Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

By the time they got to the safehouse, they had been on the road for nearly ten hours and the sight of the tiny, quaint old cottage in the middle of nowhere was a blessed relief.

Jon insisted on driving for most of it- his first thought had been to catch the train up but Basira had warned him off of public transport during the brief and hushed phonecall they had shared before they got on the road.

“Too easy to track. Police might not even come looking for you,” She had muttered, “But at least make it difficult for them.”

Of course, it wasn’t really the police Jon was worried about.

His head felt heavy, the drive from London finally catching up with him as he pulled the car to a stop and shut off the engine. His hands ached from gripping the wheel as tightly as he had and his back would make him pay for how hunched over he was.

He leaned back in his seat, wincing at the cracking sound his neck made, and looked over to Martin.

He had taken the wheel during their first pit stop even though he hadn’t driven in a number of years, and it was only after the third stop when his eyelids were drooping and his yawns seemed to split his jaw in two that he reluctantly let Jon take over again.

Martin had dozed through the night but never fully slept, always dragging himself out of slumber just before falling too deeply into it. He needed rest, they both did, but Jon found himself quietly grateful that Martin was trying to keep himself awake. It helped soothe his shredded nerves every time he saw him shake his head, glance out the window or turn his face slightly to watch him as he focused on the road. Jon felt his eyes on him and every blink was a reminder that Martin was beside him, with him, alive and free of the titanic grip of the Lonely.

They had only talked a little during the trip, exhaustion and the heaviness of the last day weighing down their tongues.

Jon had told him about Trevor Herbert and Julia Montauk, about the not-Sasha that had somehow gotten loose at exactly the wrong moment. When Martin murmured that Peter had set it free on purpose, Jon’s hold on his wheel turned tight.

Conversation trailed after that, falling in drips and drops from their mouths about where they were going, what they had left behind, their co-workers, what few friends they had left. Jon told Martin that Melanie and Georgie were together and he almost smiled, his face softening with the news.

Jon ached to see that look on his face and wished he had more simple, easy things to talk about. It felt so good to just talk. To have a conversation that wasn’t marked with desperation or fear or biting coldness. To hear Martin’s soft voice so close to his side and know that he wouldn’t have to horde the sound of it, not knowing when he would hear it again.

Neither of them mentioned the harder things, things they both knew they would need to talk about, preparations that would have to be arranged, plans that would have to be made.

Feelings that would have to be clarified.

That kind of talk needed to happen but, Jon decided, not tonight. Those words could wait until the morning. If the tired look on Martin’s face as he ducked his head down to stare at the safehouse through the windshield was any clue, he felt much the same.

“Huh.”

“Not what you were expecting?” Jon asked, unbuckling his seat belt.

Martin shook his head.

“When you said it was Daisy’s, I thought it would be something a bit more The Hills Have Eyes.”

He stepped out of the car and reached up to the sky to stretch his back out. When he turned, Jon was staring at him from the other side of the car, nonplussed.

“It’s a horror film.”

“Ah,” Jon pushed his glasses up his nose, “Right…”

Martin felt the corners of his mouth turn up and turned his face away.

“Shall we?”

“Y-Yes…”

Martin headed to the boot to grab the hastily-packed bags they had brought with them, while Jon stepped off of the short gravel path to root around in the bushes that lined the front of the house. Martin paused with a duffel bag hanging off of each arm and watched him dig through the shrubbery. Jon stuck his arm into a tiny gap between a plant and the generator tucked into the side of the house and began to rummage around. After a moment, he withdrew it with a triumphant huff, holding a small, dirt-covered box aloft.

“Spare key,” He explained as he turned back to Martin.

“Oh. She couldn’t get one of those fake rock things?”

“Too cliche.”

Martin huffed in amusement as Jon opened the box and pulled out the key, wrapped firmly in clingfilm. He wrestled with it for a moment before finally unwrapping it and getting the door open.

It creaked in protest and the musty smell of an unlived-in space hit them as they stepped over the threshold. Jon moved further into the short corridor heading for the next doorway while Martin tried the lightswitch by the front door. He flipped it up and down a few times to no avail.

“No electricity… Don’t suppose you know how to start the generator outside?”

Jon turned back and through the dim light coming through the open door, Martin could see his slight frown.

“No, no I’m afraid I don’t-”

He stopped speaking suddenly and his gaze drifted for a moment before his attention snapped back to Martin and his frown deepened.

“Oh. Wonderful. Now I know exactly how a generator works…”

With a cluck of his tongue, he brushed past Martin and stomped back outside to start fiddling with the machine. After a moment, Martin heard a low hum reverberate through the building. The hallway light started to glow a soft, dull orange.

Jon came back inside, shutting the door after himself.

“I’ve, uh, I’ve been thinking…” He shrugged off his jacket and hung it on one of the hooks attached to the wall, “I should stop trying to, um, See things, if, if we are going to keep a low profile. I don’t know if it will actually help but…”

He shrugged.

“But it’s not a bad idea,” Martin said, “It’ll probably help.”

“That’s… that’s the hope,” Jon sighed.

Martin hung up his own coat, gesturing for Jon to lead on.

The cottage seemed even smaller on the inside then it had looked on the outside. The kitchen and living room were one, bleeding into each other, and they began their exploration there. The furniture consisted of flat-pack shelves and a second-hand couch that had clearly been well-loved before it had been hidden away in this house.

Jon leaned over to examine the small fireplace built into the wall. The flue had been bricked up and any means or mechanisms to start a proper fire had long been removed. The fire poker remained however, hanging from its dusty wrought-iron holder. Jon tried very hard to not think about what use Daisy had had for it.

In the kitchen, Martin fiddled with the sink and made a satisfied hum as a cool, clear stream came out of the tap.

“Water seems fine.”

“Good, good…” Jon had wandered over to the bookcase to examine the limited offerings.

Martin inspected the cupboards. There was a small stockpile of dried goods and non-perishables, although he couldn’t help but shudder at the sight of so much canned food. He had had enough of that to last him a lifetime.

“Might be a good idea to pop back down to the village we passed through tomorrow?” He suggested, “Get the lay of the land, pick up some proper food?”

Jon nodded vaguely as he ran a finger along the mantlepiece. He sneered at the amount of dust.

“Ugh. We should clean too.”

“Tomorrow,” Martin agreed.

“Tomorrow.”

They looked over the bedroom together, a tiny narrow space with only a chest of drawers and a single bed wedged under a window with a blackout curtain. The bathroom led off of it- hosting a toilet, a cracked mirror, a sink, and what could charitably be called a shower unit.

Bedsheets were discovered in the bottom drawer and Martin made up the bed as Jon wrestled with the pillow covers.

There was a moment of silence after it was done, as they both stood and stared down at the bed. The blackout curtains hadn’t been fully drawn and a crack of moonlight slashed across the cream duvet, highlighting just how small it was.

Clearing his throat, Jon shifted in place, leaning away.

“I have a, uh, a sleeping bag, I brought… You should take the bed.”

Martin glanced over at him, the light from outside catching on his glasses for a second. His jaw twitched and he took a long slow breath.

“...Sure.”

He leaned down to grab his bag from where he had dropped it and headed into the bathroom to change.

Jon heaved a great sigh as the door shut behind him, a feeling similar to missing the last step on a staircase swooping in his stomach. He kneeled to pull the sleeping bag and his own pajamas out of his bag.

Without the buffer of the car engine rumbling, the thrill of their flight from England, or the numb shock of fresh trauma, Jon was becoming keenly aware of all the unsaid things that were wedged between Martin and himself.

The silence of the night crept in and over him like choking, blinding fog. He shook his head fiercely, rubbing the soft, worn cotton of his sleeping shirt to try and ground himself.

Some conversation had to happen, but not tonight. His mind was fried, thoughts tumbling around it and falling to pieces when he looked too hard at them. What he had to say was too important to get jumbled up by his mealy mouth.

He retreated to the bathroom when Martin left it and changed quickly, avoiding his own eye in the mirror. By the time he got out, Martin was already lying on his back on the bed. He had already put his glasses on the bedside table but he stared up at the ceiling as if he was about to be quizzed on it.

Jon lay down in the sleeping bag, trying to make as little noise as possible, only reaching up to put his own glasses on the table and wincing at the clatter.

He lay with his back to the bed, the solid frame a comfort, and pulled the cover up to his neck.

The smell of the dusty carpet crept over him and the sound of his own breath seemed too loud for the tiny room.

“...night,” Martin croaked softly from above.

“Night,” Jon sighed.

It was a long time before he even tried to close his eyes.

~~

Martin read once when he was young that people dream every night, but they only remember their dreams occasionally.

He was certain he hadn’t dreamt in a long time. Whenever he shut his eyes in the last few months to steal some sleep, his subconscious was covered and crammed with nothing but an echoing silence that he had been slowly embracing. Freedom from his own mind had seemed like a blessing at the time.

When he had his first nightmare for the first time in nearly a year, he remembered why he had felt that way.

It’s about Jane Prentiss, of all people. About her noises; her incessant knocking and her constant squelching.

More than Prentiss herself however, he dreamt about the mundane aspects of being held hostage in his own home. Eating from the same can of peaches that never seemed to empty, pacing his living room until he wore a thread in the carpet, not knowing how to count the hours or the days as they crawled on, knowing with a bitter, heavy certainty, that no-one was going to come looking for him.

His mother was happier in the nursing home, she would be thrilled to never hear from him again.

His co-workers would only care enough that his absence would force them to cover his work. They would feel annoyed at the most, if they even thought to feel anything about him.

Even Jane wouldn’t come for him. She wouldn’t have the decency to kill him quickly. She would just sit and stare and knock, knock, knock until isolation consumed him from the inside-out and he disappeared from a world that did not and never really had cared about him.

He could almost feel it, the numb tingle that would start in his fingers. That would work its way through his body until it ate his heart. Until there was nothing left of him but poor circulation and dull horror. Until all the awful things and cruel, cold people were far, far away from him, and he was finally left alone.

Until there was peace.

Martin didn’t wake up with a start, but groggy and disoriented, with the feeling of acid in the back of his throat.

It took him a moment of wondering why the shape of the bed beneath him was so unfamiliar to remember where he was, but as soon as he did, the disorientation was washed out of him in a wave of anger.

He grappled with the covers that he was tangled up in, casting them off before flopping onto his back to seethe.

The almost-familiar nightmare of Prentiss was a horror he could handle but to have it invaded and twisted by Loneliness was too much for him.

He pinched his arm, twisting the pale tab of skin between his fingers to remind himself that he was awake.

He was awake and he was out. The Lonely did not have him anymore; it was not allowed to have him anymore. Not when he had so blatantly rejected it, not when he had been led out of it’s very heart by his own two feet and the warmth of another hand holding onto his.

He had known that leaving the Lonely behind wouldn’t be as simple as just walking out of it, but he hadn’t expected it to play so dirty. He thought when it tried to come for him again, it would at least come when he was awake and braced for it.

Instead it was insidious, creeping into his subconscious under the guise of another fear, hissing at him that it was buried deeper into him than anything else, that no matter what else marked him, Forsaken had claimed him first.

It sold itself as cowardly comfort, granting him just enough distance to stop caring about the fearful routine of his life, letting him slip into numbness and parading as puffed-up peace.

That was not peace, he thought ferociously at nothing, glaring at the ceiling of the safehouse.

He let the anger flare hot in his cheeks and buzz in his head. Anger was good; anger was feeling something and he wanted to get used to that again, instead of the sensation that he had become accustomed to, of all his thoughts and emotions being echoes of something that had been very far away from him.

Eventually, scowling at nothing started to give way to a headache and he settled for letting it simmer down to annoyance, too tired to keep up the boiling roil of anger.

He would get some water, pace around the cold kitchen floor until his heartbeat calmed and try to steal some more sleep before the morning came.

It was only after he put his glasses on that he saw the bedside table was empty and the door to the bedroom had been cracked open. A thin beam of light sliced through into the darkness and landed on the empty sleeping bag that lay at the side of the bed.

Drawn from his own thoughts, Martin quietly sat up and pulled back the covers. Swinging his feet down to avoid the sleeping bag, he stood and began to make his way over to the door.

The lingering tendrils of his nightmare kept him from calling out but any fear that might have come over him at being alone in the room was waylaid by the sound of a bare foot tapping on a wooden floor that he could hear just past the door.

Pulling it open soundlessly, he stood in the doorway and looked towards the noise.

Jon stood at the kitchen sink, half leaning over it, with one elbow propped above it on the windowsill and the narrow window open just a crack. It let the night air in, thick with the smell of the countryside.

There was a lit cigarette hanging from Jon’s hand and Martin watched in silence as he took a drag from it and blew the smoke out of the window in a long, blossoming plume. His eyes stared out into nothing. Wherever his head was at, it was very far away from the safehouse.

Martin took a moment to drink in the scene, to just look at him.

He had wasted a lot of time over the last few years trying not to look at Jon.

Ever since he started at the archives and realised that the handsome stranger he had asked to help him wrangle a lost spaniel was his new boss, he had kept his head down and avoided his eye. First from embarrassment, which had faded to be replaced by a silly office crush, that in turn gave way to a deep and genuine love.

If he didn’t look, he wouldn’t have to see Jon glare or frown or be afraid. If he didn’t look, maybe Jon wouldn’t look back, wouldn’t see right through him in that way that he did that had nothing to do with being an avatar of an eldritch embodiment of watching.

After the Unknowing, he could barely look at his face as he lay in the hospital bed. It was washed-out against stiff white sheets, grey and corpse-like. Every time he glanced at his sunken eyes, he couldn’t help but beg for them to open, his own tearing up as he tried to hold back on the tide of grief that crashed over him.

Then after the hospital.

He wasn’t allowed to look.

Peter hadn’t explicitly forbidden it, but Martin knew his own heart well enough that just looking at Jon would be dangerous. That the careful walls that he was slowly building around himself would crumble as soon as he saw his eyes again. He thought it would be easier than it was, he thought he would just have to tamp down on his own desires. Instead, he had to deal with Jon practically ambushing him at every chance he got, forcing him to look.

His eyes were as rich and deep and alive as they had ever been.

He hadn’t even let himself look in the Lonely, he had had to be asked what he saw, wasn’t even sure that he was even seeing before the words trickled into his ears.

But when he did look- oh, when he saw.

Jon was too real for the Lonely, too solid, too present, some emotion so bare and blatant on his face that Martin wasn’t sure if he could put a name to it even if he had been compelled to.

He only knew that he had been right about looking at Jon. In an instant, he felt all the defenses he had built over the last couple of years crumbling into nothing, and he hadn’t looked away even once as he took his hand and let himself be led out of the broken and decimated isolation he had nearly given himself over to.

The thought chased away the aftershocks of his nightmare, replacing his anger with something akin to awe and leaving him with only a solid doorframe to lean on and nothing really left to lose.

So he watched Jon.

He didn’t look great.

The dark circles under his eyes made his gaunt face seem even more sunken, making Martin wonder if he had slept at all over the last few hours. His chin was covered in neglected stubble and his hair hung loosely around his face, grown long enough to brush against his shoulders in unwashed knots. His pajamas consisted of a faded t-shirt and old tracksuit bottoms, both baggy enough to drip off of his painfully-thin body.

Martin winced a little as he looked up and down his frame. Jon had always been slim but in the stark light streaming from the window, the edges and angles of his body stuck out sharply. Martin had no idea if he had been eating properly, or if he was still eating real food at all. He had heard through the grapevine that Jon had been surviving on statements, and as much he knew that abstaining from live statements was the right thing to do, he couldn’t help the flutter of pity in his chest to see him so clearly diminished.

One foot bounced rapidly up and down on the kitchen floor, Jon’s restlessness clear in every inch of him and Martin surprised himself by recognising it.

This was no show of repressed supernatural hunger or keen, fear-fueled desperation. This was the poorly-contained fidgeting Martin knew from his first days as an archival assistant. He had noticed it back then, how Jon never seemed to stay still, always pacing or shifting from foot to foot when he stood, and bouncing his knee or constantly rearranging his position when he sat.

Martin remembered afternoons when he would knock at the door of Jon’s office and find him hunched over his laptop with his legs folded under him on his chair, or striding back and forth with his nose buried in a sheaf of paper. Back then he had found it hopelessly endearing and now, in the stillness of the safehouse, he found it even more so. One of Jon’s unnoticed little habits had slipped through the net of trauma and change that they had all been caught in over the last few years and Martin felt a huge swell of relief that something so small and undeniably Jon hadn’t been taken from him.

He was so caught up in the feeling that he almost startled when Jon suddenly took another drag from the cigarette, the shift in the tableau bringing Martin back to the present.

Despite Jon’s best efforts, the smell of cigarette smoke was starting to leak into the kitchen, and Martin would prefer it didn’t reach the bedroom. Jon still seemed to be a million miles away so, shifting his weight away from the doorframe, Martin cleared his throat and knocked a knuckle on the door as quietly as he dared.

“Jon?”

Jon jumped a foot in the air, as if the knock had been a gunshot, and whirled around to face Martin, eyes as wide as saucers.

“Jesus!” He pressed his free hand to his chest, “Martin, you scared the life out of me, you-! Ah!”

As if he had just remembered where he was, he turned slightly to the sink again and stubbed out the cigarette with a hiss. Shifting so his back was to the sink and the still smoking butt crushed into it, he waved a hand through the air as if that could dismiss the lingering smell.

“What- What are you-? Are you-? E-Everything alright?” He stammered, still breathless with surprise.

All Martin could do was blink, bemused at his sudden panic. He didn’t think he had been that loud.

Watching Jon’s eyes rapidly dart from him to the open window, he tried to pin down what had him so startled. His hand still flapped at the puffs of stale smoke in the air.

“I-I was just-” Jon fished for an excuse, “I didn’t mean to- Thought you were- A-Are you laughing at me?”

Martin wasn’t laughing, but he felt a smile trying to fight its way onto his face.

If Jon was flustered about what he thought he was, he couldn’t help but find it funny. It seemed so silly, after everything.

“Jon,” He softly voiced his guess, “You know I don’t mind if you smoke, right?”

When Jon winced, mortification clear on his face, he knew his hunch had been right.

“I, um, I’m trying to quit- I mean I did quit, technically, after uni, but sometimes when I’m uh, stressed, it… It’s no excuse, just a- a bad habit…” He mumbled.

“Not your worst one,” Martin joked, still amused.

Jon’s face went blank and for an awful instant Martin thought he had crossed a line, until a slight, shy smile wound its way over Jon’s face and he let out a huff that was almost a laugh.

“No,” He rubbed the back of his neck, “No, I suppose not.”

Chuckling again, Martin made his way over to the sink and pulled a glass out of one of the cupboards.

Jon didn’t move away as he came closer, only turned so they were facing the same way. He did make a face however as Martin flicked on the tap and the butt of his cigarette swirled down the drain, leaving a streak of wet ash as it went.

“Sorry.”

“You’re fine.”

Martin filled his glass and sipped carefully. Jon leaned slightly over the sink and looked him over.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Hmm, oh no, no, just… don’t sleep great these days.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie, but he didn’t really feel like picking through his dreams right now. If Jon picked up on the half-truth, he didn’t show it, only nodded slightly.

“Mmm, same for me. Hence the…” He gestured to the ash stain before reaching up to close the kitchen window.

“Suppose we’ll just have to get used to it, yeah?” Martin said, just to say something.

“I suppose so.”

Martin chugged the rest of the glass and set it on the draining board to drip-dry. The weight of drowsiness was settling back over his shoulders and he was keen to try sleeping again.

“Right,” He rolled his head back to stretch out his neck, before looking to Jon, “Will we give it another go?”

“Ah, sure.”

Jon’s shuffling footsteps followed him back into the bedroom and as they both took off their glasses and lay down in their respective beds, they did so facing each other.

Jon looked up at Martin, his face half-pressed into his pillow.

“I hope you sleep…” Jon sighed, “Well, I just hope you sleep.”

Martin huffed.

“You too, Jon.”

Neither of them even tried to close their eyes. Instead they just looked at each other. In the darkness, Martin felt the weight on Jon’s eyes on him like another duvet. They ate up and reflected what little light there was in the room, making Jon look like an overgrown cat.

Jon had never held back from looking at Martin- a mirror image of his own habits. Even before the Eye had dug its way into his brain, even though Martin had hunched his shoulders and lightened his footsteps and did his best to not be noticed, Jon had always seen him.

He saw every mistake he made and expected better each time he chastised him. He saw the fear in him when he crashed into his office to babble about Prentiss and instantly believed it. He saw every extended hand and soft word that he offered to try and hold things together when their world as they knew it crumbled around their heads.

He didn’t always acknowledge it -there were times when he didn’t even seem aware of it- but Jon had never let Martin go unseen.

It became more obvious after the coma; the ever-growing influence of Beholding on Jon’s mind and body extending his senses, in junction with his desperation for Martin to know that he was back and alive, made it difficult to hide from his sight, even with the veil of Loneliness draped over his shoulders.

In the stillness of the safehouse, being seen felt like safety.

Some small part of his brain knew that his sense of what was safe and what wasn’t had been twisted over the years. The memory of Jess Terrell’s pale terror-struck face as she told him of her own tale of being watched would stay with him for a long time, and he was no fool to think that all the times he caught Jon watching him was solely of his own volition.

A bigger part of his brain knew that the Eye’s scrutiny wouldn’t cause him any direct harm; knew that if he had to be regarded by any of the terrible, unknowable things that dictated the course of his life, he would be safest with the one that paid his salary.

Most of his mind however, was soothed simply by the comfort of having another person close to him, by having Jon close to him. He met his gaze in the dark of the bedroom, blinking slowly as his eyelids grew heavier. Jon merely watched and the strength of his stare was enough to drive off the last few clinging threads of the Lonely that Martin’s nightmare had wound around his thoughts. He shut his eyes, ready to let sleep take him again, and let the knowledge that he would not wake up alone sink into his bones.

“G’night Jon,” He murmured into the sheets.

The silence of the countryside bled into his own breaths, broken only by a hoarse whisper.

“Night.”

Chapter Text

Jon woke with the dawn, although the light of it didn’t reach him through the blackout curtains.

He had almost a full second of blissful, blurred ignorance before the memories of the last day crashed down upon his head. In a vain attempt to ward off a headache, he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

From the invasion of the archives to submerging himself in the Lonely to fleeing northward, adrenaline had fueled his desperate movements. Now that he was no longer in immediate danger, it had left him, leaving him aching and utterly worn out.

A whirlwind of thoughts swirled in his head, one blustering gale blowing to the forefront of his mind over and over again.

He sat up, cracking his back, and looked over to the bed.

Martin was half-hidden by the duvet, his face pressed into the flat pillow. He didn’t look younger in his sleep but he seemed looser somehow. As if the tension and terror of the last few days -the last few years- had slid off of him and left his muscles slack. In the gloom of early morning, Jon could see the streaks that marred his hair fanned against the sheets; stress and Loneliness bypassing grey and turning almost all of his floppy fringe white. His mouth hung open slightly and Jon could hear something that was almost a snore whistling out of him. Even leaning only slightly against the edge of the bedframe, Jon could feel the heat of his body, sleep-warm.

He shut his eyes to the sight and against the tears that bloomed in them. The sudden burst of relief in his chest was too much to handle.

Whatever else they had to deal with, whatever else came for them, in this moment Martin Blackwood was safe and whole and with him, and Jon felt like his body wasn’t big enough to hold in how grateful he was for that.

He leaned over, resting his head on the edge of the mattress and opened his eyes again. Watching him sleep was probably creepy on some level but Jon was far too worn-out to care. It was hardly the creepiest thing he had ever done.

Martin had one hand tucked under his face, the tips of his fingers poking out from his cheek and Jon was seized with the sudden urge to find his other hand and hold it closely.

From their trek out of the Lonely through the frantic chaos of the institute, Jon had held as tightly as he could onto Martin’s hand, only reluctantly letting go when he remembered he needed both hands to drive.

He didn’t have any excuse to take his hand now, no monsters to run from, no seascapes to break out of.

His chest grew tight and tender with an unpleasant ache.

Jon knew Martin didn’t love him anymore. He had said as much himself when he had found him in the Lonely.

He also knew that his love for Martin wouldn’t change, regardless.

It hurt to mesh those facts together in his head but if they were going to be stuck in this house for god knows how long, he would have to learn to be comfortable in that hurt.

Martin was alive, he was going to recover and that would have to be enough.

He watched him until his eyes flickered open.

Martin blinked slowly at him before rolling onto his back and whispering a soft ‘good morning’. Jon smiled at the sight of the pillow marks on his cheek.

They rose slowly, agreeing after some toothless debate that Jon would shower first and Martin would attempt to find something edible.

The water in the shower ran clear but cold and Jon emerged into the kitchen with a rough towel draped over his shoulders and a warning about the temperature on his lips. He saw Martin glaring down at the old kettle on the counter, boiling away shakily.

“She doesn’t even have teabags,” He muttered darkly.

Breakfast was cobbled together from hot water and shockingly bad instant porridge. Neither of them ate much.

Chipped bowls rinsed and drip-drying in the sink, Martin hopped into the shower as Jon mentally sorted through a shopping list. He wanted to get a crack on cleaning as well, both to make the safehouse marginally more livable and to keep his hands busy while he tried to order his frazzled thoughts.

He had put off speaking to Martin about their situation last night due to their shared exhaustion but he couldn’t rely on that as a buffer any longer. They needed to talk.

He ran the towel over his damp hair as he wandered back into the bedroom, deciding to unpack what few things he had brought. It needed to be done and it afforded him a bit more time to think.

Martin came out of the bathroom and puttered around him, going through his morning routine and seemingly just as deep in his own head as Jon was. It was oddly peaceful, a quiet settling as they began a new day in an unfamiliar place.

Martin had wandered back out to the kitchen when Jon found the tape recorder. It was buried at the bottom of his duffel bag, worn from use with a clunky heft.

Unlike the recorders he had gotten unfortunately used to popping up when he least expected them, he had deliberately packed this one. It would serve as a sort of supernatural alarm system, giving at least a marginal heads-up should anything come sniffing around their door.

Martin had frowned when he saw it but as Jon clicked it on and heard that familiar hiss of static, he couldn’t deny it brought him some degree of twisted comfort. This, at least, was a known factor.

He perched on the edge on the edge of the bed, running his fingers over the casing until Martin walked back into the room, knocking the mug in his hand against the doorframe to catch his attention.

“Everything alright?”

Jon held up the recorder.

“Just – Making sure it works.”

“I still don’t think we should have brought it,” Martin frowned.

“Oh, it’s better than no warning at all,” Jon sighed, “Especially if I’m trying not to, uh… See things, you know?”

“I guess.”

Martin conceded with a shrug and bent to take his own clothes out of his bag, placing the mug of the bedside table.

“You’re unpacked then?” He asked, unfolding a t-shirt.

He said it so casually, so comfortably, as if he hadn’t just spent the better part of a year trying to avoid conversation as much as he possibly could, that Jon couldn’t help the warmth that bled into his answer.

“Hm? Oh, yes; much as I can be without any wardrobes to speak of, at least.”

He gestured to the rickety chest of drawers and Martin chuckled.

“Yeah, it’s – it’s not exactly the Ritz.”

“Yeah, well, it technically still belongs to Daisy, so – I’m just glad it’s not some sort of kill room.”

“Or – Or it is, and she just cleaned it up really well.”

He laughed again and Jon joined him with a happy little sigh.

“Yes.”

He watched Martin put his clothes away in the top drawers, noting how he divided his shirts from his trousers, but all sleepwear was kept together. He tucked the nugget of knowledge away deep in his mind, eager to learn more of Martin’s domestic habits.

It was only when his hands stalled on the handle of the drawer that Jon looked back up to his face and saw how he had caught his lip in-between his teeth.

“Are we? –” He hesitated, reluctant to voice his thoughts, “Are we… safe here?”

Jon sighed softly. He wasn’t exactly ready to answer that question but he owed Martin his honesty.

“Safe as anywhere. If Elias wanted to find us, I imagine he could, but – I doubt the police will be able to. If nothing else, I’m hoping there’d be some – jurisdiction complications, in Scotland?”

Martin opened his mouth, then cut his own words off with a scoff.

“Some– Somehow I don’t think Daisy will be worried about jurisdictions.”

Jon winced.

When he had called Basira, she had been very brief in her explanation when she told him what happened after he had left for the tunnels. Her voice had been rigid with how tightly she was attempting to keep it under control. Daisy had been lost to the Hunt, she didn’t know where she was, and that was all.

“I – I don’t think she’d come here,” Jon said softly, trying not to imagine the state she would be in if she did, “Doesn’t look like this place has been used for years.”

Martin shut the drawer, still worrying his bottom lip.

“And if she does?”

“Well. At least we’ll know where she is,” Jon murmured glumly.

“Wh–” Martin cut himself off with a frustrated sound and Jon cringed in on himself even further.

Martin had never liked Daisy, hadn’t known her when she was trying to be a better person. Jon could hardly blame him for not wanting her to ambush them in the middle of nowhere.

It still hurt, knowing that she was out there somewhere, lost to bloodlust and the thrill of the chase just for wanting to protect her friends. He tried to distract himself from that thought by talking.

“Besides, I’m more worried about the other Hunters,” He pointed out, “Or the – Sasha thing. Last I heard, they still hadn’t found any bodies.... A lot of destruction, a lot of blood... But that’s it.”

He sighed again.

Martin fiddled with the handle of the drawer.

“You think they’re still out there?” He asked quietly.

Jon looked up at him, at his far-away eyes and furrowed brow, wishing he could reach up and smooth it out with his thumb.

“Hopefully a long way out there,” His voice dropped softly into a promise, “But I think we’re okay.”

They were both quiet for a moment as Martin finished unpacking. He pulled a jumble of wires out of his bag and made a face at them, leaning against the chest of drawers as he untangled them.

Jon cast about for anything else to talk about before his eyes alighted out the empty mug Martin had brought into the room.

“Not much in the way of food, is there?” His voice was too bright, obvious with his intent but it got Martin to look over at him, his brow clearing.

“Oh – Oh, no, not yet. I was actually going to go head down into the village to pick something up?”

“Hm.” Jon nodded.

“Maybe give Basira a call to check in, because Daisy apparently couldn’t pick a safehouse with a signal.”

“I think that’s rather the point,” Jon couldn’t help but point out.

“Mm.”

Martin’s frown started to re-emerge and Jon decided to gamble on teasing him. Martin had teased a little bit last night when he had found him in the kitchen. Teasing was fine, surely.

“Anyways, don’t tell me the phonebox down there doesn’t appeal to your retro aesthetic.”

The frown was conquered by a small smile and Jon cheered internally.

“It – might. Maybe.”

He zipped his empty bag closed and pushed it under the bed before turning to him.

“You’ll be okay here?” He asked.

“I’ll be fine,” Jon replied automatically, distracted by the whirring tape recorder still running in his hand.

It was only when he clicked it off that he registered what Martin had said and he looked up to him, confused.

“You’re going by yourself?”

Martin was already nearly at the doorway when he paused.

“Yeah… Yeah I…” He sighed heavily, “I want to. If… that’s alright?”

“You don’t need my permission,” Jon said hesitantly.

“I know that,” Martin said shortly, “Just- just saying.”

“Right....”

“Right.”

Martin left the room quickly and Jon felt his confusion rapidly morph into worry.

He wasn’t keen to let him out of his sight so soon after their brush with the Lonely. It could come back for Martin when he wasn’t there to help- he could fade away and be lost to him for good. His chest ached again and he wanted to run after him and tell him not to leave without him. He wanted to take his hand and never let it go. Something that could have been Beholding or could have come from the deepest parts of his own heart screamed at him that it was fundamentally wrong for Martin to be apart from him right now

Jon was off the bed and halfway to the door when the thought crossed his mind that that clinginess might be exactly why Martin wanted to go by himself.

Jon knew he had been hovering a lot since yesterday, treating Martin with kid gloves. All things considered he thought he could hardly be blamed for that, but he understood how it might have been grating for Martin.

He was an adult and apart from his exhaustion and some mild distractedness, he seemed to be suffering no ill effects from his stay in the Lonely.

Jon was probably annoying him with his fussing. Worse, he was probably making his feelings all too obvious with his behaviour.

Small wonder Martin needed a break from him.

Pushing down the hurt in his chest, he slowly walked out to the living room where Martin was shrugging on his coat. His shoulders were practically hiked up around his ears and his whole body was tense, braced for a fight.

“Martin…”

He froze in place.

“Could you, um, could you pick some things up for me? While you’re out?”

Martin whirled around, surprise on his face, and the tension dropped from him.

“Uh, yeah, yeah of course!”

Relief was clear in his tone and Jon’s gut bubbled with guilt.

He gave him a short list; chicken, some vegetables, a packet sauce and proper rice, not the boil-in-the-bag nonsense Daisy had stashed away.

( “Nothing wrong with boil-in-the-bag,” Martin had said, before laughing as Jon’s face crinkled in disgust.)

He handed him the car keys just so he could get everything back easier and checked that he was alright for money. It felt like too much to walk him to the door so Jon just hovered awkwardly in the living room as Martin disappeared into the hall, joking about keeping receipts so they could expense the institute later.

He waited until he heard the door shut tightly and the muffled start of the car kick up before sighing heavily and running a hand through his hair.

After the coma, Martin had asked Jon to trust him, and no matter how much it hurt him to do so, he had. He had to remind himself that he still did, that Martin had done more than enough to earn his trust over and over again. He needed to be better at showing him that.

With a groan, he leaned back heavily against the old couch and sent a puff of dust into the air. He pulled back with a cough, suddenly remembering one of the goals for the day.

There was a small cupboard in the front hall and Jon dove into it to find the brush and dustpan buried there. When Martin came back, it would be to a clean house. He would have all the shopping done without a bother on him and be able to sit down on a fluffed-up couch with a hot cup of tea and then, if Jon had managed to work up the courage, they would finally be able to talk.

He would get a handle on himself just as Martin had been able to.

Jon started to sweep the floor hoping to brush away the worry still bubbling in his brain. He really was getting worked up for nothing. Martin had walked out of the house with a smile, he knew what he was doing.

Martin, Jon told himself firmly, would be fine.

~~

Martin was not fine.

Martin was the biggest idiot in the world and he had no-one to blame but himself.

He really had thought it would be okay.

He would pop down to the village, ring Basira, get the food then back up to the safehouse.

Simple, easy, anyone could do that.

Calling Basira had been fine, a little fun even, as he worked the old-fashioned rotary dial in the phonebooth.

She had sounded a little surprised that they had gotten up to the safehouse so quickly but understood when Martin explained that neither of them had felt safe stopping anywhere else overnight. She had no news. The institute was still crawling with police and sectioned officers, and there was no sign of Elias.

Basira said nothing about Daisy and Martin didn’t ask. When she had something to say, he would be ready to listen.

She didn’t want to talk for too long to avoid suspicion but agreed to the schedule he proposed. A once-a-week check-in in the middle of the work day seemed safe enough.

Once they had sorted that, she hung up and he felt the brief satisfaction of ticking a job off of his mental checklist.

Next on it was getting food. There was a Tesco Express across the street from the booth that hardly matched the quiet village scenery around it but it was the closest shop he could see.

Things started to go wrong from the moment he stepped in. The place wasn’t busy but there were more people in each aisle then he had seen altogether over the last year. As he grabbed a basket, a chill wound up his spine and bubbling nerves flopped down to settle heavily in his gut.

Steeling himself, he started to gather what he needed as quickly as possible. A dull pain began to build in his head. He told himself it was caused by the bright lights and the tinny pop music being piped through the overhead speakers.

Martin was all-too-aware of his own breathing, how loud it rang in his ears. He felt like he took up too much space when he had to tuck himself against the shelf as a trolley came down the aisle.

It was being pushed by an older man who was busy listening to the little girl chattering away at his side. He gave Martin a nod as he passed, a quick forgettable thank you, and as he did Martin was struck dumb with the thought that the man had no idea of what he had been through. Not a single person surrounding him did. To everyone else around him, he was just another shopper.

It was obvious, of course, but he was suddenly aware of the fact that no-one here knew about the otherworldly horrors that his life had revolved around for the last three years. They couldn’t know that he had nearly been fully consumed by isolation not even twenty-four hours ago.

The idea knocked him sideways and it took a conscious effort to keep breathing in and out. It was if the world had shifted two feet to the left when he wasn’t looking and now, everything was off balance.

Except that wasn’t right. He was the one who was off-balance.

Before the Unknowing, he had still been able to act like he was just a normal person, a witness looking in at the terrors that wreaked havoc around him. But he had spent the last year throwing himself head-first into dread, cutting off his feelings at their roots and burying his mind in numb fog. He had convinced himself that he would be killed sooner rather than later, and had strove to at least make sure that his death would be useful.

Who did he think he was, to stand among the dry goods and pretend to be normal.

He had been good at pretending before, always able to plaster on a smile or offer up some platitude. It had been armour as much as it was a peace offering; keeping people at a polite distance, his heart safe in the cage he built for it.

That safety net was gone now, stripped away by the wearing down of his will by the Lonely and by Jon’s destruction of that misty veil. It left him feeling raw, an exposed nerve suddenly being assaulted with all of the sensations he had forgotten.

The light and noise -the mere existence- of normal people was too much and a tight hot ball of panic started to build in his chest.

He tried to finish shopping quickly. There were definitely things missing from the basket but his mind was quickly being overrun by white noise. He had to get out.

He was definitely hyperventilating by the time he got to the last aisle, and caught the odd looks being thrown his way as he rushed past people. Feeling exposed and alone, he almost wept when he saw the self-service checkouts at the front of the shop. At the very least, he wouldn’t have to put up with the misguided pity of someone at the till.

His hands shook so hard, it took him three tries to slot the crumpled pound note into the machine but after what felt like an eternity of trying, he escaped from the Tesco, plastic bags dangling from his arms.

He told himself it was just the pain in his head making his vision blurring but that lie only lasted as long as it took for him to get into the car. As soon as he sat down, twin tracks of tears leaked from his eyes and he swallowed uselessly against the sudden lump in his throat.

Through some miracle he got the car started, holding back sobs and making his chest hurt with the effort of it.

The drive back to the safehouse was a blur. One moment he was hauling away from the curb and the next he was pulling to a stop in front of the little winding path that led to the front door. He would have been more worried about how his driving had been if it wasn’t for the fact that the second he turned off the engine, he burst into a flood of tears, letting all the panic and frustration and blinding, suffocating fear pour out.

