Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For all that Martin insists it feels the same to him, Jon absolutely believes that the rain is colder in this London than in the one they came from. He hasn’t got an umbrella on him, of course, and to make matters worse he’s on his way home from picking up some exceedingly important and therefore very important-to-keep-dry paperwork, so he’s crouching over the folder like a mother hen. He’s lost a lot of his dignity in the last half a decade, he thinks wryly, but this is a little far, even for him.

He ducks into a Sainsbury’s and picks up a tube of toothpaste and a bottle of paracetamol with what money he’s got in his pocket, then shoves the folder into the plastic bag and tucks the whole bundle under his arm. His kingdom for a backpack, he thinks.

Things have been – tense, these several weeks, between him and Martin. They’re still very much in love, and unless Martin has been lying to him, neither has any plans of calling it quits, but it turns out that being dropped into an alternate universe where neither partner has a legal identity or a quid to their name as a direct result of one partner having stabbed the other to end the apocalypse puts a pretty significant strain on the structural integrity of a new relationship.

This morning was meant to be a good time for both of them to get some space, out of the tiny box of a flat they’re being generously loaned as they swim through the sea of paperwork required to establish legal identities. Martin’s gone off to continue his search for work while Jon schleps paperwork back and forth across London in the deluge.

Nice of it to start raining right as he left for home, he thinks sarcastically. He shouldn’t be surprised.

Somewhere along the way home he reaches the point at which he stops caring so much about the rain because it has become obvious that he can’t get any wetter than he already is. His fingers are numb with cold as he fumbles with the nondescript key on his belt loop, and he all but stumbles through the door when it finally opens.

“You too, then?” Martin is already here, dripping on the linoleum floor with foggy glasses in hand.

“Sorry, what?”

Martin quirks an eyebrow and gestures generally at all of Jon.

“Ah, yes. The – rain.”

“At what point do we call it a flood?”

“I’ve no idea, really, I could look – ”

“Just a joke, Jon.”

“I – oh.” Jon carefully unwraps the toothpaste and paracetamol, ditching his soaked shoes and depositing them in the little cupboard over the bathroom sink. “Er, how was the hunt? For, ah, work?”

Martin sighs heavily. “Infuriating, but it could be worse. I’ve got a lead at a coffee shop that needs someone to do their grocery runs for them. It’s very off-the-books, which would be great for us.”

“Oh! That’s – yes, that’s good. I, er. I got the paperwork.” He gestures sheepishly at the dripping-wet plastic bundle on the counter.

“Oh, good.” Martin gingerly extracts the folder from the grocery sack and flips through the first few pages of the contents.

A raindrop falls from his nose onto the papers, and he curses, blotting at it with the kitchen towel.

Jon silently pads to the bathroom and pulls their best towel from the shelf as Martin fusses over the page. He returns and holds it quietly until Martin looks his way, feeling hesitant. “Here, if you – you can wrap up in this.”

Martin looks at the towel ever so briefly as though it might bite him, which puts a nasty rock into the pit of Jon’s stomach, then takes it, muttering his thanks.

Jon looks around at the chaos that is their kitchen area, and the endless scroll of tasks in his mind feels as though it becomes physically heavier in his head. Internally he cringes away from it all.

“Martin?” he asks quietly.

“Yes, Jon.”

The shortness of Martin’s tone almost makes him cut off there, shrug it off as nothing, but he soldiers on. “Er, I was just thinking, it’s now – well, it’s past six on a Sunday. I don’t think I’m likely to be hearing back from anyone for the rest of the day. Neither are you – at least, I think, right?”

Martin’s suspicious stare is directed at him, now. Jon laces and unlaces his fingers nervously as he speaks. “I was just – it’s been a while since – ah. Do you want to – to sit and watch the rain with me?

Martin drops his suspicious stare like a weapon on the battlefield. “Sorry, what?”

“It’s fine if not, I just – it’s been a while since we’ve spent any time together. You know, um, not talking about – practical things. Doing paperwork. Figuring out – food.” Jon chews nervously at the inside of his cheek. “I know you – I know that, um, physically you want space right now, but – my grandmother and I used to watch, sometimes, when it was raining. The air is just – it’s different. It’s nice. And I thought… maybe you’d like that.”

It feels like reaching into a dark unknown, and waiting to be bitten.

But then Martin’s face softens. “I – yeah, Jon. I think – that could be good.”

Jon smiles shyly.

