blasé about engorging itself.

Now it’s only Jon looking at him, muzzily, fondly. “Hello there,” he murmurs.

Martin tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, out of his face. When Jon smiles at his touch, bedhead and all, he is more beautiful than anything this place could possibly have to offer.

“Ready to get up?” Martin prompts.

“In a minute. I want...” Jon blinks. “I want,” he repeats with an air of pleasant surprise, “to just savour this, for a while.”

His smile hasn’t wavered, but there’s something hollow about it: a quality which echoes in his voice as wistfulness. 

Martin finds himself holding his breath, holding still, trying not to break the spell of this moment. The illusion that it will last.

Jon clings tight to his hand when they finally venture out of the room. He doesn’t say anything about it outright, but from the way he constantly swivels his head and points out signs on the walls, Martin suspects he feels more than a little disoriented without the Eye’s near-omniscient input.

By dint of largely random wandering, they eventually find their way to a bathroom. Martin wets a hand towel and tries to scrub the grime from his arms and neck at the sink. Beside him, Jon does the same, pushing his sleeves up as far as they’ll go. There isn’t a shower stall; these facilities were intended for tourists, not residents.

He does a decent job freshening up. It helps that he used to give his mother sponge baths, when she’d had one of her episodes and couldn’t be trusted to wash herself without slipping. Not that she admitted as much. She was more likely to insist on showering alone, while he waited anxiously outside for the sound of a fall. When she did permit him to mop at her face, she’d complain about water dripping onto her lap.

Odd. He hasn’t thought about his mother in ages. Since she passed away, he’s spent most of his time in situations too stressful or insane to think about things on a smaller scale than fate-of-the-planet. The only exceptions are those glorious three weeks with Jon in Daisy’s safehouse, and... now.

This is the first time, Martin realises, that he’s felt normal enough to have emotions about personal, fathomable events. Friends dying. Friends leaving.

He takes a slow, shuddering breath.

He doesn’t realise how long he’s been standing still until he hears Jon quietly say his name. “Alright?” he asks, touching his hand.

Martin lets him take the now-ruined washcloth from him. “Everything is sort of... sinking in.”

In his peripheral vision, he notices Jon’s facial expression twitch slightly. “Daisy.”

He nods, even though it wasn’t a question, nor was it said like one. He wants to add on to that, say something like I know she was your friend or She wasn’t herself anymore. Neither of those statements feels like enough.

When they emerge back into the hallway, it’s still deserted — except for a line of spiders on the opposite wall, which helpfully spell out the word food and even form a little arrow to indicate the direction they should walk in.

“I think not,” Jon says flatly.

They head the other way, and open a door to find Mikaele Salesa waiting for them.

“Typical Web,” Jon grouses afterwards, when they find themselves in the pantry anyway. Martin has, of course, also put it together. Annabelle said she’d shown you the pantry.

“Do you think they’re working together?” Martin wonders. “Or is she manipulating him too?”

“I think they’d be the same thing to her,” Jon mutters darkly.

Martin contemplates this as he nudges the plate of sandwiches he’s assembled closer to Jon. The only fillings he’d managed to find after a cursory exploration of the food stores were canned tuna and honey, foods Salesa would have chosen for their long shelf life. It’s more disturbing to think about where the fresh bread had come from. Briefly, Martin gets a mental picture of Annabelle in an apron and toque, holding a spider bake sale.

“This place is real, right?” he asks.

A bitter huff of laughter. “Probably, assuming we can take Salesa at his word. The thing is, I don’t know.”

There’s more to Jon’s voice than simple animosity towards the Web. There’s frustration too, and uncertainty. Being cut off from the Beholding must be starting to really bother him, Martin thinks.

Before he can apologise for laughing at him with Salesa, though, Jon raises a hand. “No, don’t. I’m not upset about that, I just...” He glances askance.

Martin lets him take his time. Meanwhile, he starts eating in earnest. He’s spent so long not being hungry that he’s forgotten how good it feels to satisfy that simple physical need.

When Jon speaks, it’s halting, and bears an air of confession. “Is it horrible,” he says, “that I feel like it’s worse that this is real?” He scrubs his hands over his face. “Paradise is real, and we’ve been invited to stay as long as we want. But that means forgetting about everyone else’s misery. I mean, I can already feel it happening.”

This makes Martin sit up slightly. “You can?”

Jon gets that uncomfortable look on his face that often accompanies any discussion of his powers. “Even when I’m not, ah, venting to the tape recorder, I’m always a little bit aware of what’s happening. I — I can control it, I can avoid looking too closely at the details, but it’s there. Like background noise.”