There was no relief in it, no gratitude for being able to feel those things again like he had last night. It felt like vomiting, a violent symptom of bad illness.

Martin wasn’t sure how long it lasted. He wasn’t sure how long he spent curled in on himself weeping, or how much longer he spent afterwards, trying to make it look like he had done no such thing.

There was a packet of tissues in the glovebox and he did his utmost to wipe his face dry. He wished for water to wash down the lump lodged in his throat and to dab onto his red cheeks.

Only time could reduce the swelling in his eyes, and he was certain that no matter how much time had passed, he had spent far too long sitting in the car in front of the house.

Jon must have heard him pull up. He would wonder what was taking him so long to come in. He might even come out to check on him and Martin’s panic flared up again at the thought.

Jon couldn’t see him like this.

Shame swept through him at the tail end of his tears. Jon had done more than enough for him already, he couldn’t burden him further by falling to pieces.

Martin had done enough of that over the past year, abandoning him to the angry tension that filled the archives, avoiding him as much as he could, and -his chest tightened painfully- outright laughing at him, when he came to him begging to escape together.

Martin couldn’t forget the sound of his own voice, ringing with self-satisfied cruelty. He couldn’t forget the devastation on Jon’s face as he sent him away.

He had been through so much. He deserved to rest, to catch his breath and not worry about the world crashing down around him, or the evil people who tried to make it so, just for a little while.

Martin would not take that away from him. He would not make Jon look after him any more then he already was.

And he would, if he saw him like this, still choking back tears. He had been so gentle with him ever since they had left the Lonely. Part of Martin bristled at it but he knew it came from a good place. That was part of the problem; Jon wasn’t always nice or polite or reasonable, but he tried so hard to be good.

He was kind, almost beyond belief, the type of person who would dive into an eldritch coffin to save the woman who slit his throat.

Or who would plunge into Forsaken to rescue a man determined to fade away.

Martin took off his glasses and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. He was so tired.

Crying always wore on him, leaving him feeling like a rung-out dishcloth.

If he could just hold himself together long enough to get into the house and put the shopping away, maybe he would be able to slip into the bathroom for a while and get the rest of this panic attack out of his system.

The handles of the plastic bags bit into his hands as he carried them all at once and fumbled with the keys to open the front door.

He stepped into the little hallway and spied the open door of the utility cupboard hanging open.

“Martin?” Jon called from the living room.

“I’m back!” His voice, at least, was steady.

He rounded the doorway to see Jon half-bent over a sweeping brush, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hair tied back in a tiny ponytail.

“You’ve been busy,” He said, making his way over to the kitchen counter.

“Busy spreading the dust around maybe,” Jon grumbled behind him.

Martin hummed in acknowledgment, already trying to shove things into the overhead cupboards. He noticed the rickety kettle was boiling away and thanked what little luck he had that he had not forgotten tea bags in his frantic run around the shop.

“Got on alright?” He heard from behind.

“Mm-hmm.” His eyes were starting to water again.

“Did you call Basira?”

“Yeah, she’s fine. No news.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing.”

Martin hummed again and wished Jon would stop trying to make conversation. He wouldn’t be able to hold himself together long enough to get to the bathroom at this rate. Taking a box of cup-a-soup from one of the bags, he put in on the highest shelf as an excuse to tilt his head up and try to blink the tears away.

He only succeeded in sending them running down his cheeks.

Shit.

He wasn’t even crying really; he just couldn’t stop his eyes from getting wet. The soft, low lilt of Jon’s voice wasn’t helping. It was too familiar, too comforting. He didn’t deserve to be comforted over the stupid feelings clogging up his chest.

Each beat of his heart felt like the pound of a drum telling him to leave the room. If he could just put the food away, just keep the tears out of his voice, just pretend for a few more seconds, then he could go.

Behind him, he heard Jon sigh and brush his hands together. There was a quiet clunk as he put the broom aside.

“That’s good enough for now,” His voice got closer, “Here, let me help.”

Martin’s heart leapt into his throat, choking him.

“No!” Martin winced at his own voice; too loud, too brittle, “No, I-I I’ve got it.” His face was still wet.

Jon’s footsteps paused then quickened, a staccato pace as he hurried to the counter, crowding him against it, and looked up at him.

“Martin, what-?”

The look of mild alarm of Jon’s face flickered and morphed into distress as he saw the wet tracks staining Martin’s cheeks.

“Mar-“

“It’s fine! I’m f-fine!”

He cut him off at the pass, his voice quaking with the lie.

Jon’s brow furrowed as he opened his mouth to speak again and Martin couldn’t bear to look at him. He stared down at the worn linoleum, at his white-knuckled grip on a packet of cheap toothbrushes. The second Jon started to talk he knew he was going to lose the tiny facet of control he still had over his ragged feelings. As soon as he spoke, whether to comfort or confront him, Martin was going to fall to pieces right then and there and Jon would watch him crumble.

In that moment, he remembered what had been tempting about the Lonely. He almost wished for numbness over this keening ache of emotion burning in his chest.

Jon closed his mouth and took a step away from him.

He worried his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment, his eyes still riveted on Martin’s face.

“…okay,” He said eventually, his voice small, “Do you think, um, you would be fine on the couch? J-Just for a minute?”

He took another step back and gestured slightly to where the back of the couch marked the border between the kitchen and the living room.

It took Martin a moment to realise he wasn’t going to say anything else and, in his shock, he only nodded slightly and stepped away from the counter.

He walked to the couch and collapsed onto it without a word. It wasn’t as hidden as the dingy bathroom he had been aiming for but if Jon was going to give him an out to catch his breath, he was going to take it. Taking deep gasps of air, he tried to control his breathing and quell the stream of slow tears that had started again.

Jon puttered around behind him. He heard him rifle through the shopping bags and pick up the kettle as soon as it finished boiling. Martin clasped his shaking hands together and concentrated on the noises. The quiet rip of a cardboard box, the clink of ceramic being moved, glugs of pouring liquid and the sloshing stirs of a spoon. Ordinary, known noises that kept his mind out of his own swirling thoughts.

Eventually, Jon wandered back into his view, hovering beside the couch with a steaming mug of tea in each hand. He didn’t offer either to Martin.

“You, um. You take it with milk and two sugars, yes?” He mumbled.

Martin blinked and nodded.

“Good.”

Jon’s shoulders slumped as he handed one of the mugs over. It was a chunky, deep thing and Martin wrapped both of his hands around it to leech off of its warmth. He only realised how cold they were when he did so.

After another moment, Jon sat at the other end of the couch. Perched primly, he drank from his own mug, his eyes darting between Martin’s tea and his face.

Martin sipped from the mug. It hadn’t been steeped for quite long enough and it was a touch too milky, but the temperature was perfect and it felt like forever since he had had a proper cup of tea.

“Thanks,” He muttered.

Jon nodded.

“Just glad I remembered.”

“Didn’t know you knew,” Martin said it absentmindedly but he saw Jon wince out of the corner of his eye. He hadn’t meant it badly, he just didn’t think Jon paid attention to that kind of thing.

They sat in silence for a while, quietly drinking. Martin felt his frantic heartbeat slow and his tear ducts dry. The panic died in his chest even as the fear that prompted it remained. The feeling of fragility bled out of him, replaced only by more exhaustion. It weighed on his bones, leaving him drained.

He raised his mug to his lips and realised he had finished it without noticing. The clunk it made as he placed it down on the coffee table brough Jon out of the haze he had been lost in as he watched Martin.

He put his own mug down as well although it was still half full.

“So, I, um,” He started, “I know you said everything was alright with, with Basira but did, um, did something, something else… happen?”

Martin didn’t feel any compulsion to answer the question. He wondered if Jon’s control was getting better or he had just stumbled over the words enough to take any authority from them.

He was glad for it. He didn’t particularly want to answer him, but he couldn’t help but feel that he ought to. If he kept mum, he now knew Jon wouldn’t badger him about it but if the deep crease on his forehead was any indication, Jon would keep worrying about it.

He wished he wouldn’t worry about him. He wished he didn’t have to worry at all.

Fighting through the veil of tiredness drooping over him, Martin sat up out of his slump.

“Nothing… no, nothing happened, Jon,” He said, “I’m just, just being stupid.”

Jon’s frown grew and he opened his mouth to protest before catching himself and letting Martin continue.

“I… I got… nervous… at the supermarket,” He couldn’t help but undersell it, “There were too many people… not even too many people, just. Just too many for me, after… Well.”

“Oh. Oh, Martin…”

Jon’s voice was far too soft, far too understanding. Martin stared down at his hands. Even without panic coursing through his body, the sound of it brought tears to his eyes again.

“I… freaked out. A bit. It’s really nothing. Just being…” He heaved a great sigh, frustrated, “I thought… I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought. I thought I would be okay. I just wanted to do something… normal. Just be normal for an hour or…I don’t know… ” He sighed again, feeling an echo of the anger he had for Forsaken last night lodge itself in his gut, “I guess I just… I realised I don’t get to do that anymore…”

He took off his glasses and pressed his hands over his eyes, trying to rub them dry.

“Yes…” Jon sounded solemn at his side, “Well, welcome to the club.”

He looked over and blearily saw him raise his mug in mock salute. Martin snorted.

“Gosh. Thanks.”

“I-I don’t mean to make light of…” Jon immediately backpedaled, putting his mug back down, “I j-just meant… I know that feeling… I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I know…” Martin shrugged, “I think I… already sort of knew but… I guess it just hit me harder than I thought. Now that I’m, y’know… I’m…”

Feeling things again, actually here and present and living again, Martin finished the sentence in his head, his courage failing him when he tried to speak it out loud.

He put his glasses back on instead.

Jon seemed to know what he meant anyway and simply nodded.

“Well. Still, I’m sorry,” He said, “It’s not easy… adjusting.”

“Mmm.”

“If…” He licked his lips, “If there is anything I can do…”

Martin sighed.

“I, uh, I appreciate that but I think… I think I’ll just have to… get used to it.”

“Well.”

Jon picked up his mug again, almost took a drink before deciding to fiddle with the handle instead.

“Well, p-perhaps next time we need to um, to shop, I… could go? O-Or we could go together! It, ah, it wouldn’t make things any more normal but um, at least we would be… abnormal in the same place…?”

He looked away from Martin as he spoke, staring into the depths of his mug instead. Martin looked over to watch him and the ache in his chest grew as another feeling shuffled in to join the upset and exhaustion.

As he watched him dither and fret over his words, trying so hard to do right by him, the familiar feeling of love bloomed.

Martin loved him so much.

For all he despaired over the overwhelming return of his bleak emotions, he would suffer them a thousand times over to hold onto this feeling.

He had lost it, in the Lonely. He had lost everything but that had been the loss he was the most aware of. He had even mustered up the will to point it out to Jon when he had found him. A confession in the past tense.

There would never be words to describe how grateful he was that love had found him again.

He had felt it as soon as they had left the Lonely. He felt it in Jon’s hand in his, he felt it every time their eyes met.

It had grown quiet in the haze of everything that had bombarded his mind but now, curled up on a lumpy couch with tea warming his insides, love had burst back onto center stage singing.

Martin only realised that he was staring when Jon looked back up at him, his face even more worried than before.

“Is that… a bad idea?” He asked sheepishly.

“No… Sorry, no it’s not. I was… just thinking. Sorry.”

Jon smiled slightly.

“N-No, don’t be. You’re fine.”

Martin nodded, slumping back against the couch.

“Oh, you’re out,” Jon put his mug down and picked up Martin’s, “I’ll put the kettle back on.”

“It’s okay, I still have to put the shopping away.”

“Don’t worry about that. They’ll still be here later.”

“Weren’t you in the middle of cleaning?”

“The dust won’t go anywhere either,” Jon grumbled as he stood, “Unfortunately.”

Martin laughed helplessly, watching him walk back around to the kitchen counter. Jon’s smile grew at the sound.

Jon cared about him too, Martin knew. You can’t successfully pull someone out of the Lonely if you don’t care about them.

He also knew, however, that it wasn’t the same type of love as his own.

Martin was Jon’s last standing archival assistant from when they both still held hope that they were working in a regular job. He was one of the only people who stood in his corner when the rest of the office turned on him, and he wasn’t afraid to speak up when he knew he could do better either.

Jon saw him as a dear friend. After so many years of being surrounded by enemies, he was grateful for a friend.

The unrequited feelings were almost comfortable to Martin. He knew them well and they sat snug in his heart like they belonged there.

Jon had saved his life, he had brought him to a safe place to hide and rest. That was enough.

It had to be enough.

“I can help with that,” Martin said aloud, turning to rest his arm on the back of the couch.

“Hmm?”

“The cleaning. Two pairs of hands are better than one, yeah?”

Jon didn’t turn around as he filled the kettle at the sink but from where he sat, Martin could see his smile turn soft at the edges.

“Yes… thank you.”

Martin should have been the one thanking him. He should thank him over and over again in big ways and little ways. For still caring, for not giving up on him.

Jon’s long fingers casually flicked the kettle on to boil as he turned to face him, a smile still lingering on his lips.

He thought about how soft Jon's voice had sounded wrapped around the word 'together'. It warmed him even more than the tea.

The ball of love and fear and worry still rolled around in his chest painfully but his tears were long gone. Martin didn’t feel much better but in that moment, he knew those feelings wouldn’t take him by surprise again.

He would be able to handle them.

He would be fine.

Together, they both might be.

Chapter Text

They tackled the cleaning as soon as Martin had made his way through his second cup.

Blazing through the tiny house with brooms and brushes, they braved the biting autumn wind and threw open the windows to get some fresh air into the place.

Despite how much it made him cough, Jon found himself grateful for the amount of dust.

Cleaning kept his hands busy while his mind worked double-time, a distraction that he had courted even before Martin had come back from the village looking absolutely dreadful.

Even now, as they both silently swept and dusted, Jon watched him from the corner of his eye and his gaze lingered on his drawn, pale face, his bloodshot eyes, the weary slump of his shoulders.

Guilt weighed heavily in his gut. He should have insisted on going to the village with Martin. Maybe if he had been there, he might have been able to help.

Martin hadn’t wanted that, though. He wanted to be by himself. To be, in his own words, normal just for a bit. There was no normal when Jon was around. He couldn’t give him that.

A headache bit at the back of his head. He wanted more than anything to be allowed to look after Martin but it was a bit like a playing a game where he hadn’t been told the rules. He didn’t want to push too hard and end up making him more upset but if he held back, he feared Martin would think he was ignoring his feelings. There was a thin line between care and callousness and Jon had no idea where it was or which side he stood on at any given moment.

He pushed the broom around the kitchen with hard swipes, taking his worries out on the dustbunnies.

“Jon?”

“Mm?”

“I’m going to start on the bathroom.”

“Sure.”

At the very least Martin had actually told him what had happened instead of shutting him out completely. It was a step in the right direction. A very small step.

Eventually, Jon gave up on the broom and made a start with a small mop he found buried in the cupboard. There were some slight stains on the floor that were bothering him, and he scrubbed at them as hard as he could, refusing to think about what caused them.

Between the two of them the cleaning went quickly, although Martin did have to warn Jon to stay out of the bathroom when he found a small spider. Jon watched from a distance as he escorted it outside.

(“And tell the rest of your little Web friends to give us some privacy, okay?”

“Don’t joke about that, Martin!!”)

By the time they had made the safehouse as clean as it was ever going get and made to put the abandoned shopping away, it was already well into the afternoon, and they decided on a very early dinner rather then quite a late lunch.

Jon made stir-fry, serving it alongside the basmati Martin had remembered to pick up and even though the kitchen filled with the aroma of frying onions and black bean sauce, he couldn’t muster up any hunger for the meal.

He made his portion slightly smaller than Martin’s, but he didn’t seem to notice as he dug right into it.

“Jon, this is-!” He swallowed his mouthful, “This is so good!”

“It’s out of a packet, it’s made to be.”

“It’s still good.”

Jon took a small bite, it did taste good.

“I suppose scrubbing a whole building from top to bottom makes for good seasoning.”

Martin chuckled.

They ate quietly for a while. Jon mostly just shuffled chicken and rice around his plate, taking a bite every now and then. It was not that he didn’t want to eat but every time he swallowed, he felt the food settle heavily in his gut. It would merely sit there, his body refusing to take any nutrients from it. It would not feed him.

The sound of metal dragging against ceramic brought him out of his thoughts and he looked over to see Martin with an empty plate, scraping the last bit of sauce off with his fork.

“Sorry,” He smiled sheepishly.

Jon shook his head.

“There’s a bit left over, if you want more.”

Martin shook his head, before looking down at Jon’s plate. His smile was replaced with a frown.

“Not hungry?”

Jon looked away.

“It’s fine.”

“That’s… not an answer.”

Jon shoveled a forkful of saucy rice into his mouth. He heard Martin’s slight sigh.

“Do, um,” Martin put his knife and fork down and pushed his plate aside, “Do you still need to…?”

“What?” He swallowed, “Eat?”

Martin nodded slightly.

“Well… yes. Just… just not, um, you know,” He prodded a piece of chicken.

He didn’t particularly want to discuss his eating habits, especially since the last time Martin brought them up, he included an audio recording of how Jon had terrorised someone.

Martin kept talking however, wrapped up in his own thoughts.

“But does this…” He gestured to their plates, “Does this help?”

“Um, I can still, uh, taste things,” Jon said, “I-I like the ritual of a meal, and I rather enjoy cooking as well…”

“Oh, really?”

“Y-Yes?” Jon raised an eyebrow, “Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Because in all the years I’ve known you, you only ate if someone made you,” Martin pointed out, “Usually me. Half the time you looked like you hated having to stop for food at all.”

Jon scoffed.

“Enjoying something and having the time and energy for it are different things. It was always easier to just pick up a sandwich or a cereal bar or something…”

“Yeah, I get what you mean…” Martin’s frown grew, “Still, is this… enough? Like… are you, uh, y’know, ‘hungry’ right now?”

Jon looked away from him.

“Being… completely honest with you, um, n-no, I’m- I’m actually quite alright.”

He internally begged him not to ask why, but Martin was already a step ahead.

“Oh… because of Peter?”

Jon looked back up, startled.

“Uh, y-yes…”

He wondered if he should feel something about the fact that he murdered someone not even two days ago. If he should be guilty or queasy or horrified, disgusted at the sight of his own hands. Or perhaps grimly proud at the thought of defeating a hated enemy.

However, the only feeling he could muster up when he thought about killing Peter Lucas was a worn relief. He was gone and he couldn’t hurt anyone anymore. It gave Jon a solace he hadn’t known he was craving.

There was also a small part of him, a part lodged in the back of his brain clinging to his hypothalamus that felt, for lack of a better word, full.

The same part that was sated when he spoke to Floyd Matharu, to Jess Terrell, to the handful of other people he sat down with and willingly victimised.

This was more then satiation; Knowing someone to the point of death left him feeling glutted and gorged on the information pulled from an entire life beginning to end.

That satisfaction worried him more then his capacity to kill.

Jon’s swirling thoughts were disrupted as Martin snorted inelegantly.

“At least he was good for something in the end,” He groused.

“Martin!” Jon’s tone was a little scandalised.

“What? He spent a year messing with our heads, plotting his little scheme -which didn’t even work!- not to mention the fact that he did, like, no work as Head of the institute!”

“Huh?”

“I spent three weeks, three full working weeks, trying to teach him how to answer emails. Still couldn’t do it. Gave up the ghost after that! It was just easier to do everything by myself!”

Martin’s cheeks were flushing pink in exasperation and Jon tried to bite back a laugh.

“I should have been getting his bloody pay, all the work I did for him!” Martin huffed, even as he started to grin, “Honestly, becoming eldritch eye food was probably the most useful thing he ever did!”

“Martin,” Jon was losing a war with the smile growing on his own face, “He was murdered.”

“I know, Jon.”

“In… cold-ish blood.”

“Yes.”

“It’s… definitely not a laughing matter, no matter how we felt about him.”

“Of course.”

Their eyes met and neither of them lasted more than a second as they burst into helpless hysterics. Jon covered his mouth and Martin ended up with his head on the table as they both surrendered to the giggles.

It wasn’t that Peter’s death was particularly funny but speaking it aloud brought both of them comfort and the relief spilled out in hiccupping laughs and wheezy breathless sighs. They fell into fits, shaking out all the feelings that their clash with the Lonely had muted in them.

They settled after a few minutes, sharing weary smiles.

“Good lord,” Jon wiped an unbidden tear from his eye.

“Yeah,” Martin scrubbed his hands over his face but as he dropped them, the smile fell from his face as well, “Still, that, uh, he, won’t last you forever, right? What… what do we do then?”

Jon felt his own frown echo Martin’s. He looked so worried and Jon wished he wouldn’t pull a face like that for his sake.

“Well… you said you would call Basira weekly, yes?” He tilted his head to one side, “If it’s safe, we can ask her to send up some statements.”

The small, slavering part of part that had feasted on fresh trauma howled at the idea of switching back to stale paper and he stomped it down viciously.

Martin nodded.

“Okay, if you’re sure you’ll be alright.”

“I will, I promise.”

“Hmm.”

Martin took a sip of water, not looking like he completely believed him but he let it drop.

“So,” He changed the subject, sitting up straight, “What do we do now? In-In general, I mean?”

Jon put his cutlery down and pushed his plate aside. He had run out of time to prepare himself to talk about the future.

“Hmm. Well. I think it’s clear that Elias, that, uh, Jonah,” That would take some getting used to, “Is planning something. Something he needs me for.”

Martin frown turned to a vicious scowl.

“We need to figure what it is and, uh, stop it. Obviously. But I think we will have to wait until things calm down a bit. We can check with Basira next week, see if she has learned anything new,” He ran a hand through his hair, “I would Look but uh…”

“Bad idea,” Martin shook his head.

“Definitely a bad idea.”

He took a sip of his own water, looking up at Martin. He hoped his next words would be received well.

“Until then? I think it would be best if we just kept quiet, kept our heads down, you know? And uh, um,” He swallowed, “I think we… especially you, I think, should… rest. Just for a bit. Try to take it easy… for a little while.”

Martin blinked and then a small smile spread across his face. His eyes were soft as they met Jon’s.

“Yeah… yeah, that… that sounds really good.”

“Yes?”

“God knows we’ve earned it, right? Must have a ton of paid leave built up.”

Jon laughed.

“I don’t even remember how many holidays I’m entitled to.”

“In fairness, I don’t think our contracts took battling monsters and psychological torture into account.”

Jon laughed harder and Martin chuckled with him.

Their future wasn’t certain but at least for the next week or so, they wouldn’t have to look over their shoulders or scrutinise the shadows surrounding them. They would be able to breathe a little easier.

“Besides, I’ve never been to Scotland before,” Martin said, perking up, “I know we won’t get to see a lot of it but… it’s still cool.”

“W-we could go for a walk sometime?” Jon suggested, surprising himself “Get a lay of the land? O-Or at least, the lay of a few fields?”

Martin regarded him for a moment before his whole body seemed to soften, any tension left from the morning rolling out of his shoulders. His hands lay slack on the table between them.

“I’d really like that.”

Jon wanted to hold his hand so badly it hurt. He wanted to pluck it up and hold it in both of his, squeeze it tightly and kiss his knuckles. He wanted to do something, anything just to show him how thankful he was that he was here.

He kept his own fingers firmly laced together and tried to keep the yearning out of his voice as he spoke.

“Me too.”

~~

The next couple of days were spent settling into a routine and learning each other’s everyday patterns.

Jon was an early riser by habit but could be coaxed to lie in. Martin needed at least four cups of tea a day to function.

In an odd way, it put Martin in mind of the months he spent living in the Archives. He and Jon had orbited around the other’s space, Martin awkwardly gauging when he should leave document storage to get a head start on his work, only to find Jon had fallen asleep at his desk again and had already begun.

However, the air was different between them now. Instead of two harried co-workers trying to merely exist in the same place, it actually felt like they were living together. They ate the same meals and spend time together, thumbing their way through Daisy’s meager book collection. Despite how they had ended up in the safehouse, Martin found himself gradually easing into the languid atmosphere that was growing between them.

They went for a walk on the second day, away from the village to tramp up old dirt paths and take in the sight of nothing but green for miles around. Jon admitted that he was very much a city mouse, unused to the quiet that fell over the house at night and the lack of buildings blocking out the stars. Martin said the same and that got them talking about where they had both grown up. A simple conversation that any two people could have had. It was so easy to talk to Jon about such an ordinary thing, a surprise that warmed Martin to the core.

He was getting better at talking as well. His tongue was a muscle stiff from disuse and he was keen to get it working again. He spoke of anything and everything that didn’t relate to their work or the lives that were waiting for them in London. Part of him worried that he might be over-compensating, talking too much, but whenever he turned to apologise to Jon, he always seemed struck rapt by what Martin was saying and Martin wasn’t about to discard his attention.

It was especially of help when they had to leave the house to travel into the village. A couple of days after Martin’s first unpleasant excursion, they needed to stock up again and the thought of heading back down into those cobbled streets made him feel queasy. Jon had offered to go by himself but Martin insisted on coming with him. He didn’t want to let the fear control him. He had had more than enough of that.

They attempted to look for another supermarket but the Tesco facing the village square seemed to be the only one. Jon mumbled something about gentrification and the death of small business as he marched ahead of Martin to grab a basket.

Martin stuck close as Jon began to run through their list, trying to keep his breathing steady. Walking through the aisles was nowhere near as bad as before, now that he knew what to expect but he couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling he got whenever a stranger passed by him. That creeping sense of wrongness still stuttered under his skin.

Jon tried to keep him distracted by roping him into talking about dinner. They had paused in the vegetable aisle as Jon sifted through a box for a shallot he was happy with when he spoke to Martin over his shoulder.

“I’m thinking of making beef bourguignon but the recipe includes red wine, is that alright with you or should I leave it out?”

“Huh? No, that’s fine. Why do you ask?”

Jon glanced at him.

“Well, you don’t drink right?”

Martin blinked, bemused.

He didn’t drink. Not for any grand cultural or personal reason, he just didn’t care to. It had been a bit of a bother at office parties, when those were still a thing that he attended, but the only work party he had seen Jon at had been his own birthday and even then, Martin still took the plastic cup of wine Sasha had foisted onto him even if he hadn’t sipped from it.

For Jon to remember something so small about him made his heart ache.

“I don’t. But it’s fine in food,” He answered eventually, “Most of the actual alcohol burns off in cooking, doesn’t it?”

“Funny you should say that,” Jon plucked a shallot from the pile and placed it in a plastic bag before turning to him with a bright smile, “That’s a common belief but it actually takes about three hours to cook out alcohol from a dish. That’s fine for a slow cook, of course, but for a quicker meal, there will still be some alcohol left. Not enough to get most people intoxicated of course but- I read an article about it actually, ages ago-”

Jon continued to tell him about heat conversion and chemical reactions as they made their way through the shop and Martin hung on every word. His chatter drove off Martin’s ever-present awareness of the people around them and insulated him from his own nerves.

They made their way out, bags full, without incident and it was only as they made their way to the car that Jon stopped talking and frowned down at his shoes.

“Have I been going on this whole time? I-I’m sorry, Martin, I didn’t mean to start rambling.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Martin was quick to assure him, “It’s… It’s nice to hear you talk.”

Jon’s eyes got very wide.

“…Oh. Oh, um, good. Hah.”

He kept looking away but if Martin didn’t know any better, he would have sworn he looked bashful.

Later that evening, after the bourguignon had been lapped up, they slumped in front of the fireplace resting their backs against the couch instead of sitting on it.

Half of the bottle of wine Jon had got had been left after the amount he had used for dinner and he poured himself a mug of it. He sipped it slowly as Martin fought with the tiny electric heater they had found during their clean-up on their first day.

“For god’s sake,” He grumbled, fiddling with the settings, “Why does Daisy even have this thing when there’s a fireplace right there?”

“Fireplace is blocked,” Jon mumbled.

“I know, but why?!”

“Smoke signals.”

Martin looked over at him.

“What?”

“She didn’t want the place found, so she couldn’t risk people seeing smoke and being able to track it to the house. But she also didn’t want to be cold so… there’s this.” He nudged the rickety base of the heater with his foot.

“Well, that plan didn’t exactly work out,” Martin frowned, “I’ve got it as hot as it’ll go and it’s still freezing,” He dragged a blanket from the back of the couch to fold it over his shoulders, “Aren’t you cold?”

“Yes, but I’ve got my own means of warming up,” He raised his mug slightly.

Martin snorted at the sight of the wine in it.

“Classy.”

“She doesn’t have glasses, just mugs. God that’s weird, isn’t it? Now that I’m thinking about it.”

“It’s very weird,” Martin agreed, “Mugs but no glasses, no heating, no signal and- and look!” He gestured to the fireplace, “She still has a poker even though she can’t even build a fire! Why is that?”

“You do not want to know,” Jon muttered grimly, “I didn’t either but I woke up Knowing it yesterday.”

Martin winced.

“You know,” Jon took a gulp of his drink, “Daisy once told me she knew over a hundred ways to incapacitate someone.”

“Y-Yeah?”

“Yes. I was never sure if she was trying to threaten me or impress me,” Jon chuckled slightly.

“R-right…”

Martin didn’t want to talk about Daisy. He knew she had changed ever since Jon had pulled her out of the Buried but he still resented her for what she had put them both through.

It was only compounded by how close she and Jon had gotten over the past while. Now that he was letting himself feel things again, he could privately admit that he was jealous. It was an ugly emotion, and one he certainly wasn’t entitled to. Jon was allowed have other friends and Martin could hardly be bitter about him making some when he wasn’t even around for him.

“Although honestly,” Jon continued without any heed for Martin’s distracted thoughts, “I felt more threatened when she insisted on playing The Archers on the radio all day.”

“S-Sorry, what?”

“There were times I was sure she was trying to bore me to death.”

“Wait. Stop. Daisy likes The Archers?!”

“I know!” Jon laughed again, “I was just as surprised as you! She said she had eight months’ worth of episodes to catch up on and she wasn’t going to let anyone stop her.”

His laughter faded into a far softer sound and died off altogether as he took another drink and stared down into his mug.

“…I miss her,” He said quietly.

Martin felt jealousy flare up in him, white-hot, and he beat it back, smothering it with sympathy.

“I’m sorry, Jon. I know you were close.”

“Mmm.”

Jon’s gaze flickered between Martin and the floor. He opened his mouth then shut it tightly again.

“What is it?” Martin tilted his head.

“Ah… If-if I tell you something, can you, uh, keep it between us?”

Martin’s brow furrowed.

“Of course I can.”

“I-I just… I don’t want it getting back to Basira.”

“I won’t tell anyone, Jon. I promise.”

“R-Right…”

He mumbled something Martin couldn’t make out and he shuffled closer to him until their knees bumped together.

“What?”

“I-I said… I don’t… I don’t think we’ll get Daisy back…” The words came out of him like they were scalding his tongue, “Even if Basira finds her… And that’s a big if… I don’t think she will be able to shake off the Hunt again…”

“Why?”

Jon shook his head.

“The only reason she got out of its clutches in the first place was because she didn’t have a choice. She-She did choose to stay out of it but… but I… I just don’t know. She was trying so hard to fight it and it was, it was slowly killing her. I don’t know if she has the will to put herself through that again.”

Martin didn’t know what to say to that, but it seemed that Jon just wanted to speak his thoughts aloud.

“And the worst part! The worst part is she only gave into the Hunt to protect us. Me, Basira… the institute, from the other Hunters,” Jon took a big gulp of wine, “And now she’s just gone. That person I got to know… just isn’t coming back.”

With dull horror, Martin realised Jon’s eye were a little damp. He scooched over a bit further and slowly, carefully, lay a hand on Jon’s shoulder. He blinked up at him in surprise, as if he had just remembered he was there, but he didn’t shrug him off.

“That’s…” Martin sighed, “That’s not your fault, Jon.”

“…Isn’t it?”

“Wh-? Of course not! It was Daisy’s choice to make, and she… she did it to protect you. Like you said. She wanted to protect you.”

Jon gave a small grunt, looking back down at his feet again.

“But it’s…” Martin squeezed his shoulder, “It’s understandable… to-to miss her, I mean.”

“Mmm,” Jon took another sip, “I miss all of them. Even Melanie. We got on alright when she wasn’t, you know, trying to stab me, or-or I wasn’t performing amateur surgery on her…” He gave a small, hollow laugh.

“Yeah…”

They sat in silence, Jon still sipping away. Sympathy hadn’t managed to kill Martin’s jealousy but pity had done the job. As soon as he had started working for Peter, he had accepted that he would lose everyone else in his life, but this kind of loss seemed new to Jon. He held it close to his chest without knowing where else to put it. Martin wished he could take it away.

He risked rubbing his hand across Jon’s shoulder blades, just once, putting it back on his shoulder when he didn’t react. Jon blinked blearily down at his nearly empty mug.

“I miss Tim,” He said suddenly.

Martin flinched and drew his hand back, tucking it back into his blanket.

“Oh! Oh, Christ, Martin, I’m sorry- I didn’t-!” Jon looked at him, immediately contrite, “I didn’t mean to-! Stupid, I’m stupid, I-I-I’m sorry.”

“N-No, you- you just… surprised me…”

Jon buried his face in his hands.

“Sorry…”

Martin hadn’t thought about Tim in months. Between drowning himself in Loneliness, dealing with Jon’s return to the archives, and the cavalcade of other nightmares and responsibilities that had fallen onto him, the aftermath of the Unknowing felt like a lifetime ago.

It took him a moment to remember Jon had only found out about Tim after he woke up. His grief was newer, a still-open wound.

Jon sniffed, his face still hidden and his shoulders drawn up tight around him. Martin could just see the tips of his ears, even darker than usual. He swayed slightly in place.

With a sudden lurch, Martin realised that he was very drunk.

Jon hadn’t eaten much at dinner and the mug he had been drinking from was wide and deep. With nothing in his stomach and his underweight frame stacked up against him, it was little wonder that he was already feeling the effects of a quarter of a bottle of wine.

Martin couldn’t imagine any other way he would feel unguarded enough to even mention Tim.

Jon curled in further on himself and, after a moment, Martin took a gamble. He leaned over and cautiously wrapped his arm around Jon’s shoulders. He felt him tense up for a second but before he could pull back, Jon leaned into his side. When he raised his head to look at him, his eyes were huge, dark and damp.

“Sorry,” He mumbled again.

“It’s okay,” Martin whispered, “I… I miss him too.”

Jon made a small miserable sound.

“But… I think,” Martin sighed, “I don’t know if I’m going to say this right but… I-I think Tim was… gone… a long time before he died. D-Does that make sense?”

Jon nodded.

“I-It does. He was miserable, angry,” His voice was low and thick with unshed tears, “He hated me. Understandably. He… He wanted revenge and, then, then he wanted to…”

He trailed off.

Martin didn’t need him to finish his sentence. There had been something in the air when Tim and the others left for Great Yarmouth, a finality to his goodbye that Martin hadn’t wanted to acknowledge.

When he was told they found his remains a few days later, he didn’t have it in him to feel surprised.

What did surprise Martin was how much it still hurt to remember him. Tim’s death had been tied up with his Mum’s, with the Flesh’s attack on the institute, with a hundred other awful things that happened one right after the other. That particular grief had been lost in the jumble of a wave of others.

Jon shuffled slightly in his hold, shifting closer.

“Was…” His voice was very quiet, “Was there a funeral?”

“Ah… yeah, yeah. Family only but uh, I-I visited… after.”

“The grave?”

“A-Actually he was- they put him in one of those… I don’t know the name- one of those memorial walls? Where they keep ashes? Next to… next to his brother.”

Jon nodded.

“His parents are still alive, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, yeah they are.”

Jon heaved a great sigh. His whole body seemed to deflate.

“Both of their children gone in four years…”

Jon drained the last dregs from his mug and reached over to grab the bottle. He poured what was left into his cup and Martin didn’t have the heart to stop him.

They sat quietly for a while after that. Jon silently sipped at his wine while Martin just stared at the dull red coils in the belly of the electric heater. The alcohol made Jon loose, slipping further and further down, until his head lay back on Martin’s shoulder. He didn’t seem to notice.

Martin was all-too aware. He wanted to tighten his grip and pull him in closer, a half-hug that could keep them both anchored and safe, bound together in an odd, delayed mourning. He knew, however, that it was only his traitor heart urging him on. The only reason Jon was even letting him touch him was because of the wine. He couldn’t take further advantage of his pliancy.

“I think his parents tried to sue the institute,” Martin broke the silence just to keep his yearning thoughts at bay.

“What?” Jon looked up at him with his eyebrows raised.

“Y-Yeah. Something about ‘willful negligence’… The legal department got them to settle outside of court. Paid them off.”

“Scum,” Jon hissed.

“Mmm.”

Jon took another drink but he kept staring up at Martin as if he was trying to figure something out. Martin scrambled for something else to say, if only to stop himself from staring back.

“His mum came to the archives. After.”

“…she did?”

“Y-Yeah. I was- I was a-away that day, but uh, I heard it through the grape vine.”

“Why?”

“…Dunno. Think she just wanted some answers. Doubt anyone told her what actually happened to him.”

“No?”

“No. Can’t imagine Melanie or Basira would be willing to talk to her…”

Jon shut his eyes.

“No… I suppose not,” He sighed, “And she’ll never know what happened to Danny, either…”

“Mm.”

“Would you have told her?” Jon asked suddenly, “If you had been there?”

“I-“ Martin licked his lips, nervously, “I, um, I like to think I would have?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t… I don’t think I would have done a great job of it but…” He almost shrugged before remembering Jon’s slight weight on his shoulder, “I-I hope that I would have.”

Jon hummed slightly, letting his gaze drop down.

“Where were you then?” He asked idly.

“What do you mean?”

“You said you were away when Tim’s mother came to the archives,” He looked back up at Martin with a furrowed brow, “We’re you already working for…?”

“Oh! Ah, no, no, that was before I started with Peter. I was… where…?” He racked his memory, trying to place himself on a timeline he could barely recall. He remembered after a moment and squeezed his eyes shut, sighing.

“Martin?”

“I was- I remember. I had gone home for Mum’s funeral.”

“…oh.”

“Yeah.”

