Chapter Text
The house is dusted, surfaces wiped, carpet vacuumed. The half dozen, half empty tea mugs that were sitting around are cleaned and put away. Jon opens the blackout curtains to let in some daylight, blinking at the snow-reflected brightness of the outside world.
When Martin nudges the front door open with his shoulder half an hour later, his glasses fogged and puffing slightly from the cold air, he looks around in amazement.
"Hold on," he says, and shifts the groceries in his arms to one side to take his glasses off. "It looks great in here! I think. Where's Master of the Universe?"
"In the bedroom," Jon says, stripping off his rubber gloves and storing them back under the sink before coming to relieve Martin of one of his grocery bags. "Hiding under the bed with Maisie. Didn't want them getting underfoot."
Martin cleans his glasses on his jumper, sighs when it only spreads the condensation around, and tries again on his undershirt.
"Spose it has been a while since we had company," he says. He examines his glasses critically and perches them back on his nose before looking around again with proper appreciation. "Wow! You dusted the curtains, even?"
"I know how to keep a clean house," Jon grouses. He gestures for the second bag of groceries. "Give me that."
"I can put the rest away. You've done enough," Martin shoos him out of the kitchen. "God, it's cold out there. And damp."
"You're the one who wanted to live in Scotland," Jon reminds him.
"Oh, so it's my fault?" Martin says, but he shoots Jon a quick grin. "What've you done with all the mugs?"
"Put them away."
"Ah, fancy that. Tea?"
"As if you have to ask."
Another fifteen minutes, and they're both ensconced at the table with steaming mugs. Jon cups his hands around his, staring into it. The clock on the mantel, over the fireplace, is ticking with abnormal loudness.
He's feeling increasingly nervous with the subject that neither are broaching but which is approaching faster and faster with every tick of that damn clock.
"So," Martin begins, and somehow Jon knows he's going to say something inane about the weather or the shops and he simply can't stand it.
"It doesn't mean anything," Jon says, too quickly. "The cleaning. I just want the house to look nice, is all."
"Course," Martin says, and Jon forges ahead, desperate.
"Like you said, we…we haven't had anyone over for a long while, and, I mean, it is nice to have a clean house, it's–"
"Jon," Martin says, with just a touch of impatience that makes Jon feel more defensive, not less.
"I mean, it's a normal thing to do. And I'm not trying to convince you. I'm just explaining because I don't want you to think that I think you need to be convinced. It's not–I don't want you to think–"
Martin pushes his tea away and lays his hands flat on the table.
"Jon," he says, sharply, and Jon tries to speak again, louder, but the look Martin gives him silences him at once. "I know."
"I know you know," Jon says petulantly. He can't help it. His mind is spinning, stuck, a moth trapped and dangling by a twisting thread from a spiderweb. No. Bad imagery. A gaping hole, a pupil, spilling secrets out like vomit in an endless stream–No. He closes his eyes, fingers wrapping closer around his mug until his hands burn. Like fire and wax and–
"I trust you," Martin says. Jon makes a sound, hurt and disbelieving. It's not that he doesn't believe Martin, mind you, it's that Martin shouldn't trust him, and they both know it. "Jon, I–" a strained, fluttering laugh, "I don't think you and Oliver Banks are going to cheat on me in our home."
"I should have asked you first," Jon whispers. "Before I gave him any sort of answer, I should have asked you. It seemed so innocent, I didn't think–"
"It was innocent," Martin says. "I told you it was fine. You can have friends. We can both have friends! It's healthy!"
Jon lifts his eyes just enough to look at Martin's expression. He looks unhappy.
"But not other Avatars," Jon says.
"I didn't say that," Martin shakes his head. "It…it makes sense, in a way. Who else knows even a fraction of what we've been through? And you liked him before."
Jon catches the slight emphasis on liked him and knots his fingers again.
"You're still jealous," he says, frustrated.
"It's not an issue. It's just a feeling, Jon. I can feel things."
"It is an issue! Because he's coming over here, and if you're…you're glaring at him all night–"
"And I said it was fine! I wouldn't have said that if I hated him!"
"It's not about what you've said, it's the way you act whenever his name comes up," Jon says. "It's like you're seeing something in him that isn't there, and I don't know how to convince you it's not!"