“So it’s... quieter, here?”

A beat. “Yes,” Jon says. His voice is carefully neutral. Martin suspects that if he were to keep probing, Jon might be forced to admit that the silence isn’t entirely welcome, even if it’s supposed to be a good thing.

“It’s a reversal,” Jon reflects. “Bliss... is ignorance.”

This is heading into dangerously broody territory. Martin picks up his sandwich and attempts to lighten the mood. “How long have you been workshopping that line?”

Jon cracks a smile. It’s a bit crooked, but it’s there, which is good enough for now. “Sorry. Apparently if you take away the Archivist, you’re just left with... angst à la theatre kid.”

“Give me some warning if you’re about to burst out in iambic pentameter.”

Martin watches as Jon ducks his head, embarrassed. After a few seconds, he sighs. “You’re right about the ignorance thing. But it’s still bliss, isn’t it? Anyway, we’re not committing to stay forever. We could use a break.”

He’s not aware that he’s arguing they should stay, until he hears his own voice. The weariness in it, the way it seems to carry every iota of dirt and sweat that Martin can still feel caked on his skin. Every bit of fear and trauma they’ve weathered.

Brow furrowing, Jon gazes at him for a long moment. “Yes. This is... We needed this.”

Then his expression changes. “I have an idea,” he says slowly. “I think I know where there’s a bath.”

Which is how they find themselves in a room with walls covered in aluminium leaf, and pillars done in red. Between the reflective surfaces and the bright ones, the afternoon sunlight coming in through the frosted glass windows illuminates the entire space. It’s pretty sizable, too. There’ve been times in Martin’s life when his entire apartment was smaller than this one fancy bathroom.

“I remember this from when my grandmother brought me,” Jon says, with a trace of excitement. “The Art Deco bathroom for Lady Bearsted. Even as a twelve-year-old, I thought it was a bit loud.”

“Like it’s shouting at you,” Martin agrees, somewhat distractedly. At least the bathtub itself looks normal. He tilts his gaze up from it to the many-pointed star hanging from the centre of the vaulted ceiling. “Still, I suppose it’s meant to be more artistic than functional.”

He feels more than sees Jon do a double take. “You like it,” he says, somewhere between aghast and amused.

Martin hastens to qualify, “Well, not for everyday use, obviously.”

Of his dual emotional responses, Jon appears to go with the latter. “But Martin, who can get by without,” he casts around, “a Turkish rug, five hairbrushes, and a triptych mirror?”

A smile tugs at the corner of Martin’s lips. “There’s only four brushes. The one in the middle is a handheld mirror.”

Jon peers at it. “Gosh, you’re right.” 

They share a wide-eyed look for a couple of seconds, then burst out in nervous, thrilled giggles. It’s such a change, this perfectly curated, untouched room after so many others they’ve walked through that were full of listless queueing people, or echoing with distant groans and screams.

“I feel a bit like I’ve snuck into a fancy hotel and there’s no other guests,” Martin says. “Are we even allowed to be in here?”

“Of course we are.”

“Then are we allowed to actually, uh. Use the facilities?” There’s a red velvet rope cutting off access to the far corner of the bathroom.

In answer, Jon strides over to the bathtub and turns on the faucet. Clear water begins gushing out of the tap. Jon locates the stopper and plugs the drain. “Well, there’s your answer. It’s even heated.”

Martin considers this for a second before shrugging. “Okay, then.”

He roots around in some cupboards until he locates towels and bathrobes. Either the people who put together this room had a real eye for detail, even things that visitors wouldn’t have seen, or one of their hosts had put them in here. He’ll try not to think too much about it.

He and Jon have seen each other naked before, or nearly so (their first week at the safehouse was especially languid, and no laundry was getting done). So that’s not why Martin feels awkward taking off his clothes. Surrounded by lavishness, he’s hyper-aware of how dirty and out of place he is. He’s almost afraid the ghost of Lady Bearsted will suddenly materialise and chase him out into the hallway, scandalised.

In the end, he gets into the tub without issue. It’s still filling, but the water’s already up to just below his waist, and goes higher if he lies back.

Jon appears with two bottles of shampoo and soap, looking a bit preoccupied.

As he accepts them, Martin asks, “Where did you find these? I thought I looked everywhere.”

Jon perches on the edge of the tub and pulls a face. “They were left by the door. Special spider delivery, I suppose.”

“You touched spidery bath supplies?”

“A sacrifice I would only make for you,” Jon says dramatically.

Starting to lather up, Martin raises an eyebrow at him. “You know, you did walk into the Lonely to get me.”