If talking about Daisy had been unpleasant, and if talking about Tim had been a nasty surprise, talking about Martin’s mother was absolutely out of the question. He couldn’t bear to even think about her. Every time he tried a gordian knot of feelings wedged itself in his gut -grief and anger and guilt- weighing him down and making him sick. His panic attack the other day would seem like nothing compared to the mess he was sure trying to unravel that knot would cause.

“D-Do… um,” Jon lifted one of his hands and laid it carefully over the hand Martin had put over his shoulders, “Do you want… to… t-talk-“

“I don’t!”

Martin cut him off immediately, surprised at the amount of venom in his voice. Jon immediately flinched away, drawing his hand back and tucking it back around his mug.

“O-Of course you don’t. Stupid, stupid question. Sorry.”

“Ugh…” Martin sighed, “No, it’s not- I shouldn’t have snapped.”

Jon took another drink and giggled weakly.

“I-I can’t seem to stop saying the wrong thing, hah. E-Everything I bring up just u-upsets you,” He curled in over himself, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m so bad at this…”

“Oh, Jon don’t say that,” Martin squeezed his shoulder, “It’s not- You haven’t had anyone else to talk to about these things, it’s okay.”

Jon shook his head fiercely. Stray strands of hair fell down into his face.

“’S not,” He argued, “You’ve been through enough. Shouldn’t be upsetting you more.”

“In fairness Jon, you can’t control how upset I get. Honestly, heh, I’m pretty used to it by now.”

He was trying to make light of it but Jon shot him a look so startled and miserable that he immediately knew he had just made things worse.

“You are?” His voice quivered.

Martin groaned and ran a hand through his hair.

“W-Well, yeah I mean- Between losing Tim and losing Mum and losing you, and then the institute being attacked and Peter barging in, I just… being upset kind of just became a constant, yeah? B-But! Right now, I’m- Jon?”

Jon had sat up, almost slipping out of Martin’s grip as he turned and faced him suddenly looking very serious.

“What do you mean by that?”

“B-by what?”

“By… losing me? You didn’t lose me, I-I’m here…”

“Ah.”

Martin took his arm off of Jon’s shoulders and shifted so they were facing each other. As he spoke however, he couldn’t quite meet his eye.

“Well. What I mean… Jon, you were dead. Even if you came back… you were still…”

Jon’s eyes widened as some awful thought seemed to strike him.

“…You mourned me.”

“Of course I mourned you,” Martin’s voice was hollow, “I-I tried to stay hopeful but… But six months is a long time, Jon.”

He risked a glance at his face and with utter horror, he saw Jon’s eyes well with tears.

“B-B-But! But you’re h-here now so-!” He stuttered in a panic.

“You were angry at me. For dying.”

Martin’s words fled him.

As soon as Jon spoke the words aloud, he knew they were true. He had been more than angry, he had been furious that Jon had left him. He knew it wasn’t intentional, but that knowledge had done nothing to quell the raging heartbreak that he smothered in numbing Loneliness.

“I… I guess I was.”

Jon laughed brokenly and Martin’s heart twisted in his chest.

“Georgie was too. …Probably would have been for the best if I had just stayed-“

“Don’t! Jon, Christ! Do not finish that sentence!”

Martin felt his own eyes begin to sting.

“S-Sorry! I’m sorry,” Jon shrunk even further in on himself, “For e-everything. I-I didn’t mean to d-die, I swear! I thought I would walk out again. I-I-I’m so sorry.”

“I know… I know you didn’t…” Martin sighed heavily, “I’m sorry too.”

Jon’s miserable look was replaced with faint surprise.

“What are you sorry for?”

“F-For being angry. You didn’t mean to… I-I took that anger out on you, when you got back. That wasn’t fair to you. You’re not responsible for how I feel. I’m really sorry, Jon.”

Jon’s eyes had grown huge, his mild surprise turning to outright shock.

Abruptly, absurdly, Martin found himself wondering when was the last time someone had sincerely apologised to Jon. The thought made him want to weep.

He was so tired of talking, of digging up buried hurts. He just wanted to be okay, and he wanted that for Jon even more.

His heart ached in his chest and his will crumbled as he succumbed to that tender weakness, that yearning desire to feel safe.

He held out his arms.

“Jon? C-Can I…?”

“What?” Jon’s gaze flicked between his face and his open arms, “Oh. Oh! O-Of course!”

He scooted closer and Martin gently pulled him into his chest for a hug.

Jon was cold, he ought to share the blanket. He felt so fragile under Martin’s hands, bird bones and skin barely holding him upright. He heard him take in shallow breaths of air as his nose brushed the end of Martin’s collarbone.

“M-M-Martin?”

“Yeah?”

“May- M-May I…?” Jon raised his hands slightly and Martin’s heart broke at the fact that felt like he had to ask permission.

“Yeah, Jon, it’s okay.”

Jon wrapped his arms around his waist immediately, ducking his head to bury it his chest.

Where Martin had held him loosely so Jon could shrug out of the hug if he had wanted, Jon clung to him, swaying slightly as if Martin was the only thing keeping him upright. His grip was tight and desperate. Taking it as a cue, Martin rearranged his arms so one was wrapped snugly around Jon’s waist and his other hand cradled the back of Jon’s head. Jon let out a low hum.

“You’re warm,” He mumbled into his jumper.

“And you’re freezing. …We should get you to bed.”

Martin couldn’t help the melancholy from leaking into his words. He really didn’t want to let go. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been hugged, and if Jon’s tight grip was any indication, he had been a while for him as well.

As if to confirm what he thought, Jon whined slightly and dug his fingers into Martin’s sides.

“Few more minutes.”

“Hah. Okay.”

Martin wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, kneeling in front of a broken heater and holding onto each other like the other man was the only stable thing for miles around.

In a way, Martin supposed, they were. Jon was all he had left, and vice versa. Being honest with himself, Martin had made his peace with that, but he couldn’t gauge how Jon felt about it. At the very least, he knew he felt comfortable enough to lean on him, both figuratively and literally.

Eventually, Martin had to let go. The urge to run his fingers through Jon’s hair and kiss his forehead was getting too strong to resist and no matter what else, Martin refused to abuse the trust Jon had placed in him.

“Okay, c’mon.”

He let his arms slip away from Jon and patted his shoulders.

Jon whined but sat back, letting him go reluctantly.

“Bedtime?”

“Yeah.”

“Tsch. Alright.”

Jon tried to stand up but immediately started to slant to one side. Martin sprang to his feet to catch him by his forearms.

“C-Careful, Jon!”

“Oh… sorry.”

Martin managed to smile.

“It’s okay, just lean on me okay?”

Martin half-walked, half-carried Jon to the bedroom and the other man turned to hide his face in Martin’s shoulder.

“C’mon, lay down on the bed.”

“Martin.”

“Yeah?”

“M-Martin.”

“I’m here, Jon.

“You too.”

“Huh.”

“You can lean on m-me. I-I’ll try not to upset you anymore. I-I-I want to be someone who makes you h-happy.”

Jon’s eyes were blurry with sleep and alcohol. Martin wasn’t even sure how aware he was of what he was saying.

His words cut him to the quick anyway and Martin could feel his face getting hot. Had he ever known someone as genuine as Jon? As heartachingly honest? He was certain he hadn’t.

He tucked his words into his mind, a treasure to hoard away and cherish.

“Lay down, Jon,” He said, trying to keep his voice free of the intense love trying to make itself heard.

Jon grunted and sat down heavily on the bed.

“Martin.”

He reached forward suddenly and grabbed his hand, holding his fingers gently.

“W-W-What is it, Jon?”

Jon looked him in the eye and spoke in a tone so solemn and so grave that he might have been handing down a death sentence.

“I think the wine was a bad idea.”

Martin burst into laughter and despite everything, or perhaps because of everything, giddily agreed.

Chapter Text

The wine had been a terrible idea.

Jon didn’t so much wake up as get dragged into consciousness by the thumping of his sore head. Every pulse hurt, a constant shuddering ache through his nervous system. His mouth was dry, and his teeth felt fuzzy. He could feel old sweat sticking loose strands of hair to his clammy neck.

Disgust warred with exhaustion until the latter won out and he resolved to try and rest. He could make himself presentable later. With any luck, he would sleep through the worst of the hangover.

Turning onto his side, his nose bumped into something soft and body-warm.

His eyes shot open against his will and twin needles of pain lanced into his skull as a sliver of morning light struck them through a crack in the curtains. The growing headache battered against his temples, but it was drowned out by his rising dread.

Just an inch from where he lay, Jon could see the broad expanse of Martin’s back, rising and falling in the deep rhythm of sleep. He was boxed in against the wall by Jon, curled over himself. His pajama shirt had ridden up slightly and with a nervous glance downward, Jon could see a bit of pale skin peeking through.

Panic overrode any pain and Jon immediately tried to get up. A sharp tug at his shoulder made him stop and, with horror, he realised his left arm was stuck under Martin. He could feel one of his feet tangled up in his legs as well and he had to bite back a groan. There was no way he could get out of the bed without disturbing him.

Lying back down, as far away from Martin as he could, Jon desperately tried to remember how they had ended up like this.

Drink didn’t blur his memories. It never had and in college, he had considered it a blessing to recall what had happened the night before. Now, it felt like more of a curse.

The wine had gone to his head from the first sip, but the dim light of the evening and the solid comfort of the couch against his back had lulled him into a false sense of security. He had thought he could handle it. Instead, his tongue loosened to an embarrassing degree and he remembered firmly lodging his foot in his mouth as he rambled on to Martin about any thought that crossed his mind. He had practically thrown his feelings at him. Any grief and upset that ambushed him, he had spat back out in Martin’s direction. His face grew hot with shame to remember what he had said.

He had only made things worse by drinking more, trying to drown his traitorous tongue in wine.

Martin had been forced to fill the awkward silence, laying out his own fears and hurts, trying to empathize. Guilt had stirred in Jon as he did. He shouldn’t have had to show his heart just to soothe Jon’s own.

Jon had made the mistake of saying that out loud, getting worked up and making Martin’s grief all about himself as he felt tears prick his eyes. Selfish, as usual.

His self-serving distress had only made Martin fuss over him more, whispering soothing words he hadn’t deserved.

His guilt crested and flooded his mind when Martin hugged him.

Touch, for Jon, was complicated.

He cringed from it and craved it in equal measures. The pressure and warmth of another person was something that he wanted to be a comfort but for so long someone laying a hand on him was a sign that they were about to hurt him. His body was a testament to how dangerous touch could be.

When it happened on his own terms, Jon could handle it, even welcome it. Taking Martin’s hand to lead him out of the Lonely had seemed only natural when he had been the one to reach out for it.

Their fingers had slotted together so easily, as if they had practiced a hundred times before.

Martin’s palm had been cold then. Kneeling in front of the pathetic little space heater, all of him had seemed blazingly warm.

Jon still had to take a moment to catch his breath. To remind himself that Martin had asked first, that if he wanted him to let go he would, that he wouldn’t hurt him.

Even though it had been something Jon had known, it was a wholly different thing to experience it. To be surrounded by softness and understand that it wouldn’t suddenly turn sharp.

As if a switch had been flipped, Jon had been overcome with a desperation to be even closer. He barely waited for Martin’s surprised permission before practically burying his face into his chest.

He had clung to him like a lost child, greedy and hopeless, and Martin, with a saint’s patience, had let him.

Lying in the bed now, guilt flowed over Jon again.

He had taken so much from Martin and he couldn’t seem to stop himself from taking even more.

After the conversation they had had, Jon should have been the one comforting him, not the other way around.

Jon shifted slightly, giving his trapped arm an experimental tug. A score of pins and needles came alive as blood rushed back into it and he hissed in pain. Wonderful. Now he was stuck and sore.

A heavy breath came from Martin’s side of the bed and Jon froze up again.

He remembered Martin bringing him into the room, his hand feeling hot as a brand where he was supporting him on the waist and urging him to lie on the bed. Their conversation came back to him in drips and drabs and Jon could feel embarrassment crawl up his body in a hot flush.

He had said something that made Martin laugh which had sparked a little pride in him, but afterwards Martin had kept trying to get him to lie down.

“’m not taking your bed, Martin,” Jon had protested even as he made no effort to stand up.

“It’s one night,” His voice had been so soft, “I reckon the hangover will be bad enough without sleeping on the floor.”

Jon had made some more token noises of protest as he shuffled around and lay down, dragging the duvet over himself without even bothering to get into his pajamas. He had been starting to feel the cold.

From far above his head, Martin had laughed again, mostly to himself, and turned away. Jon felt panic spike in him as he did and his hand had shot out of the bed covers to latch onto Martin’s wrist.

“Don’t.”

He had seen his brow furrow in the half-light.

“Don’t what, Jon?”

Even now, lying in the same spot in the bed the next morning, Jon wasn’t sure.

All he could cobble together from the night’s fragmented train of thought was an overwhelming feeling that he didn’t want Martin to be any further from him. Even if he just lay down on Jon’s sleeping bag, the distance would feel like too much.

It reminded Jon of the panic and possessiveness he had felt that first day when Martin left to go shopping by himself. That fearful, greedy instinct that wanted to cling to him.

Only then, in the dark of the bedroom, Jon had known exactly how it felt to cling. How warm Martin could be, how soft his touch was.

Then, Jon knew the inhibitions and worries that had held him back before had been drowned in red wine.

Instead of answering Martin’s question, he rubbed his thumb over where it rested on his wrist.

“Sleep on the bed,” He had said.

Martin had stammered out some excuses, things Jon had evidently not bothered to remember in detail. Something about the size of the bed, something about how drunk Jon was.

“I’m cold.”

Martin had fallen silent at that but it wasn’t the real reason Jon had wanted him to lay down. The constant ache in his chest had been roaring for hours and all the grief and upset of the evening had left him rung out and exhausted. He just wanted comfort close to hand, softness and warmth to drive off the rest of the world and his own terrible thoughts. Love had choked his common sense into submission, and he had given himself over to its whims fully.

He had had no idea how to translate all those feelings to Martin in his wine-addled state.

“I miss you,” Was all that had come out of his mouth.

That had been enough.

Jon remembered how Martin’s face had crumbled into something indecipherable. How he had had to climb over Jon to get into the other side of the bed because he didn’t think to make space for him in time. He remembered turning over to face him when he finally put his head down on the single pillow they would have to share.

“Are- Are you sure…?” Martin’s voice had been so quiet, Jon had barely heard it.

He didn’t answer regardless, only taking hold of one of his hands again with both of his and pulling it to rest against his collarbone.

He might have mumbled a goodnight, or he might have just drifted off to sleep then and there. The memories blurred at that point as he crossed over the line between waking and sleeping.

The light was getting stronger now as the morning crept on and Jon had never felt more awake.

Shame crested over him like a wave, fever-warm and dizzying. Guilt joined it, battering his already aching skull with a spike of pain.

He had forced Martin into sleeping beside him, taking advantage his good nature and the vulnerability he had shown to satisfy his own selfish desires.

Jon felt sick to his stomach, and it had nothing to do with the wine.

He couldn’t even blame some monstrous craving for this. Bullying a man who no longer loved him into indulging his petty need for comfort was a failing all of his own.

It almost made Jon want to laugh. Just when he thought he couldn’t be any more pathetic.

He stewed in an all-too-familiar cocktail of self-loathing and disgust for a few more minutes before slowly coming to the conclusion that the only thing he could do now was apologise.

He couldn’t change what had happened, and it wasn’t as if he could avoid Martin in the tiny cottage.

He would just have to tell him how sorry he was and deal with however Martin reacted to the whole thing.

It would hurt, when he got angry or told him how disappointed he was but Jon was accustomed to having those feelings directed at him. It wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve it.

Running his free hand over his face, he bit back a groan. Not even a week in relative safety, and he had already managed to mess it up.

A soft grunt brought him out of his miserable thoughts.

Martin was starting to wake, curling in on himself a little more before unwinding slowly. Jon winced as the pressure on his trapped arm shifted.

With a sigh, Martin heaved himself onto his back, his shoulder knocking into Jon’s. He flinched in surprise and looked over to where Jon stared back, braced for his reaction.

He blinked once, before memory cleared away the sleepy confusion in his eyes.

“Ah, morning,” He kept his voice low, even as he chuckled, “So… how’s the head?”

“W-What?”

Jon tried to pull back a bit, forgetting himself, and the tug brought Martin’s attention to the arm he was still lying on.

“Oops,” He half-sat, propping himself up on his elbow, “Sorry.”

The apology was so casual, as if Martin woke up beside Jon every morning. He barely even seemed to notice how close they were.

Jon’s stomach dropped to his feet.

He had been prepared for anger, for upset, maybe even fear, but seeing the calm, quiet look of Martin’s face was so much worse then he could have ever expected.

Without needing any help from Beholding, Jon knew exactly what Martin was doing.

He knew that Martin was going to pretend everything was fine and that Jon hadn’t immensely violated his trust- just to make him feel better.

Martin had a distinct talent for pretending; Jon had seen him employ it over and over again in the archives to soothe frayed tempers, or to keep an enemy unaware.

Jon had watched as he made himself smaller, crushed down anything that made him himself in order to present a placid smile to the world.

After the Lonely, Jon had hoped that would have been something he had forgotten how to do.

That he still felt the need to placate Jon made something twist in his heart, pinching and painful.

If they weren’t in Scotland, he might have let him get away with it. Might have averted his eyes and slunk off, relieved that someone else had taken the burden of having an honest conversation off of his shoulders.

Hidden in the safehouse, however, Jon couldn’t let a stilted peace lie between them. There was no escaping from the other person, not if they were going to stay safe.

More than that, however, Jon wanted Martin to be himself. He hadn’t been allowed that in so long, he had more than earned the right.

With resignation, Jon concluded he would have to lead by example.

The apology, at least, would be a good first step.

As soon as he worked out the pins and needles in his arm, Jon sat upright. Martin blinked at the sudden movement, bemused.

“Jon?”

“Martin, I-”

As soon as he looked down at him, Jon’s stomach rolled and a wave of dizziness hit him. Saliva pooled in his mouth.

Martin’s brow furrowed.

“…Jon, you alright?”

Ignored for too long in favour of his head and his heart, the rest of Jon’s body was now asserting itself loud and clear. Sitting up too quickly had his hangover hitting him with a vengeance.

He hopped out of the bed as he felt the first muscle spasm in his gut and ran to the bathroom just in time to vomit.

Retching into the sink, he heard the rustle of sheets from the bedroom behind him and the soft pad of feet on carpet.

He twisted the tap on to wash away the burgundy bile and risked a glance in the mirror.

Martin watched him from the doorway, sympathy clear in his eyes. His hair was still mussed from sleep and his clothes were rumpled and undoubtedly still bed-warm. Jon looked away quickly. He pulled his own greasy hair out of his face to splash water on it.

“Guess that answers that question,” He heard Martin chuckle to himself.

Jon felt his cheeks grow hot. He supposed he had earned a bit of teasing after he had made such a show of himself but it still needled him.

Clearing his throat and spitting what was left in his upset stomach into the sink, he straightened up. He winced at the sight of his own reflection in the mirror.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Martin said as he stepped away from the bathroom, “You get back to bed.”

“You don’t have to-” Jon turned to protest but Martin had already walked away.

He clucked his tongue. If Martin thought he was going to get away with coddling him further, he had another thing coming.

He forced himself into a cold shower, letting the pounding water batter his sore body. The nausea took a backseat to his headache and, by the time he stepped out, the dizziness had faded into a background buzz.

Tying his wet hair back into a ponytail and throwing on the first shirt and trousers he got his hands on, he marched out to the kitchen. He wasn’t about to let Martin’s giving nature or his own rebelling body stop him from apologising. He had set his mind on it now and he was determined to do it.

Martin looked him from the stove as he entered the room.

“You don’t have to get up if you’re not feeling well,” He prodded the eggs he was frying, “Might be best to sleep it off.”

“I’m fine,” Jon shook his head and immediately regretted it. “It’s only a headache.”

“Mmm. Think you can eat then? Or is that a bad idea?”

Jon must have made a face because Martin chuckled again.

“Right. Tea will be done in a minute though.”

Jon’s stomach churned, a mixture of guilt and the overpowering smell of cooking food.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s fine, Jon.”

“No-“

“I insist.”

“I’m a grown man, Martin. I can handle the fallout of my own mistakes without your fussing.”

He winced as soon as the words left his mouth, too tight and sour, when he was supposed to be contrite. Christ, he was bad at this.

Martin didn’t flinch at his tone, only raising an eyebrow as he glanced at him over his shoulder. He was accustomed to his rudeness, Jon supposed, a thought that only made him cringe in further on himself.

“You don’t want tea then?” Martin asked doubtfully.

“N-No, I, I do, I,” He sighed, “Yes. Please. I-I’ll just, um.”

He fled the room without finishing that thought, heading into the hallway to snag his coat before opening the front door and stepping out into the fresh morning.

The brisk, cold air whipped away any lingering breakfast smells and bit at his fingers. Rubbing his hands together, he sat on the front step and propped his elbows on his knees.

He fished in his pockets for his lighter and the rumpled packet of Silk Cuts. He lit a cigarette without really looking at it, habit guiding his hands. He hadn’t smoked in the house since Martin had caught him at the kitchen sink. Even though he had said he was fine with it, Jon didn’t want to disturb Martin’s space anymore then he already had.

Taking a drag, Jon tugged at his own ponytail and tried to sort his thoughts into working order.

Regardless of his motivations, Martin seemed determined to ignore what had happened last night and it made Jon grip all the tighter to his resolve.

His head buzzed from his lingering hangover and a myriad of what-ifs. If he tried to apologise and Martin cut him off, should he forge ahead with it or respect his wishes? Would an apology actually do any good or did he just want to soothe his own guilt?

The cigarette didn’t help his aching head or the sour taste in his mouth and he coughed, trying to dislodge any lingering phlegm in his throat.

Trying to unpick what he felt from what was right was like pulling teeth. He couldn’t keep letting his feelings for Martin effect his behaviour, it wasn’t fair on either of them. He would have to keep a tighter rein on them, holding them close to his chest so they couldn’t lash out and expose his selfishness. He had been selfish enough already.

Breathing out smoke with a sigh, he raised his head up and rolled his shoulders back. The sound of footsteps came from behind him and he looked just in time to see Martin enter the doorway.

“Ooh! It’s nippy!”

Martin looked out over their little garden before turning to Jon to hand him a mug of tea. It scalded his fingers, blistering against the cold morning air but he held it close anyway.

“Ah, thank you…”

Martin nodded and headed back into the house for a moment before re-emerging with his own mug and a plate of toast and eggs. He sat down beside Jon on the front step, their shoulders brushing.

“Just getting some fresh air?” He asked as he started eating.

Jon gestured with the hand holding the lit cigarette.

“Not really.”

Martin chuckled.

“That won’t help your head.”

“Suppose not…”

Jon was distracted by the feeling of Martin’s shoulder against his. Warm in the way only a body could be, a point of contact linking them together. He was surprised Martin allowed it. He didn’t think he would be comfortable being so close to Jon after last night.

Doubt crept into the crowded landscape of his thoughts. There was a chance, however slim, that his ease wasn’t an act, that last night hadn’t been as big a deal for him as it was for Jon. A small stubborn bit of hope in his head clung to that chance.

He tried to dismiss it, but the possibility that he hadn’t actually upset Martin took hold in his heart. He would still need to apologise -he had been inappropriate- but, at the very least, there was a chance that he might be forgiven.

Martin polished off his toast and took a swig of tea before turning to look at Jon again.

“Want to go for a walk later?” He asked, “Get some actual fresh air? I kind of want to see how high those hills go.” He nodded to the view in front of them.

Jon watched him for a moment before responding, a little dazed. He struggled to wrap his head around the question.

It was one thing for Martin to act -or to actually be- alright with Jon’s clinginess last night. It was entirely another thing to want to spend more time with him now, in the stark light of day. His heart ached with sudden tenderness, like pressing on a bruise.

Jon marveled at Martin’s determination to forge ahead beyond the rocky start to their morning, hidden behind mild concern. The offer of a walk was both kindness and stubbornness, twinned together in that inexorable way Jon had only ever seen Martin manage to pull off, and he loved him for it.

Love had made him selfish last night. Today perhaps, he could use it to fuel nobler things.

An overdue apology. A walk that was sure to ruin his kneecaps. Love could drive those things, as sure as it drove his weaker impulses.

He could learn to give, not just take.

Jon stared at the side of Martin’s face, watching the wind bite his cheeks pink.

“I’d really like that.”

~

Martin was worried.

Worry was an old friend of his, it fit him like a well-worn coat and had been easy to re-learn after escaping the Lonely. It was an old habit that he slipped into without thought.

He and Jon were out for their walk, a forty-minute round trip around the fields surrounding the safehouse that they had taken a couple of times before. Martin led them on a slightly different route, aiming for the copse of trees that he could see on a high hill in the distance, but he might as well have been leading them in circles around the living room for all the attention Jon was paying to their path.

He seemed to be a million miles away, buried as deeply in his thoughts as he was in his heavy jacket.

Tucking his hands into his pockets of his own jacket, Martin kept his gaze focused on the path in front of him. It was cobbled together from two worn down tire tracks with scrub grass growing between them and stretched as far as he could see, with wooden fences surrounding it.

He could feel his gaze being drawn to where Jon walked at his side like a magnet and peered over occasionally just to make sure he was following.

He had lent him his scarf, after Jon had complained about how cold it had been sitting on the steps at breakfast, and he had half of his face tucked into it. His mouth and nose were hidden away and his sharp, brown eyes focused on empty air as he followed in Martin’s footsteps. He hadn’t said a word since they had started out.

After the morning he had had, Martin thought it was reasonable to be a little worried about him.

In a way, it was almost nostalgic.

He remembered the early archive days when Jon seemed inscrutable to him, impossible to please and storming through the office like it had personally insulted him.

He had worried then too. He had been in a constant state of worry. Worrying over doing his job right, worrying over keeping up appearances, worrying over Jon. He had seen, even then, how much the never-ending workload and the late nights wore on him, leaving him wan and drained.

He had been reminded of those early days when he saw just how hungover Jon had looked that morning.

It wasn’t that it was funny to watch him puke up all the wine he had drunk last night, but it was amusing to imagine explaining the situation to his younger self.

Martin hadn’t slept much. It had been difficult to drift off with Jon barely an inch away from him, holding his hand close to his chest. Guilt had nipped at him every time he closed his eyes. He could have been more insistent in getting Jon to take the bed by himself, but he had been so drunk, so sad -he wouldn’t stop staring with those big, soft eyes- and Martin’s will had been ripped apart like wet tissue paper.

He had to keep reminding himself that it didn’t mean anything. No matter how tightly Jon held his hand or how closely he curled into his side, Jon was just looking for a bit of comfort, nothing more. After the night they had had, he couldn’t fault him for that.

Martin had been the one who was sober, he should have been responsible and sensible.

Instead, he had squeezed Jon’s hands, leaned on his shoulder, and stolen some comfort for himself.

He had planned to feel worse about it when he woke up but his attention had been swiftly stolen by Jon’s abrupt exit from the room. Any guilt or awkwardness he felt having fallen asleep on Jon’s arm could wait until his hangover passed.

At first, he had thought that was the cause of his odd attitude. He had been quiet and a little snippy but it was only when he left to smoke outside that Martin’s worry started to become more then background noise in his mind.

Jon hadn’t said anything about last night -he had barely said anything at all- and the longer his silence stretched, the more Martin’s concern ramped up.

He couldn’t be sure if he was still upset about what they had talked about last night, or if he was embarrassed with how he had woken up in the morning. At the very least, he didn’t seem angry. If he was, Martin was sure he would have already gotten an earful about it.

His worry needled at him to ask about it but he stamped it down. Jon had already snapped at him once today about his henpecking. He needed to keep it to himself. They could talk about it when Jon was ready to.

It soothed his concern a bit to know that talking to each other was just something they could do now. No workplace propriety or malevolent bosses could stop them from just speaking. There was space and time to tell each other their thoughts, and Martin had to trust in that shared peace that Jon would feel comfortable speaking up sooner rather than later.

A breeze blew past them and Martin shivered slightly. Despite his resolve, the silence was starting to make its way under his skin.

Casting his gaze out over the fields, he rattled his mind for something casual to crack the quiet between them.

“Um, I was thinking of making dinner tonight?” He started, “If you want. So you don’t have to worry about it.”

Jon spoke softly.

“Yes, fine.”

“We have some chips and goujons I was just going to chuck in the oven? Nothing fancy but, I thought something simple would be better, considering?”

“Yes.”

“That’s alright with you?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Martin glanced over at him and watched his eyes shift slightly, glazed over and glassy.

“Jon?”

“Mmm.”

“I’m secretly a criminal mastermind and I lured you out here to rope you into my money laundering scheme.”

Jon nodded vaguely.

“Alright.”

Martin couldn’t help the laugh that rose in him. He gently knocked their shoulders together, and that seemed to jolt Jon out of his daze.

“W-What?” He blinked bemused at Martin’s smile, “What?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Huh?”

Jon frowned slightly, trying to figure out what he had missed. Shaking his head, he looked back to their path, actually seeing it now. He buried his hands further into his pockets, hunching his shoulders.

“It’s getting cold, isn’t it?” Martin said, keen to keep his attention now that he had it.

“Yes, especially for October… we should get gloves next time we’re in the village.”

“Good idea.”

“And another scarf, I can’t keep borrowing yours.”

“Oh! Um, t-that’s okay! I-I have a spare,” Martin stammered.

“…you do?”

He didn’t, but the little lie slipped out of him easily if only because Jon looked so comfortable all wrapped up in his chunky wool scarf. He didn’t want to make him trade it for whatever thinner tat was available in the village.

Martin could make do without, he ran hot anyway.

If Jon could see the lie on the lips, he didn’t say anything, only watched as Martin nodded before turning back to face the path.

They walked slowly on, Martin casting his eye out over the fields and keeping watch. He had led Jon onto this specific path for a reason, he just hoped they would find it before Jon got lost in his own head again.

By luck and chance, it only took another minute of strolling before Martin could spy a number of brown and orange blobs in the distance and he nudged Jon with his elbow excitedly.

“Hey!”

Jostled out of his thoughts again, Jon glared at him.

“What now?”

“Look!”

Martin pointed towards the field where the blobs milled around and Jon followed his finger, squinting at the sight.

“What am I- Wait… are those-?”

“Yes!”

He looked back to Martin, all traces of his glare gone, replaced by pleasant surprise.

“C’mon, let’s get a closer look.”

Martin nudged him again to get him moving and they hiked up the hilly path until they reached a grassy field. Martin leaned on the fence to catch his breath and looked out at the herd of highland cattle that were grazing in it.

Jon slid up to his side, their elbows almost touching as he leaned over the fence to stare intently at the cows.

“How did you know they were here?” He asked quietly.

“I was keeping an eye out on our walks and I reckoned if they weren’t on the path we usually took, we might get lucky if we tried another one. And, em, I guess we were.”

“Brilliant,” Jon murmured, a small smile creeping up his face.

Martin felt his cheeks flush at the faint praise.

It had been something of a running joke between them on the trip up to Scotland; to keep themselves distracted they had talked about all the awful tourist-y things they were going to do once they got up there. Eat over-priced haggis, watch a busker badly play the bagpipes, coo over some shaggy highland cows.

Ever since they had started going on their walks in the area around the cottage, Martin had been keeping an eye out for any herds. It was foolish to act like they were on holiday, he knew, but he still tried to grasp at whatever bit of levity he could get his hands on.

If the look in Jon’s eyes as he gazed out over the field was any indication, he had been hoping for much the same. At the very least, it had dragged him out of his heavy thoughts.

They quietly watched the herd for some time, occasionally muttering a compliment or two about the animals to each other. Once, far on the other side of the field, Martin caught a glimpse of a calf and let out an undignified sound, his face flushing immediately afterwards. It got a chuckle out of Jon, which only made his cheeks burn hotter.

The cows, for their part, mostly ignored the strangers gawking at them and Jon had started muttering to Martin about meat yields when one of the herd, a cow judging by her horns, walked a few steps towards them and stared right back at them.

“-perfectly suited for poorer pastures because- oh!” Jon stopped in the middle of his sentence when he spotted her, “Martin, look.”

“Hi, gorgeous,” Martin called to her, “Sorry we don’t have anything for you.”

“I’m sure we’ll be forgiven.”

“Ooh, I don’t know,” Martin joked, “I’ve heard cows are pretty good at holding grudges.”

Jon raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not,” He leaned into his shoulder a bit, “Look at the hate in her eyes, I’m sure she’s getting ready to charge us any second now!”

The cow chewed her grass and blinked placidly.

“Nonsense,” Jon snorted, “She wouldn’t do that.”

“You sound awfully sure.”

“I am sure! Look at her! She’s a very good cow.”

Martin choked on air.

“A very good cow?” He repeated disbelievingly.

“Of course,” Jon said sniffingly, “They all are. I, the all-knowing Archivist, hereby declare all of these cows to be good cows.”

Jon had put on his most prim and proper academic voice, as if he was lecturing at a London university instead of being hungover in the middle of nowhere. Martin couldn’t stand it. He fell into peals of laughter, hiding his face in his hand and slumping over the fence for support. Jon’s façade cracked almost immediately after and he burst into giggles, shaking his head.

Martin was helpless. He was head-over-heels for this absolutely ludicrous man and his farmyard declarations. He was swollen with a love that made his whole body feel full, and it could only be released in shuddered laughter. Tears trickled down his face as he struggled to catch his breath. A bump at his shoulder and he felt Jon press up against him, the sensation of his own laughter vibrating through his bones.

“Hoo, god…”

Martin reluctantly leaned away to take his glasses off and scrub at his face. Jon’s laughter faded but when Martin risked a glance at him, he could see a soft, easy smile lingering on his face.

“Haha… my stomach hurts,” He pretended to complain, “I haven’t laughed like that in ages.”

Jon’s smile widened, showing a hint of teeth.

“It’s good to hear you laugh.”

He sounded so sincere, Martin had to look away from him and hope he thought his face only red from laughter.

Putting his glasses back on, Martin saw their cow had wandered away, her tail swishing.

“Aww.”

“I think our laughter offended her,” Jon said.

“Cows, no sense of humour, I swear,” Martin quipped.

Jon laughed again, simple and breezy, and Martin felt his heart clench to see him happy.

They loitered at the fence a bit longer before the wind and the speckles of a starting shower forced them to start their walk back to the house.

The drizzle hit them properly when the cottage was in sight and they tumbled through the front door shaking water out of their hair.

“I’ll add hats to the shopping list,” Jon grumbled as he shrugged off his jacket.

Martin hummed in agreement and made to put the kettle on. Jon trailed after him to the kitchen, taking a packet of chocolate digestives down from the press and bringing them over to the couch. He flopped down with a sigh and tugged his damp hair out of its ponytail. Martin watched over his shoulder as he dragged his hand through the black waves contently.

“So,” Martin spoke over the rattle of the kettle, “How’s the head now?”

“Hmm?” Jon looked at him as if he had forgotten all about it, “Ah, better. Much better now. You were right about the air. It… helped.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

Martin turned back to the counter and set about preparing their tea. The walk had done Jon good and he felt a pinch of pride that he had had a hand in that. The weirdness of the morning was a distant memory and soon enough they would find the domestic rhythm they had settled into again. Martin found himself looking forward to it.

With a mug in each hand, he made his way to the couch and froze as he rounded it and saw the look on Jon’s face.

He was staring into the fireplace, his brow furrowed and his gaze as far away and contemplative as it had been this morning. Martin felt worry begin to simmer in his gut again.

“Jon?”

He sat carefully on the couch, putting the mugs down so they clacked against the wooden table. Jon blinked at the noise and looked at Martin like he was surprised to see him there.

“Ah, d-did you say something?” He mumbled.

“Er, Jon are you alright?”

Jon opened his mouth then closed it again, his brow creasing even further.

“Actually…” He began slowly, “I, um. Because you mentioned my… I’d like to talk to you about last night.”

Martin’s worry spiked.

“Um. Okay?”

“Yes. Well.”

Jon turned so he was facing Martin on the couch, his hands clenched into fists and placed firmly on his lap. He glared down at them for a moment before looking up and staring Martin in the eye. There was a determined look in them that was throwing Martin off-kilter.

“I owe you an apology,” Jon said, “I’m very sorry about what happened.”

Martin didn’t know what he had been expecting, but it was not that.

“Wha- What?” He shook his head as if to clear his ears.

“I’m sorry, Martin, it will not happened again, I promise you.”

“W-What won’t…? Jon, what are you talking about?”

Jon frowned slightly.

“I… I got terribly drunk last night.”

“Yes?”

“And I brought up a-all kinds of… upsetting things?”

“Okay?”

“And I-I…”

Jon was starting to look as confused as Martin felt.

“I… made you sleep in the b-bed with me…”

“Oh…”

A lightbulb went off in Martin’s head and he almost wanted to laugh. It seemed Jon had spent the whole day worried about the same thing he had been. He huffed out a breath and smiled at Jon.

“Oh, you’re okay, you don’t have to be sorry for that.”

Jon frowned.

“What are you talking about? Of course I do.”

He almost looked offended and Martin’s confusion grew again.

“What do you mean?”

“Martin, I-I,” His voice grew quieter, “I… took advantage…of your- your kindness. I let my fe- I made you uncomfor-”

“Jon,” Martin cut across him, a little startled by this bizarre guilt, “You were drunk.”

“That’s no excuse!”

“O-Okay but like? You didn’t ‘take advantage’, we just shared a bed?”

“That’s not-! It’s not about the bed!”

“Wh- Then what is it about?”

“I-”

Jon bit his lip and looked away, any odd offense giving way to upset. He gripped his wrist in one hand, holding in tightly and pushed down on his thigh with his other hand. One foot bounced on the ground restlessly. His loose hair cast a shadowed over his face and he abruptly looked wretched.

With a jolt, Martin realised that Jon hadn’t been worrying about last night like he had. Jon had been worrying about it far more. He resisted the urge to comfort him further, giving him space to speak.

“I-” Jon sighed, “I let my… my feelings for you… get the better of me. I made you listen to my grief and comfort me. It was… it was selfish. And I’m sorry. I know that’s no excuse but-”

Martin barely heard the apology, or whatever stammering justifications Jon kept making. His mind was stuck on four little words, replaying them over and over like a skipping record.

My feelings for you.

“Jon, Jon, stop, s-stop,” Martin held up a hand to put a pause to his ramblings and he shut up instantly, “What does that mean?”