"I don't–!" Martin exclaims, strangled, and then his shoulders slump. He sighs. "God, I'm not used to people…er, noticing things about me, I guess. Thought I was a bit harder to read."
"You used to be," Jon says. "Or I used to not notice."
"Oliver is fine," Martin says, unconvincingly, "I just…I don't know. He just…"
"He just what?" Jon asks, exasperated.
Martin answers immediately this time. "It's his eyes. They're sorta flat, and–and dead. It freaks me out."
"Oh," Jon frowns, sitting back in his chair to think about this. It's not that he's never noticed, it's just that…well, he didn't think it was all that strange. Oliver is an Avatar of the End, after all.
And besides that, something about Oliver's gaze reminds Jon of how his own eyes used to look. He was told, more than once in his years before becoming Head Archivist, that his expressions didn't reach his eyes. He spent cumulative hours staring at himself in the mirror trying to see what others saw in him.
Jon doesn't like to look at his own eyes in the mirror anymore. It feels too much like someone else is looking through them, too.
"Well, I guess you'll…you'll just have to get over it," Jon says aloud. "Oliver has never attempted to harm either of us. There's no indication his eyes mean us any harm, either."
Martin is staring at Jon with a strange expression, and suddenly they're talking about something else. Jon doesn't know what it is, but he doesn't like it. Dread grabs at him with sticky, dark tendrils, whispering to him that he has fucked something up.
"How long have you been able to do that again?" Martin asks, and his voice is quiet; oh, so quiet.
"What?" Jon blinks, leaning into innocent confusion to cover the rising dread. "Not judge a book by its cover? It's called 'being a good person,' Martin."
"No," Martin says, and leans forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table hard enough to turn his knuckles white. "How long have you been able to compel people again?"
"What?!" Jon says again, a cold wash going through his body. Fuck fuck fuck. "N-No, Martin, I–"
"Don't try to lie to me after you just did it," Martin snaps. The icy wash hits again; this time a full, cold-blooded panic. Jon freezes. Martin's voice is rising, a desperate wobble in it that makes Jon feel like he's cracking apart. "You promised, Jon! You said you weren't going to let Beholding use you anymore!"
"I haven't," Jon says weakly, but that obviously won't hold water now. "I-I mean, I haven't been trying. Sometimes it just happens, and–"
The lights flicker. "Then try. Harder! Goddammit Jon!" Martin shouts. He slams a fist first down onto the table. Jon winces and automatically puts out a hand to keep the silverware from moving. "This…this life, this second chance, everything we have, it…it all depends on us not feeding the Fears anymore! We can't help how we are, I get that, but we agreed to not make it any worse! I thought we were on the same page about that!"
"I know," Jon says, and winces again. "I know, and we are. I'll try harder, Martin. I swear, I…it's just that sometimes I, I'm so hungry and I can't think straight for a week, and I know that if…if I just give it a little of what It wants, I…"
He trails off. Martin's eyes are dangerously wet. Jon feels a scream rise up in his chest and stick in his throat, a horrid lump of look what you've done now.
"You promised," Martin says thickly, and oh, it's so much worse than when he shouts. "I can't lose you again. A-And I hate that you're just…just giving yourself to it."
Martin takes a shuddering breath that Jon feels in his own lungs. His own eyes feel suddenly hot.
"We knew it would be awful," Martin says, slightly more controlled but back to that terrible quiet. "We knew that. We still made an agreement. W-We swore this time would be different."
"I know," Jon mouths, and then forces the words out past the lump in his throat. "I know, Martin. I'm sorry."
Martin's whole body seems to shrink in on itself.
"Yeah," he says, staring down at the table. "I know you are."
It's so helpless, and Jon can't decide if he's angrier at the Fears, or at Martin for reminding him of how much Jon's failed–how much he's always failed–or at himself for hurting Martin again with his own selfishness. It's not as if Martin hasn't been tempted by the Lonely or the Eye, Jon knows that. So why is he always the one who falls off the bandwagon?
"I need to take a moment," Martin says, standing and still not looking at Jon. Jon desperately wants him to say that everything is alright. He wants Martin to hug him without looking at him and erase Jon's sins all over again, even though he doesn't deserve it. "I'll…I'll be in the bedroom."