“This is far more harrowing.”

Jon sits and watches Martin for a while, occasionally testing the water temperature and leaning over to fuss with the controls. It’s not clear if this does anything, but it’s just something people do, like pressing the lift button to make it come sooner, or idly poking at the charcoal during a barbecue. It’s nice to see Jon relaxed enough to do something pointless and mundane.

After a few more minutes, though, Martin is mostly clean and starts to wonder if there isn’t more to it. “Aren’t you going to join me?”

In another context, for other people, this would be a provocative question. Jon knows, and Martin knows he knows, that them being unclothed together will never escalate into something he’s not comfortable with. They’ve talked extensively about Jon’s asexuality and what it means for even non-sexual forms of intimacy.

So Martin knows it’s not that that makes Jon hesitate. But he still, visibly, hesitates.

“I’m quite gross,” he hedges.

“So am I,” Martin points out. It’s not like he’s managed to turn the water into sludge, but a definite colour change has taken place. He pulls up the stopper for now, and keeps the water running to dilute the bath. “So we don’t sit in our collective eldritch filth,” he explains.

Jon is still dithering, a distant look in his eyes. Martin frowns, worried now, and puts a hand on his. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t.” Jon cuts himself off, biting his lip. “I don’t feel like I... belong here.”

“Well, yeah,” Martin starts to say, but stops when Jon shakes his head, the motion a quick, bird-like jerk.

“It’s not that. It’s, well. Baths, food, sleep.” He takes a deep breath. “Creature comforts, you see? The thing is, I haven’t felt human in so long.”

It feels like the bottom drops out of Martin’s stomach. “Jon...”

“Don’t. I’m fine, I’m fine.” He’s already waving away his concern, moving to stand.

“No, you’re not.” Martin snags his wrist and waits until Jon meets his gaze. “Your eyes look different, did you know?”

There’s the slightest shift in Jon’s expression. “Really?”

Martin nods. “I noticed as soon as you woke up. You can feel it too, can’t you? The Eye doesn’t have a hold on you here.” He rubs a thumb over Jon’s wrist, briefly feeling the steady pulse under his skin. He offers him a small smile. “You’re a real boy, Pinocchio.”

Jon’s lip is trembling ever so slightly. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

Letting his smile turn teasing, Martin clears his throat. “Now get in the tub, already. You still need to work your way to smelling human.”

Jon proceeds to make a series of mock-offended noises as he peels off his clothes. He’s so distracted that he forgets to be self-conscious — he usually is, what with all his scars. Martin is familiar with most of them, but the bite mark on his leg from Daisy is new. At least it’s healed nicely.

He shifts to make room for Jon in the tub, but taking a bath together is not nearly as romantic as the movies make it look. Limbs are slippery. Elbows end up jabbing in unwelcome places. At last, Jon settles with his back to Martin and a little space between them.

“Okay?” Martin checks.

“Yes.” Jon hums contentedly, tugging at a lock of his hair. Without further ado, Martin cups some water in his hands and begins gently washing it.

Jon makes a faint noise of surprise, but tips his head back to a more convenient angle. When his hair is wet all the way through, Martin lathers up some shampoo between his palms and starts working it in, massaging Jon’s scalp with his fingers.

He can see and feel the tension leaching out of him. Some level of inhibition seems to come with it. “You know, I’d never have a bathroom like this,” Jon muses.

“Oh?”

“Too over the top. I’d go for a neutral tile, off-white. Something warm and welcoming.”

Martin nods, contemplative, and begins slowly disentangling a knot in his hair. “At most there’d be a tasteful floral pattern,” he suggests, “on one row of it, midway up?”

“Very nice,” Jon agrees. “And I’d have a good soft rug for when you get out of the shower.”

“How do you feel about plants?”

“Hmm. What kind?”

“I’d have a little potted one. Although, heh, it’d have to be something hard to kill. Thrives in low light, isn’t too fussed if you forget to water it, or forget you’ve already watered it.”

“Oh, but you’re good at taking care of things.” Jon makes as if to twist around before probably realising he can’t. He settles for pointing at himself with a thumb. “Case in point.”

This gives Martin a flush of satisfaction, especially as he starts to rinse out the shampoo from Jon’s hair. “Well, you don’t have any chlorophyll in you. That’s critical. I have killed many an innocent succulent.”

Jon falls silent as he bends and dunks his head in the water. Meanwhile, Martin turns off the tap and re-plugs the drain, so that the only sound for a while is of water streaming and dripping from Jon.