“Which…?”

“Your… y-your feelings for me? What are you-? What does that mean?”

Jon blinked, had the nerve to look confused.

“Martin… you… know what that means.”

“I really don’t?”

“But,” He shook his head disbelievingly, “But you saw me. I-In the Lonely, you… you saw me.”

Martin stared at him.

“You… saw how I felt?”

Martin kept staring.

With a heavy sigh, Jon’s head fell forward and his drew his hand through his hair again. He almost seemed annoyed that he had to interrupt his own apology to explain this.

“Martin,” He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the couch cushions, “Martin, I-I love you. Very much. I know you don’t feel the same way anymore, I wasn’t even going to say anything because I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable but last night, I just completely lost the run of myself and I made it so obvious and I-”

“Jon, shut up. Stop talking.”

He shut his mouth so fast Martin heard his teeth click together.

He felt suddenly light-headed, his mind reeling with what Jon had said, but something stuck in his throat, impossible to swallow.

“What do you mean I don’t feel the same anymore? I.. I do?” He was surprised at how easily the confession slipped from his lips but confusion overpowered any hesitation.

Jon raised his head so quickly, he might have given himself whiplash.

“No you don’t,” He said immediately.

“Wh- Y-Yes I do!”

“No. You don’t.”

“Jon, Jon, I know how I feel.”

“Clearly you don’t.”

“Are you actually arguing with me about this?!”

“Yes,” Jon had the gall to glare at him, “In the-! In the Lonely. You said… you said ‘loved’. You loved me. Used to love me,” He looked away again, “Past tense.”

Martin’s jaw fell open. Just when he thought Jon couldn’t blindside him any further, he dragged up something Matin hadn’t even spared a thought for after it happened. How someone so smart could be so foolish was beyond him.

“Jon,” He spoke slowly hope to get his message across without confusion, “It. Was. The Lonely. All of my feelings were ‘past tense’. That… that was the whole point of the place! Christ, the fact that I was able to tell you how I felt at all just p-proves how strong that feeling is!”

Jon looked back up, clearly alarmed, as if he hadn’t even considered that. Martin was torn between hugging him and shaking him by the collar.

“W-Well…be, um, be that as it may… Regardless, y-you still can’t have feelings for me,” He mumbled.

“Wh-Why not?!”

“Because you took Jess Terrell’s statement,” He spat, suddenly vicious, “You know traumatised people. You know exactly what kind of monster I am! You can’t possible love me knowing that.”

Martin leaned away slightly, and a look of bitter victory came over Jon’s face. The first stirrings of anger flickered in Martin’s gut.

“I know what you did,” He said lowly, “And I know that you stopped.”

“Because I was caught.”

“But you still stopped.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“But you still did,” Martin insisted, “And I was so angry with you, when I heard how you hurt that woman Jon, because I knew you could be better then that. And then you were.”

“But only-”

“Stop, Jon! Just! Stop.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment and Martin tried to breathe evenly. His hands were shaking.

“…I left you.”

Jon shattered the silence, his voice tired and hurt.

“What?”

“I died. I left you behind and made you pick up the mess I made.”

The anger flared hot in Martin’s chest and spread through him at a dizzying speed. Jon hadn’t even known about his grief before he had told him last night, and now he had the nerve to use it against him.

“You can’t love me after I abandoned you,” He concluded.

“Why,” Martin tried to keep his voice steady, “Why are you trying to find excuses for me not to care about you?”

“Because you shouldn’t,” Jon shrugged.

“You don’t get to tell me that,” Martin snapped, all pretense of calm stripped away, “I spent a year being told how to feel, you do not get to tell me how to feel now! You just don’t! I decide how I feel, Jon, and if I choose to love you, that is my choice! No-one else’s!”

His outburst had Jon looking back at him again, startled, and Martin was the one who had to break eye contact. He took in deep breaths to try and still himself.

“…it’s too late.”

“What?”

He turned back to him to see Jon looking utterly devastated.

“It’s t-too late,” His voice shook, “I was too late. I… I always am. I never… never realise in time. I ignore how I feel and then… then it’s too late. It’s always…”

He trailed off and looked down, his eyes bright and wet.

Martin’s anger died a swift death and sympathy bloomed in its place. The fear on Jon’s face was clear, a mirror of his own when it came to the love he kept hidden away.

Moving at a glacier’s pace, Martin leaned forward and carefully laid his hand over one of Jon’s clenched fists. He flinched but didn’t pull away.

“…I can be really patient.”

Jon looked at him then to their hands, then back up to him.

“Oh.”

The tears in his eyes spilled over and poured down his face.

Martin’s heart cracked in two and he moved over to his side to fold him into a gentle hug.

Just like the night before, Jon hesitated a moment before eschewing permission and wrapping his arms tightly around Martin’s waist. He buried his face in the side of his neck and Martin felt hot tears wetting his collar. After a moment, he felt them on his face too and realised he had joined Jon in crying.

He held him like that for what seemed like forever, trying to stay steady as his mind was flooded with the revelations of the last few minutes.

Jon loved him and, despite his best efforts, Martin loved him back.

Relief and confusion and guilt and exasperation all rushed through him before being overwritten by love, love, love. A cavalcade of everything he had kept inside for years flowed out of him as he tried to press Jon into his chest so hard he would be imprinted there.

Eventually, the tears clogged his throat and he reluctantly pulled away to cough and wipe his face dry. Jon let him go but hovered close by, his hands cradling Martin’s forearms like they were made of gold. There was a look of wonder on his face.

Martin cleared his throat and held onto him the same way, looking him in the eye.

“Jon… I really love you. I do.”

Jon bit his lip, his eyes darted away and Martin watched him force himself to look back again.

“Yes… I-” He coughed, “You’ve made that quite clear.”

Martin laughed weakly.

“And I… love you dearly,” Jon said softly.

Martin nodded, trying not to hide his embarrassment and delight. A slow smile dawned on Jon’s face and for a minute they just sat smiling at each other.

“I can’t believe you thought I didn’t still love you,” Martin said eventually, shaking his head at the absurdness of it all, “I’m completely gone for you, I have been for years!”

“Yes, yes, I know that now,” Jon pretended to grumble.

“I thought I was being really obvious.”

“In my defense, you didn’t notice my feelings either!”

“I thought you were just being nice…”

“Good lord, are you serious?”

“Hey, you don’t get to criticise!”

“Alright, alright,” Jon rolled his eyes, “Let’s just agree that we’ve both been equally stupid.”

Martin huffed a small laugh.

“Yeah, alright.”

He adjusted his grip, moving his hands so they held gently onto Jon’s own.

“Guess we will just have to make it up to each other, yeah?”

Jon squeezed his hands softly.

“Yes. Yes, please.”

Chapter Text

The tea had gone stone cold.

They had been sitting for who knew how long in an almost embrace, marveling and a little moon-eyed, recovering from the blows of mutual feeling.

Martin had leaned away slightly to finally sip from his mug. He made such a disgusted face as soon as he did that Jon couldn’t help but laugh. Rolling his eyes, Martin snagged both the mugs and reluctantly stood to dump them into the sink.

Jon swiveled in his seat, pulling his legs up to tuck under himself and folding his arms on the back of the couch to watch Martin fuss with the kettle again. A soft smile lingered on his face as he made his way through the routine; teabags in the mugs to await boiling water, milk out of the fridge so it wasn’t quite ice-cold, one spoon to stir both to save on washing-up. His movements were almost graceful, well-practiced and thoroughly at ease.

Watching him, Jon couldn’t help but feel embarrassed.

Looking back on the last few days, it was painfully obvious how foolish he had been. He had been picking up on the breadcrumb trail of kindness and affection that Martin had laid for him, stringing together clues and leads, only to come to the wrong conclusion.

It was an awful habit of his, he knew. A holdover from his research days. As soon as he had decided what something meant, he was set on it, no matter what other answers could be drawn from the evidence he had to hand.

It took a very compelling argument from a very stubborn person to change his mind.

Martin yelling in his face that he was making the choice to be in love with him had certainly fit those criteria.

As the shock ebbed out of him, delight swept in, tempered by his lingering confusion. He believed what he had been told but something Martin had said stuck in his throat, impossible to swallow.

“What are you thinking about?”

Martin’s soft question dragged Jon out of his head and he saw that was now leaning with his back against the counter, watching Jon as keenly as he had been watching him.

“Honestly? How, um, how silly I feel about…”

Jon gestured to the space between them and Martin huffed out a laugh.

“Yeah,” He rubbed the back of his neck, “Me too…”

“Although, I have to ask,” Jon leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded arms, “Did you really think all of this was just me being nice?”

Martin groaned and turned away.

“Jon…”

“I-I’m not trying to i-interrogate you or anything! I’m just… I’m not… nice. Especially just for the sake of being nice. You of all people should know that.”

“Hah, oh believe me, I definitely know that,” Martin glanced over at his shoulder at him, the hint of a smile on his face, “Nice… isn’t the right word. That’s just what came out.”

Jon tilted his head, watching Martin closely even as he turned back to the counter.

“You’re… you’re kind, Jon,” He sighed, “I just… I told myself that that was all… this was, nothing… nothing else.”

Jon watched with great interest as his ears turned pink.

“I-I know that’s stupid,” Martin mumbled, reaching for the kettle as it clicked off.

“It’s not,” Jon was quick to reassure him even as what Martin said pricked at his conscience, “Although… I’m… not sure that many people would, um, refer to me as… kind.”

Martin snorted inelegantly.

“Yeah sure, because throwing yourself into the physical embodiment of loneliness to pull out someone who chose to be there in the first place is just normal workplace etiquette,” He scoffed.

Jon glanced down. There was a stray thread coming off of the back of the couch and he tugged at it instead of debating the point.

“Besides…” Martin’s voice turned soft again as he poured water into their mugs, “You… you did the same thing for… for Daisy so I… That… threw me off. A bit.”

“Oh.”

Jon looked up at him again. Martin’s ears were bright red now.

“I… understand why you might make that, um, comparison?” Jon admitted, “But going into that coffin was a completely different thing to coming to find you.”

“How?”

“Well, uh.”

Jon bit his lip. He could kick himself for starting this conversation. Martin had been smiling only minutes before and he had to needle him with his damn questions. Martin was expecting an answer of his own now, and Jon was certain he wouldn’t like it.

“With Daisy… with the Buried, I… I didn’t know if I would… well, if I would succeed. If I wouldn’t get… stuck. At, uh, at that point, I wasn’t sure that, uh, that that would be such a bad thing. You know, generally…”

He watched Martin’s grip on his mug tightened and winced.

“B-But! But that’s why it was different with you!” He leaned forward, “Because I knew that I would get you out of that place. Leaving you there or being trapped there myself just wasn’t… wasn’t an option. I-I had to succeed.”

Martin froze with one hand reaching for the milk jug and Jon kept talking.

“I knew that no matter what I-I would get you out safely. That we would leave t-together.”

“B-Because…” Martin swallowed, “Because the Eye showed you, right? It showed you the way out?”

“Oh, uh, y-yes, but, but only after…” Jon licked his lips nervously, “Only after… you saw me. Before then, I had no idea… But I still knew we were going to escape that place.”

Martin lowered his hand to the counter slowly.

“I didn’t, uh, Know,” Jon tapped his forehead, “When I went in to find you… It was more of a feeling, I suppose. I just felt… that no matter what else, I was going to bring you home.”

He felt the rightness of his words as he spoke them, a soft warmth building in his chest. He had been terrified walking into the Lonely, he had been angry and upset, but there had never been a single moment where he had been unsure.

Martin suddenly bowed his head and his hands clenched into fists on the counter. Jon heard him take a deep breath.

“…Martin?”

“S-Sorry.”

Jon could hear tears in Martin’s voice and his heart leapt into his throat.

“What..?”

“Just- Just give me a moment, that’s- wow. That’s… that’s a lot.”

Jon hovered, half-standing up from the couch, unsure if he should approach him. Martin kept his head down for a moment longer before making the decision for him, standing upright and squaring his shoulders with a sniff.

Jon got off the couch anyway, one hand leaning on it for support.

Martin faced him, his ears and cheeks still ruddy red and his eyes wet.

“S-Sorry, you, uh,” He sniffed again, “You caught me by surprise there.”

Jon’s confusion must have shown on his face because Martin shrugged and kept talking.

“I just… You really love me don’t you?”

Jon’s shoulders slumped and he smiled softly.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

Martin rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“I… believe I had made that fairly clear,” Jon’s smile became a grin.

“Oh, shut up,” Martin pretended to grumble even as he smiled himself.

He bridged the gap between them and wrapped Jon up in a tight hug.

Jon tipped his head down, resting his forehead on Martin’s shoulder.

It was getting easier to let himself be touched. Knowing that he was wanted and safe suffused each point of contact between them with warmth.

He slowly raised his hands to rest on Martin’s side and kept his own touch delicate. Martin huffed softly and leaned the side of his head against Jon’s.

After a moment, he pulled back slightly to look at him.

“I… I love you too, and I...” He sighed softly, and Jon tried to be patient as he got his thoughts in order, “Whatever happens next, I… I want to be with you when it happens. I want us to face it t-together…”

Jon’s grip on his waist tightened.

“I want that too. ...More than anything.”

Martin nodded. His eyes were still a little wet and he let Jon go to scrub at them. Jon let his own hands fall away.

Martin turned to fuss with the tea again, finishing its preparation, and nodded again, more to himself.

Jon smiled and murmured his thanks as he passed his mug over. They made their way back to the couch and drank in companionable silence.

The company warmed Jon more than the drink. He tucked his legs back under his body and leaned back into the cushions. An idle thought nagged at him and he lazily searched for his lost train of thought as he watched Martin settle.

When he eventually found it, he hid a grin behind his mug.

“So,” He began.

“So?” Martin looked over to him with a soft smile.

“So,” Jon put his mug down, “Now that we’ve cleared all that up… I can get back to my apology.”

“What? What are you-? Oh my god! Jon, do not start that again.”

“I’m joking! I’m joking!”

“You’re ridiculous,” Martin shook his head.

Jon giggled and sat back, sinking into the cushions.

He felt ridiculous. He also felt grateful. He was allowed to be ridiculous. He could make wrong assumptions and stupid mistakes, and they would not cost him Martin’s company.

Tripping over his own thoughts was a habit he had to wean himself off of. With time and patience, he might just be able to manage it.

Martin had been the very model of patience with him. Jon would have to ask for tips.

Despite his new resolve, his mind drifted. As he picked up his mug again, he found himself thinking of just how long Martin had been patient with him.

“Hmm,” He shifted in his seat to face Martin fully.

“Hmm?” Martin looked over at him.

“I… was joking. But thinking about it properly, I do actually owe you an apology for something else.”

“Jon-!”

He held up a hand.

“Let me speak. Please.”

Martin took a sullen sip of tea, watching Jon with narrowed eyes.

Jon cleared his throat.

“I.... I apologise for how I treated you when we first started working together.”

Martin choked on his mouthful.

“S-Sorry!” He coughed, pressing a hand to his mouth, “Sorry, you what?”

“I… uh, I said-”

“No, I heard what you said! It’s just…” Martin stared at him, baffled, “You… That… that was a long time ago… It doesn’t really matter now. ...Does it?”

Jon frowned down at his mug.

His behaviour towards Martin was one of the many ghosts that haunted him after he had woken from his coma. Another bead in the endless string of the awful things he had done.

It had slipped from his mind as the danger of the here-and-now overtook any lingering regrets.

In the peace of the safehouse however, it had risen to the forefront of his mind. Like silt disturbed from a seabed, he had to forge his way through to clear his mind of it.

He looked back up to Martin who still seemed nonplussed.

“In… In the grand scheme of things, I suppose it doesn’t,” His fingers tapped a rhythm against his mug, “But… It matters to me. And if we’re going to be.... together…”

Boldness flooded through him as he spoke the word aloud. He reached out to lay his hand over the one Martin had lying on the couch between them.

“Then I think I should… I’m sorry, Martin. How I acted was unprofessional. More importantly, it was unkind.”

He squeezed his hand briefly.

“I could offer a hundred excuses for lashing out at you, but I won’t insult you like that. Just… sorry.”

He took a swig from his mug to hide his face.

Martin was silent for a moment before putting his own mug down and turning his hand over in Jon’s grasp. He squeezed back.

“Hmm.”

He frowned down at their joined hands.

“I, uh. I know I just said it didn’t matter but. Hmm.”

He folded his other hand over Jon’s and shifted so they sat side by side.

“I, heh, I think I actually needed to hear that.”

Jon looked up to see Martin’s eyes were wet again. He made a sympathetic sound and leaned in closer.

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Martin insisted, squeezing his hand again, “Um. Well. Apology accepted, I guess… thanks.”

“Don’t thank me for something I should have said a long time ago,” Jon scoffed.

“Still. It’s nice to hear,” Martin shifted in place, “And, uh, for the record… I, uh, I also might have… said… things about you when I first started at the archives. So, sorry.”

“I was your manager, it was your prerogative to bitch about me.”

Martin burst into laughter. Jon wasn’t sure if it was the sentiment or the swear that he found so funny, but he would gladly let Martin call him every bad name under the sun if it would make him laugh like that again.

A question bubbled unbidden to his tongue.

“When did that change?” Jon tilted his head.

“Which?”

“When did I change from your arsehole boss to…?” He nodded to their joined hands.

“You mean when did I start l-liking you?”

“Yes.”

“Fishing for compliments?” Martin grinned.

“Wh- No! I’m just… curious,” He frowned at his own choice of words, “Not! Not ‘Archivist’ curious! Just- No, nevermind, forget it.”

“It’s alright,” Martin murmured, “I know what you meant.”

Jon was caught off guard by the relief he felt at those words. Being understood wasn’t something he was used to.

He dropped the subject anyway. Martin lifted one of his hands to reach for his mug and settled back against the couch with a sigh. He settled their joined hands on his lap.

“I think…” Martin began slowly, looking pensive, “I think it started after I was living in the archives.”

Jon should tell him that it was fine, that he didn’t have to answer if he didn’t want to. Instead, he nodded.

“Yes?”

“Yeah… I don’t want to say it’s just because you were nice to me for once because that sounds kind of sad but…” He shrugged and his smile was a little hollow, “But yeah, it was because you were nice to me for once.”

Jon frowned and laced their fingers together.

“It wasn’t like a serious thing? It was just… something nice to think about once in a while. And you were… safe, to have a crush on, you know?”

“What do you mean?” Jon asked.

“I mean, well. You were my boss and you didn’t really like me, and I didn’t even know if you were into men so… So I knew nothing would happen. And that was... safe. I could have that little butterfly feeling in my stomach when I saw you and I wouldn’t have to actually put myself out there or do anything about it,” Martin sighed heavily, “That sounds even sadder, doesn’t it?”

“No, no...” Jon jumped to reassure him, “I… I understand. It’s hard to make yourself… vulnerable like that…”

“Mmm. But it was… fine. Manageable. I only started to get it bad after Prentiss attacked the institute.”

“What?”

“I can pinpoint the exact moment too,” Martin perked up a little, “It was after we got trapped in document storage and you, hah, you asked if I was a ghost?”

“...I beg your pardon?”

Martin giggled.

“Don’t- Martin, don’t laugh! Are you-” Jon choked on his own surprise, “Seriously telling me that the moment you realised you had a-actual feelings for me was when I asked you the stupidest question in existence?!”

Martin nodded, grinning.

“That’s! That- What?”

Martin started laughing properly and Jon felt his cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. Whatever answer he had been expecting, it had not been that.

He waited for his laughter to die down before spitting out a question.

“How?”

With a chuckle, Martin wiped tears from his eyes and sighed.

“Because it was a stupid question,” He grin turned soft, “Because that’s when I realised that you weren’t just a mean boss or an occasionally nice co-worker. You… you were a person. A person who made very weird leaps of logic, but a person… I guess… it was because that was when I saw you, for the first time.”

Martin’s voice grew quieter as he spoke, a pink blush blooming on his own cheeks. Jon’s embarrassment and confusion drained out of him, leaving him with only a tender ache in his chest.

“And. After that,” Martin scratched the back of his neck with his free hand, “You know most of the rest of it, I think.”

Jon looked down at their joined hands and tightened his grip.

“Yes… Yes, I believe so.”

“…Cool.”

Martin drained his mug and avoided his eye until the colour faded from his face. He put on the table with a loud thump, finally turning back to Jon a bit of a put-upon smile.

“Right so! Your turn!”

Jon blinked.

“My turn to what?”

“You know…” Martin bit his lip, “To tell me… how you knew that you…um.”

“Ah.”

Jon leaned over so he could catch Martin’s eye.

“Now who is fishing for compliments?”

“You-! You know what forget it, I don’t even what to know.”

Jon chuckled. He shimmied over to Martin’s side of the couch and placed their joined hands on his lap.

“No, I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you.”

Martin gave him a skeptical look.

Jon tilted his head back against the cushions, his brow furrowing in thought.

“I don’t think there was one particular moment of realisation. I was, ah, quite slow on the uptake as I’m sure you know.”

Martin huffed out a laugh.

“After…” Jon sighed, “After I woke up… It just seemed so obvious. Like it was a fact I had always known. The sky was blue, the grass was green, and I was in love with Martin Blackwood.”

Martin’s hand twitched in his hold.

“But I found myself looking back on, well, everything really, and it became clear how deep in denial I had been. How easy it was to ignore how I felt with everything else going on… I wasted so much time.”

“Jon…”

“However-” He forged on, “I was also able to, ah, reflect on what I liked about you. The things I first, um, saw about you, as a person.”

Martin leaned into his shoulder.

“After Prentiss’ attack, when I was becoming increasingly more… erratic, you kept inviting out for lunch. You remember?”

“Yeah?”

“No matter how snippy or isolated or unfriendly I was, you always made the offer.”

“There were days you wouldn’t leave your office at all if I didn’t,” Martin scoffed.

“Yes. But my point is, I admire that about you. How you kept reaching out to me. Especially when I didn’t deserve it.”

Martin frowned and tugged on Jon’s hand.

“I didn’t mind looking after you. Ignoring you would have only made things worse, I think… And someone had to make sure you ate, heh.”

“Well, yes, and I appreciate that but that’s not quite what I meant.”

“What?” Martin’s frown grew, “What do you mean then?”

“I mean,” Jon started to grin, “That one of the first things I noticed about you was how stubborn you were.”

“E-Excuse me?!”

“You would practically march me down to the canteen, or out to some café,” His grin grew, “Even though I resented it at the time, I was still impressed by your insistence.”

Martin only blinked.

“Do you remember when I tried to come back to work early after Prentiss? You practically carried me out of the building!” Jon laughed, “Even before that- the first thing you did after being held hostage in your flat wasn’t to go to the police or the hospital- it was to prove a point to me. To do your due diligence.”

He beamed up at him. Speaking aloud had filled him with warmth. He didn’t have to stamp down on his feelings anymore. He could let them loose, a flock of birds driven to flight.

Martin stared at him like he had grown another head.

“...Are you serious?” He asked, flummoxed.

“Of course I am, what’s wrong?”

“S-Seriously?” He sputtered, “The first thing you liked about me was my stubbornness?!”

Jon leaned his head on Martin’s shoulder.

“Let’s not call it stubbornness, let’s call it… your strength of will.”

“Oh yeah, that’s a great way to say bull-headed,” Martin snorted.

Jon laughed again.

“It’s true though,” He insisted, “You’ve always been strong. You hide it well but you’ve shown it time and time again.”

Jon tilted his head so he could look Martin in the eye.

“You’re an incredibly strong person, and I love that about you.”

He said it plainly. It was a simple fact.

The confusion on Martin’s face had given way to awe. A blotchy blush spread over his face and neck, turning them rosy red.

He pressed a hand to his mouth and looked away.

“This was a mistake,” He murmured.

Jon lifted his head, sudden worry flooding through him.

“Martin?”

“I-I can’t handle you complimenting me- it’s way too much,” He laughed, a little hysterical.

The worry ebbed out easily. Jon put his head back down.

“Ah, well, I’m afraid you’ll just have to get used to it. I have many good things to say about you- and you did ask to know.”

“I did ask.”

Martin risked a glance and Jon could see the bashful grin he was trying to hide.

They spent the evening like that, talking about themselves and each other. They shared snippets and secrets, tightly treasured things they had never spoken out loud before.

Martin made dinner, the cheap, quick and easy kind he threatened to make on their walk, and Jon tried his level best to eat.

It was still early enough by the time they finished washing the dishes but the whole day had worn Jon out. He could feel weariness seeping into his bones. Drying a plate at his side, Martin let out a jaw-cracking yawn.

They shared a smile and agreed to turn in early.

Standing side-by-side in the bedroom, Jon was hit with a sense of deja-vu. Just like the first night they had arrived, he found himself staring at the bed, unsure of what to do.

It had been nice to sleep in an actual bed yesterday, but Jon knew it was only because of his own loose inhibitions that it happened at all. Without liquid courage lacing his veins, he didn’t have the nerve to ask if they could do the same tonight.

In any case, dozing off with someone because you were drunk was an entirely different beast to soberly sleeping in the same bed as the person who knew you loved them.

His sleeping bag had been folded up at some point. The fabric brushed up against his bare ankle. Jon mentally braced himself for another night on the floor.

Martin had fallen quiet, and Jon scrambled for some train of thought to fill the silence.

“Uh, so, I’ll, um, change then you can have the bathroom and I’ll roll out my-”

“Jon.”

“Y-Yes?”

Martin sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His fringe flopped down in front of his eyes.

“I-If you want to… we could, uh, s-share again?” His tone grew high as he spoke.

Jon felt like he had swallowed something hot too quickly. A lump of heat burned in his throat.

“Y-You don’t have to do that for me,” His voice sounded weak to his own ears.

“I know,” Martin frowned at his feet, “S-So what if… What if I’m not? What if I’m d-doing it for me?”

Jon leaned to the side, trying to get a look at his face.

“I don’t- I didn’t mind last night, Jon. I-I know you weren’t exactly… But it was… nice. Sharing. And, uh…”

Martin was turning that blotchy red again. The blush crept out from under his shirt collar and spread up his neck.

“That- The first night we got here… I wanted to share the bed,” He worried his lip with his teeth, “I was still so cold after… and I-I wanted you close.”

Guilt pricked Jon like a needle.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want you to feel like you had to if you didn’t want to! Y-You had already done so much for me and…” Martin squeezed his eyes shut, “And I didn’t want to be- to be a burden.”

Jon was seized by the urge to hug him. It took him a moment before he remembered he was allowed to.

He turned on his heel and immediately wrapped his arms around Martin’s waist. Martin jumped in surprise before relaxing into his grip. Jon looked him in the eye.

“You-” He said fiercely, “Are not a burden.”

Martin’s shoulders sagged and the corners of his lips twitched.

“Yeah. It’s just- That’s just what I thought. Then.”

“And now?”

“I already said, didn’t I?” He shrugged and Jon felt the movement under his hands, “I want to share the bed. I-If you’re comfortable with it.”

Jon tightened his grip for a moment before letting him go.

“I am,” He said, “As long as you are.”

Martin’s face softened into a smile.

“On one condition,” Jon stated.

The smile flickered.

“I’d like the side closest to the wall, if that’s alright.”

Martin giggled.

“Yeah, course.”

Jon changed first.

He glanced at his reflection in the bathroom as he tugged his night shirt over his head. He still looked as drained as he had that morning. Wan and worn with an uncombed mess of hair. However, he swore he could see a bright spark in his own eyes that hadn’t been there before. He brushed his teeth furiously to fight off the grin threatening to take over his face.

Martin headed into the bathroom as he left it. He slipped his glasses off and climbed into the bed carefully. It really was quite small, and he pushed back against the wall to make as much room for Martin as he could.

He pulled the thin duvet over his shoulders and worried the fabric between his fingers.

Last night, he hadn’t been conscious enough to worry about his sleeping habits. Now, he found himself thinking about his constant nightmares, how he had been told he moved in his sleep. Would he make Martin uncomfortable? If Martin had his own share of snores and shifting, would Jon regret this?

As the bathroom door creaked open, he risked a glance at Martin’s face.

The slight worry he saw mirrored what he felt. It helped to settle his whirling thoughts.

Martin took off his own glasses and gave Jon a shy smile before flicking the light switch.

The room plunged into darkness and Jon blinked a few times to adjust his vision. There was a bit of cold air as the duvet was tugged up before the mattress dipped and Martin settled down.

This close, Jon could see that they were lying face-to-face.

The covers warmed up instantly, Martin’s body-heat spreading to him. Combined with his soft breathing, it served to calm Jon’s burst of nerves.

“Hi,” He whispered into the dark.

He heard Martin swallow.

“Heh, hi.”

“You alright?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yes.”

Martin shuffled slightly, trying to find a place to put his arms that wouldn’t intrude on Jon’s space. The small gap between them suddenly felt like miles. Jon lay a hand down in it.

Martin stared for a minute before he placed one of his hands down as well.

As soon as their skin touched, Jon felt himself unwind. He might not have a peaceful rest, but he would have no trouble getting to sleep.

Contentment settled into his bones.

“Goodnight Martin.”

“Night Jon.”

Martin drifted off first. He watched his eyelids droop and his face grow slack. He didn’t snore but his breath fell out of his mouth in soft whistles.

Jon ached.

There was a part of him that still couldn’t believe this was real. He was loved and was allowed to love in return. His sloppy confession hadn’t hurt Martin or destroyed the fragile peace of their safehouse.

He curled over their joined hands protectively, pressing his forehead to Martin’s knuckles.

He muttered one last thing into his skin, precious but no longer secret.