"Right," Jon says.
"Kay," Martin says. He hesitates, and for a moment Jon thinks Martin is going to touch his shoulder, or kiss his head, but instead he just leaves.
Jon sits at the kitchen table and stares blankly at the wall, ignoring the rising waves of panic and self-loathing and the offer to sink into the Beholding entirely because he's already fucked everything up at least he could feel good for a little bit Martin already hates him he's a lost cause he's destroying everything again, not literally (yet) but he's breaking the only thing he cares about and that's worse, that might as well be the whole world and–
There's a knock at the door. Jon startles and wipes his face hurriedly, then glances at the time. 4:01. Shit. Balls. Arse.
Oliver.
Jon goes to the bedroom door and knocks. It takes him two tries to get his voice to work.
"Martin. Oliver is here."
There's no answer. For a second, Jon wonders if he opened the door, if he'd find Martin there at all.
But of course he would. Because Martin isn't using his powers. He's probably got his face buried in Maisie, because she's large and soft and forgiving of that sort of thing. Jon waits for a moment, then sighs and goes to answer the front door.
Oliver is in a black leather jacket that looks well worn and is clearly comfortable wear as opposed to the more flamboyant outfits he wears to the club. There are small ice crystals caught in his fur collar. There are more in his dreads. The air outside is crisp and blindingly bright from the recent dusting of snow.
"Jon," Oliver greets, with an outheld hand and a smile.
"Oliver."
As level as Jon's voice sounds and as much as he tries to replicate Oliver's cheer, Oliver's smile rapidly disappears.
"Is this still a good time?" he asks cautiously.
Jon glances back at the bedroom door and sighs.
"It's…Martin and I had a bit of a row," he admits. "I don't know if–"
"Of course, I can come back another time," Oliver says, eyes widening. His eyes really are black, Jon notices. He hasn't seen the man in proper daylight for…well, maybe since they'd met up in this world. It's odd. It's nice.
"I'm sorry to make you come all this way," Jon begins miserably, but Oliver shakes his head.
"It's not a problem. These things happen. Just let me know when–if–you want to reschedule, and I'll make it work."
"Thank you," Jon says, with an attempt at an appreciative expression that he's sure ends up as a grimace.
Oliver hesitates. "Not that it matters, really, but…the argument, it wasn't…about me, was it?"
"What? Oh, no!" Jon says quickly. "No, not really. It was–it was all me, I'm afraid. I've been…" He fidgets with his shirt cuff, shakes his head to clear it, and then gives in with a sigh to the offer of a companionable ear. "I've been…eating. When we agreed not to. Martin's right to be upset."
"Hm," Oliver hums. His eyes flash with something that makes Jon's heart turn over. For a moment, he wonders if Oliver can see the end of things other than lives–relationships, for example.
"Jon," Oliver says slowly, "forgive me if I'm, hm, overstepping here. But if you don't think it will make things worse, how 'bout you take a walk with me? Just around the block."
"Going to kill me?" Jon asks, deadpan. He's not sure if he's joking.
Oliver smiles, but it's sad. "No, Jon. I'm not."
It shouldn't make Jon feel worse, but there's definitely something knowing and ominous in Oliver's eyes that makes the breath leave Jon's body for a moment. He reaches out and steadies himself on the doorframe.
"Is Martin going to be alright?" he asks, his voice weak. Oliver glances over him, and his eyes shift again, somehow–and they're back to that flat, mirror-like black.
"I'm sorry. I've given you the wrong impression. Nothing is going to harm either you or Martin," Oliver says quietly. He takes a step and holds up his elbow like he expects Jon to take it, like some kind of Edwardian chivalry. "I just want to talk. That's it."
Jon considers it a moment, though he's already decided. There's a hurt feeling in his chest like a jagged piece of glass, and he can feel it spurring him to do something reckless, something dangerous.
He's an adult. Oliver is his friend, or could be. Martin said he wanted space. So what does he care if Jon goes on a walkabout?
Jon slips on his shoes, his jacket, and grabs his keys before joining Oliver outside and closing the door behind him. His breath puffs up in the cold at once, fogging his glasses. Oliver, he notices, isn't leaving a breath trail at all.
"Right," Jon says, feeling suddenly sharp and daring and furious. "Where are we going?"