He wipes his face and scoots away from Martin, pulling his knees up to his chest so that he fits. “I’ll just have to replace it periodically,” he says. It takes Martin a moment to realise he’s still talking about the hypothetical plant.

“Surely I’ll notice,” he objects. “I’ll have named them, and every time I say their name, you’ll twitch and give yourself away.”

“I’ll propagate the succulent from your first one,” Jon counters. “That way, it’ll technically be the same plant.”

He sounds so determined and triumphant that Martin can’t help but laugh. “We’ll see!”

The words hang in the quiet air as he belatedly realises they’ve slipped into future tense. Suddenly, he understands where the wistfulness in Jon’s voice had come from, this morning.

They’ll probably never get to decorate a bathroom together. Never quibble about little domestic things, or complain about chores. Instead, they have this: a vacation from the end of the world, a respite before they continue their journey.

Martin has suspected for some time now that it might not end happily. He’s still hoping it will, of course, and he plans to do his utmost to ensure that. But dread is something he’s learned to carry with him, like grief in the opposite direction.

“I want to stay,” he says. He recalls Jon’s earlier words. “I want to savour this, for a while.”

“I know,” Jon says, and then, “Okay.”

In the morning, after picking up their backpacks from the front hall and fishing out a change of clothes, they step outdoors for the first time since arriving.

“Wow,” Martin breathes.

There’s a huge terraced garden, with stone steps and statues and places to sit. In the centre is a large lake with lilies floating in it. The other flowers are a riot of vitality, pinks and purples and yellows spilling out of their neat rows and partially obstructing the paths. Martin kind of likes the wild, overgrown look, as though nature is reclaiming the place. There are even butterflies flitting around, and bees buzzing. 

The wind itself feels different on their clean skin. It carries the fragrance of the cedar trees that ring the grounds, fresh and resinous. Somewhere nearby, there must be a kitchen garden too; Martin catches a whiff of something herbaceous.

He turns to Jon, grinning, only to find him not looking around but watching him. “Jon, this is amazing! What’re you looking at me for, there’s — there’s so much.”

“Like I said, I’ve been here before.” Jon draws closer to him and tiptoes to kiss his cheek. As he pulls back, he says, “It’s nice to see you happy.”

Martin huffs, faintly embarrassed about his enthusiasm. “Well, if you’re not going to admire this place yourself... I spy with my little eye, something that begins with ‘c’.”

“Hmm.” Jon looks around. “Cedar trees.”

“Nope! Guess again.” He’s definitely not reveling in petty joy that there’s no way Jon can cheat now.

Jon smiles indulgently, continuing to scan their surroundings. After a while, he points. “Would you call that water a creek?”

That’s a good one, though not what Martin was thinking. “Strictly speaking, no.”

“It’s got to be calla lilies, then.”

Martin isn’t sure what those look like. They might be standing right next to them, and he wouldn’t know. “Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’ this time with some relish.

“How about... clover.”

“Wait, is there any?” Martin likes the perfectly formed shapes and vanilla scent. There’d been a field full of it near the safehouse. The cows weren’t allowed in because clover can cause bloat. He and Jon had whiled away many an afternoon there, cushioned by the soft leaves.

“Honestly, I have no idea. Somewhere on the grounds, maybe.” Jon takes his hand. “Do I win if we find some?”

“That’s not really how I Spy works,” Martin says, but they continue walking.

Around a bend, they come across Salesa tending to a vegetable patch. He’s kneeling on the moist earth, but stands and wipes the back of one arm across his forehead as they approach. “Hello, dear guests!” he calls, sounding faintly sardonic as usual. “How are you liking your stay so far?”

Jon gives a low growl, so Martin hurriedly replies, “We’re good, thanks. Are you planting something?”

“Taro, hopefully. Nothing better for Samoan cooking. At least, nothing that will thrive here.” He gestures around regretfully. “Not exactly the ideal conditions for breadfruit or coconut.”

It makes sense that he’d have some source of fresh food planned. If he intends to weather this in style, that clearly means more variety than non-perishables. Still, it’s strange to see the man in more casual clothes, getting his hands dirty. Awkward, feeling like he’s intruded somehow, Martin gives him a thumbs-up. “Good luck!”

When they’ve moved some ways off, Jon pipes up again, trying to finish their game. “So, what was it?”

“Do you give up, then? There’s a forfeit.”

“Which is?”

Martin considers. “Winner makes the loser hot chocolate.”

Jon snorts. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

“But I like making you cocoa.”

“Alright then, yes. I give up.”

Conveniently, they’ve circled almost all the way back to their original spot. Martin points in triumph at part of the flower-beds. “Chrysanthemum!”