“I love you.”

~~~

Mornings were quickly becoming Martin’s favourite part of the day.

Without a schedule to keep or an alarm to trill in his ear, he could wake up at his own pace. He could ease into the day tucked beneath warm covers and shake off the fitful rest he had gotten. Far removed from the frantic pace that the last few years of his life had set, he was able to enjoy the sun rising and the dawn chorus singing.

The company made it all the better.

The first morning after they had talked about how they felt, Martin woke with Jon half-draped over him. His face was tucked firmly into the space between his chin and his shoulder. Soft breaths warmed his neck.

Part of him was still giddy with happiness, reeling at the confirmation that this was real. He had made peace with the fact that his feelings would never bear fruit. To be proven wrong after so long left him dizzy.

It was almost too much.

He had spent so long on his own, by choice and by circumstance. It was harder than he expected adjusting to living with someone else.

Double the amount of dishes in the sink, twice as many clothes in the washing machine, more than he was used to budgeting for spent on the shopping.

He could get used to those types of things, with time.

What threw him for a loop was the open and blatant affection he was being shown.

He was disarmed by the ease with which Jon expressed his feelings. He might not have been good at it verbally but as soon as they both understood how the other felt, Jon seemed to have no problem holding his hand or hugging him. As if he had just been waiting for permission.

Jon craved a friendly touch, he had noticed. He would lean their shoulders together and sit with their knees knocking into each other, casual little brushes that told Martin Jon felt safe with him.

It was incredible.

It was painful.

Experience had taught him that relationships were for other people, that no matter how nice or helpful he was, no-one would ever treat him like Jon was treating him now.

Combined with the supernatural hangover the Lonely had left him with, sometimes it got overwhelming. He would start to feel the way he had felt walking into the village’s supermarket for the first time; panicky and fragile.

His first instinct was to keep his distance. Keep his hands folded so Jon couldn’t cradle them. Sit upright on the couch so he wouldn’t slump into Jon’s side.

Martin also knew that that instinct was born of the One Alone.

It still gave him nightmares. Sometimes he dreamt of the beach, other times it invaded other spaces in his sub-conscious. He still heard its siren call as he was jolted from his rest.

Whenever the Lonely pricked at his mind and whispered to him that he would be much better off without the aching feelings Jon’s touch gave him, he doubled down on them.

He squeezed Jon’s hands tightly and slung his arm over his shoulder when he sat nearby. When he woke up with Jon clinging to him, he clung right back. Every graze of their hands and sharing of their body heat was part of Martin’s silent crusade to combat Forsaken.

Even if Jon sometimes felt so hot it made his cold hands prick with pins and needles; even if the thought of being seen sometimes still made his breathing shudder and stall, he persevered.

Being with Jon made him happy, made Jon happy, and spat in the face of the Lonely.

Jon might have had a point when he called him stubborn.

Fueled by spite and adoration, Martin spent the next few days learning Jon. He knew him as a distant manager, as a fellow eldritch hostage, as a friend, but Jon as his partner brought out a side to him that Martin had never seen before.

He had long been in the habit of taking note of Jon’s smiles, rare, fleeting things that they were, and he was delighted to learn that when Jon smiled with real happiness, it suffused every part of him. His crinkled his eyes and loosened his posture. Most importantly, his smile could be heard in his voice, as if he couldn’t keep the sound of it inside him. Martin melted at that noise.

They learned each other’s boundaries. Discussions about Jon’s asexuality and Martin’s occasional need for space were held in front of the weak space heater. Disagreements over cleaning habits took place in-between piles of wrinkled clothes. Debates regarding the virtues of classical poetry happened in bed, wrapped up in each other.

Slowly but surely, Martin eased himself into existing in a relationship, his comfort growing with each passing day.

It had been nearly a week since they had arrived at the safehouse. They were still taking trips to the village together, and Martin felt much more at ease with Jon by his side.

They decided to go for a walk around the quaint little town, instead of just grabbing food and heading back to the house like usual.

It was much more than just its main street. Rows of terraced houses wound around hilly roads. The pathways were lined with damp orange leaves as the trees planted along them shed their autumn coats. Window boxes of hardy flowers still bloomed against the chill in the air.

The jewel in its crown however was the small bottle-green shopfront, tucked down a small laneway with a small placard above the door that read; Lundie’s Newsagents.

Martin gasped when he saw it and grabbed Jon by the hand to drag him towards it.

“A shop! Look! A proper little shop!”

Staring through the glass, it looked like a dark, tiny space that barely stocked the essentials for village life.

It was exactly what he had imagined when they had first driven through. A slice of the twee, postcard-perfect country.

“C’mon, c’mon, let’s go in!” Martin urged with one foot already in the door.

He heard Jon chuckle as he followed.

Dusty shelves lined the narrow walls. Handwritten prices were attached to cereal boxes with branding at least a decade old. The whole room smelled of dust and newsprint.

“G’afternoon, hens,” A voice from their right greeted them.

Behind a counter half-buried in cheap chocolate bars and ads for the lotto, an old woman smiled softly at them.

They both startled a bit before mumbling their hellos and setting off down the nearest aisle.

Martin insisted on doing their shopping here and snagged a worn-looking basket to start grabbing some essentials. The place went back further than expected. A line of humming freezers stood patiently against the back wall. They were the only customers in the shop and their footsteps were muffled by the heights of the goods around them.

They were able to get most of what they needed, minus a few brand names and indulgences and the woman at the counter congratulated them for being able to find it.

“I don’t even know where Paul puts half the stock,” She laughed as she rang them up.

Martin got chatting to her as Jon packed the food into their reusable bags. It wasn’t as hard as he thought it would be, small talk rolling off his tongue. He had plenty of experience with old women to draw from.

As they headed out the door, Martin called a cheery goodbye and the woman said she looked forward to seeing them soon.

The second they were out the door, Martin whirled on his heel to stare at Jon.

“I am never setting foot in that Tesco again,” He vowed solemnly.

Jon laughed and teased him about it all the way home.

It got easier after that.

The village started to feel familiar rather than threatening. The comfort he felt in the safehouse leaked out to encompass it. He learned that the old woman who ran the shop was called Claire, that the shop had been in her family since her great-grandmother’s time, and just how pleased she was to see young people supporting local business.

If his English accent caught her attention, she didn’t show it. He was grateful. It was a gentle re-introduction to being a person in public again.

He started going on walks by himself. Not into the village but around the quiet fields and grassy paths surrounding the safehouse, on those rare days when he needed air and some time with his own thoughts.

Jon worried about it at first, asked if he was sure it was a good idea, wondered if it wasn’t some lingering effect from Forsaken. Martin assured him over and over that being alone didn’t make him lonely.

He also pointed out that he liked walking in the rain and Jon did not seem to appreciate the highland drizzle like he did.

It was also very gratifying to have Jon fuss over him when he walked in the front door soaked to the bone, with the kettle already boiling.

He tried to write about the feelings shuffling for space in his chest. Words rolled easier off his tongue now, but they still fought with him when he tried to put them on paper.

Staring at an empty page with words like ‘recovery’ and ‘serenity’ whirling in his mind, he tried not to force his composing.

He had time, now. The words would come when they were ready.

Making himself comfortable in the space the two of them carved out together, he couldn’t help but think, despite everything, how lucky he was.

They called Basira within the next week. Squashed into the phonebooth, Martin held the receiver between them as they spoke with her.

There was little news from her end. The police were still questioning her, and she couldn’t make any moves to start tracking Daisy without drawing unwanted attention.

When Jon tentatively asked about sending on some statements, she said accessing the institute might take a few more days. The whole building was still technically a crime scene. His shoulders had fallen, but he kept his disappointment out of his voice as he thanked her anyway.

After assuring her that they were keeping their heads down and staying out of trouble, they bid her well and hung up.

Martin wanted to tell her that he and Jon were together, but it hadn’t seemed like a good time. Her voice was rough from answering questions and dry with exhaustion. It didn’t seem fair to flaunt his happiness.

Jon looked drained by the conversation as well. The invasion of reality into their little bubble of safety weighed down his shoulders as they walked away from the booth.

He had been quieter over the last couple of days, Martin had noticed. More prone to distraction and daydreaming. He hadn’t asked him about it yet, curious to see if Jon would open up on his own. Maybe he would check in after dinner.

Speaking of.

“Will we pop over to Claire’s?” He asked him, “Grab the stuff for the spaghetti?”

Jon blinked slowly, then smiled.

“And so you can get your fill of local gossip?” He teased.

“I’m just being friendly!” He protested.

Jon laughed and brightened a bit as they made their way down the road.

The bell above the door of Lundie’s Newsagents tinkled merrily as they stepped in and Martin called a greeting to Claire as he picked up a basket.

The place was small enough that he had memorised the layout fairly quick and it took no time at all for them to grab what they needed and head back to the till.

Despite their speediness, Martin could see someone new had joined Claire as they approached. An old man with a hard jaw and snow-white hair.

“Ah there they are now,” Claire called, “These are the wee English lads, Paul. Martin hen, this is my Paul, you remember I said.”

“Oh! Claire’s husband, right?” He nodded to the man who grunted back, “Nice to meet you. I’m Martin and this is Jon.”

He turned slightly to introduce Jon and froze.

Jon held the basket loosely, standing slightly behind Martin. His gaze was focused on Paul with a frightening intensity. He looked straight into his sunken eyes and it seemed that Paul couldn’t do anything but stare back.

Claire was still chatting away heedless.

“Pop the basket up, we’ll get you sorted hen.”

Jon did not look away or blink. Paul was starting to frown.

“Jon?”

Martin lay a hand over where Jon was holding the basket and he jumped as if he had been shocked.

“W-What? Wha-?” Jon shook his head and looked at Martin as if he had forgotten he was there.

Suddenly, the blood drained from his face.

“Oh god- E-Excuse me, I-I can’t, um,” He shoved the basket into Martin’s hands, “S-S-Sorry.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and ran out of the shop.

“Jon?!”

“Oh dear… Paul! Ye scared him!”

Martin heard Paul grumble and Claire chide him as they scanned his shopping but his mind whirled with worry. With a vague thanks and apology, he packed everything away as quickly as he could and left the shop.

A quick look up and down the road let him spot Jon standing at one of the corners. As Martin jogged up to him, he could see a cigarette dangling from his hand.

“What the hell was that about?”

He flinched at Martin’s approach and shook his head.

“N-Not here.”

“Jon…”

“Please,” He took one of the bags from Martin and started walking towards the road that led out of town.

With concern boiling his brain, Martin reluctantly followed.

They had walked into the village to enjoy the unseasonal good weather and Martin was now regretting it.

Even though he was half-a-head taller, Jon’s pace was always quicker then his and he practically had to run after him to catch him.

They reached the winding uphill road that would lead them to the safehouse and Martin waited a few moments until the village was well and truly behind them to talk.

“So… what happened?”

“Ah…” Jon winced, “Can’t this wait until we’re at the house?”

Martin raised an eyebrow.

“It’s a half hour walk and there isn’t anyone around but us so… no, it can’t.”

“Right… right.”

Jon fell silent for a few more strides. His head hung low.

Martin was about to prod him again when he spoke.

“He had a story.”

“…what?”

“The shopkeeper’s husband. I could feel it. It was… I didn’t get a good look but it was something to do with the Buried… and the Flesh. …I could taste sodden dirt and sheep’s blood at the back of my throat… I wanted it.”

Jon looked up at him with a haunted expression.

“If you hadn’t startled me, I would have asked for it.”

“…oh.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Jon let his head drop again and they walked on in silence.

Martin could recall Jess Terrell’s frantic fear with perfect clarity. However, it was one thing to hear about something like that and see it almost play out in front of your own eyes.

If Jon had asked, would he have been able to stop him? Or would he have been sucked into the story as well?

The thought of such a close call sent a shiver down his spine.

When they reached the house, they packed away the food without a word and as soon as it was done, Jon retreated to the bedroom.

Martin dithered for a moment before putting the kettle on. He would give Jon a few minutes to himself, but he wasn’t about to let him fall down a spiral because of what had just happened.

When the tea was done, he took the two cups to the bedroom.

Jon hadn’t bothered drawing the curtains and the first few rays of sunset painted the room orange. He lay on his back on the bed, outside of the covers and still dressed, staring up at the ceiling.

Martin lay the mugs down on the side table and sat down.

He reached over and ran his thumb over the crease furrowing Jon’s brow.

“When you get that look on your face, I can practically hear you thinking.”

“Mmm.”

Jon shuffled over to give him space and sat up as Martin passed him his mug. Martin swung his legs up and settled against his side. They sat quietly for a moment.

“Want to talk about it?” Martin offered eventually.

Jon sighed, sounding tired down to his bones.

“I just… This is it, isn’t it? The rest of my life, just… trying and failing to stop myself from traumatising people.”

“You didn’t fail.”

“I didn’t stop myself. I need to have more self-control.”

“Okay, but you still didn’t do it,” Martin pointed out.

“Only because you were there.”

“Right, so if we don’t want it to happen again, I’ll just… be there.”

“What?” Jon scoffed, “You can’t babysit me for the rest of our lives. That’s not fair on you and I certainly don’t want it.”

“Well, what’s your alternative?”

“If I can’t be trusted around people then I’ll… just stay in the safehouse.”

“You can’t put yourself under house arrest, that’s not good for you.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s good for me. I’m a monster who wants to hurt people.”

“Jon!”

“It’s the truth, Martin!” He glared at him, “And you know it is!”

“Don’t say that!”

“Martin…”

“Define monster, Jon,” He turned to point a finger at him, “Because if your definition is someone who hurts people, then plenty of humans are monsters.”

Jon’s glare faded into an exhausted look.

“I know… I know you aren’t exactly human anymore, Jon, but that in and of itself doesn’t make you not a person.”

“I’ve still hurt people,” He said wearily.

“Yeah, I know that too. But Paul wasn’t one of them. And it doesn’t matter why you stopped, you still did. And what you did matters more than what you wanted.”

Jon squinted at him.

“Is it really that easy?”

Martin shrugged.

“I don’t think ‘easy’ is the right word but… action matters more than intent, right?”

Jon looked into his mug.

“There was a load of people I didn’t like at work but I was still nice to them.”

“That’s not exactly- Wait, who?” Jon asked.

Martin took a sip of his tea and looked away.

“…Diana,” He admitted sheepishly.

“What?” Jon’s guilt momentarily disappeared under his shock, “You were the only one in the Archives who got on with Diana!”

“Yeah, because she treated me like her personal errand boy when I worked in the library and kept doing it after I got transferred,” He scoffed, “I never liked her. From day one! But I was still polite, and she never had a bad word to say about me.”

Jon smiled weakly.

“A bit of office etiquette is a different from…” He trailed off.

“I… I know it is but,” Martin rearranged himself so he could put an arm over Jon’s shoulders, “But what I’m trying to say is, you don’t have to punish yourself for something you didn’t do.”

“…okay.”

Jon sagged into his side and shut his eyes. Martin knew he wasn't conceding his point, he just didn’t want to debate it anymore. He would let him get away with it.

“I still think I shouldn’t go into the village anymore,” Jon said after a minute, “At least until Basira sends the statements.”

“Fine. But you can’t stay cooped up in here. Will you still come on walks with me?”

“I will.”

“Okay.”

Martin dropped his end of the argument and settled back against the headboard.

He was tired. They both knew this particular conversation wasn’t over. There was a very delicate balance in the safehouse where they tried not to discuss things like it and Martin idly wondered how much longer that would last.

He was brought out of his thoughts when Jon slung his arm over his waist and hugged him.

“Thank you,” He said softly.

“For what?”

“For being here.”

Martin stared at the top of his head.

“Can I kiss you?” He said suddenly.

“…what?”

Jon sat up to stare at him.

Martin only registered the words coming out of his mouth after they hung in the air between them. He couldn’t find it in himself to regret them.

He had been thinking about it, on and off.

There had been hand kisses, cheek kisses, head kisses between them, but never on the lips.

Martin decided to change that.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked again.

Jon blinked slowly.

“Yes.”

He bent over slightly and did.

It was closed-mouthed and dry. Jon’s lips were a little chapped from the outside air but skin-warm. Martin pressed in slightly before pulling back.

“Was, uh, was that okay?”

Jon’s eyes were blown wide, pupils as round as saucers.

“J-”

Jon surged into him, wrapping him arms around his neck and kissing him over and over again. Molding their lips together with sweet pressure. Teasing his tongue once or twice. He moved all over Martin’s face, planting kisses on his eyelids and cheeks before diving back in to steal his breath away.

They were both laughing by the time he pulled back for air. Martin was half-pressed against the mattress and Jon lay above him, beaming with joy.

“S-Sorry,” He stuttered.

“What was that about?”

“It’s ah, ha, it’s been a long time since I kissed someone,” Jon explained, “I… forgot how much I like it.”

“Oh.”

Something warm and sweet curled in Martin’s stomach.

“…You’re a bit rusty,” He grinned up at him, “Maybe you should practice more?”

Jon’s face grew warm under his hands as he laughed and fell back into him.

Their routine had to change, of course.

Martin made his way into the village by himself, with Jon’s apologies following down the path. It was no longer intimidating but he would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he missed having him by his side.

Upon his return home however, he now got greeted with a soft kiss which felt like a fair trade.

The fear and worry settled slowly, swept under the living room rug and into the cupboards.

It helped that Basira was able to post some statements and it was with great impatience that they both waited from them to arrive.

On the morning that they did, Martin ran to Claire’s shop first to grab their usual supplies. To his mild horror, they didn’t have any teabags.

“Shipment delayed, hen.”

He waved her off, they would make do for a day without them. He could only hope any delays hadn’t affected the post.

To his relief, they hadn’t and he collected a wide shallow box from the local post office. He gave Basira a quick ring to let her know it had arrived safely before opening it to make sure it was all okay. Piles of yellowed paper greeted him and he shut it swiftly. Just looking at them turned his stomach. They were definitely statements. He quickly lugged it back up the hill.

When he walked in the door, Jon was tucked up on the couch, a blanket wrapped around his knees. He leaned up with a smile to kiss his cold nose.

“Right bad news first,” Martin groaned, “Claire was out of tea, I’ll check again with her tomorrow.”

“You didn’t check in the Tesco?”

Martin scoffed.

“I’ll never be that desperate.”

Jon chuckled.

“Gave Basira a quick buzz though.”

“How was she?”

“Oh, same as last week.”

“Institute still crawling with police?”

“I mean, they’ve finished all the interviews? Apparently, they’re calling it a “terror attack.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Jon smirked, “Appropriate, in a way.”

“Mm.”

Jon fiddled with the edge of the blanket.

“Does she know who they’re looking to blame?” He asked.

Martin shook his head

“They’re not really talking to her about it? Sectioned or not, I guess ex-police only gets you so far.”

“Mm. Does she know if they’ve found the old prison yet – the Panopticon, Eli–,” He cut himself off and his voice turned hard, “Magnus’s body.

Martin patted his hand.

“I don’t know how hard they’re looking, to be honest? Basira said a few of them got lost in the tunnels for over a day-”

Jon snickered.

Martin batted him lightly before continuing.

“– and – it’s not like the promise of an old man’s corpse is much of a motivator.”

“Mm.”

“Still, she did manage to talk them out of burning the whole place to the ground?” He assured him, “– and, ooh, actually, that reminds me, um-”

He put the cardboard box on the couch and started to open it. Jon sat up and eagerly helped, tearing off strips of Sellotape.

“Ah, these, these are the statements.”

“Yes. Basira said last week she’d send some up as soon as the Archives weren’t a crime scene.”

“Yes.”

“And she wasn’t sure which ones you’ve read already, so she, she just said she’d send a bunch.”

Martin pulled out a sheaf of papers and placed them to one side. Jon was frowning down at the box and Martin watched him reach in to pull out a small tape.

“There – There are tapes in here, as well,” He said, “D-Did she say anything about tapes?”

Martin shrugged.

“She didn’t mention it? – But I didn’t check it until after the call.”

“Mm.”

“I assume it’s her attempt at a-a, a varied diet? Eating your greens, you know?”

Jon rolled his eyes but couldn’t hold back a grin.

“Probably,” He sighed, content, “I’m sure it’ll work fine.”

“Cool.”

Martin shifted from foot to foot.

“Well, as fun as listening to you monologue is –“

Jon’s grin grew.

“Hm.”

“– I will give you some privacy. Go for a walk.”

“Let me know if you see any good cows,” He said absentmindedly as Martin turned away.

It was his turn to roll his eyes.

“Obviously I’m going to tell you if I see any good cows.”

He darted back to press a kiss to Jon’s head before heading for the door. Jon waved him off with a smile.

Martin would be happy to never hear another statement again. Despite that, he was grateful they had them.

Even if Jon never said anything, Martin could see the hunger starting to affect him. Over the past few days, Jon had been sluggish and wan. Hopefully, what Basira had sent them would perk him up and keep him afloat for a bit longer.

Martin turned up the hill where he knew the highland flock grazed. He would take some cute pictures to show off later.

Despite the ups and downs, their rough first few days, Martin’s distance and Jon’s hunger, he felt something he hadn’t for a long time.

Hope burned bright in his chest, nurtured by their safe haven and the love they built there. He couldn’t say what the future held but as long as they tackled it together, he had no doubt they would be able to handle it.

As he walked the path leading to the pasture, he felt a drop of rain on his nose. Looking up, he could see heavy, dark clouds rolling overhead. The day had been sunny when he was in the village.

The weather turns so quickly here, he thought.
He walked a bit further, but the rain started to pour down in earnest and the wind blew it sideways. He had to fight against it to keep moving.

Martin liked gentle rains, not deluges. He would have to head back to the house if he didn’t want to be caught up in what was quickly becoming a fierce storm.

Another glance back up at the sky startled him. The clouds were practically black now, bruised with purples and sick, dark greens. He hadn’t even been out for twenty minutes. He couldn’t believed it had become so bad so fast.

Turning on his heel, he pulled his hood over his head and started to jog back the way he came. The wind howled, nearly sweeping him off his feet.

He quietly cussed it out and ran faster. He would look like a drowned rat by the time he got home.

On the bright side, Jon would probably be finished with the statement soon.

Chapter Text

Martin read the statement, after.

After Jon collapsed in a hysterical heap, sobbing, screaming, and laughing all at once.

After Martin had to bodily drag him away from the shattered remains of the living room window. His body was limp but heavy, and the words ‘dead weight’ sprang unwanted into Martin’s mind.

He managed to heave them both through the bedroom and into the cottage’s tiny bathroom that had no windows. It did nothing to lessen the feeling of scrutiny burrowing into his skull or dull the sounds roaring from outside, but at the very least he wouldn’t have to actually see what was happening.

With care, he lowered Jon to the tiled floor and followed him down. He wedged himself in between the sink and the shower unit, with Jon almost in his lap. Without Martin holding him upright, Jon began to tilt forward, and he fell with his forehead pressing into Martin’s collarbone. He could feel his shaking through his shirt. Carefully, Martin lay his hands on his upper arms and pulled him closer.

He felt Jon’s gasp more than he heard it, a faint, stuttering thing, as he cringed in on himself and buried his face in Martin’s shoulder. He wrapped his arms around him and felt one of Jon’s hands scrabbling at his side. His nails dug into his skin.

They sat like that for some immeasurable amount of time. Jon’s heaving, breathless sobs eventually gave way to a quieter stream of tears. Martin’s shirt was soaked. He could feel Jon’s jaw quiver as he worked to keep it shut. Martin absently ran a hand up and down his back as his mind reeled.

He couldn’t wrap his head around what he had just witnessed. One moment, he was jogging through the rain and the next, the very ground beneath his feet seemed to rebel against him.

As if it was shaking off its cover of water, the earth had quaked and sent Martin sprawling. He had banged up his knee something fierce but that hadn’t mattered when the tremor had left him right next to the house. When he could hear glass breaking and a voice raised in unholy agony.

He had run into the house to see Jon unconscious on the floor and then.

And then.

Then.

He hadn’t actually looked skyward until Jon invited him to, but when he dared to lift his eyes and stare, it had stared back.

The knowledge of what that meant embedded itself into his mind. The information was driven into his brain like an icepick. The invasive sensation of it was made even more awful with how familiar it was.

The world had ended. He just didn’t understand how.

He tried to rack his brain for some sign that he had missed; any warning he hadn’t heeded while he and Jon were busy playing house.

Thought abandoned him as a wave of fear crested over his mind and swallowed it whole. An instinctual, animal fright at the knowledge that the world was now fundamentally wrong overtook him. He surrendered to it instantly, overwhelmed by stark horror.

It felt too big for his body, and he was dimly aware that he was shaking. His mind was blank of everything but that fear, and the irrevocable feeling of being watched. Knowing that his terror was on display for the consumption of the very thing causing it made him shake harder.

A sharp jab in his side brought him out of his fugue for just a moment and he blinked to see Jon digging his hands into his waist. The same terror he felt was reflected in Jon’s face, twisting it into a mask of agony.

Jon raised a wobbling hand to press against Martin’s cheek. It was only as he did so that Martin realised it was wet. Tears fell unbidden as he leaned into the paltry comfort.

They clung together, driftwood in a drowning sea of horror. Jon shifted to bury his face in the side of Martin’s neck, and as he did, Martin spotted the pieces of crumbled paper he had dropped when Martin bundled them both into the cramped corner of the bathroom.

They lay on the floor scrunched into half-hearted balls. Pieces of off-white printer paper, the kind found in offices all over the globe. The words were too small to read from where Martin sat, but he was familiar enough with the formatting to recognise them as a statement.

Holding Jon closely, he leaned forward slightly to pick them up.

He felt no compulsion to read them, no hungry curiosity. Only a dull hunch, with a pit of dread yawning open in his gut.

So, he read the statement.

Once, twice; knowing exactly what it meant but unwilling to believe it.

Jon was used, raised like a lamb to slaughter and sacrificed on the altar of Jonah’s ambition.

And with a mere paragraph, the world had been ended.

For just a moment, all of Martin’s fear was overwritten by blistering anger. He felt his face flush white-hot as the feeling trembled through him.

He was going to kill Jonah Magnus.

It wasn’t a vow or a promise, it was a statement of fact.

He knew it as surely as he knew the changed state of reality.

A low whine sounded out next to his ear and he was brought out of his thoughts as he realised his grip on Jon had turned hard and pinched.

He relaxed his curled fists and ran one hand up and down Jon’s back.

As anger settled firmly into his heart, it allowed fear to creep back in. Grief came with it.

In the uncountable days to come, Martin would mourn the world as he had known it but now, he only mourned for the man in his arms. For all the things that had been done to him and for him, all culminating in the moment he opened his mouth to read.

The last page of the statement fluttered loosely in Martin’s hand. He crushed it and tossed it away. Jon flinched at the sound.

“Mm-Mma-…”

Martin froze as Jon suddenly tried to speak.

His voice cracked around the sounds he tried to make. It was damaged, Martin realised, torn and bruised from the abuse it had been put through.

He shushed him and ran his hand up and down his back in broad soothing strokes. The motion pressed Jon closer into Martin’s body. He turned his head slightly to press his dry lips to his ear.

“S-S-Ssorry…”

“It’s not your fault,” He whispered automatically.

Jon turned his face away to laugh; a rusted, bitter sound.

“I-I-I can f-feel it- s-see it-” He choked, “I can see all of i-it- everything…”

Martin didn’t want to know what that meant. He just adjusted his grip and mumbled soothing words into his hairline.

Jon merely laughed again, broken. It wasn’t quite as demented as before, but it was still enough to set Martin’s teeth on edge.

He didn’t bother to argue with him, only held him tighter as the aftershocks of the Change rolled over their reality.

They would argue, later.

After Jon managed to stand up under his own wobbly willpower.

After Martin repurposed the shattered coffee table to barricade the broken window in the living room.

After he wandered back into the bedroom to see Jon perched on the bed and staring at the drawn curtains as if he were seeing right through them.

He sat beside him, watching the dark fabric for any twitch of movement and idly wondered if Daisy had any sort of weapons cache hidden in the safehouse.

Jon tried for words again, after an eon of silence.

“Y-You… you r-read it?”

His voice still creaked like an old hinge, quiet as a whisper.

Martin nodded, then took a deep breath.

“It wasn’t your fault, Jon.”

It had been instinctual to reassure him before. Now, it was imperative.

He could already see Jon internally burrowing into misplaced guilt, a haunted light in his sunken eyes.

Jon only laughed again, a weak chuckle.

“I think you’re a bit biased.”

A touch of anger flickered in him.

“Jon-“

He only shook his head.

“Listen to me-“

“About what, Martin? What could you possibly say that could f-fix this?”

“I’m not trying to fix-! God, Jon, I just don’t want you blaming yourself!”

“Why not? I did this.”

“No. Elias did this!”

“And I let him.”

“How did you-? You didn’t know!”

“Does that matter?”

Martin gaped at him.

“Of course it does! I-It, it’s not like you wanted this to happen!”

Suddenly, Jon bent over himself with his arms folded around his middle, shaking violently. From what little of his face he could see, Martin could make out a tight, manic grin.

“But, hah, a-action matters more than intent, d-doesn’t it?”

The trickle of anger burst into a hot flare as Jon threw his own words back at him.

“Don’t-!”

He stood abruptly, pushing the anger into movement instead of saying something he would regret.

Jon flinched slightly and he turned away from him, marching to the door. Jon clearly wasn’t in a position to see reason and Martin didn’t want to bicker with him.

With some time and a little space, maybe cooler heads would prevail.

He paused in the doorframe.

“For what it is worth,” He said, trying to keep his tone even, “I don’t blame you.”

If nothing else, he needed Jon to understand that.

He shut the door over and retreated to the living room to wrangle his feelings.

Breath in, hold for seven, breath out. Breath in, breath out.

The clock in the kitchen ticked incessantly but when Martin glanced over to it, he could see its hands were missing. He suppressed a shudder.

Getting angry at Jon wouldn’t help. Being upset and frightened wouldn’t help.

He tried to focus on what, if anything, could.

He started with the utilities.

The water and electricity were still on. They had food from shopping the other day and plenty of Daisy’s canned preserves sitting on dusty shelves. Martin hoped they wouldn’t have to start rationing.

As he shuffled around the house, checking locks and supplies, he was dimly aware that he was shifting into survival mode.

Martin had been in survival mode for most of his life. From taking care of his mother to leaving school early, to lying his way into work; he had instilled in himself the habit of burying his thoughts and feelings and focusing on getting through life one day at a time.

He was aware, now more than ever, that it wasn’t exactly a healthy way to live but it had kept him alive, even on his worst days.

It had stopped him from spiraling when Prentiss was hammering on his front door. It had kept him functioning after Elias had psychically assaulted him. It kept him putting one foot in front of the other every time he had to leave Jon’s hospital room.

He couldn’t help but think that if this habit was ever justified, it was during the literal end of the world.

With reluctance, he could admit it fed a bit into his Loneliest tendencies but Martin argued to himself that as long as he was aware of it, he would catch himself before he sunk too deeply into that kind of mindset.

It was just until Jon calmed down, until he was able to see reason again. Then, they could talk things through and figure out their next steps.

Martin found himself pottering around the living room, cleaning up the clutter of a morning that felt like it was decades ago.

Rounding the couch, he nearly tripped over a cardboard box. It tipped onto its side, spilling sheets of paper and clunky tapes over the worn carpet.

He bent over on instinct to gather them up before realising what they were. These statements made up the nest that Jonah’s cuckoo had hidden in, and Martin was seized by the urge to destroy them.

The safehouse’s fireplace was already lit - he could feel the lick of heat against his skin from where he stood – and something vindictive rose in him as he thought about burning them, page by page.

It was only the thought that Jon might still need them that held him back.

The rules of reality had changed and he didn’t know if Jon would need to take sustenance from the statements or if what the Eye was showing him would keep him fed.

He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to think about Beholding or the chokehold it had on Jon’s health. He had a terrible feeling in his gut that this disaster would only make its influence worse.

With a sigh, he bundled the statements back together and tossed them back in the box, throwing the tapes on top of them.

He might hate the necessity of them, but even if there was the slimmest chance that they were still needed, he couldn’t get rid of them. He wouldn’t let his disgust be the reason Jon starved.

Kicking the box under the dusty armchair, he sighed again and sat in front of the fireplace.

Jon must have lit the fire after he left for his walk. It filled the room with the smell of hickory smoke and enveloping heat. The light brightened the room just enough for him to see that the log basket had been refilled as well. It would last them a few more days.

Martin took a moment to try and wrangle his feelings so he could think clearly. He was more than grateful that he could feel the full breadth of his emotions again, but they tended to cloud his mind.

He focused on the warmth rolling from the fireplace, and on the slight haze shimmering before it.

The fire was so nice. It almost made the room cosy, despite everything.

Martin couldn’t remember why they had never lit it before.

There was a reason, a thought that bit at the back of his mind, but it was lulled into incomprehension by swirls of smoke.

Martin dozed then and there, slumped with his back against the couch. His sleep was disturbed by nightmares; visions of fog, eyes, fire, and a myriad of other awful images that he couldn’t quite remember when he woke. All he could recall was the abject terror they tore out of him.

In-between waking and dreaming, he watched the firelight flicker. It cast dark shadows against the walls and more than once, Martin swore the shapes moved in the opposite direction to the slant of the light. He really ought to double-check the locks and make sure that nothing would be able to creep under the doorframes.

Despite that resolve, he drifted off to sleep again, and it seemed like an eternity later that he managed to fight off the fatigue the impromptu rest had dumped on him. With the curtains drawn and the clocks broken, he wasn’t sure how long he had been out and peeking through the window to check was out of the question. It could have been the next day or the next week for all he knew.

It was only as he stood and the blood rushed to his head that it hit him that he had left Jon alone for hours at least. He needed to check in with him. Perhaps now, he would be more willing to listen to sense.

Even if he wasn’t sure when it was, it seemed like enough time had passed that they should both probably eat something. Real food, to keep their strength up.

He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he would bring Jon a cup of tea, gauge his mood and then try to coax him into the kitchen.

Having made that decision, it felt like he was standing outside the bedroom door with a mug in hand within a blink of an eye. The motions of tea-making were so routine, he didn’t even bother remembering them anymore it seemed.

He shrugged off the brief lapse of awareness. He had plenty of reasons to be distracted.

With a light brush of his knuckles, he knocked on the bedroom door and announced himself.

“Knock, knock!”

“Who’s there?” Jon’s voice called back croakily.

He could talk. That was a good sign.

Martin poked his head in the door, holding up the mug like a peace offering.

“Just me.”

Jon was sitting in the exact same position Martin had left him in, hunched over himself and perched on the side of the bed. The look in his eyes was very faraway but he turned his head to watch Martin walk in and almost smiled.

“Just me, who?” He said.

Martin had a split-second of blind panic where he thought Jon had developed sudden, stress-based amnesia. His mind raced through the five stages of grief before he noticed the weary grin on Jon’s face.

“What?”

Jon’s expression stuttered and fell. He dropped his gaze.

“Never mind,” He mumbled.

An instant too late, Martin realised it had been a joke. Half-hearted and weak, but a joke. He could have kicked himself for spoiling the moment, but he forged ahead, intent on following through with his check-in.

“Uh – okay,” He said, “How are you feeling today?”

Jon took in a deep breath, turning back to face the window.

“Define… ‘today’.”

The urge to snip at him for being pedantic swelled at the back of Martin’s throat. He bit it back, quickly. Being distracted by word usage and the disruption of the flow of time as he knew it was not helpful.

“How are you feeling in general, then?” He rephrased.

Jon thought for a moment, before shrugging.

“Unchanged,” He stated plainly, “I don’t know if it will ever change again.”

Martin wished that answer shocked him. Instead, a cold, heavy resignation settled in his gut. He should have known Jon would wallow. He got so caught up in his own head and no matter what the feeling, he gave himself over to it wholeheartedly. That habit drove his paranoid investigations and his reckless decisions. Now, his grief and guilt paralyzed him. He was rooted in them, immovable and untouchable.

Drawing attention to that fact would only cause another discussion, more distraction.

“I brought you some tea,” Martin said after a moment.

“No, you didn’t,” Jon countered immediately.

“Uh – what?” What? “Y-Yes, I did.”

He held up the mug to eye level, as if putting it on display. It wobbled slightly in his periphery. His hands must have been shaking.

“We ran out of tea the day before the change,” Jon carried on, heedless, “You said the little shop in the village didn’t have any more.”

Martin opened and closed his mouth, struggling for words.

He did remember the brief conversation he had had with Claire, something about a delayed shipment, but he must have found something else. A stray teabag buried in the back of the cupboard or hidden behind the stacks of cans, because there was undeniably a mug of piping-hot tea in his hands. It shook harder in his grasp.

“Ergo, that isn’t tea,” Jon’s tone brooked no argument.

Martin argued anyway.

“W-What?” The mug rocked back and forth, and he tightened his grip, “No, of course it’s tea, I-”

He didn’t remember making it, but he must have. Surely, he must have.

The mug’s rattling grew faster and the sound of liquid sloshing against ceramic was drowned out by a vicious hiss. The mug suddenly sprouted a dozen spindly legs covered in coarse hair. Martin screamed and threw it away from him as the thing tried to climb over his hands.

The mug shattered against the floor and the dark shape fled from them, scuttling beneath the skirting board and squeezing itself into a tiny crack that shouldn’t have fit its bulbous body.

Martin stared after it in horror, trying to shake the itch of its touch off his skin, before turning back to Jon.

“Wha-What’s-” He jammed a finger in the direction the thing vanished, “Alright, I-I made that! If, if-” He panted heavily, the sudden shock leaving him breathless, “I thought you were-!”

“I’m sorry, Martin,” Jon cut across him with a dry, humourless laugh, “Things don’t work like that anymore.”

“Like what?”

“Like normal,” He glanced to Martin’s rigid hands, “This isn’t a world where you can trust-”

“Tea?!” Martin squeaked.

“Comfort,” Jon corrected him softly.

“Oh.” As the fright wore off, a heavy sadness settled onto his shoulders. “Yeah… yeah.”

Biting his lip, Martin wracked his brain for a change of subject.

“Maybe I should, uh – pop down the village? See if they have any coffee instead?” A little joke of his own; a weak attempt to lighten the mood.

Jon’s expression turned pained.

“It’s gone, Martin,” He moaned, “And the people are-”

“Yes, I know, Jon, I’m not ignorant,” He snapped.

He had no desire to know how bad things were outside of their four walls. He was dedicating a lot of brainpower to not thinking about it. He could only catastrophise about one thing at a time.

“I’m just – I’m just not ready for complete despair yet.”

“Like me,” Jon muttered.

“I didn’t say that.”

Jon shrugged.

“You didn’t have to.”

Martin winced. He thought he had done a better job at hiding his distress.

It stung to admit Jon was right. As soon as the shock of the Change had worn off, Jon seemed to have just- stopped. Despair had swallowed him whole and he didn’t even try to fight it. He let himself wallow, soaking in his own sadness until it dripped out of his every pore.

It hurt, seeing him that way. Knowing that he was blaming himself, watching him crumple until the weight of his own guilt.

Jon took everything upon his own shoulders, for good and ill, and threw up walls that stopped anyone else from sharing the burden.

It hurt more to watch Jon shut him out. He was so deep in his own grief, Martin might as well have not been there. If Martin didn’t come into the room to check on him, he would still sit on the bed and mourn, heedless of anything else.

Unbidden, a bitter voice in the back of Martin’s mind piped up that Jon hadn’t even bothered to check on him. Martin had spent his time cataloguing their supplies and their barricades, and had even slept for hours, and Jon had just sat there without even wondering where he was.

Martin stamped down that voice viciously. Just because he was scared that didn’t mean he could be cruel, even in his own head. Jon had every right to be as upset as he was.

It didn’t change the fact that Martin was afraid.

Talking with Jon, without anything else to distract from their new reality, had dragged that back to the forefront of his mind. He was so scared.

He was scared of what lay beyond their front door, he was scared of what could squirm its way in. He was afraid for their friends as well as the millions upon billions of people he would never know.

That fear was made all the worse because of how unreachable Jon seemed to be. Martin knew he was afraid -fear lined every inch of him- but they both seemed adrift on their own islands of terror.

It was a very lonely kind of fear.

The idea would make Martin laugh if he wasn’t so close to tears.

He shook off the sting of abandonment as best he could. He had come into the room to check in with Jon, not succumb to his own grief. He still had a job to do.

Rounding the bed, he gingerly lay a hand on Jon’s shoulder. When Jon didn’t flinch or tell him to let go, he pressed down gently.

“You know I’m here for you,” He said softly.

He needed Jon to understand that. He could retreat into himself and put up his walls, but Martin wasn’t going anywhere. As long as he lent his support, they might be able to weather this.

Jon looked up at him slowly. The shell-shocked blankness in his face gave way to something softer. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if he just remembered to breathe.

“Yes,” Jon murmured.

He reached up tentatively and tugged on his arm. The unspoken invitation had Martin practically collapsing onto the bed with relief.

As soon as Martin sat down, Jon shuffled towards him. Martin lifted up an arm for Jon to shimmy under before wrapping him up in a hug.

Jon melted into the embrace and slowly wrapped his arms around Martin’s waist.

“Yes I do.”

Martin gave him a squeeze and lay the side of his head against Jon’s temple. Jon tucked his face into his neck and took a deep breath. Martin ran a hand over his shoulderblades.

“Alright,” He soothed, “Alright.”

He held him close as Jon sighed to himself. Martin could feel his fingers drawing circles on his back.

“Thank you,” Jon murmured.

They sat in each other’s arms for a quiet moment and Martin felt something akin to ease settle over him.

The feeling fled swiftly as Jon suddenly turned his head to stare at the closed curtains. He lay his cheek on Martin’s shoulder but the look in his eyes was very far away and tinged with terror. His pupils shrank then dilated in an instant and he shuddered.

Martin tightened his grip. His gaze flicked to the curtains. If he never found out what was beyond them, he would be content. Jon didn’t have that luxury.

“You still…,” He sighed, “Feeling it, seeing everything?”

Jon’s nails dug into his back.

“Yes,” Jon whispered “I-I’m trying not to, but – all the fear, the anguish, i-it just keeps coming at me in waves, rolling over me- filling my head with such… awful sights.”

Martin’s heart ached to hear the exhaustion and anguish in his voice.

“I’m sorry. That sounds…” He sighed again, “That sounds horrible.”

He moved one hand to cradle the back of Jon’s head, as if that would make up for his inadequate words.

Jon began to shake again.

“I wish it was, Martin,” There was something in his voice that could have been a laugh or a sob, “I really wish it was…”

Jon’s grip turned steely, and Martin felt a bite of pain on his lower back.

“But it feels… right,” Jon said.

Martin shifted in place. Jon’s hands loosened as if he had just remembered where they were, and he ran them up and down Martin’s back softly.

“What… Jon, what does that… mean?”

He didn’t want to know but the question came out of him anyway.

Jon shrugged slightly. The tension seemed to have left him, leaving exhaustion in its wake.

“It means… Beholding wants the world like this, as much as it can want anything, and… I am… part of it. I suppose it means that I want it too.”

“Please don’t say that,” Martin whispered, “Please, Jon you didn’t want this, I know you didn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter,” The softness Martin’s touch had fostered in him was fading again, “Wanting, not wanting… it’s… it’s like gravity.”

“What?”

“It feels natural… like this is the way things were always meant to be…”

“Jon,” Martin winced as his voice cracked and grief trickled through.

Jon smiled, polite and distant. He sat up slightly and propped his chin back on Martin’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

Martin only shook his head. He was getting sick of hearing that.

As they sat close to each other and Jon’s mind drifted away to watch something only he was privy to, Martin tried not to panic.

It was one thing to deal with something awful braying at their door or a little monster hiding in their teacups. It was a completely different thing to deal with the culminating power growing inside the man he held.

He wasn’t afraid of Jon.

He hadn’t been afraid of Jon for a long time. Not at his most paranoid, not when he was accused of murder- even speaking with Jess Terrel just made him more angry then upset. The most afraid Martin had ever been of Jon were the first couple of weeks they started in the archives, when all he had to fear was pissing off his boss.

But he was afraid for Jon.

He was afraid for Jon almost constantly. Over the past few years being afraid of what would hurt him or haunt him next was as constant as Martin’s heartbeat.

Jonah’s trap had only reinforced that fear. Everything that he had ever been scared of had all culminated in this.

Before he walked into the bedroom, Martin had feared that something from outside would try to take Jon from him. Now he understood that he should be more afraid of what was inside Jon.

If he lost him in this moment, it would not be to anything beyond their doors but to the parasite leeching off his will and his words in return for unwanted power.

The world belonged to the Eye now. If it wanted, it could probably pluck Jon’s mind from his body in an instant, leaving him nothing but an empty vessel for its hunger.

Martin clutched him close, as if the barrier of his arms could provide any sort of protection.

“Martin…?”

He turned his face slightly to look at Jon and cringed. His knuckles had turned white with the force of his grip.

As he loosened it, Jon leaned back from him.

“S-Sorry,” He mumbled.

Jon shook his head.

“You’re tired,” He said softly, “Let’s lie down.”

Martin wanted to protest. With Jon so easily lost to his thoughts, Martin needed to stay vigilant. But he knew Jon was right. In spite of napping for hours - or perhaps because of that - Martin was exhausted. The feeling weighed down on his shoulders and it was all too easy to fall back onto the mattress at Jon’s urging.

“Have you slept at all?” He murmured as Jon lay down beside him.

With a frown on his face, Jon shuffled back into the circle of Martin’s arms.

“No… I… Hmm.”

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing, just… thinking too much.”

“You? Never.”

It was a weak joke and Martin couldn’t quite muster up the right tone of voice for it, but Jon smiled anyway.

“Shush. Sleep.”

Martin shut his eyes as Jon reached around to bury a hand in his hair. He privately resolved to stay awake until he was certain Jon had drifted off.

He needed to be sure that Jon would actually rest, instead of drifting back into his own mind. If Martin slept, his only company would be his own thoughts and the visions Beholding was forcing into them – a terrible combination.

A memory came to him unbidden of lying in bed just like this, with Jon telling him that he couldn’t supervise him constantly.

Perhaps if he had, this never would have happened.

Guilt slipped into the cocktail of fear and anger whirling in his head, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Rationally, Martin knew there was only one person at fault for the end of the world. Irrationally, Martin knew that he should have killed him when he had the chance.

He ripped that thought out by the roots before it could properly grow. Guilt wouldn’t help now.

Martin needed to focus on what would, what things he could do with his body and his words that would keep those thoughts at bay.

The house was as secure as he could make it. They had food and water, heat and electricity. The only thing still unchecked on his mental to-do list was Jon.

Caring for him in the state he was in was going to be a harder job than checking the cupboards or locking the doors. It was also a job Martin vowed to succeed at.

He didn't know how to fix the world. He didn't know how to stop evil people from planning terrible things. He couldn’t even tell that his tea had been replaced by a little monster.

But he knew how to look after Jon.

It was another old habit, albeit one that he was out of practice in.

If he could just make sure Jon was okay, everything else might fall into place. Once he was taken care of, they could focus on the rest of reality.

It helped, Martin thought, that he didn’t have to hide his caring anymore. Jon wouldn’t draw away when shown a hint of affection, too afraid to test if it was real. Martin didn’t have to stifle how he felt, for fear it would be used against him.

It was easy to care now, even if nothing else was.

He pulled Jon closer, tucking his head under his chin. Jon hummed as he started to slide a palm over his shoulderblades. His fingers ran through Martin’s hair in a steady rhythm.

Pressed so close together, Martin could count his breaths. In and out, a slow tide that assured him of the man in his arms. His resolve settled into the pace Jon set for them and before Martin knew it, his own breathing was in sync with Jon’s and he drifted off to sleep.

He opened his eyes to see an empty bed. The covers had been stripped off and the pillows thrown away. Martin lay face-down on an ice-cold mattress. His body felt so heavy as he tried to sit up, as of his bones had been replaced with boulders. The displacement of air as he moved made him shiver and he was dimly aware of gooseflesh prickling his arms.

A soft breeze rustled his hair and he looked to his side to see the window had been opened. Had he done that? His thoughts were sluggish and he struggled to put a shape to what was going on. He knew the curtains shouldn’t have even been open, nevermind the window.

When his tired gaze drifted to the view outside, all he could see was a grey sky and empty fields. He wasn’t sure why that surprised him. He shouldn’t have expected anything else. There was no reason to think the world should look like anything but dull skies and cold winds. This was the way it was meant to be.

Pain throbbed at the back of his head like a tender bruise. Each pulse of his slow heartbeat pounded at his ribcage. The ache of his body screamed that something was wrong, but he ignored it in favour of hauling himself upright and out of the bed. A nauseous dizziness hit him instantly.

The floor was the kind of cold that sucked the heat from his bare feet. It took Martin’s energy as well and as he swayed on the spot, he already knew it was going to be a bad day.

He ought to give a fair warning about his odd mood to-

To-

To who?

He was alone.

The was no-one else in the house. There never had been. He had always been by himself.

It was fine. He was used to it. At least this way he didn’t have to worry about anyone else’s expectations.

The wind coming through the window blew stronger. Mist rode in on the coattails of the breeze.

He didn’t have to put on a smile to placate others.

The mist grew heavy, pooling around his ankles.

It has better this way really. He was tired of trying.

Foggy tendrils crept up his body and wrapped around his throat.

He couldn’t see the bedroom anymore. Just a blanket of dense condensation surrounding him. Soon he wouldn’t even be able to see himself.

That was alright. He was lousy company anyway.

Fog clouded his eyes.

Martin woke up sobbing.

There was no easy transition between sleep and waking. One moment he was unconscious and the next, he was burying his face in his damp pillow and weeping loudly.

Over the sound of his choked wails, a voice by his side was swearing.

“-esus, Martin, wake up, shit, wake up, please, please, Martin, Christ, please wake up!”

A tight grip was shaking his shoulder roughly. A thin leg was wound around his ankle. A warm body was half-draped over his back.

“P-Please- Plea-”

“…Jon?”

His voice was nearly inaudible to his own ears but there was a gasp over his shoulder. The hand gripping it tugged at him and he reluctantly rolled over. Hot tracks of tears streamed down his face as he turned to see Jon hovering over him. He looked devastated.

“What…?”

Martin tried to sit up but Jon shuffled further on top of him to keep him in place. His hand drifted from his shoulder to grab at one of Martin’s clenched fists. His palm was clammy.

“You, uh, you were… h-having a nightmare, I think?” Jon mumbled, “But it- You weren’t waking up and it seemed… bad.”

Martin watched him grimace at his own choice of words but he could barely focus on Jon’s reaction as he took in what he said.

He had his fair share of nightmares since coming to the safehouse but none of them had scared him so badly that he had woken up in tears. He raised his free hand to scrub his face, feeling foolish. What did a tiny nightmare matter when the whole world had been turned into one?

Worse still, he had woken up Jon, who was now staring at him as if he was about to shatter like glass.

“Right… right,” He took a shuddering breath, “It, uh, it was… but- Sorry I woke you.”

Jon shushed him.

“No need for that, I wasn’t asleep.”

“Jon…”

That was worse. Jon needed to rest, if only to gain a few hours peace from their new reality.

“It’s fine,” He waved off Martin’s concern before he even voiced it, “Don’t worry about- Are you alright?”

Martin’s face burned with shame. He shouldn’t be giving Jon even more to worry about. He would probably find some roundabout way to blame himself for this as well.

“Fine, I’m fine!” He said immediately, “Only a dream- nothing to fret about!”

Jon’s frown deepened.

“What was it about?” He prodded.

“I-…Huh.”

“Martin?”

“I…I don’t actually remember- No, really I don’t!” He insisted as Jon gave him a skeptical look, “I, uh, hmm.”

The dream had terrified him, he knew that much. He could feel the leftover adrenaline of terror winding its way out his system. There were still tear tracks on his face and an echo of a broken heart reverberating in his ribcage. The feelings the nightmare gave him were lodged firmly in his chest but the actual details of it were slipping from his grasp like sand.

“I… was here… in bed,” He spoke slowly trying to grasp onto the image, “And… and… no, no it’s gone.”

He adjusted his grip on Jon’s hand.

“But I… I was alone. I think.”

Jon whined and threw himself down to cling to Martin firmly.

“You’re not,” He whispered into his ear, “You’re not, I’m here.”

“I-I know, Jon,” He wound his free arm over Jon’s back and held him, “It was only a dream.”

“I’m sorry.”

“N-Nothing for be sorry for.”

Jon didn’t respond to that. He stayed where he was, shuffling to tuck Martin’s face against his neck. He covered him with his body as best he could, as though it was a barrier against Martin’s subconsciousness.

Martin let him, if only to make Jon feel better. Guilt made his stomach heavy. Both because of the need Jon felt to comfort him and for how much he enjoyed that comfort. He squeezed his waist tightly.

They lay like that for what felt like hours, neither of them even trying to sleep. Martin drank in the gentle touch Jon was willing to give him and pretended that it wasn’t entirely selfish.

After an eon of silence, Jon shifted slightly to adjust his grip on the back of Martin’s head and it dispelled the fugue of guilt and exhaustion he had sunk into.

“Um…” The noise seemed too loud in the tiny bedroom.

Jon leaned back slightly to peer at him.

“I, uh, I don’t think sleep is… Want to get up?”

He had indulged in Jon’s kindness long enough. He had to get back to his job. He wasn’t the one that needed to be looked after.
“If you’re sure,” Jon said. He ran his hand through Martin’s hair one last time, before pulling away.

They both stood with moans, the ache of lying down for so long making itself known, before plodding into the living room.

Martin watched Jon’s eye catch on the makeshift barricade he had put in front of the broken window and turned to face the kitchen. If he looked busy, Jon might not ask him about it.

“The, uh, water still seems okay, if you want any?” He asked to cut off any queries.

“Hmm? Alright.”

Martin took two glasses out of the press and scrutinised them fiercely for any unwelcome guests before filling them up at the sink. He gave the water a glare too but couldn’t see any interlopers.

When he turned back to Jon, he saw him sitting in the armchair and staring into the fire. Before he handed over anything, he cleared his throat for attention.

“Yes?” Jon said without looking over.

“Are, uh, are these okay?” He held out the glasses for Jon’s inspection. A second opinion couldn’t hurt.

“What?” Jon glanced between him and the glasses in confusion before realisation dawned on his face, “Ah, y-yes, yes, they’re fine.”

“Thank Christ,” Martin muttered, handing over one of them and plopping down on the couch.

Jon smiled ever so slightly before turning back to the fire.

He started to tuck his legs under his body where he sat and as he did, his heels hit off something under the chair with a dull thud.

It seemed to jolt him out of his thoughts, and he leaned over to look at what he had hit. Martin only remembered a moment too late what he had stashed there, and he watched with dread as Jon pulled a wide cardboard box out from under the seat.

“What… what’s this?” Jon asked quietly, as if he didn’t already know.

“Uh, the, um, the other…”

“The statements.”

Jon stared down at the closed lid.

“Yeah,” Martin took a sip of water to buy a little time, “Look, Jon, I was going to get rid of them but I wanted to check if you… y’know, still… need them?”

“Ah.”

“S-Sorry.”

Jon looked over at him.

“For what?”

“Should have said before,” He mumbled.

Jon shook his head.

“No, no, it’s fine, its…” He sighed, “I don’t. Need them, that is.”

“Really?”

Jon nodded but didn’t elaborate. Martin had a terrible idea that he knew what was feeding Jon now.

Pushing that thought aside, he cleared his throat and screwed what he hoped was a believable smile onto his face.

“Let’s, uh, let’s get rid of them now then? Put them to good use?”

Martin nodded toward the lit fire which was starting to flag a bit. Jon looked between him and the fireplace before lifting the box and kneeling beside it.

“Well, you are the expert in burning statements,” Jon grinned slightly, “Why don’t you show me how it’s done?”

“Hah!”

Martin knelt at his side and opened the box, grabbing a handful of paper without even looking at it and holding it over the fire until it caught alight. He dropped the burning bundle and felt nothing but vindication as he watched the pages curl and crumble.

Jon passed him the next bundle, and they quietly made their way through the box, destroying decades-old documents with ease.

Martin peered into the flames to watch as a page with the institute’s letterhead crackled and held out his hand for the next statement. When Jon didn’t put anything in his hand, he looked over and saw him studying something intently.

It was a tape, one of the few that Martin vaguely remembered seeing in the box before. Weird but probably just a different kind of statement. He held out a hand for it anyway. Plastic would still melt.

Jon glanced up at him then back at the tape, slowly turning it around in his hands.

“What do you suppose…” He mumbled, “These can’t just be ordinary recordings.”

Martin frowned.

“Does it matter? There can’t be anything good on them anyway.”

“Still.”

Jon kept staring down at the tape and Martin felt something like dread creeping up his spine.

“Jon-”

“I think we should listen to them.”

“What? No! What?”

Martin tried to take the tape from him but Jon leaned away without even looking up.

“Maybe it’s a message… or a clue… or-”

“Or it’s dangerous,” Martin cut across him, “At best its just another spooky story. At worst… it… Jon, it could be another trap.”

Jon laughed grimly.

“The world is over, Martin, how much more harm can I do?”

“Don’t say that!”

Jon grimaced, folding in on himself.

“Sorry…”

“N-No, no, I just-” Martin sighed heavily, “I just don’t want you to get… hurt.”

Jon hummed, chewing on that thought.

“I don’t think…” He spoke slowly, “It could hurt me? I… I just think… we would be better off knowing what is on them before…” He mimed chucking the fire into the fire.

Martin was torn. He knew in his gut that listening to anything from the institute was asking for trouble -he wanted nothing more to do with the dreadful place- but where he pulled away, Jon clung to it. He cradled the chance to gain any sort of new information closely.

Jon always wanted to know more. It was a dangerous impulse.

“Besides,” Jon carried on, “If-If it is something… bad… well… you’re here?”

Martin blinked.

“What?”

Jon looked down at his hands, twirling the tape in place.

“W-Well, I… I mean before I was… by myself… but now if I get, ah, caught up in… whatever this recording is… you could, um, help me… get out of it?”

Martin froze.

Jon was alone when he read Jonah’s statement. If Martin had been there-

He smothered that thought instantly, shoving it deep down inside his mind so it couldn’t grow any bigger.

It wasn’t then, it was now, and Martin was here.

And Jon was asking for his help.

“You… trust me with that?” He couldn’t help but ask.

Jon frowned.

“Of course.” His tone suggested he had never thought otherwise.

Guilt and gratitude warred in Martin’s chest. He wasn’t sure what he had done to earn that kind of trust, but he was relieved that he had. Even if it was something as simple as pushing the stop button on a tape recorder, Martin could be of use.

Besides, now that Jon had the idea to listen to the tapes, Martin was sure he would find a way to do so whether or not Martin helped him. As least if he was with him while he satisfied his curiosity, Martin would be able to supervise.

“I suppose…” He sighed then nodded, “I suppose.”

“Thank you,” Jon muttered, laying his empty hand over one of Martin’s.

He flipped his hand over to give it a squeeze and tried to smile.

“Right, I’ll get the tape recorder then? Did you leave it in the bedroom?”

“Yes, I di- Oh.”

Jon glanced behind Martin and frowned.

Martin looked over his shoulder and saw a tape recorder lying innocuously on the couch. With a tut, he turned in place to pick it up and take a look at it. The make of it was vaguely familiar.

“This… is the one you brought with you, is it?”

Jon glared at the little machine.

“Yes...”

“You… must have brought it out without realising,” Martin said, trying to convince himself more than Jon.

Jon grumbled some disagreement but said nothing more.

Martin placed the tape recorder between them and popped open the tape chamber. Jon slipped the tape in, and they shared a nervous look before he shut it and pressed down on the play button.

The familiar crackle of white noise set Martin’s teeth on edge.

He heard the slight rustle of people moving and a few murmured words before the sound of a door opening played from the tinny speaker.

“SURPRISE!”

“Jesus!!”

They both jumped at the sudden change in volume and in Martin’s fright, it took him far too long to realise what he was listening to.

“Happy birthday, boss,” said a dead man.

“Happy – Oh, are you okay?” laughed a voice he had never heard before.

“No, I! – Christ, one second.” Jon’s voice was practically a stranger’s; so young pretending to be so old.

“Sorry, sorry; Tim wanted to surprise you, and-” His own voice was full of put-upon deference, painful to hear.

He slammed his palm into the stop button and the recording skipped, a burst of distorted static, before he managed to turn it off.

Silence rang out the instant the tape stopped. It was deafening.

Martin watched the spinning reels slow to a stop with a lump growing in his stomach. The lump rose, catching in his throat as spit pooled in his mouth. Before he knew it, Martin had rushed over to the kitchen sink to be sick. He spat up watery bile as if his body was physically trying to expel what he had just heard. It burned his tongue and left him gagging for air.

Pain lanced through his chest.

He should have expected this.

The tape was not a bear trap like the statement. It was a needle precision-aimed to prick.

Martin was intimately aware of how Elias used memory as a knife; to cut people open and watch them bleed.

The other tapes were probably the same, more salt to rub into the wounds left by their ruined reality.

“Ha-hah…”

Martin looked over his shoulder at the sound of stilted laughter.

Jon stared down at the tape recorder with a look in his eye that bordered on manic. Martin watched his fingers reverently stroke the machine. His index hovered over the play button.

“Don’t,” Martin choked out, “D-Don’t.”

Jon’s gaze flickered to him for just a moment before being drawn back down to the recorder.

“I… want to hear them,” He said softly.

Martin should have never let him find them.

Before he could protest, Jon was already on his feet, the recorder cradled to his chest.

“I’ll, uh, the bedroom, I’ll- You don’t have to- Yes. Yes.”

He bent down to scoop up the other tapes before turning on his heel and retreating to the bedroom.

The door shut behind him with a snap, and Martin was left alone.

He watched the door for a minute until the muffled sound of recorded voices leaked out of it. With a groan, he slumped down to the floor and buried his face in his knees. Pressing his hands to his ears did nothing to block out of the drone of sound from the next room.

He should have destroyed the tapes as soon as he saw them.

He should have never left Jon alone with the statements.

He should have killed Elias when he had the chance.

A hundred different should haves rattled around in his head and the thoughts he had worked so hard to crush surged up with a vengeance. As if the sound of Tim and Sasha’s voices were some sort of clarion call, Martin suddenly couldn’t stop thinking of every single mistake he had made over the last three years.

They paraded past his mind’s eye, taunting him with what-ifs and maybes as if there was anything he could have done to not be where he was right now. He stayed slumped on the floor, one room away from a man half-mad with grief and tried desperately to not think about anything at all.

There was a moment, brief but undeniable, where he wished he could still call on the Lonely. To shroud himself in mist and fog, to forget all the thoughts that were paining him, was sorely tempting.

Martin shook off that lapse with a shudder. It was all too easy to fall back into that way of thinking. He reminded himself that painting a target on his back like that was what got him into so much trouble in the first place.

There wasn’t nearly enough time for him to learn how to live with his feelings after he had spent so long pushing them away, but he had to try. If not for himself, then at least for Jon.

Martin let himself be upset for a while. It felt alright to do so when he was by himself. He wept quietly trying to recall the day that had almost played out on the tape, untainted by static.

He honestly couldn’t remember much more than awkwardly making small talk with his co-workers and trying to surreptitiously get rid of the wine Sasha had foisted onto him. Martin frowned at his poor memory. The only detail he could think of clearly was learning that Jon had also been lying about his age. It had been reassuring in its way, making him seem more like a person and less like a managerial force of nature.

After his feelings for Jon had blossomed, he had held that fact close to his chest, mentally examining in quiet moments, like well-guarded treasure.

The thought helped to steady his breathing and he wiped the warm tears from his face.

As he cleared his throat and hunted for his abandoned glass of water, Martin realised he couldn’t hear the low hum of the recording anymore.

Before he could even stand, the bedroom door clicked open and Jon shuffled out. His gaze was hooded and his hands were empty. He kept his head low as he slowly made his way over to Martin before collapsing onto the floor right in front of him.

It was only then that he lifted his head and Martin could see his eyes were red from crying and misery lined every inch of his face.

Wordlessly, he held open his arms and Jon fell into them. He hid his face in Martin’s neck and it wasn’t long before Martin could feel warm tracks of tears on his skin. He held Jon tightly, tugging him into his lap and lightly rocked back and forth.

He could do this, at least. He could be Jon’s rock.

The little voice at the back of his mind that he heard before wondered if Jon would do the same for him. He shoved it to the side with the rest of his grief.

Later. He could deal with it later.

They stayed holding each other for some time, until Jon hoarsely whispered that they should rest. Martin wanted to point out that they had just barely gotten up but a sudden yawn swallowed his protests. He let Jon ferry him to bed. The tapes and recorder were nowhere to be seen but Martin had no doubt that they were still in the bedroom somewhere.

Jon was on top of him as soon as he lay down, pressing his lips to his cheeks and huddling in close. His comfort-seeking was something Martin was only too happy to oblige. If he also got a bit of solace from it, so much the better. He kissed the top of Jon’s head and held him close as he drifted off.

His peace lasted until sleep took him. The nightmare that came then involved his mother, a common player on the stage of his mind. He was just trying to look after her as he always did. If she would stop running from him, he could just do what he needed to do and get out of her way. He followed her down hallways from his childhood home and through heavy hospital doors. He found her hiding in kitchen cupboards and behind heart monitor machines. The last hiding place was the bed she had died in, buried in the bowels of the care home. Her body was already cold by the time he got there, and all he could feel was relief that the chase was over.

Martin didn’t wake up crying from that dream. Instead, he was numb, in a way that was both thoroughly familiar and painfully mundane. He lay in the feeling for some time before realising he was alone in the bed. A quick sweep of his hand through the sheets told him Jon must have been up for a while. His side of the bed was cold.

With a quick glance over to the unlit bathroom, he could see he wasn’t there, but as he sat up to search properly a sound stopped him in his tracks.

Stymied static filtered through the cracks under the closed door that lead to the living room. He stared insensible at the sliver of firelight that leaked through the tiny gap. The flicker of the flames matched the rhythm of the murmured recording, falling and rising in tandem.

Jon was listening to the tapes again.

From where he sat, Martin couldn’t tell if it was the same one he had already heard or something different. He didn’t want to know.

Instead, he lay back down on the bed. He would let Jon finish this one and then try to coax him into getting rid of them. The bright mania that had blossomed on Jon’s face when he realised what they were scared Martin more than their contents.

They would get rid of them, Jon would calm down and then- then they could talk about what to do next.

The resolution sounded weak even in Martin’s mind and he repeated it over and over to himself, as if that could make it any stronger.

As soon as the tape stopped, he told himself sternly, he was going to march straight out there to talk.

He strained his ears waiting for the static to stop, trying to listen as carefully as he could without having to actually hear any of the words.

Distracted by other thoughts, sleep caught him unawares and he feel prey to it easily.

The next nightmare was distorted, branching pathways and patterns that didn’t make sense. Corridors without end, staircases that doubled over on themselves, the creeping sense that he would never find his way out. Mirrors showed his bloated reflection, sometimes alone, sometimes with a man who had a melted face, sometimes accompanied by echoing laughter. He ran through the strange halls and tripped over an ugly rug. No floor rose up to meet him and he fell into dark, empty space.

This time, he woke with a shout, startled by the sensation of falling.

“-artin? Martin? Oh god…”

Jon was leaning over him, his face ashen in the low light. Just over his shoulder, Martin could see the bedroom door swinging on its hinges, as if he had just run in.

Jon’s grip on his arm was pinched with panic and Martin hazily shrugged him off.

“’m fine, fine...”

“You were...” Jon moved his hand right back to Martin’s arm, gently, “It was another nightmare...”

“Yeah, those have been happening a lot,” Martin scoffed.

He meant to make light of it, but his tone fell flat and Jon’s frown only grew.

“Have you... I’ll get you some water.”

“No, no, I can...” He sat up sluggishly, “I’ll get it, should be getting up anyway.”

“...if you’re sure.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Jon let him go and Martin surged to his feet. Every inch of him felt heavy with exhaustion but he pushed past it and wandered into the kitchen.

The water poured out of the tap as sluggishly as his thoughts but he drank anyway, too tired to check it properly. It tasted of dust.

As he put the glass down and turned, he found Jon hovering behind him. He was watching Martin carefully, still frowning.

“What?”

“What? Uh, nothing. Just...” Jon’s gaze flickered away, “Will you go back to bed?”

Despite his exhaustion, the idea didn’t appeal to Martin. He shook his head.

“Right, right then...” Jon shuffled in place, “You mind if I...?”

He held up the tape recorder and nodded towards the dark bedroom.

“Umm-”

“Thanks.”

Without waiting for an answer, Jon gave him one more look over before darting to the bedroom and shutting the door.

Martin ought to go after him. He ought to poke his head around the door and tell Jon they needed to talk before he even pressed play. He had probably only a few seconds before he started listening to the tapes again.

His brain beat an urgent rhythm that his body seemed unable to follow. He just leaned against the sink and stared after Jon until he heard the start of a recording play out in the next room.

Martin couldn’t pinpoint what was holding his tongue. He and Jon needed to talk, he knew that. It was a growing urge in his gut but he just couldn’t seem to untangle any internal knots to get it out of his system.

Drifting towards the fireplace, he slumped down on the floor. The flames danced before his eyes and he willed his heavy head to stay upright. The fire was so peaceful. It made the room so warm, so cosy. It felt wrong somehow to disrupt that peace with a difficult conversation.

Next time, Martin told himself, next time the tapes turn off, then he would do it.

They circled each other like that for what could have been mere hours, or several days.

Martin would inevitably drift off and have some dreadful nightmare, Jon would find him and either shuffle him off to bed or encourage him to take some water, before disappearing into whatever room Martin wasn’t currently in to obsessively listen to the tapes.

Martin was sure he must have listened to each one several times by now, there weren’t that many of them.

When he woke in bed, Jon would stay by his side for a bit, running his hand through his sweaty hair and murmuring nonsensical apologies. After that fleeting comfort however, he would lose him to the tapes again.

Martin missed him.

It was an absurd thought, but it was true. They were living on top of each other and Martin felt like they hadn’t properly spoken in weeks.

The next time he woke up, it was alone, sitting in front of the fireplace again. The sight of bright, constant motion was so disorienting that for a flash he almost forgot where he was. As he gathered his ropey thoughts back together, one struck him harder than the others. It embedded itself in his mind.

We have to leave this house.

Martin froze, half-kneeling on the floor. He was tempted to dismiss the idea out of hand. Why on earth would they leave the safehouse? It was- Well, it was safe.

Except the more he thought about it, the more Martin felt some forgotten instinct at the back of his mind scream that it wasn’t. Four walls and a roof couldn’t save them from the end of the world. If nothing else, the little teacup monster that proven that things could get past the door. And the food wouldn’t last forever. The water and electricity would surely be shut off soon.

The fire crackled and popped, almost distracting Martin from his train of thought. He stood and turned away from it.

But even if the house were completely safe, they still couldn’t stay. They were stagnating here. Martin was blind-sided by the feeling. The illusion of safety made him drowsy, unfocused. It made Jon isolated and fanatic. It wasn’t helping either of them to hide here.

Martin remembered that feeling that lodged in his chest when he had read the statement of Hazel Rutter. That righteous, consuming anger. That desire to hurt Elias. Where had that feeling gone? He dug for it, and found it lodged among his grief and his guilt. He had almost forgotten those too.

It hurt to think about them. Had that been why he had put them away?

They were needed now, emotional fuel to move his body towards the bedroom door where Jon was languishing. He had tried to give him time but enough was enough. They needed to talk about what happened next.

With his ear pressed to the door, Martin waited until he heard the recorded voices on the other side stop. He counted to thirty in his head before knocking gently and walking in.

“Hey,” He said softly.

Jon was sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over himself with his head low. The image so familiar now that it hurt.

“…Hi,” Jon’s voice sounded as rough as the rest of him looked.

For all the sleeping Martin had been doing, it didn’t look as if Jon was getting any at all. Martin stepped further into the room and nodded towards the tape recorder loosely dangling from Jon’s hand.

“You, uh, listening to the tapes again?”

A stupid question, but as much as Martin wanted to start fixing things now, he knew he couldn’t rush Jon for fear of putting him off his idea.

He rounded the bed and sat beside him, peering at his face. Jon didn’t so much look tired as he did worn-down, like an old rug.

“How many times is that now?” He continued as Jon stirred slightly at his proximity.

“They were sent to me, Martin,” He took a deep breath, “There’s got to be some reason-”

“Gloating, Jon,” Martin cut him off with a sigh of his own, “Elias won, and there were some tapes he’d kept for himself, and he wanted to gloat. So, he sent them. I, I don’t see-”

Jon interrupted his interruption.

“He’s. Not. Elias.”

“Jonah, then. I don’t know; I find it hard to think of him as-” Martin paused. He didn’t come in to debate petty details, “I don’t really like to think of him.” That, at least, was the truth.

Jon didn’t respond. He put the tape recorder to one side and laced his fingers together as if he was praying. His face looked anything but peaceful. The bags under his eyes were so heavy and his hair hid his face in tangled curtains. Martin ached to lay him down on the bed and see him relax properly. Maybe their conversation would have to wait until Jon had had a proper rest.

“You should get some sleep,” He sighed.

Jon shook his head immediately.

“I can’t. I, I can’t. I, I don’t think I do anymore. Sleep,” He gave a wobbly laugh, “How long has it been, now?”

“I… don’t know. It’s not like there are days to count, anymore. All the clocks are stopped, and…”

He was struck by just how ignorant he was of how long they had been cowering in the house and the sentence died on his tongue.

“Well,” Jon continued unaware, “I haven’t yet. I get – tired, but it doesn’t feel the same.”

The beams above their heads creaked under the weight of some unnatural wind outside.

“Probably for the best. Sleep doesn’t look… pleasant.”

“…No. It’s,” Martin sighed, “It’s not.”

“I couldn’t wake you,” Jon voice was full of heartbreak so much so that Martin’s immediate instinct was to comfort him.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology made no sense and Jon made a sound of disbelief.

“It’s not-” He sniffed and dragged a hand down his face before letting out a wheeze of strangled laughter, “You’re not the one who ended the world.”

What could Martin say to that. He could hardly apologise again as Jon flagellated himself with all his mental might.

The wind howled outside the windows.

“Well,” He forced some brightness into his words, “Just as well I don’t remember my dreams.” He had that small mercy at least.

“I do,” Jon said immediately.

Martin startled.

“What?”

Jon’s hand fell into his lap.

“I see most of the suffering around here,” He said plainly, “When it’s quiet, it just- It’s like.. I can… see it, like I’m watching all of it.”

The thought of Jon watching his nightmares, unable to shake him out of them, hit him square in the chest and he scrabbled for something else to talk about.

“You haven’t been opening the curtains,” The words came out as more of a question then a statement.

“No, I don’t need to,” Jon shrugged, “It can see us here, and… and I can see out as well.”

“O-kay, we’ll just file that under ominous for now,” Martin mentally tucked that fact away to worry about later.

The floorboards seemed to scream with each shuffle of their feet. Martin collected his thoughts carefully. With the mood Jon was in, he needed to be delicate with how he spoke.

“We seem safe enough in here, at least.”

Jon didn’t notice the light touch.

“I suppose so.”

“Bit of a hideaway?” He tried again.

“Or a prison.”

At least they agreed about that.

“…Yes. Still, better than outside.”

He was certain of that, no matter what ill effects staying here seemed to be having on both of them.

If Martin were to strain his ears, he might hear music being carried on the breeze outside. He might hear screams and snarling too. A whole world of torture could still be found in the sounds just past their windows.

“It sounds bad,” He could help but say.

Jon laughed again, without humour.

“It is,” He confirmed.

Martin sat with those words for a moment before screwing up his courage to validate his instincts and ask the question that was hounding him.

“Are we still safe?”

“Y-Yes,” Jon muttered, “It – It doesn’t want to harm me.”

“And me?” Martin insisted.

Jon looked at him properly for the first time since he walked into the room. His eyes were wide and deep, burning with an intensity that made Martin a little leery.

“I won’t let it.” His voice brooked no argument.

It was a little sad that Jon’s dedication still took him by surprise.

“Um. Thanks?”

He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Shuffling closer, he drew his arm up over Jon’s shoulders, giving him a light squeeze. Jon came easily, sagging into his side. Sitting together brought a warmth to Martin in a way that he hadn’t noticed he was missing.

He held him in silence just to enjoy the feeling. Breathing in the moment was peaceful in a way Martin hadn’t felt since the day before the change.

He hated himself a bit, knowing that he had to shatter that peace.

Looking down at Jon, he could see his gaze had turned inward again. Whether he was seeing something far beyond the scope of their little home or lost in the depths of his own mind, Martin couldn’t tell.

He needed to get the conversation back on track and Jon, it seemed, needed a reminder of how he felt about the situation.

“Jon, it’s not your fault,” He said softly.

Jon immediately sat up, shrugging off his arm with a sharp roll of his shoulders.

“Martin, can we not do this again?” He snapped.

Martin drew his arms back.

“Sorry-”

“I’m just – I’m mourning a world I killed!”

“I know-”

Martin tried to placate him but Jon was getting worked up, waving his hands about as he spoke.

“And we’re all trapped in its rotting corpse!”

Martin took his hands in his own and dragged them down to his lap, drawing Jon’s eyes with them.

“Enough, Jon.”

Jon only shook his head and took his hands back. He glanced at Martin warily before swiveling around suddenly to pick up the tape recorder again.

“Have you heard the Gertrude one?” He asked out of the blue.

“What?”

“The Gertrude one-” Jon started rifling through the loose tapes scattered over the bedsheets, “There are a few of them, but this is my favourite.”

Martin sighed. He did not want to hear any more tapes. Jon knew that. The tapes would not help them.

Jon fiddled with one and slotted it into the chamber, ready to push play.

“I don’t-” Martin tried to protest but Jon grabbed one of his hands with his free one and tugged him close again

“Just- Listen,” He insisted.

Martin did listen, albeit unhappily.

Gertrude Robinson somehow sounded exactly as he had expected her to. Ancient and stern, like a grouchy schoolteacher.

He listened as she rattled off the things that would have been useful to know three years ago. Hearing them now only seemed to confirm what he had just said. Elias had kept this tape simply so he could torture Jon with it later.

Even the sudden entrance of Jurgen Leitner did little to pique his interest. He waited for the reels to stop spinning with impatience.

Jon’s burst of energy seemed to have tapered out with the recording. He sat slumped on the bed, his hand dangling loose in Martin’s grasp.

“Can you imagine?” He whispered, “If we’d had this?”

“But we didn’t, did we?” Martin reminded him.

“No-”

“So, there’s no point in dwelling,” Martin sandwiched his hand between both of his own, “Jon, I- This isn’t healthy.”

“Healthy?” He scoffed, “I am an Avatar of voyeuristic terror, who unquestioned craving for knowledge has condemned the entire world to an eternity of torment! Healthy i-isn’t- i,it’s not-!”

“Fine, fine. I get it,” He cut him off before he could work himself into a frenzy again.

“Besides-” Jon pushed on, his voice weak and shaking, “G-Grief… is healthy. I-If nothing else, it pushes away the other feelings that that – thing wants me to experience.”

Martin didn’t even what to contemplate what those feelings could be. He didn’t want Jon to dwell on them either. He needed to bring him back to the room, back to the immediacy of what they were facing.

“It just- It hurts me to see you wallowing like this.”

It was exactly the wrong thing to say. Jon whipped his hand out of Martin’s grasp and glared at him.

“Well, some of us weren’t able to cut ourselves off from the world before it ended!” He snapped.

Jon blanched the second the words left his mouth. Any ire in his face was swiftly replaced with regret.

Martin flinched away from him in the same instant. Jon might as well have slapped him.

He had been trying. He had been trying so hard to be a person, to shirk off the Lonely and actually feel again. Yes, he had fallen into old habits recently but he could hardly be blamed for falling into survival mode during an apocalypse.

“…That’s not fair,” Martin said faintly.

It was the most diplomatic thing he could say. He didn’t want to fight with Jon. He didn’t have the strength for it.

Jon, to his credit, was immediately contrite.

“No, it’s not,” He agreed, “I’m- I’m sorry, I just-” He shuddered and wrapped his arms around his waist, “…It hurts.”

Like a wounded animal, Jon had lashed out at the closest thing to him. Martin made the choice to not hold it against him.

“I know.”

“I need time,” Jon begged.

“I know,” Martin sighed, “But we can’t stay in this cabin forever.”

He had said it out loud now, spoken the idea of leaving into existence.

“Why not?” Jon countered, “It- It’s quiet, here, and I have you.”

Jon hesitantly held out one of his hands, palm up. It shook slightly.

If Martin didn’t know any better, he would think Jon was overcompensating for being snippy. But he did know better. He knew Jon almost always meant what he said and if he said that just having Martin with him was all he needed, Martin believed him.

He slipped his hand into Jon’s and squeezed gently. All was forgiven.