He’s expecting Jon to groan and demand a rematch, but instead his eyes seem to shutter, and his hand falls away from Martin’s. “Oh.”

Grin fading into a frown, Martin peers at him. “What? Did I get it wrong?”

“No, those count.” Jon gives a single huff of laughter, although it’s half-hearted. “It’s just... look at the name.”

Martin bends to examine the tiny white sign stuck into the soil. Chrysanthemum coccineum, it reads. Commonly known as the painted daisy.

It’s pouring the next day, so they stick to the main building. The rain creates a curtain of white noise, dampening the sound of their footsteps so that they seem to float through the hallways.

Many of the paintings are portraits in the murky palettes which Martin associates vaguely with old art. It must all be worth a fortune. At one point, he finds a glossy pamphlet with information about where to find various artworks. Pieces by El Greco, Tintoretto, Holbein. One room looks strikingly like the National Gallery in London, with brocaded turquoise walls and skylights in the ceiling. According to a small plaque, it used to be a squash court before renovation.

It’s all lovely and interesting to look at, but most of it is unfamiliar. There’s nothing here that feels like the world they used to inhabit. It’s hard to think that that world is also a bygone era now. Martin fancies himself one of the last free humans, not bound to a domain, but haunting this simulacrum of what civilisation used to be like.

The silence must be making his thoughts turn maudlin. Jon has been a bit preoccupied all day, drifting off into his own musings and speaking little. Quiet companionship is one thing, but Martin has found himself talking more to make up for it, pointing things out to Jon as if to ground him in reality. He worries he’s lost in memories of Daisy, although he’d clammed up when Martin asked last night if he wanted to talk about it.

Eventually, they find their way to a small library. Jon perks up at the discovery and begins exploring the shelves. Martin keeps one eye on him as he begins browsing too. 

Some of the books are clearly display copies, with uncracked spines. Other, more contemporary titles must be contributions from Salesa or Annabelle. Martin is several pages deep into a book about gardening before he thinks to check the index. Then he carries it over to Jon, calling softly for his attention.

“Look,” he says. “Apparently, painted daisies are good for keeping out pests. Some of the petals are even used in organic insecticides.”

Jon looks down at the page for longer than Martin thinks is necessary to read the words on it. Then he shakes himself and lifts a hand, tracing a finger over the lines. He lingers over the words protect neighbouring plants and perennial blooms.

His lips curve in a faint smile. “One of your metaphors?”

Martin ducks his head in sheepish acknowledgement. “Heavy-handed, I know.”

“Oh, you’ve done worse,” Jon says, with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Rude.”

It’s not much of a retort, but Martin leaves it at that. Jon takes the book with him when they leave, holding it close to his chest.

Martin chatters about the books he’s chosen as they make their way through the halls. He can’t help being excited; he hasn’t gotten to read anything in months. “Most of it’s not to my taste, honestly, but that’s okay. I guess the National Trust was focusing on art here.”

Jon nods, serene.

“If I were in Salesa’s position, though. If I were stocking a house that would be safe from the end of the world, I might load it up with other things I wanted to preserve.”

Jon makes an interested noise. “What would you have brought?”

“Oh, I don’t know off the top of my head. Some poetry. Some songs.”

“Traditional Earth ballad, Toxic by Britney Spears?” Jon’s voice is deadpan, but his expression is amused.

Martin had been on the verge of making the reference himself, but hadn’t known for sure if Jon would get it. “I maintain that Doctor Who was prescient with that joke. Actual time travel may have been involved.”

Jon chuckles. For a while, they fall silent. From somewhere in the house comes the sound of piano playing.

“Oh, and some good cows,” Martin adds.

“Of course. But how would you fit them?” Jon asks. “They’d need enough to graze on.”

True. Besides, Martin wouldn’t be able to choose which cows he would bring along, knowing he’d have to leave the others behind. “Drawings of cows, I mean. Sylvia Plath did some great ones. It was a form of therapy for her, did you know? She said she got peace from watching them.”

They pass into another hallway, on their way to deposit the books in the bedroom they’ve appropriated. Martin keeps expecting Jon to continue the conversation, volunteer a serious suggestion of his own. Finally, he prompts, “What would you save?”

“Hm?”

Martin repeats the question. 

“You,” Jon says, like the answer is obvious. “Daisy. Everyone I couldn’t save, I suppose. Sasha. Tim. Gerry.”

Martin blanches and stops walking. Jon stops too, looking suddenly uneasy, and shifts the books he’s holding from one arm to the other. “Sorry, I... I wasn’t paying attention. That’s not what you were talking about, is it?”