However, he was letting himself be distracted from the heart of the conversation.

“What about food?” A practical concern; even if they rationed, they would run out eventually.

“What about it?” Jon didn’t seemed swayed, “When’s the last time you thought to eat, or even felt hungry?”

“What?” Martin thought about it, “Uh- I don’t know.”

“No. Whatever is sustaining us now doesn’t need us to eat.”

“That-” Martin gawked, “That can’t be possible.”

“It’s a new world, Martin; the natural laws are whatever they want them to be,” He gestured sloppily to the ceiling with his free hand, “And I suspect they don’t much care to keep humanity fed and watered.”

Martin wasn’t sure what was more disturbing; not needing to fulfil a basic function of life, or not even noticing that that need had vanished. He shook off the thought before it could bog him down.

“Well, that as may be, we can’t just stay here forever.”

Jon groaned.

“What could possibly be out there that you want to see?”

“A way to stop this!” Martin cried, “A way to turn the world back!”

Jon stared at him and Martin was sure his surprise was mirrored on his own face.

He hadn’t really thought about what to do next, once they left. Convincing Jon to leave was the priority. But the more Martin thought about his own words the more they took root in his chest. Yes. Yes, he wanted to fix the world. He wanted to do it with Jon at his side, so they could have the peace they had earned.

The desire solidified in his heart and he felt his own certainly grow even as Jon’s expression turned so unsure.

“Do you really think there is one?” Jon asked softly.

“Well, if there is, it’s not in here, is it?”

Jon ran his free hand through his hand, his eyes darting to and fro. The hand Martin held shook harder.

“It’s so…” Jon took a shaky breath, “It’s so… loud, out there? The agony, the- the terror, I can see it all so much more clearly…”

“I’m sorry.”

He really was.

“No, it’s-” His hand dropped limply onto his lap, and he turned to look Martin properly in the eye, “I love you, I just- I need more time.”

It wasn’t a no. It wasn’t Jon refusing to leave or telling Martin the world was impossible to fix. He just needed to prepare himself.

It was a start.

“It’s alright,” Martin murmured.

He turned toward Jon as well and opened his arms. Jon’s eyes were full of gratitude as he fell forward into him and they hugged tightly.

“It’s alright,” Martin repeated, tucking his face into the side of Jon’s head, “I’m good at waiting.”

He felt the corners of Jon’s lip twitch up.

“Thank you,” He whispered before pulling away.

He looked towards the closed curtains again, solemn.

“I just wish it didn’t feel like whatever’s out there was waiting, too.”

“…Yeah.”

Martin tugged him back into his arms. He wasn’t quite done cuddling.

Resting his head on Jon’s shoulder, he saw a tape recorder on the bed behind him. There was a tape running inside of it and the small red recording light pulsed in the low light.

“Hey-” He nudged Jon to turn around, “Hey, when did you start recording?”

Jon looked over his shoulder and frowned.

“ I- didn’t. I only brought one, and I’ve been using it to play the tapes.”

He motioned between them where the recorder with Gertrude’s tape still inside it was squashed by their legs.

“Oh,” Martin muttered, “That’s… not a great sign.”

“No,” Jon grimaced, “No, it’s not.”

Jon reached behind himself to pick up the recorder and shut it off. He looked it over intently as if he could figure out where it came from.

Martin watched leerily.

If someone was listening to them, and able to somehow spirit tape recorders into their bedroom, it was all the more reason to leave as soon as they were able.

Jon popped out the tape and tossed it behind him. He peered into the chamber of the recorder as if it held any secrets. When there were none to be found, he put it back down and shrugged.

“I don’t know how…” He shrugged helplessly.

“Let’s… let’s put it away.”

Martin was tempted to see how well it withstood heat, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the fire would not win.

Jon shoved both recorders and the plethora of tapes into his bag before kicking it under the bed.

“What now?”

“…You’re sure we don’t have to eat?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well then we should do it anyway right?”

Jon raised an eyebrow.

“Pardon?”

“Well, if uh, if you-know-what,” Martin jerked a thumb towards the ceiling, “Doesn’t want us to eat, then we should. Stick it to ‘em, yeah?”

Jon just stared for a moment before laughing softly. He raised a hand to gently cup Martin’s cheek.

“Stubborn arse,” He whispered.

“Love you too,” Martin grinned.

Jon let Martin lead him to the kitchen where they scrutinised the canned goods to see if any of them had morphed into little toothy beasts. Eventually some baked beans and sweetcorn were placed over the hob to heat through and Martin yawned as he took out plates.

“Oh god, I don’t want to fall asleep again,” He murmured.

With cutlery in hand, Jon frowned.

“…I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I just- I don’t get why I can if you can’t. Is it not like the eating thing?”

“Not… really.”

“No?”

Jon put the knives and forks down, glaring at the table.

“There is fear in your dreams, they can still feed from that.”

“Oh… right,” His stomach sank, “Should’ve guessed.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon repeated.

Martin shushed him and wrapped an arm around his waist. They swayed slightly as they stood side by side at the table. Martin watched the fire, still burning brightly, as the light made the room dance with shadowy motion. The rhythm lulled his senses and he shook his head to clear it.

Jon looked into the fire as well but where it made Martin lethargic, his gaze sharpened and his brow furrowed as if he was thinking very hard about something.

“Martin…” He spoke quietly, “Do you remember when the firepl-”

A sudden billow of black smoke blew from behind them and Martin whirled around. He coughed as the smell of burning caught in his throat.

“The beans!”

He whipped the pot away from the hob and shut it off but it was too late. The gloopy tomato sauce had been cremated.

“Ugh.”

Martin dropped it in the sink and pouted at it.

“So much for that idea…”

Jon clucked his tongue in faux sympathy.

“There’s always the corn?”

“Suppose. Anyway what were you saying?”

Jon blinked.

“I can’t recall.”

“It’ll come back.”

“Hmm.”

Ultimately, Martin did eat the sweetcorn, ice-cold and straight from the can. It was vile but it was in defiance of the Eye so he powered through. Jon abstained with a revolted giggle but sat with him as he suffered.

However, he retreated to the bedroom afterwards claiming the fire was making the living room too stuffy. Martin watched him leave, pushing his scraggly hair out of his face.

Martin tided up, washing his cutlery and scrubbing out the ruined pot, mostly to keep his hands busy. His mind worked harder than his hands, cataloguing all the things they would need if they really were going to leave the safehouse.

Jon might still need time but Martin would be ready when he was.

With the pot drip-drying, Martin made his way out to the hallway. It was more uncomfortable than he expected, being so close to the front door. Howls and moans echoed outside. A breeze sharp enough to slice whistled through the gaps in the doorframe.

He turned his back to it all and dove head-first into Daisy’s meagre storage cupboard. He dug through the debris, gathering a pile of easily transportable treasure. A battered first aid kit, a strong rope, old torches, spare batteries, and a bowie knife that had been hidden in a shoebox.

Martin had already found some of these things when they had first cleaned the house, and back then, he had prayed that he would never know what Daisy used them for. Now, he was grateful for her foresight.

Gathering up his haul, he brought it back into the kitchen to sort into two piles. They would both need torches; he should probably carry the first aid kit because he was trained to use it; and the rope looked a bit heavy for Jon to haul long-term; Martin didn’t exactly want him wielding a knife either.

The baggage was a little lop-sided in the end but that was alright. Martin would be strong enough for both of them.

He would have to keep an eye on Jon as they travelled as well.

If Beholding really was trying to get inside his head, Martin needed to watch for any sign that it had succeeded.

Deep in thought, he put his preparations away and started drying the dishes.

Jon had said it was trying to make him feel things other than grief – joy, perhaps? Victory? He certain didn’t seem victorious, hunched over on their borrowed bed, his face a mask of sorrow. Martin hadn’t been lying when he told him it hurt to watch him wallow. Seeing him crumple under the weight of his misplaced guilt and cling to recorded memories drove a solid spike of sympathy through Martin’s heart.

Jon was in pain too. Trying to resist the Eye, trying not to see all of reality suffering at once, was doing both emotional and physical damage. Martin wondered how bad it would get when they left the safehouse. If Jon could withstand the bombardment of fear beyond their doorstep.

He had used a cane for a bit, after Prentiss, Martin recalled. He had hated the thing, had gotten rid of it as soon as he could limp of his own accord, but it had helped at the time. Having something to lean on might help now too. Martin made a mental note to see if he could cobble something suitable together later.

As long as Jon wasn’t reckless during their journey, he might be able to manage the pain.

Martin laughed to himself as he put the knives and forks away. Asking Jon not to be reckless was like asking the sun not to shine.

Although, it certainly wasn’t shining now.

Guilt, grief, and a self-imposed sense of responsibility had made Jon do all sorts of foolish things during the years Martin had know him. He would rush into realms of fear and hack off his own body parts to fulfil some misguided obligation.

The thought made Martin pause.

If Jon would do those kinds of things to help one person, what would he do to save the world?

Staring down into the cutlery drawer, his mind reeled.

Jon was prone to sudden decisions, and with how awful he felt right now, Martin was honestly a little surprised the tapes had kept him paralyzed for as long as they did.

Martin blinked. Something was missing from the cutlery drawer.

He didn’t know what but the second he noticed the small empty space, a heavy weight dropped into his stomach.

He abandoned the dishes and walked straight over to the bedroom door.

Placing his ear to it, he couldn’t hear the tell-tale sound of a recording playing out, and he cautiously pushed the door open.

The bedroom was silent and dark. Martin squinted in the half-light. There was no-one there.

He could see the strap of Jon's bag snaking out from where he had kicked it under the bed. Stepping over to it, he hunkered down and peered in.

The recorders and the tapes were exactly where Jon had left them.

It should have been a relief to know he wasn't listening to them again but it only made Martin wonder what he was doing. The feeling of unease grew in his gut.

Martin stood again and was about to call out when he saw a yellow light leaking from the gap under the closed bathroom door.

It was only at that moment that Martin realised that his normal usage of the bathroom had gone the way of his eating habits. Unnecessary and forgotten.

If he didn't need to use the bathroom, Jon probably didn't either. Unless he was showering. Did they even need to shower? Martin shuddered at the thought that that had also been taken from him.

He walked over and leaned against the doorframe.

"Jon?" He called softly.

There was an immediate response as Jon made a questioning noise through the door but it wasn't enough to soothe his agitation.

"Can I come in?"

"Uh, sure?"

The churning feeling in his gut whirled as he pushed open the door and nearly bumped straight into Jon's back.

"What are you-?"

Jon stood directly in front of the sink, glaring at his reflection in the mirror. He had half his hair caught up in a rough bun while the rest hung limply around his face. In the harsh light of the bathroom's bare bulb he looked even more exhausted than Martin felt.

"What is it, Martin?" He murmured without turning around.

Martin didn't answer, too distracted by what Jon held in his left hand.

The kitchen scissors were heavy-duty things. One blade had a serrated edge for cutting meat and the other was tinged with the beginnings of rust. It looked clunky in Jon's hand, too big and easily fumbled.

Martin's fear spiked. Every single choice Jon had made when no-one was looking out for him whirled around his head.

He immediately rushed forward to rip the scissors away from Jon, practically bowling him over in the process.

"Agh! M-Martin? What are you doing?"

Reeling back and holding the pair of scissors in the air as if it were a bomb, Martin gawked at him.

"What am I doing? What are you doing?" He shook the scissors, "Just what the hell do you think you're doing with these?"

Jon stared nonplussed.

"I... I was... going to..." He tugged at a loose lock, "Cut my… hair?"

Martin froze.

Jon’s shock gave way to annoyance.

"Is that allowed?" He asked sarcastically, crossing his arms over his chest.

Martin winced.

Of course that was what Jon was doing. He was always trying to keep his hair out of his face. He had even mentioned giving it a trim once or twice when they got to the safehouse.

Martin had only seen something sharp and immediately jumped to conclusions, fueled by his own paranoia.

"I... Oh god. S-Sorry. Sorry."

He hastily retreated from the bathroom and sat on the bed. He tossed the scissors to one side and buried his face in his hands.

The light from the bathroom was blocked by Jon's silhouette as he leaned out of the doorframe.

"...Martin?"

"Sorry, just- just ignore me, I'm- Do what you were doing."

Shadows shifted as Jon made his way towards him.

"Martin. What... was that?"

Martin groaned and shook his head.

What that was was a complete over-reaction. He had been trying so hard to watch over Jon that everything he did had become a cause for concern. Worse still, he had shown Jon just how keyed up he was about his safety. The last thing he wanted was to be seen as smothering.

He kept his face hidden in his hands even as he felt the weight of Jon settling down on the bed beside him.

"Martin?"

His voice was soft and careful, as if Martin was the one who needed looking after. This was all wrong. He was supposed to be taking care of Jon, not the other way around.

"Talk to me. P-Please?"

With a moan, Martin dropped his hands but he didn't have the strength to raise his head.

"No, I'm sorry- I thought- Doesn't matter. I'm sorry I interrupted."

"No, no, tell me what you thought?" Jon put a hand on his knee and leaned over trying to catch his eye, "What did you think I was doing?"

"N-Nothing, nothing, I'm being stupid."

"Don't do that..."

"I just... made a mistake, that's all."

Jon leaned further into his space, trying to catch his eye.

"Yes?"

"I-I... God, I was thinking about what we were talking about before, about how you were h-hurting and how bad you feel and t-then you were by yourself here and I saw the s-scissors and... uh..."

He trailed off, his face burning with mortification. It sounded so ridiculous out loud.

"...Oh."

Jon sat back and stared as the implication of what Martin meant hit him.

“Oh.”

“Look, I-I’m sorry I-”

“Do you really think I would do something like that?” Jon whispered.

Martin couldn’t look him in the eye.

“…You do.”

There was a hint of hurt in his voice and Martin cringed in on himself.

“Well, can you blame me, Jon?” He hissed, “You always just t-throw yourself into danger because you feel bad about something that isn’t even your f-fault and now-!”

“And now it actually is.”

“It is not!” Martin barked, “But that’s my point! Y-You were used and you’re upset and in pain and I’m worried alright! I’m… I’m allowed be worried…”

Jon looked away from him, staring down at his hands before taking a deep breath.

Martin fidgeted, a little shocked at his own tirade.

“I…” Jon sighed, “I… know… what you are trying to say. I suppose it’s…. understandable that you might think… But Martin- Hey.”

Jon turned to face him and took his wringing hands in his own.

“…Look at me?”

Martin glanced up. Jon was watching him intently. It was hard to hold his gaze.

“Martin. I’m not… I wouldn’t do that to you,” He squeezed his hands, “I… wouldn’t leave you alone.”

The words hit him like a sledgehammer. He looked away again, watching their hands instead.

“You…” Jon’s voice wavered slightly, “You do know that… don’t you?”

“I…” Martin’s cheeks flushed and he felt his eyes sting with tears, “I-I do now?”

Jon sighed and Martin knew that was the wrong answer.

He mumbled an apology and Jon shushed him. He raised his hands and gently kissed his knuckles.

“I suppose I can’t blame you…” He murmured, “I’ve been a bit… distracted.”

Martin’s chuckled weakly.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Hmm.”

He let Jon finish with his hands and felt himself getting redder as he shuffled closer to start in on his face.

Jon kissed his forehead and his cheeks. He nudged their noses together and planted soft, close-mouthed pecks on his lips.

Martin tried not to squirm under the attention. Something in him that was both his lingering Loneliness and part a natural consequence of his upbringing quailed at the idea of being doted on. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

He felt tender and fragile under Jon’s affection. To his mortification, his eyes kept watering. If Jon didn’t stop soon, he might actually cry.

Jon’s lips hovered at his hairline.

“Thank you,” He whispered, “For checking in on me.”

“W-Well, that’s my j-job isn’t it?” He tried to joke but his voice broke in the middle of the sentence.

“And it’s mine to do the same for you,” Jon leaned back and frowned at what he saw on Martin’s face, “And I… haven’t been doing a good job of that. Have I?”

“W-What?”

Jon’s frown grew and he lifted one hand to cradle Martin’s hot cheek.

“If I ask you something… will you give me an honest answer?”

“Jon-”

“Please.”

“I- Yeah? Okay?”

Jon nodded firmly and held his gaze.

“How are you?”

Martin’s jaw dropped open.

“What?”

“…How-”

“No, no, I heard you, I- What do you mean?”

“I’m aware that it’s a… stupid question,” Jon grimaced, “But between everything that has happened and your… your nightmares… I should have asked sooner.”

“My-? Are you serious?” Martin scoffed, “A few bad dreams aren’t important compared to-”

“You’re important, Martin.”

Jon said it softly but he might as well have screamed for how it made Martin flinch.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Jon but hearing it now felt wrong. There were a thousand things more important than Martin. Putting him ahead of them wasn’t right.

He sighed and tightened his grip on Jon’s hand.

“I mean? I’m… I’m not great, obviously. I’m… bad, but- but everything is right now? So, so it’s not worth… mentioning?”

“But you’ve been listening to me go on about how I’m feeling,” Jon pointed out.

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Martin tutted.

“I-I don’t know, okay, it just- it just is, Jon!”

“Martin-”

“I really don’t want to talk about this.”

He was tearing up again.

Jon finally looked away from him.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to you to be.”

“What do you want then?”

Martin sighed heavily.

“I just want you to be okay.”

Jon frowned and raised his head again.

“But… I’m… not.”

“I know, I know, but if you’ll let me look after-”

“No, no, Martin- wait,” Jon took away both his hands, raising them up, “What I mean is… I’m not… going to be okay.”

Martin’s blood ran cold.

“Perhaps that’s not quite the best way to put it,” Jon’s brow furrowed as he thought through his words, “I’m… This is all so h-hard to handle and I probably won’t… handle it well. I mean, you’ve seen how I’ve been so far, hardly the model of good coping mechanisms but- But that’s not even my point,” He reached down to hold Martin’s hands again, “My point is even if I’m not okay… It’s not your responsibility to make me okay.”

Martin could only stare, mind blank.

“You’ve been… looking after me and that… that means more than you know but… I… have to deal with this,” Jon gestured vaguely to the window, “Myself. You’re not in charge of picking me up and putting me back together. Does… Do you understand what I mean?”

He didn’t.

Taking care of people was what he did. And after he had left Jon alone to stumble into Jonah’s trap, he had to make up for it any way that he could.

Jon wasn’t supposed to be comforting, to be his equal in care. That was never how it worked before. This was not how he was used to surviving.

He shook his head, too overwhelmed for words. Hot tears leaked from his eyes and dribbled down his face.

Jon made a sympathetic sound. He adjusted his grip on Martin’s hands.

“Okay, uh, how about- hmm. Alright. Instead of you feeling responsible for me and me… trying to ask after you, how about we… do it… together? Like a- a team?”

Martin tried to ask what that meant but upset clogged his throat. Jon seemed to catch his drift anyway.

“I mean, let’s… let’s work together, s-support each other rather than trying to uh, carry the burden all by ourselves. That…”

Jon lifted one of Martin’s hands and pressed it to his own chest. Martin could feel his strong heartbeat.

“That is… what I believe a relationship should be.”

Jon smiled up at him, brighter than anything Martin had seen in what felt like years.

He began to sob.

Jon jumped in alarm as Martin collapsed onto him. He pressed his face into his shoulder and clutched his hands hard as he wailed.

Everything spilled out of him; his worry over Jon, the grief that he had pushed aside, his anger, his fear, his exhaustion. It all tumbled out and he began to babble through the tears.

He told Jon how afraid he was for both for them, how unfair it was that their peace had been stolen from them, how he had no idea how they were going to make things better, about how they just had to make things better because who else could.

As his words drained out of him, Jon remembered himself and shifted to make them both more comfortable. Martin ended up half-lying on the bed with his head in Jon’s lap as the other man dragged his fingers through his hair and wrapped an arm over his shoulders.

Even when he ran out of things to say, the tears kept coming and he didn’t try to stop them. Jon wouldn’t be annoyed by his blubbering. He wouldn’t push him away when he was sick of hearing about his problems. On some intellectual level, Martin had already known that this would be the case but it was one thing to know it and another to actually experience it.

For all his fear and his mourning, Martin also felt a great love spreading throughout his body. It was equally overwhelming.

As his tears dried and he calmed down, Martin didn’t sleep but he let his mind drift to that liminal space between waking and resting. It was soothing and gave him the space to catch his breath.

It took some time, but he eventually mustered up enough courage to roll on his side and look up at Jon.

He was watching him with such open adoration that it was difficult to not immediately hide his face again.

“I…” Martin coughed and cleared his ragged throat, “I… want to… apologise… but I won’t.”

Jon pretending to glare.

“You better not.”

“…Thank you… for looking after me.”

“Thank you for letting me.”

Martin hauled himself upright and took off his glasses. His eyes were sore from weeping. The instant he popped them back on, Jon leaned in to kiss him.

Martin swallowed a longing sigh and kissed him back. He had almost forgotten how nice it felt to be open with his affection. He raised a hand to brush against the side of Jon’s face and got his fingers tangled in loose strands of hair.

“Oh,” He leaned back and swept Jon’s hair behind his ear, “Yeah, I uh, I interrupted you, didn’t I?”

“Hmm? Oh,” Jon tucked the other side away, “I suppose you did… It’s fine.”

“Still.” Martin reached past him to pick up the kitchen scissors he had tossed aside earlier.

He held them out to Jon, handle-first, with a small smile.

Jon reached out for them then paused. His eyes flickered between Martin and the shears.

Instead of taking them, he picked up Martin’s free hand.

“Would you… want to help me?” He asked quietly.

Martin’s smile grew. With a nod, he let Jon lead him back to the bathroom.

Despite everything, his heart was oddly light. No matter what steps they took next, they would be taking them together. Whatever waited beyond their front door, Martin felt more prepared for it than ever.

Chapter Text

The last time Jon got his hair cut was two days before starting as Head Archivist.

He had gone to a proper barber, instead of just giving himself a rough chop in the bathroom mirror and spent far too much money on what amounted to a hair style that made him look like every other office worker in London.

Personal grooming hadn’t really been a priority over the last few years. He kept himself neat and tidy as best he could, but by the time he had noticed strands of hair falling past his ears, there were far more important things to worry about.

Frankly, there were still more important things to worry about but in-between his restlessness and the thoughts constantly swirling around his mind, the heavy feeling of tangled knots weighing down his head was the last thing he needed.

It was impulsive, of course, to just grab the kitchen scissors and go for it, but once the idea had entered his head, it wouldn’t leave until he indulged it.

It was better than indulging any other idea his flighty mind came up with. His thoughts were constantly tugged from horror to horror, both self-inflicted and externally imposed. His body was constantly aching with exhaustion but had forgotten how to sleep.

The length of his hair, petty as it seemed, still lay within his control.

The idea sprang upon him as he watched Martin try to eat in defiance of the new world order and nipped at his brain stem until he got his hands on something sharp.

In hindsight, mentioning the plan to Martin probably would have been best but the urge to take action seized him so quickly and the need to distract himself felt so urgent that no other thoughts entered his head.

It was only as Martin barged into their tiny bathroom and ripped the scissors away from him that it occurred to Jon to even mention it.

His reaction blindsided him at first –he didn’t think Martin was that attached to his hair- but as it dawned on him what Martin thought he was about to do, guilt smothered any lingering confusion.

Every time Jon thought he could not feel more dreadful, something happened to prove him wrong. It was an exquisite kind of pain to watch the man he loved break down in his arms and that hurt was only compounded knowing that he was the cause.

As Jon desperately tried to assure Martin that he wasn’t going to hurt himself, he was keenly aware that he had misunderstood the depth of Martin’s fears.

He knew –he couldn’t help but Know- how deathly afraid Martin was of the world at large, at the destruction of reality as he had known it. What had slipped Jon’s notice however, was how very specifically afraid he was for Jon himself.

That Martin would worry about him and try to look after him after everything he had done was an idea so laughable it made him want to scream.

Jon had ended the world, and Martin’s biggest concern was how he felt about it.

He had been trying not to feel at all, to cut himself off from the guilt that would drive him to madness and the glee radiating down from on high, boring into his skull.

The tapes had helped.

They worked their old magic, drawing him into only one story, a single tragedy to savour. Compared to the bombardment that assaulted his senses at all other times, it was almost comforting.

In his efforts to distract himself however, he had lost sight of what was right by his side.

Right under his nose, Martin had reached a breaking point. All his grief and pain had spilled out and it was all Jon could do to stay in the moment with him.

As he lay his head in his lap and sobbed, Jon chided himself for his neglect. As if obliterating Martin’s universe wasn’t bad enough; he had to ignore him too.

He vowed to do better as he stroked Martin’s hair and mumbled soothing nonsense. He had to do better; Martin deserved a hell of a lot more than he could give but he needed to do everything he possibly could. He swore to him that the burden of care didn’t solely rest on his shoulders, that Jon would do his best to look after him even after what he had done.

The words tasted like ash. He was deluded if he thought he could protect anything. Everyone he let into his life suffered for it, and now the whole world had fallen prey to his curiosity.

But if he was delusional, Martin had completely lost his mind. He believed him. He let him comfort him, kiss him, love him, as if he wasn’t the monster that ended the world.

Jon wasn’t strong enough to resist the comfort that came from being held in Martin’s arms, and if that comfort could stave off even a fraction of the fear at their doorstep he would greedily chase after it.

Extending the scissors to Martin was both a promise and a plea.

Let me help you help me, if helping me will soothe you.

It wasn’t an impulse Jon understood. He couldn’t understand how Martin could look at him and see anything worth caring for.

Nevertheless, he now sat in one of the worn kitchen chairs, facing the dirty mirror as Martin stood behind him and slowly cut his hair.

The quiet snip of scissors wasn't enough to drown out the world outside but it gave him something to focus on. The phantom feeling of hair being cut and the sensation of weight falling away from his head was just as relieving as he had hoped.

"How short am I going again?"

Jon lifted his gaze to watch Martin in the mirror. He was frowning down at the crown of Jon's head, the clunky kitchen scissors in one hand and a strand of Jon's choppy hair in the other.

The dull bathroom light cast heavy shadows over his face making him look even more tired than Jon knew he was.

Guilt coated his tongue and he had to swallow it back before answering.

"As short as you can make it."

With a thoughtful hum, Martin slowly clipped away. He squinted determinedly as he snipped off one strand at a time.

“It won’t look the best,” He warned, “I’m not exactly an expert.”

“That’s fine.”

“Gave myself a trim once or twice but not exactly easy when you can’t see the back- it usually came out pretty bad.”

“It’s fine, Martin. I just- I just want it gone.”

For a moment, only the snip of the scissors echoed around the tiny bathroom.

“Can I ask why?” Martin mumbled.

Jon sighed.

“I-I don’t know, it’s just- it's time. It needs to go.”

He didn’t want to speak his real reasons aloud; they would sound foolish and petty spoken into the open air.

Martin hummed softly but didn’t push. He reached over Jon’s shoulder and held out his hand.

“Gimmie the brush?”

Jon passed his hairbrush over to Martin, handle-first. Martin ran the bristles through his sheared mop, examining the work he had done so far. The repetitive motions were soothing. Martin followed the path of the brush with sweeps of his hand and the pressure felt grounding.

Jon’s eyes fluttered. He hadn’t been able to close them properly since the Change but he stopped concentrating on the sight of the sink in front of him and let his gaze drift. Between Martin’s soft touch and the warmth of his hands, Jon was lulled into an almost meditative state.

His concentration slipped instantaneously and he was no longer in a tiny bathroom in Scotland.

He was in Ghent, where a young woman had been turned into a ball-joint doll. Strange hands dressed her and held her. She never saw their faces, only broken fingernails and long, grey arms. The doll's jaw was not articulated. No matter how much she tried, she could never scream.

He was in Milwaukee, where there was a building exploding. The building was always exploding and the residents in it were being slowly ripped to pieces. One atom at a time, the fire and force savoured them, turning an instant into an eternity. The very second that the last piece of them was rendered asunder, they would reform only for the agonising process to begin all over again.

“-on?”

He was in Ballylongford, where a dying ewe the size of an industrial freighter lay on her side and bellowed as an army of emaciated people fell upon her and stripped the meat from her bones. Every bit of flesh was putrefying but that didn’t stop the revelers from gorging themselves on it until the same illness ravaging the sheep made them rot where they stood.

“Jon!”

He jumped as a hand landed heavily on his shoulder and shook him. Flinching away, he turned to see a man staring at him with mild concern.

Martin. Right.

Scotland. Haircut. Martin. Right, right.

Trying to pull his thoughts back into his body, he shook his head.

“Uh, s-sorry, did you... uh...”

“Yeah, um, you were kind of tilting forward, I just need you to be still while I... A-Are you alright?”

Jon could still feel ice-cold porcelain, could still taste ash, could still smell decaying flesh.

“Fine.”

It was a lie and a poor one at that, but Martin didn’t call him up for it. Instead, he softened his grip on Jon’s shoulder and urged him to sit back. He did so, focusing on keeping his breath even.

It was so easy to lose himself. A moment’s laxity was all it took.

Clenching his fists and digging his nails into his palms, he refocused on the mirror. Keeping his shoulders straight and his posture still, he opted to watch Martin’s hands instead of his own reflection. It was a much nicer view.

Martin’s touch was gentle but firm, and he paid great care to every cut he made. His hands were large, their size belying their delicacy. His motions were soothing, and Jon had to pinch the meat of his palm to stop himself getting lost in their rhythm again.

When Martin paused to brush some stray hairs from Jon’s shoulders, he took the chance to stretch. Motion helped distract him.

“Nearly done,” Martin reassured him as he got back to it.

Jon braced his hands on his knees and tightened his grip to the point of pain. He needed to focus on here and now, he needed to stay with Martin.

Glumly, he wondered if this was how it would be from now on. If he would have to grapple for every moment of clarity and thought. If the world he had made would constantly try to rip his mind from his body in a pathetic grab for attention.

He wondered how long he could fight against it.

With a final comb of his fingers through Jon’s hair, Martin announced that he was done.

“That’s about as short as I can go without a razor or something,” Jon watched his brow furrow in the mirror, “What do you think?”

Reluctantly, Jon pulled his gaze away from Martin’s face to look at his own reflection.

The bathroom light washed him out awfully, making him look grey and worn. The dotted scars on his face stood out all the more against his pallor.

His mouth had been bitten bloody and a series of scabs marred his lips.

He avoided looking into his own eyes. Instead, he peered at Martin’s handiwork.

He had cut his hair so short he could practically see the shape of his skull. Bits of it were choppy with tiny strands standing up at odd angles, while other bits molded along his head. The remains of the long piece at the front that he was constantly having to push aside now lay just at the top of his forehead, rough and flyaway.

What little of his hair had still been black had gotten the chop, leaving him with salt-and-pepper colouring that leaned heavily toward the pepper; an odd dark grey.

He ran his fingers through it and the scratch of nails on his scalp was oddly satisfying.

The new look had the effect of making him appear even older than he felt. Gazing into the mirror, he saw a deeply weary man, unkempt and worn down, with a battered body and an exhausted spirit.

His lips quirked upward in a wry smile. At last, his outside matched his inside.

Turning in his chair, he saw Martin waiting worriedly for his judgement.

“I like it,” He said truthfully.

Martin’s frown grew and he reached over to touch some of the strands at the nape of Jon’s neck.

“You do?”

“You don’t?”

Martin scrutinised his work.

“It looks like I tried to shear a sheep,” He murmured.

Jon let out a bark of laughter.

“Well, I certainly feel as relieved as one.”

“Oh,” Martin’s frown softened, “Yeah?”

Jon ran his hand through it again.

“Yes. Thank you, Martin. Really.”

“Mm, well. Thanks for letting me.”

Jon brought his hand to the back of his head to lay on top of Martin’s. Giving it a squeeze, he stood up and start to brush stray hairs off his shoulders and clothes.

“I’ll get the dustpan,” Martin said, slipping out of the room.

Jon’s first instinct was to tell him not to bother. What did hair on the floor matter when the world had ended?

He bit his tongue and swallowed the words. Martin needed this, he reminded himself. He needed the sense of stability that came with normal, everyday tasks to keep himself grounded in the here and now.

As Martin came back with the dustpan and brush, Jon stepped back to watch him sweep.

When Jon was hiding out at Georgie’s place, a lifetime ago, he deep-cleaned the kitchen every chance he got. It put some small power in his hands where most of it had been torn from him. That was the same impulse that prompted him to chop off his hair.

He could see that same urge in Martin now. Grasping at anything that could give him a modicum of sway over the turn his life had taken. Taking care of the house, taking care of Jon; both sprang from that need for control.

It wasn’t the healthiest habit to share but their collective coping mechanisms made Jon feel like smiling.

Martin was squatting down, quietly sweeping up the mess, and Jon took advantage of the position to reach down and ruffle his hair. He jumped a bit and looked up at him, a half-smile on his face.

“Hi?”

“Hi,” Jon ran his fingers over the top of his head, “What about you?”

“Huh? What about me?”

“Do you... want anything done?”

“Oh, y-you mean my hair?”

Jon nodded. Over the past year, Martin had let his hair grow out, more from negligence than choice. It just about touched his shoulders and if he really tried, he could tie it into a tiny ponytail. Truth be told, Jon thought the length suited him but if he could return the favour Martin had so graciously granted him, he would do so happily.

But Martin only shrugged.

“Ah, I’m not really bothered,” He said, standing up, “I know it’s a bit shaggy...”

“No, no, I was just offering...” Jon backpedalled, “I, uh, I rather like it like this.”

“Oh,” Martin self-consciously tugged at a forelock, “Yeah?”

“Y-Yes, as a matter of-,” An idea suddenly came to him, “You know what, here- sit.”

He urged Martin down into the chair in front of the mirror and picked up his hairbrush. Once Martin was situated, he began to gently comb through his hair.

“I-I can do this myself, Jon,” Martin chuckled.

“You’re too rough,” Jon declared, “You always pull out hair.”

In the few weeks they had been co-habiting, Jon had noticed that Martin only rarely brushed his hair and, the few times that he did, he did so with quick, harsh movements, snagging the teeth of the brush on knots and ripping out hair as he went.

As if to make up for their severe treatment, Jon moved slowly through the strands. He started at the bottom, working through any tangles carefully so as not to tug on Martin’s scalp.

Jon needed to pay attention to what he did, keeping his mind away from other distractions, and it was nice to be able to do something gentle with his hands.

If Martin’s loose posture and lax smile were any indication, he was enjoying it too.

He could look after him, Jon repeated to himself, he could. If small acts of care were all he was able to offer, he could still give them freely.

Martin slumped slightly in the chair and scrutinised himself in the mirror. He ran a hand over his chin with a thoughtful frown.

“Do you think I should shave?” He asked.

Jon considered it. Martin’s facial hair had grown out too. What had once been the ghost of a goatee and some sideburns was now a full beard, running around his face and curling under his chin. It was unkempt now, but Jon liked it just as much as he did the length of his hair.

“Do you want to shave?”

“I was going to before-” Martin cut himself off, and in the mirror, Jon saw him throw a guilty glance in his direction.

“Before,” Jon sighed.

Before he had blown up the peaceful place they had made for themselves. Before he had destroyed the world.

“Yeah...” Martin murmured weakly.

Jon brushed in silence for a minute. All the tangles were gone from Martin’s hair, but he found the motion centred him.

“And now?” He asked softly.

“Oh, I dunno,” Martin sighed, “Might just give it a trim, leave it at that.”

Jon nodded.

“Alright.”

Swapping the hairbrush for the kitchen scissors, he shuffled around to stand in front of Martin. He nudged his knees to get him to move the chair.

“Oh! I wasn’t saying-! Jon, y-you don’t have to do it,” Martin stuttered even as he shuffled backward.

“I know I don’t have to, but I would like to,” Jon suddenly froze, “U-Unless you... you would prefer I didn’t.”

He had made the offer without thinking; forgetting that Martin had made it clear that he was worried what Jon would do with something sharp.

He held out the handle of the scissors to Martin in quiet apology.

“Oh, no, no!” Martin shook his head, “I didn’t mean it like- I-If you really want to... um...”

Martin shrugged a little helplessly and leaned back in the chair.

“I- The, the help would be nice.”

Jon looked him over for moment, trying to decide if Martin meant it or if he was just trying to please him.

Martin looked back and his sheepish expression faded into something softer.

“It would,” He insisted quietly.

“Okay,” Jon muttered, mostly to himself, before kneeling on the cold tile and beginning to trim.

He mostly just rounded out the shape, snipping off stray curls and errant wisps around the circumference of his chin. He avoided his neck and where the hair crept up on his cheeks, not trusting the unwieldy scissors or his own unsteady hands with those delicate areas.

With a nudge of his hand, he urged Martin to tilt his head slightly so he could get a better angle for snipping his sideburns. He cupped one of his cheeks for balance as he cut and as he did, he could feel it heat up under his palm. Leaning back to look at Martin, he saw he had turned pink.

“Alright?”

“Y-Yeah, yeah, just…” Martin pressed his cheek into Jon’s hand, “ ‘s nice.”

“A-Ah.”

How long had Martin gone without a soft touch? How long had Jon kept him waiting?

Time no longer existed and measuring it was impossible but even so, he knew it had been too long.

He gently rubbed his thumb against the peach fuzz high on Martin’s cheekbone. Martin’s eyes drifted shut.

“I-,” Jon swallowed down his regret and cleared his throat, “I like the beard. H-Have I told you that before?”

Martin opened his eyes and stared.

“No? Really?”

“Y-Yes, it, ah, it suits you. It’s rather…” He grasped for a word, “…manly.”

Martin reared back out of his grip and Jon only got a glimpse of his slack-jawed expression before he burst into laughter.

“What? What?” Jon felt his own face grow hot, “I mean it!”

Martin only laughed harder, burying his face in his hands as his shoulders shook.

“I know- I know you do!” He gasped, “It’s just –haha!- I’ve never- ever been called m-manly before!”

“Well, it’s- it’s true,” Jon scrambled to defend himself, “You’re very... rugged.”

Martin howled, slapping his knee and folding over himself. He laughed so hard he went beyond sound, shaking silently where he sat.

Jon dithered and patted him carefully on the shoulder, but his mirth was infectious and soon he found himself chuckling as well.

It took a good minute for Martin to calm down, wiping tears from his eyes and fighting to get his breath back.

“Oh god, haha... Oh my stomach...”

“Apologies,” Jon affected a prim tone, “I’ll try to be less hilarious going forward.”

A final hiccup of laughter and Martin sat back in the chair, gazing at Jon fondly.

“Thank you.”

“I... I didn’t do anything.”

Martin shook his head and ran a hand across his chin.

“You did this.”

“Well,” Jon huffed, “Let me finish before you thank me.”

“Hah, sure.”

Martin leaned forward again so Jon could tidy up his trim. He only made a few more cuts before he sat back on his heels and declared it done. His trousers were covered in blond and grey curls and as he began to sweep them off, Martin called for his attention.

“Hmm?”

He just had time to look up before Martin kissed him. He leaned down to press their lips together and cupped Jon’s head in his hands. He felt his fingers run through his now-short hair, cradling his skull. Jon sighed and followed his guide as he tilted to the side and opened his mouth.

They moved languidly and softly. Jon abandoned the scissors to run his fingers through Martin’s beard. He was thrilled to discover that kissing required enough focus to keep his mind off of less pleasant things and threw himself into it whole heartedly.

Being with Martin, speaking with him, helping him; it all kept Jon rooted. It tore his attention away from the world at large and forced him to focus on just one person. Even if he couldn’t put the feelings swirling around his mind into words, talking still helped.

Jon could have kicked himself.

Of course talking helped, and of course Jon had been doing the opposite. Squirrelling away to feverishly listen to the tapes, hiding from his own thoughts and the boiling pressure building in his chest; none of it had helped him and, even worse, it had frightened Martin.

Jon swallowed softly and pressed further into Martin’s mouth.

Talking wouldn’t fix everything. Truthfully, he didn't want to talk about what he could see now. It would only dig up the twinned knot of visceral horror and hideous joy he was trying to bury deep inside himself. He barely wanted to acknowledge it, never mind let Martin see it.

However, keeping himself grounded in the present was important. He couldn’t afford to lose himself when there was no way to gauge how safe they were in this house. The world beyond their doorstep could come crashing in on them at any moment –a little bit of it had already oozed into the tea cupboard- and if Jon wanted to look after Martin, he couldn’t afford to be distracted by some unearthly terror taking place on the other side of the globe.

Besides Jon could admit, at least to himself, it was nice to care and to be cared for. As Martin bracketed his kneeling body with his legs, Jon felt encompassed and warm. He was certain that he didn’t deserve nice things –that he hadn’t deserved them for a long time- but he was too weak to resist clinging to them.

Eventually, his knees got too sore to balance on and Jon pulled back reluctantly. Martin sighed wistfully as they parted.

“Thank you,” He whispered.

“Thank you,” Jon replied.

Martin hummed softly and stood, holding out a hand to help Jon to his feet. They finished cleaning and Martin was about to bring the chair back to the kitchen when he was overcome by a huge yawn.

“Oh god,” He groaned, stretching his jaw, “Why am I tired already?”

Jon felt dread curl in his stomach.

“Do... you need to rest?”

“Mmm,” Martin scrubbed a hand over his eyes and sighed, “Yeah, guess I’d better. Get it over with, y’know?”

“Right... right.”

Jon tried not to let his panic show as Martin led the way back into the bedroom.