“It’s okay.” Martin bites his lip. “I just need to—”

He doesn’t drop his books; he sets them calmly down on the floor. Then he wraps Jon up in a tight hug.

After a moment, Jon snakes an arm up around him. “I’m alright,” he says softly, but Martin doesn’t let go just yet.

Martin never thought he’d find himself lying on a wooden floor next to a billiards table while a record winds down, but clearly there’s a first time for everything.

“I can’t believe we didn’t stumble across this room before,” Martin manages, still panting from a little exertion but mostly laughter.

Beside him, Jon groans, holding a hand to his head. “I can’t believe we danced to swing music. The world’s still spinning.”

“You’re the one who started the gramophone going.” Martin pushes up onto one elbow, swaying momentarily. The lords and ladies in the painting hanging on the wall seem to peer down their noses at him imperiously. Well, tough. He’s not the one who renovated this room to perfectly encapsulate the roaring twenties. It’s like a step back in time here. When in Rome, as they say.

Jon has closed his eyes again. Martin gently pokes his shoulder. “Maybe you shouldn’t have twirled so much.”

“I like the way it makes my skirt swish,” Jon mutters. He’d only packed the one in his bag; his absolute favourite, long and soft and pale yellow. He’s never worn it out in the apocalypse, not wanting to risk dirtying it. With a start, Martin realises that five days into their stay here, they’ve gotten comfortable.

After a while, Jon fumbles for Martin’s hand and interlaces their fingers. “Go again?”

“In a minute.”

They’re tired enough that Martin falls asleep within what feels like seconds of sliding underneath the covers. He’s always been quite a light sleeper, though, so he stirs when Jon jerks awake in the middle of the night, and sits up in bed.

“Mm?” Martin mumbles. “What is it?”

“Just getting some water,” Jon answers after a pause. His voice is a little hoarse.

It’s so quiet that Martin can hear the scrape of stubble against skin when Jon rubs at his face. It’s so still that he can infer his movements from the shifting of the mattress. Now he’s scooting over to the edge of the bed, now he’s getting up —

“Oh,” Jon murmurs, and slumps to the floor with a soft thud.

At once, Martin jolts up, fumbling for the light switch on his bedside table and clambering over to Jon’s side. He finds him propped up against the bed. “Jon?” 

When he takes his hand, it’s clammy, and when he tilts his chin up, his eyes look unfocused. The lamp light makes the shadows stand out on his face.

Jon blinks and offers him a dopey smile. “Hi,” he says, lifting a hand to cup Martin’s cheek. The motion is clumsy, and he ends up gently bumping his jaw instead.

“Yes, hi. What’s happened?”

“I got dizzy,” Jon admits. He sounds sheepish more than anything, but when Martin moves his hand to his shoulder, he can feel it trembling.

“Did you stand up too fast or something?” Martin asks, even though he doesn’t think that’s why Jon had fallen. He’s beginning to feel uneasy. Without letting go of him, he reaches for the glass of water he’d left on Jon’s bedside table. There was no reason for him to get up in the first place. “Here.”

Martin watches shrewdly as Jon sips. When a third of the glass is empty, he says, “It’s because you’re cut off from the Eye, isn’t it.”

Jon chokes on his mouthful of water. Martin takes the glass back and thumps him lightly on the back a couple times, all the while assembling his mental evidence. The vagueness; the way Jon has seemed to be enjoying their stay, but absently.

“It’s just some dizzy spells and spacing out,” Jon says. “I’m honestly getting used to it.”

Martin bites his lip. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Jon manages to sound both firm and soft. “It’s well worth it for a break.”

“So then, what woke you?”

He sighs. This time, he does look away. “Nightmare.”

He’d gotten those at the safehouse, too. Martin settles down next to him, leaning back against the side of the bed. “Tell me about it?”

To his surprise, Jon doesn’t demur. Instead, he leans into Martin’s side and says simply, “I think you know what I’d be scared of.”

Oh.

Past the sudden lump in his throat, Martin says, “Of course. Spiders.” 

Jon laughs wetly.

“I declare this a pyjama day,” Martin announces in the morning. “A day for doing absolutely nothing.”

Jon is reclining against his pillow, watching him with a bemused smile. “Well, then I’m already acing it.” He lifts his eyebrows, indicating the pile of items Martin has fetched from the pantry. There’s biscuits and tea, and little savoury buns. “I see you’ve been busy.”

“I take pyjama day very seriously.” Martin brings several books with him as he climbs back into bed. He starts sorting through them, trying to pick one to start with. Perhaps some Songs of Innocence and Experience? Good old William Blake.

“I thought we might go picnicking today,” Jon says after a while of this. “The weather’s good, and you’ve already assembled, ah, provisions.”

That’s actually not a bad idea. “We can do that tomorrow,” Martin says. Jon hadn’t been able to get back to sleep after his nightmare. He still looks sort of drained.

“Are you sure?” Jon presses. “Don’t stay in on my account.”

Martin pauses and turns to him. “Jon,” he says slowly, “nothing would make me happier than to stay in bed and read,” he picks up a book at random, “Matthew Arnold’s Culture and Anarchy to you.”

Jon groans. “Must you?”

Well, now he certainly has to. “Did it in uni, huh?” He flips the book open. “Chapter One: Sweetness and Light.”

“You’re a... sweetness,” Jon grouses, and props his head on Martin’s lap, reminding him of nothing so much as a cat demanding attention.

Martin makes it to the second paragraph before he sets the book down. “He’s just going on about puritanism,” he complains. “I thought this was about literature.”

Jon hums. “You should start with the footnote, if there is one. About the bees.” He waves a hand vaguely. “Who was it? Jonathan Swift.”

“Your namesake, huh?” Martin finds an endnote explaining Arnold’s allusion and scans until he finds the bit Jon must mean. “The... Ancients are bees? The Moderns are spiders?”

Jon pulls a face when he mentions spiders. “Yes. It was a debate about approaches to writing.”

Given his reaction, Martin decides not to read aloud the descriptions of spiders lying in wait, or how one insect furnishes you with a share of poison to destroy another. Some ways down the page, he gets to the image Jon probably wanted him to see. “The difference is,” he reads, “that instead of dirt and poison, we have rather chose to fill our hives with honey and wax, thus furnishing mankind with the two noblest of things, which are sweetness and light.”

He pauses, a smile rising unbidden to his features as he makes the connection. The sweetness of honey. The wax with which to make candles. “Oh, I like that.”

Still lying on his lap, Jon picks up the Blake volume with a self-satisfied air and begins reading.

The day of rest does them both good. Martin feels more settled, the way he always does when he’s had some literature to stew over in his mind, and Jon seems refreshed, his eyes lucid. They chat idly while packing their picnic lunch into an actual wicker basket complete with a red chequered blanket placed atop the table in the pantry. Annabelle has been making herself scarce for the duration of their stay, but there’s no doubt in Martin’s mind that she’s been the one being creepily helpful.

Dragonflies skim over the surface of the lake, which ripples as the wind blows. There’s a chill in it this time, and Martin notices some flowers have stopped blooming. They’re not withering; the petals are just beginning to curl inwards, as if hiding from the cold.

They wander the grounds for a good spot, delving deeper into the trees than they’ve gone previously. In a little clearing, Martin sets down their basket and with Jon’s help, spreads the blanket over the grass. They have sandwiches, biscuits, tea, lemonade, as well as a box of frozen strawberries — obviously, if they’d been fresh, they wouldn’t have kept well.

There are a few wild dandelions peeking out of the grass around them. Whoever was in charge of groundskeeping for Upton probably wouldn’t approve. As Jon picks up his book, Martin leans over and plucks three dandelions.

It takes a couple tries, but soon he gets the hang of digging in his thumbnail to create a small hole in each stem, through which he threads the next flower. Jon notices what he’s doing only when he’s adding a fourth one.

He raises an eyebrow. “Artistic weeding?”

“I happen to like dandelions,” Martin says. “They’re very hardy; I guarantee more will grow back in place.”

Jon picks up a frozen strawberry and offers it to him. Since his hands are occupied, Martin nips it directly from his fingers, humming a “Thank you” as he does.

With some surprise, he notes the title of the book Jon had chosen to bring along. “I thought you didn’t like Romantic poetry.”

“Blake is growing on me,” Jon says, defensive.

“Read me something.” Martin continues adding to his chain of dandelions. “Whatever’s on your current page.”

There’s a short, almost unwilling pause before Jon speaks. “Love seeketh not itself to please, / Nor for itself hath any care; / But for another gives its ease, / And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.”

Martin laughs at the disgusted look on Jon’s face. “What? It’s sweet.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

Slowly, stopping every so often to accept a bite of a sandwich held up by Jon, Martin weaves together a thin flower crown. It’s not flashy or gorgeous, although it could have been, if he’d picked flowers from the gardens earlier. He likes the way it looks, though, each dandelion holding the next almost precariously, and each one so brutishly vibrant. He’d read somewhere that they symbolise resilience. Healing.