He slept long and often, and each time he closed his eyes, nightmares plagued him relentlessly. It was bad enough that Jon was unable to sleep, but to lay by Martin’s side as he thrashed and screamed in a terror Jon couldn’t wake him from was a unique kind of torture. Every whimper and wince from Martin’s sleeping form was another reminder that this was his fault, another spike of guilt driven straight into his heart.

Martin always brushed off the nightmares as well, claiming not to remember them and acting like he wasn’t bothered. But Jon could see how sweat slid down his brow and the way he fought to catch his breath. Martin might not remember the dreams but the fear they inspired in him lingered.

As Martin began to settle in, Jon hovered by the side of the bed, unsure.

He knew the best thing would be to leave the room and try to occupy himself in some way, so he didn’t spend what-used-to-be-hours watching Martin writhe in pain. He should have the decency to give him what little privacy he could.

But as Martin shuffled to the other side of the bed and looked over to him with a soft smile, Jon already knew he wasn’t going to do what he should.

Instead, he lay down behind Martin, wrapping his arms around his torso and pressing his face into his shoulders. In the few minutes before sleep stole Martin away, he could have this -a small space just for the two of them- and feel something akin to peace. One of Martin’s warm hands fell over where his rested on his waistline.

“Night, Jon,” He murmured, already drifting off.

“Mm.”

The dark of the bedroom didn’t pose much of a challenge to Jon’s sight anymore -after staring into the Black Sun his night-vision improved drastically- but he focused on what he could hear instead.

The ever-present wind outside their window provided a hush of white noise occasionally interrupted by a monstrous howl or throat-rending scream. He did his best to ignore it.

The tick of the kitchen clock was an unsteady rhythm, unless for tracking anything.

As Martin fell deeper into sleep, Jon listened to his breathing grow heavier and slower. His hand slipped away from where Jon’s were still placed on his stomach. The more his body relaxed, the more tense Jon felt. He braced himself against Martin’s back.

Wiggling his hand around, he grabbed the wrist Martin left hanging and pressed his fingers to his pulse point. His heart beat in a soft steady rhythm and Jon started to chew on his lip.

After an uncountable time, Martin’s pulse suddenly skyrocketed and all his muscles stiffened. Jon winced in tandem and buried his nose in the worn fabric of Martin’s shirt.

He tried to focus on that sensation, rubbing against the material, but other feelings soon overcame it- a keen pang of hunger, a heady want, and a cold fear that wasn’t his own.

Jon was no longer in the bed. He was on an unknown street in London, so generic it could have been any one of them. It was as busy as London ever was but the people weren’t really there. Their bodies were taking them from one place to another, but their minds and hearts were absent, leaving them washed out and blurry, like reflections seen through a fogged-up window.

One figure in the crowd was just as grey and withdraw as the rest of them but Jon could clearly make out his tall, fat frame and watched him intently as he walked.

He already knew this man, he knew him as a child, as a teenager, as an adult. He knew that from his birth this man had not been loved. His father left him and his mother hated him. Any acquaintances he made never liked him enough to be true friends. His work was both difficult and tedious.

The man knew all of these things too. When he was younger, he wondered what he had done wrong to deserve being unloved, but by now he had learned that there was not any What that he could change; it was the Who that presented the problem.

The man was walking to his job, or maybe from his job, he couldn’t decide. Either way, he would never arrive at either destination, he would forever be commuting, shuffling one foot in front of the other, with the bone-deep knowledge that his path was set.

It wasn’t once.

Once, for a brief blazing moment, the man had been loved and given love in return.

He had been saved, plucked from this grey crowd in a burst of colour and high, exhilarated panic. He had felt warm for the first time, feverish with feeling.

What happened to that love?

Nothing special. There was no blow-out argument, no drama, no tears. Just a normal day, when his love looked at him and realised, he wasn’t what they wanted. He had tricked them into seeing someone worthwhile when they first looked at him (although he wasn’t sure how, he hadn’t meant to trick them). They had finally seen past the illusion and discovered that there was nothing to love. He was dull, over-eager, clingy and distant in equal parts. He was solitary, in a deeply rooted way that even love would not change.

The worst of it, the thought that weighed him down and made him even slower than the rest of the faceless commuters, was that it was not a surprise.

Of course his love would leave. Love wasn’t made for him to have. He could give it, and had done so often and freely, but he couldn’t receive it.

There was a sense of peace in knowing that. It was a confirmation of what he had always felt to be true. Now, he had proof, evidence and experience that agreed with his gut instinct.

He was, fundamentally, alone. He always would be.

There was something to fear in that truth. A quiet fear, not a shock or sudden fright, just the overwhelming dread that how he felt now would be how he felt for the rest of his life. It was gentle in its way, a familiar friend. The fear was twinned with heartbreak, self-pity and self-loathing. They wound around each other and ate their own tails, a series of emotional ouroboroses. He wore those feelings like an old coat. They fit him as well as his own skin.

That was his biggest problem, really. If he could just stop feeling, if he could become as faceless and formless as the rest of the grey crowd, that would be better. No more pain, no more heartache. He could forget the Who that was so loveless and just be another forsaken nothing.

He was afraid of that idea too, and this fear didn’t sit as well. His life, his personhood, it had no worth, why was he so afraid of losing it? What foolish hope did he still cling to that he could wring anything valuable out of his existence?

No. It was better to fade. It might hurt while it happened but eventually, he would forget every sensation he had ever known.

The man stopped in the middle of the path. Other pedestrians roughly shouldered him as they passed. He took a breath he didn’t need and began to let go.

The instant he did, the grey lifted from him and the mild fear suddenly exploded into full-blown terror. What was he doing? He didn’t want this, not really, please! Make it stop! Please, go back!

It was too late. As the reality of formless fog overtook him, he was suspended in that moment of feeling. The blind panic, the aching regret, the mind-numbing, heart-pounding horror. He would forever be lost in that instant, all the feelings he had abandoned slipping from him irreversibly. He had made his choice and nothing could stop it now. The fear overcame him and he began to scream.

And the Watcher drank it all in.

Jon pulled himself out of the nightmare with a shout, leaping out of the bed and retreating as far as he could from Martin.

He pressed his back against the wall and clamped his hand over his mouth as his stomach heaved with nausea.

This was why he shouldn’t have stayed with him.

Every time Martin dreamt, Jon would see it. He was privy to all the secret and unknown fears Martin held deep inside himself, intimate knowledge he had no right to.

He never courted it or deliberately tried to look but even if his mind was far away watching some horror unfolding in reality, it would inevitably be drawn to Martin’s sleeping thoughts.

At first, he couldn’t understand why Beholding was so eager for the nightmares. It had a whole world of fear to glut itself on; there was no need to prey on the one person Jon cared about more than anything.

Then he suddenly Knew that that was the exact reason for the Eye’s interest.

It was because Jon loved him.

That love added an extra layer to Martin’s fear. It was a personal, cherished fear, cultivated like a delicacy to revel in.

Jon’s own horror and distress in the face of Martin’s pain only added extra spice, a sweet seasoning that complimented the meal.

And Jon could feel it feed him.

He didn’t have to consciously want it, the energy skimmed from Martin’s terror was pumped straight into his brain like some eldritch IV.

Each time Martin whimpered and cried, Jon felt his mind grow clearer, his aches and pains faded, his body grew stronger. He was being nourished by his torture.

It was horrific.

It was euphoric.

Part of him craved it; the same part that justified victimising strangers, the same part that whined with hunger when denied its due. The feeling eased his pain and alleviated his exhaustion. He was so tired of being tired.

But his peace came at the cost of Martin’s, and he would never forgive himself for it.

The worst part was that Martin probably would.

If Jon stopped being such a coward and told him what happened when he rested, Martin wouldn’t exactly be thrilled but he knew he would not blame him. He would tell him it wasn’t his fault and Martin didn’t even remember anyway so there was no harm done.

The idea of him putting on a placid smile to please the parasite feeding from him made Jon want to scream. And, because Martin wouldn’t wake up until the nightmare released him, he did.

He howled and slammed the back of his head into the wall as if that would help anything; as if being torn between what he knew was right and his own inhuman instincts wasn’t exactly the kind of agony the Eye savoured.

Once, he wondered why Beholding didn’t strip him of his guilt, of his sense of right and wrong, so he would feed it more. He knew better now. For all his agonising -gnashing his teeth and beating his breast- he still went out and did what it wanted anyway. Giving him enough rope to hang himself with satisfied it just as much as the fear he had harvested.

However, his will was still his. That meant he was responsible for his own mistakes, yes, but it also meant he could choose not to make them again.

Martin was still stirring in his sleep. He was weeping now, snuffling like a lost child and it tore Jon in two to not even try to comfort him. But he couldn’t help him. No-one could help Martin now and Jon would make things actively worse.

He needed to leave the room, and he needed a distraction. There was only one remedy he knew of that could resist the siren call of Martin’s fear.

Creeping toward the bed, he whispered an apology to Martin’s shaking back and bent down to grab the duffle bag he had shoved beneath the bedframe.

Martin wouldn’t be happy to wake up alone, and he would be even less impressed when he saw what Jon was going to do but it was the lesser of two evils.

Sneaking out of the room and shutting the door firmly behind him, he made his way to the couch. The fireplace was roaring merrily, well-fed and thriving. Jon paid it no mind as he turned the duffle bag upside down and dumped its contents out onto the couch cushions.

The tapes cascaded out, clattering against each other and one tape recorder silently bounced on the seat as it fell. The other recorder, the one he had not brought with him, was already on. Its static hiss was the warning sign of an irritated predator and the red blinking light started up at him like a single glowing eyeball.

Jon ignored it.

He sat cross-legged on the floor and started to rummage through the tapes. He plucked up one of the older ones and slotted it into his recorder, slamming his thumb on the play button.

For a moment, only white fuzz came through the tinny speaker. Jon could feel the heat of the fire at his back.

Then from another time and a very different world, he heard the clink of bottles and the hush of turning pages. After a minute, a voice long gone broke the quiet.

“Find anything interesting back there?”

Jon listened to Gerry Keay startle and whip around to speak with Gertrude Robinson.

He listened to them talk about Gerry’s snooping and Gertrude’s secrets. He listened to them joke with each other. He winced as she scolded him and lied directly to his face. Jon wondered if she already knew he was dying at that point. So much had been kept from him.

As the reels spun on, Jon listened to them hypothesise about the end of the world. It was still an abstract for them. A grim possibility, but still only a possibility. Not fact, not the howling reality battering around Jon’s house and in his head.

They threw out what-ifs and maybes, and Jon’s hands curled into fists on his knees. He knew what Gerry would ask Gertrude next. He had played the tapes over and over, and her words had been seared into his brain.

“Could it be undone?” Gerry asked.

She took her time answering him.

“No. I don’t think so. Once an Entity fully manifested, I doubt it would be keen to fully relinquish its grip on realit-”

Jon hit pause.

He stroked the keys up and down, considering, before tapping the rewind button. The tape squealed as it was sent backwards in time. When a couple of seconds had been stolen back, he hit play again.

“No. I don’t think so. Once an-”

Her voice was calm, cold, and certain. Jon hit pause then rewind again.

“No. I don’t think so.”

Pause. Rewind. Play.

“I don’t think so.”

Pause.

It was almost ritualistic to flay himself with her words. He had done it plenty of times since he had gotten his hands on the tapes. Gertrude’s opinions were set in stone and every time Jon listened to them it was if she was proactively condemning him.

If she couldn’t have seen any way out of the apocalypse, he was doubtful one existed.

Running a finger over the casing over the recorder, he let her voice hang over his head before pressing play again.

“Once an Entity fully manifested, I doubt it would be keen to relinquish its grip on reality. And as for those unlucky enough to survive its rule… I don’t think they’d be in a state to do anything about it.”

Martin thought otherwise. He thought there had to be something they could do to fix the world. Jon had no idea where his optimism came from. Or perhaps it was his stubbornness. Either way, Jon both loved him for it and feared what would happen to that attitude when Martin saw the world beyond their walls.

For all Jon’s knowledge, earned or given, he had no idea if making anything better was even remotely possible. Gertrude confidently declared it wasn’t, but she spoke without any understanding. She would never experience this, she had no idea of the torturous reality she spoke about.

It almost made Jon angry. Gertrude spoke with such authority on everything that even when he objectively knew more than her, her tone still got under his skin.

She was right however, to say he wasn’t in any state to try and do anything about it. Martin had begged him to leave the cabin, to at least attempt to fix the world. The thought paralyzed him. It was bad enough seeing the state of the world here. Outside, he could only imagine the cavalcade of terror his mind would be bombarded with. If he didn’t find a way to handle that, he would be useless.

He let the rest of the tape play out. There was just enough room left in his heart to hurt as he heard the ghost of affection in Gertrude’s voice when she talked to Gerry. She had cared about him. Just not enough. That was worse, in Jon’s opinion, then not caring at all.

The tape ran its course, ending with a soft hiss before the play button clicked off of its own accord.

Idly, Jon wondered if he should play another. Martin was still asleep, he had time.

The wind was picking up outside. If Jon strained his ears, he could almost pick out the names screaming through it. He didn’t want to hear them. Another distraction was necessary.

He plucked another tape from the pile without looking at it and swapped it with the older one. He shuffled forward, resting his arms on the edge of the couch as he pressed play.

After the familiar rush of static, a voice he had only learned to recognise recently piped up from the speakers.

“This it?”

Jon sat ramrod straight.

“Oh, thank god,” came another voice, “I thought I was seeing things.”

Ah. It was this tape.

Martin hadn’t wanted to know the contents of any of them after realising what they were but even if he had, Jon would have been reluctant to let him listen to this. He had told him there was other one with Tim and Sasha on it, but he doubted he would be happy to learn that their private conversations were being monitored from the very beginning.

It had been recorded just after they all started in the archive, judging from how they both spoke. Tim groused about having to fetch the tape recorder, and Sasha playfully demanded his help with her work for finding it.

It wounded him to hear them speak at all, a pointed reminder of everyone he had lost, but at least the start of their conversation was pleasant, in a melancholy way. Jon might not have remembered the back-and-forth that used to pass between them but it warmed him slightly to hear it.

Then Tim asked the question Jon dreaded almost as much as Gerry’s.

“So. How are you finding our new leader?”

They spent the next few minutes tearing Jon apart for his managerial skills or lack thereof. He had known he hadn’t been the easiest person to work under (He still wanted to curl up and die every time he remembered how he used to treat Martin) but for Tim to argue that Sasha would have been the better archivist pricked at his vestigial sense of professional pride.

She may have had more years in academia, but she knew as much about archiving as he did when he started in the position. And even if everyone complained about their boss, joking about killing him seemed like a step too far.

He remembered Elias hadn’t been pleased when Jon requested Tim and Sasha be transferred down to the archives with him, but he had stood his ground because he knew they would be of great help and that the three of them could work well together. He had stuck his neck out for them because he thought, at least within the walls of the institute, they were friends. It stung to learn that neither of them had seen things that way. In reality, they had resented him from day one.

The rest of the conversation only depressed him further. He wished Sasha had tried to quit, if only because not being able to might have set her investigative mind into action. Instead, she had weaponised her curiosity to hack into the institute’s security systems and nose her way into other people’s business.

Her comments on Gertrude piqued his interest. Sasha hadn’t exactly got a glimpse behind the curtain of who she really was but she had given her enough bait to hook her and reel her in. Perhaps it was that inquisitiveness that made Gertrude mark her as a potential replacement.

Tim had to go and make a joke of the whole thing, of course. It turned Jon’s stomach to hear him sound so carefree even as he put on a voice to mock him.

“Well, given the incoherence of this statement, I find it hard to believe it ever occurred.”

A bright laugh.

“In fact, based on the evidence, I find it highly unlikely that this ‘Sasha’ ever even existed at all.”

“No! You took it too far! I’m unforgettable!”

Jon felt tears prick his eyes.

He let the tape finish, just to keep hearing their voices, then slammed the stop button viciously.

With a shuddering breath, he buried his face in his hands.

It was a cruel trick of fate for Sasha’s death to be spoken aloud, to tease her no less, mere months before it would happen. Having the sound of her at his fingertips only served to make it hurt more.

She didn’t deserve what happened to her. To be killed by a monster was tragic enough, but to be erased from reality afterwards, with not even a polaroid to capture her real smile, was a slow twist of the knife.

Worst of all, Jon knew the circumstances that lead to her doom were mere coincidence. That knowledge had been granted to him the first time he had listened to this particular tape. He had been lost in grief when suddenly he Knew that Elias had been contemplating killing one of his assistants for a while.

Not seriously, not enough to actually plan anything, but when Jane Prentiss had attacked the institute and Elias found himself alone with Sasha, he seized the opportunity. He let them be separated and ensured that Sasha’s only escape route was Artifact Storage. Either the worms would catch up with her or something the institute kept locked away would pounce on the chance to attack one of its jailers.

Either way, the mostly united front that he had seen the archival team as would be weakened. Having the Not-Them integrate itself into their ranks and sow discord was just an unintended bonus.

The more Jon thought about it, the more he suspected Elias had done the same with Tim as well. He had forbidden him to have anything to do with the Circus around the time of the Unknowing, and he must have been aware that Tim had been contrary and angry enough to do the exact opposite of what he said. He had practically goaded him into blowing himself up, just to get him out of his way.

There was no justice in their ends.

Jon blamed himself for a lot of things. Jon had done a lot of things worth being blamed for. But as far as he was concerned, both Sasha and Tim’s deaths rested squarely on Elias’ shoulders. He had treated human lives like chess pieces on a board, casting them aside when they were no longer of tactical use.

Jon hated him.

It was almost a surprise to realise that. He hadn’t really thought of Elias since the Change. There was too much to take in. Too much pain and horror to contemplate. Too much grief and guilt swarming his thoughts. There was Martin to worry about and tapes to listen to. Even the statement that had spelled his doom felt more like the inevitable weight of his entire existence pushing down on him than the whims of one man.

One selfish, stupid, power-hungry man.

Jon knew he could find him if he wanted. Wherever the centre of all this madness lay, Elias would be there. What sort of state he was in, Jon couldn’t say but it didn’t really matter. He could find him regardless. And he could kill him.

Jon had never wanted to kill anyone before. Destroying Peter hadn’t been intentional, even if Jon hadn’t regretted it. But this urge to kill, to visit violence on another person was an alien feeling.

It was also a heady one. Jon could practically picture it. Wrapping his hands around Elias’ throat, plucking out his eyes with his thumbs, driving something sharp squarely into his heart.

For Sasha. For Tim. For Gertrude and even Leitner.

For Martin, being tortured one room over for the crime of falling in love with the harbinger of the apocalypse.

Jon wouldn’t be able to do it for himself. But for the people he loved, the people he lost, he would do it with a smile.

That feeling grew in him, a hot, hungry thing, that wanted nothing more than to charge out of the front door this instant and hunt down the self-pronounced king of the ruined world.

It blossomed and swelled in his chest, crawling up his throat and making his ears buzz until suddenly he realised that feeling wasn’t some sense of feverish bloodlust. It was physical, rising up in him like gorge. His stomach rolled with nausea and he was aware of a source-less static in the air around him.

“Wha-?”

His fingertips tingled as if the blood had drained out of them and when he tried to stand, all the feeling left his legs.

He was going to be sick. He could feel it; feel a lump of hard, congealed something move up the slim column of his neck, heralded by a flood of sour saliva. Pushing away from the couch to spare the upholstery, he hacked and coughed as the inevitable started to happen.

Instead of bile, however, or any kind of weak water, what came out of Jon in a torrent were words.

“There is a place,” He intoned uncontrollably, “Deep in the heart of fear, where you trap yourself and claim that it is safety.”

The voice might have been his but the words he spoke were not his own. They did not come from him but from something larger, older, and even less human than he was.

Jon told himself a story.

A story of a cabin-that-was-not-a-cabin and the people that were trapped inside it. A story of how it fed them false comfort in order to be fed in return. Their fear and grief, their anger and despair, their grim thoughts and heavy guilt, it all bled into the walls of the cabin-that-was-not-a-cabin and made it strong. So strong it was able to trick them into thinking they were still in the same refuge they had hid in before the Great Becoming of the World.

Even though the wooden beams of the ceiling were lower to the ground. Even though the doors were hard to close and even harder to open. Even though hard timber had replaced cheap linoleum.

Even though the fireplace was lit.

“Throw another log on the fire and curl up close,” Jon told himself, “There are always more logs for the fire here.”

The fireplace had been blocked up. It had been blocked up years before they had ever arrived. There had never been logs to cut, or fire starters to buy from the little corner shop. Martin had complained about it, and the shitty little heater Daisy had that served as a substitute.

How could Jon have forgotten that? How could this place make him forget?

His own voice told him the truth that he had both suspected and feared. If they stayed in this place they would rot together. The cabin-that-was-not-a-cabin would warp them and devour them whole, destroying their minds and their hearts.

But the truth continued to pour out and the story that spilled from him announced the presence of something greater than the little parasite. Something that wouldn’t give up Jon so easily.

“This place wishes to be our tomb. But the Eye does not wish that,” He declared, “No, the Eye wishes instead that it be my chrysalis.”

Another feeling bloomed in his chest and he couldn’t say if it was agony or ecstasy.

“It is time that I emerge.”

The words left him immediately and he quite literally fell out of his trance. He had stood at some point during the telling of the tale and with it done, he collapsed like a puppet with his strings cut.

He crashed hard onto the wooden floor, his elbows and heels making dull thuds that echoed through his bones. Jon hardly noticed the pain. His chest heaved with heavy breaths as his mind reeled.

He barely had an instant to wonder what had just happened to him when he suddenly Knew.

It was a statement.

Ripped directly from reality without the need for a paper medium or even another voice, it had been digested and regurgitated for Jon to serve to the Beholding on an auditory platter.

It still wanted him to feed it.

Somehow, that was scarier than anything else he had witnessed so far. With a choked laugh, he wondered what it meant by ‘chrysalis’, by ‘emerge’. He patted his hands over his torso as if he could physically feel any change the Eye had enacted upon him.

As he did so, he suddenly noticed how clear his head was. How little his arms and legs hurt for the fall he had just taken. He had no migraine, no muscle spasms, no aching knee, no itching scars. Bodily, he felt better than he had in a very long time. Even more than physically, something deep in his heart and brain settled and he felt such an odd peace that he hadn’t even been aware it was absent.

Getting the story out of his system had healed him, body and what-was-left-of-his-soul.

After everything he had been through, he was still dependent on statements. All he could do was laugh. Or scream.

Before he could decide which to start, the bedroom door clattered open and Martin stormed out, wide-eyed and sleep-frazzled.

“Jon?” He cried, aghast, “Is it – I thought I heard- Are you-” He blanched when he saw him on the floor, “Are you okay?

“I,ye– yes, I,” Jon sighed, “I think so.”

Honestly, his head was still swirling with the flood of information that had just been dumped onto him but as Martin rushed over to get him on his feet, all Jon could focus on was the bedroom door he had left open in his wake. In light of what he had just learned, it looked like nothing a gaping, hungry mouth.

The house; he had to warn Martin about the house, and they had to get out as soon as possible.

With a helping hand, Jon stood and swayed in place as the blood rushed out of his head. Martin tried to usher him to the couch but paused when he saw all the clutter Jon had left on it.

“What happened?” He gestured to it, “The tapes, were y-”

“I, I was listening,” He explained, “And, i-it- it was the one with – Tim and, and Sasha, uh, where they’re-”

Martin cut him off.

“Yeah, y-yeah. Yeah,” He sighed shakily and the look he gave Jon was tinged with disappointment, “Look, Jon, I – I know it hurts-”

“No, no – O,Oka-”

“But you’ve just got to-”

Jon held up his hands placatingly and interrupted him.

“I, I was listening,” He tried again, “And I, I was filled with this… hatred. This anger; I, I wanted to leave -hah- and hunt down Elias, uh, and-”

Martin’s eyebrows rose up and he looked mildly impressed.

“Uh – w,wow, okay,” He grinned.

“But when I thought it,” He moved closer, lowering his voice, “Th-there was – there was something else.”

Above them, the unseen frame of the cabin creaked and Jon was keenly aware that it was listening.

“Th-This place,” He whispered, “It – it didn’t want me – it didn’t want us- to go.”

“What do you mean?”

“This cabin,” The creaking grew louder, “It’s not right.”

The creaking echoed throughout a room where no echoing should have been possible. Martin shot a worried glance between the ceiling and Jon.

Jon ploughed on, determined to tell Martin everything as quickly as possible.

“And when I thought that, I-I felt-” A deep breath, “It, it all poured out of me, down into the tape. I, I, I – and-”

He let the breath go and let his admission of relief fall out with it.

“It– felt good. I-It felt right.”

Martin shut his eyes for a moment and sighed deeply.

“Okay,” He didn’t bother hiding his disappointment, “So you’re recording again?”

Jon shrugged defensively.

“I – I might need to. If we’re going to make it.”

The cabin let out a wooden shriek of protest but Martin instantly perked up.

“Back to the Archives?” He asked, breathless with surprise.

Jon could only shrug again. He had never actually agreed to leave this place. He had only told Martin he would think about it. Now seemed as good a time as any to decide to go.

“Seems the best place to start.”

“Oh-” Martin smiled suddenly, still shocked, “Y-yeah, alright!”

Jon let go of his hand to start tidying up the tapes. He might have been excited now but Martin hadn’t seen what Jon had seen. As dreadful as this cabin was, the world beyond it was far worse.

“Martin, it’s going to be a hard journey,” He warned him, “One in which we-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Martin fobbed him off with a wave of his hand and crouched down to rummage under the couch, “So – I’ve actually had a couple of bags packed for a while now.”

He pulled out two heavy-duty backpacks, both seemingly stuffed to the brim.

“Oh!”

Jon gawked at them, wondering where he had even found the time to pack.

"Um, I found some rope in the attic,” Martin opened one of the bags and started to display its contents.

“Okay-”

“And I packed that with the maps.”

He pulled out a battered old road map of Scotland, clearly designed to highlight tourist traps and utterly useless for their needs.

It was such a silly thing to include, Jon couldn’t help but smile.

“Uh, Martin...”

Martin zipped up one bag and started to rummage through the other.

“No, no, no,” He cut across him, “I – I know what you’re going to say, ‘What good are maps when the very Earth has…’ eh, blah blah blah.”

Jon grinned at his terrible impression even if that had been what he was going to say.

“W,w-well yes.”

Martin kept talking on a roll now and clearly energised at the idea of action.

“But I, I packed them anyway, because you never know.”

Jon was fairly certain he did know.

Despite that, Martin’s enthusiasm, his foresight, and his determination made affection grow bright in his chest. Despite his fear and worry, despite the literal hell he had been plunged into, Martin had not given up. He had convinced himself that there was a way to fix the world and he was ready to see it through.

He was so, so strong and Jon loved him for it.

"Martin.”

"I – I actually-” He laughed sheepishly, “I actually found a stash of tea under the kitchen sink – I-”

Jon sighed, a little lovestruck. Of course he had.

“I realize we don’t need to eat, or – whatever,” Martin rolled his eyes, “But, you know, that doesn’t mean that we won’t-”

Jon took one of his gesticulating hands and took the crumpled map out of it.

"Yes – Yes, yes,” He cradled the hand in both of his, “It – alright. Alright.”

Martin shuffled in place to face him and pressed his free hand to Jon’s, squeezing tightly.

“We’ve got this,” He told him, with a big smile.

In that moment, Jon couldn’t help but believe him, just a bit.

“Apparently so.”

Martin gave his hands another squeeze before dropping them and started repacking the bag in front of him. Jon pulled the other one towards himself and started poking around it.

There was the aforementioned rope, rolls and rolls of bandages, and a dusty bottle of disinfectant, among heaps of other survival supplies. Jon was just about to inspect what he thought might have been a hunting knife when Martin suddenly spoke up.

“D’you think it’ll do anything?” He murmured, “Confronting Elias?”

Jon looked over at him. Martin was frowning down at the bag he held, his brow furrowed with worry. His confidence seemed to have fled him as soon as it came upon him. After being so caught up in the excitement of Jon actually agreeing to do something, the reality of what they were about to embark on seemed to be hitting him.

Jon’s chest pang with sympathy. Now that they were on the same page, Martin seemed to be reaching out for reassurance that he had made the right choice.

But Jon couldn’t lie to him.

“I-,” He sighed, “Maybe?”

It was the best answer he could give. Elias might have orchestrated the end of the world, but he wasn’t its catalyst. Even though Jon knew he stood at the centre of it, he was hardly its star player. It was all so much bigger than one petty little man.

Jon still wanted to confront him, even if the anger in his gut had banked from a blazing fire to a glowing coal, but he just couldn’t say what good it would do.

“No, I’m serious – Do we-” Martin sighed and bit his lip, “Is there a chance that we can undo this?”

Behind them, the fire popped and crackled.

Jon heard Gerry Keay’s voice echo in his mind.

“Could it be undone?”

An older call for comfort.

Jon remembered the answer that had been given.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Gertrude didn’t think so,” He said.

Martin’s face fell. Doubt clouded his eyes and he turned away. His grip tightened on the strap of his backpack. Sitting knee to knee, Jon could feel him shake ever-so-slightly.

Above their heads, the house creaked, and Jon could have sworn it sounded gleeful.

“Right,” Martin muttered.

He fell silent and Jon kicked himself for saying anything.

It didn’t matter what Gertrude thought; she wasn’t the one who had to handle this situation.

For so long, Jon had been held up against her golden standard and had always been found lacking. Everything he had discovered about her over the past few years had made him judge himself for not following precisely in her footsteps.

Now however, at the end of all things, listening to her voice speak through the static cycle of the tapes, Jon felt he saw her fully for the first time.

Gertrude had always done what she thought best, with the knowledge that she had to hand. Sometimes what she thought was best was murdering people, or sending them to their deaths, or simply allowing them to die. What Gertrude thought best was keeping everything she knew so close to her chest that only her death revealed them. What Gertrude thought was best would not have been to try and fix things after they had already gone wrong. She had simply stopped things before they happened and if disaster sprung from her actions, it was a price she was happy to pay.

The fact remained; Gertrude wasn’t here. Jon was.

Even if he wasn’t sure what exactly he could do to change things, he had decided to try.

Gertrude had never tried to do anything she wasn’t sure about.

She had been faithless, believing only in herself.

A long time ago, Jon had made the decision to trust others.

He leaned over to catch Martin’s eye.

“But she’s dead,” Jon declared, “Let’s find out for ourselves.”

Martin’s jaw fell slack in surprise and Jon turned back to the couch to keep packing.

He swept the tapes into his open bag and started to gather up both of the recorders. He inspected the one that was still recording, giving it a glare.

“You’re... taking the recorder?” Martin asked carefully.

“Uh, just in case I need to,” He searched for a word, “-vent again. It- it helps.”

To his credit, Martin held his tongue, only nodding.

"Okay.”

They both stood, hoisting up the bags and, as Jon struggled with the weight of his, Martin looked up at the ceiling.

“You said this place-” He ducked his head and lowered his voice, “The, the cabin was– it– it’s feeding on us, right?”

Jon frowned.

“Yes.”

“So, should we destroy it?” He suggested, “Before we go?”

The wooden beams groaned loudly above their heads and the floorboards sagged beneath their feet. Martin froze, startled.

Jon considered it.

“I honestly don’t know if we can.”

Martin grunted, a little annoyed at being surprised.

“Besides, there’s far worse out there,” Jon said, “Better to avoid it, I think.”

“We’re not even gonna try?” Martin pouted, “Look, we’ve got your lighter; maybe if we just-”

“We can’t fight the world, Martin,” Jon cut across him, wearily.

He understood the impulse to destroy this place, but it wouldn't do them any good. It wouldn’t heal the harm the cabin had already done. Besides, if Martin wanted to avenge every injustice they came across on their travels, they would wandering the ruined world for eternity.

But Martin only laughed at his tone.

“Says you,” He smirked challengingly.

It was all bravado and behind the cocky grin Jon could see the bags under his eyes and the worry lines on his forehead. He was putting on a brave face for both of them and the sight made Jon’s heart ache.

He had sworn he would not make him fret, that he would look after him. If that meant fighting at least a part of the world, so be it.

Jon sighed and conceded with a nod.

“Let’s go.”

He shut off the recorder with a vicious click and started to shove it into the bag he held.

Martin stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and pointed out that it was actually his bag. He would take the heavier one if Jon would take care of the tape recorders. Fishing them and the loose tapes out of the bag, Jon dumped them in the other one and they swapped. Tentatively testing the weight, Jon honestly couldn’t feel a difference. His back was going to ache either way.

They ran a last-minute check around the cabin, making sure they hadn’t left anything necessary behind. They rooted through cupboards and searched under the bed for anything Martin had missed in his initial packing. Oddly, it reminded Jon of checking out of a hotel room, frantically double-checking everything was in his suitcase before he was barred from the space.

Of course, most hotel rooms didn’t actively try to stop him from leaving. As they both shuffled around the cabin, the wooden beams overhead groaned in protest. Door handles rattled and the floorboards warped as if waterlogged.

Jon ignored it all. He already Knew the cabin couldn’t actually stop them from leaving. It would have done so already if it could.

However, it could try to scare them and, as Jon rummaged through their toiletries for something useful, he heard a sharp pop from the fire and a yelp from Martin. He dashed into the living room to see him backing away from the fireplace, smacking his leg.

“Martin?”

“It-It sparked out at me, got an e-ember on my trousers.”

He lifted his hand and Jon could see a small dot of ash where he had extinguished the tiny flare-up. Walking up to him, he took his hand and checked it for a burn.

“It’s f-fine, I’m fine.”

“Mmm.”

He kissed his knuckles and Martin tried to smile but his face fell as he looked back to the fire.

“We, uh, we never had a fire before, d-did we?”

“...No. No, we didn’t.”

“God.”

Martin sighed and ran his free hand through his hair.

“I-I feel so stupid for not noticing. Like I-I've stared at it for hours- I fell asleep in front of it! How could I not have noticed...?”

“It didn’t want us to notice,” Jon tried to reassure him.

“Yeah... I just... I just keep thinking... H-How much of this place is- is actually what it was, you know?” His voice grew tight as he got worked up, “Like... we- w-we were supposed to be s-safe here and-!”

“Shush, shush, Martin, shush.”

Jon raised a hand to his cheek and turned his face away from the fire. In the glint of light, he could see his eyes were wet.

“I know, I know, i-it- T-This place was used against us and that... that h-hurts but... We’re going. It can’t k-keep us anymore.”

Martin sighed and leaned into Jon’s hand.

“I miss it.”

“What?”

“O-Our... our cabin,” He whispered, “I miss it.”

With a jolt of heartbreak, Jon realised that he did as well.

He missed their small bed and their tiny bathroom. He missed their shitty space heater and ancient gas stove.

They were such small things, in the grand scheme of it all. Just a series of tiny, everyday trivialities.

That was exactly why he missed them.

For the first time since he had started in the archives, he had had a normal life. For three ordinary weeks, his biggest concerns had been what to have for dinner and if they would have time to dry the clothes before it rained.

It had been dull, domestic, peaceful.

More than that. It had been happy.

This was the place he spoke to Martin about anything and everything. Where he laughed with him and learned about him. It was where they ate together and shared the same bed.

It was where they had their first kiss. Where he first said ‘I love you’.

He hadn’t just been surviving, he had been living.

He would never have that again.

It was a surprise to realise he was grieving it. He hadn’t thought there was room in him left for more sorrow.

He lowered his gaze and allowed himself a moment of mourning.

“Me too,” He admitted quietly.

Martin hummed and shut his eyes.

Suddenly the fire flared and several sparks shot out onto the wooden floor. Little embers glowed hot and angry at their feet.

Martin yipped and jumped away from Jon, and he felt his own anger sparking.

“What? What?!”

He made for the fire and started stomping out the sparks.

“What more do you want?” He hissed, “You’ve already taken a home from us!”

Bigger flickers sprang from the fireplace and Jon stamped on them viciously.

“Greedy monster,” He sneered, “Now that we’ve seen through you, you’re throwing a tantrum, is that it?”

The fire roared and huge tongues of flame flared out from it.

Jon heard Martin gasp and back away but he didn’t flinch. He already Knew the cabin couldn’t hurt him.

He glared into the white heart of the fireplace.

“Pathetic little parasite. You’re nothing, you know that? It doesn’t matter what you do, h-how you try to trick us. Y-You can’t have us anymore. We are not yours!”

The fire howled, the ceiling sagged and bent, the floor boards shook in place, the picture frames rattled on the walls.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“Jon...!”

“Enough.”

He spat on the fire and the second his spittle sizzled at the heat, the fire died.

In place of the large roasting fireplace was the small bricked-up flue he had seen when they had first come to the cabin. There were no logs in the grate and no piles of ash, just a fine layer of dust.

Jon kept glaring at it, daring it to come back to life.

“...Jon?”

He started out of his staring contest to turn and see Martin watching him worriedly. His face was bone-white in the low light.

“It, ah, it s-shut up, for... for the moment.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, s-sulking, I suppose, for lack of a better term.

“Sure...”

Martin didn’t seem to pay as much attention to his words as his appearance. He looked him over carefully and kept a hand on his shoulder. It was a grounding presence.

“We, um, we should probably go now. B-Before it gets... a-angry again.”

Martin’s gaze stayed contemplative but he nodded.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

They pulled on their bags and wrapped up warm. Jon took Martin’s hand and held it tightly as they walked to the front door.

The floor beneath their feet creaked long and low as Jon touched the handle. Martin’s grip tightened.

“I meant it, you know,” He whispered to him.

“Wh-Pardon?”

“This place... It doesn’t matter what it tried to do,” He turned to face him, “That doesn’t change what we... what we had here. B-Before. It doesn’t change... us.”

The cabin fed on their fear of losing each other. The love they shared was the catalyst for its inception and it was frightening to have it twisted into something terrible, something that hurt them.

However, Jon reminded himself, as much for his sake as for Martin’s, that fear didn’t stop him from loving him. It didn’t erase nights he spent curled up with him in front of the heater, or walking with him among the fields, or carefully trimming his beard just for an excuse to touch him.

That love wasn’t the cabin’s to have. It did not belong to the Beholding, or any other Fear.

It belonged to the two of them. They had built it together, through hard talks and soft kisses; through choosing to care for each other over and over again. Nothing could take that from them.

For as much as it generated fear, their love was also their incentive for trying to escape that fear. To leave here and try to fix the world was an act of love.

The certainty of these thoughts filled Jon from head to toe until he felt fit to burst with them.

He looked Martin dead with the eye, hoping to convey what he couldn’t put into words.

Whatever Martin saw in his face made the tension drain from him and he leaned over to kiss him softly on the cheek.

Jon tilted his head and brought their lips together.

Despite what most of the people in his life thought, Jon was no fool.

He knew love wouldn’t save the world. It probably wouldn’t even save them. But no future could erase their present, the here-and-now of loving each other.

The world had ended, they were about to set off on a journey they would almost certainly not return from, and there was an apocalypse of dangers between them and their destination.

The only thing pushing them forward was believing that something better was possible, and that the love they had now was worth holding onto.

Jon pressed into Martin, his heart full of a deep sorrow, and an overwhelmingly steadfast love.

“Okay!” Martin pulled back eventually, taking a deep breath, “R-Ready?”

Jon squeezed his hand once more before turning back to the door. The cabin gave out one last sad whine as he turned the handle. The door resisted him for just a moment then swung open.

Together, they stared out at the apocalypse.

Jon turned away from it to catch Martin’s eye and when he looked at him, he nodded.

“Ready.”

Holding onto to him tightly, Jon moved forward and took his first step into the new world.