“Come here,” he says, gesturing Jon over and lifting the circlet.

“Oh. I could put it on you, actually. If you like.”

Martin shakes his head. “Nah, I made it for you.”

Jon’s hair is down today, and the flower crown sits beautifully atop it. Martin fusses with arranging it for a while, but he really doesn’t need to. He leans forward to kiss Jon’s cheek. “You look nice.”

Jon smiles uncertainly, lifting a hand to touch the flowers.

After lounging around and reading a bit more, they get up and explore the woods. This place is like a little haven. There isn’t a continuous canopy, but the trees make Martin feel sheltered somehow. He keeps craning his neck to look up and around.

The ground is wood chips and soil, with a light cover of leaves. It crunches slightly underfoot. There’s also a faint buzzing, the source of which Martin discovers when he looks over at Jon.

He motions for him to hold still. “There’s a bee who likes your flowers.”

They both stay silent as the bee lands on Jon’s head and investigates the dandelions. Martin feels briefly regretful that he’d plucked them, but it doesn’t seem to bother the bee. He watches it in quiet awe, aware at the same time of Jon gazing at him, possibly tracking the bee’s movements from his expression.

After a while, it flies off again, and they continue exploring. Martin doesn’t realise how far they’ve walked — to the very edge of the oasis — until Jon suddenly sucks in a breath and tugs on his arm. Once he pays attention, his eyes pick out the slow gradient up ahead: the way the green grass turns spotty and diseased before finally giving way to grey mud.

That’s when the bee re-appears, and meanders past them.

Beside him, Jon tenses and starts to say, pointlessly, “No, don’t!”

But it’s already over. Far from the flowers in the gardens, the bee wanders beyond the sphere of influence of Salesa’s broken camera. It makes it only a short distance before something spiky and black leaps on it. The strange creature comes out of nowhere and doesn’t even pause afterwards — just kills the bee and darts away again.

Martin’s stunned. So stunned that he doesn’t react in time when Jon lets go of him and strides forward.

“Careful,” he says instinctively. He doesn’t know why. It’s not like there would be some dramatic change when Jon crossed into the apocalypse. He looks unbothered; in fact, he maybe stands a little straighter, though that might just be the hardening of his shoulders as he picks up the fallen bee.

“Here,” he says, coming a few steps closer. He places the bee in Martin’s cupped palm. Its furry little body is limp but still warm. 

For a weird moment, Martin is hyper-aware of the tableau they’ve formed, both their hands outstretched while Jon hesitates on the other side of the invisible line between them. He’s suddenly afraid that he isn’t going to step back over it.

“Jon?” he calls quietly.

Jon shudders, and comes back to him.

Even a few seconds out there had been enough to revive him somewhat. He seems more present than he’s been in days, more vital. Yet it’s a different sort of energy than he’d had earlier. It makes Martin a little afraid to check his eyes.

I don’t feel like I belong here, he’d said before. I haven’t felt human in so long.

When Jon looks up at him, his eyes are kind and sad. They’re still limned with Beholding when he says, softly, “Can we bury it?”

There’s a metaphor here, about bees with their stings, their sweetness and their light. Martin stands back and instead reads the poetry of earth yielding to Jon’s hands.

They pack up the picnic in silence, chivvying ants away from the leftover food. Then they make their slow way back. Martin is relieved to be heading away from the periphery, putting some distance between them and the changed world. At one point, though, Jon pauses next to a tree, reaching out to touch its trunk. His fingertips go white as he rests some weight against it. He stares blankly in front of him and sways slightly.

Alarmed, Martin extends a hand for him to lean on. Jon waves him off. “Just thinking about carving our initials,” he jokes.

“We should leave soon,” Martin says.

He half-expects Jon to protest that it hasn’t gotten that bad. Instead, he only says in a whisper, “Sorry we can’t stay longer.”

Martin watches him for a moment. Then, on a sudden impulse, he walks over to him and intertwines their fingers. Lifting their joined hands, he traces out a J on the trunk.

“What are you—?” Jon falls silent as he adds a plus sign and an M. For a finishing touch, he even goes around it with a heart. 

“It’s not quite as clichéd as carving it in,” Martin explains, “or as permanent. But we’ll always know we were here.”

He doesn’t think much of it at the time. It’s one in a whole string of precious moments he’s gotten to have. But later, when they’ve left Upton House behind and Jon has forgotten their time there, Martin finds himself returning to the memory of what Jon had said next. 

“Yes.” His smile was fragile, and his expression nearly hopeful. “That’s good enough for me.”