Dancing awkwardly around one another like they might have long ago, the two of them pull up chairs to the kitchen window and wrestle the window open. As he settles into his chair Jon feels as though he’s putting down a heavy bag that he’s been carrying about for weeks. They’re here. They’re all right. They’re together. Martin needs space, but neither of them is alone.

The rain is beautiful from this angle, and the air smells as though it’s just been made.

They don’t speak much, lest they burst their little bubble of peace amid the storm, but for a little while it feels like they’re on the same team again.

For now, it’ll have to do.

Chapter Text

They stumble in side-by-side, barely fitting through the door jamb, laughing as they trip over themselves. Behind them it’s as though the heavens have opened. Thick sheets of rain seem to block out the pale afternoon light, plunging them prematurely into evening. Somewhere on the street behind them a child squeals and a mother calls her to come inside. They close the door against a sudden gust of wind, catch sight of one another, and start laughing all over again.

Jon spreads his arms dramatically. “See?” he says. “I was right.”

Martin leans over the kitchen sink and starts squeezing the excess water from handfuls of hair. “How’s that?”

“I told you, this is earth-shattering news.”

“You certainly did.”

“Martin! This is important.” Jon gestures at the window, which currently sounds as though it’s on the verge of crumpling under the sheer force of the deluge outside. “Does that not sound like the earth shattering to you?”

“Oh, dear, the world is trying to prove me wrong again, isn’t it?”

Jon crowds in beside him to squeeze the water from his own ponytail. “You should just listen to what I’m saying. I’m an expert on these matters.”

“And what matters might those be.”

“Ah. The appropriate level of enthusiasm to be displayed about the achievements of one Martin K. Blackwood.”

Martin gives up on stopping his hair from dripping and leans a hip against the counter instead. “You,” he says, folding his arms, “are too much, my good sir.”

Jon grins. “When it comes to being excited about you?” He too gives up on his hair and mirrors Martin’s pose. “To being proud of you?” He leans in, one hand coming up to rest on Martin’s shoulder, already tilting his head as he approaches. “To absolutely adoring you?” He pauses. The grin widens. “No, I don’t think so.”

Martin tries to think of a witty reply but finds his heart has gone all wobbly. Jon leans in and kisses him, slow and sweet and warm, and his toes curl in his soggy socks.

He feeling a little dazed when Jon pulls back. “It didn’t get wet, did it?”

After a moment his thoughts catch up to him. “Oh! I hope not.” Martin dries his hands on the kitchen towel and digs around in his backpack, fishing out a nondescript white envelope. He’s relieved to find that it’s made it through the storm unscathed.

“May I?”

Martin turns to find Jon standing by the refrigerator with the little clip magnet in hand. He looks over the acceptance letter one more time, rubbing his thumb delicately over the university logo in the corner, then hands it over.

Jon reverently tacks it up on the fridge. Martin feels the same swell of pride he imagines he must have when his mother hung his artwork on the fridge in those hazy golden memories of the good times in his childhood.

Jon studies his face for another long moment, smiling indulgently, then stands on tiptoe to give him a peck on the nose. “How do you feel about a hot shower to get the rain off?”

Martin makes an almost inhuman sound. “Oh, god, that sounds amazing right now.”

Later, wrapped in his favorite blanket on the sofa and feeling fuzzy from head to toe as Jon diligently works oil into his hair, Martin feels a bubble of anxiety rise up in his chest. “Jon?”

Jon, who is currently sitting on the back of the sofa with his leg on either side of Martin’s back, face no doubt scrunched up in concentration, hums noncommittally.

“What if it doesn’t work out? What if – what if my hours don’t line up? Or we can’t afford to – handle the finances?”

“Then we figure it out,” Jon says, and kisses the top of Martin’s head decisively. “After all, we’ve been through worse.”

Martin takes a deep breath and rests his temple against Jon’s thigh. “Okay,” he breathes. “Yeah. We’ve – we’ve got this.”

Outside the thunder rolls in agreement.

Chapter Text

Jon wakes slowly to steady beat of rain against the roof and does not remember a thing about his dreams.

He considers for a moment that he could go back to sleep if he so chose. He rolls his neck experimentally, then his shoulders, then his angles, coaxing them slowly back into movement. The ache of the rain in his old wounds and older joints is a familiar friend, now, signaling a day of white noise and soft light and dozing on the couch with a warm cat (and, schedules allowing, a warm husband).

After a few minutes of slow stretches Jon determines that he is in fact ready to be awake. He yawns and rubs the sleep from his eyes, then pats behind him for Martin. Schedules should indeed allow for snuggling on the couch today.

Martin isn’t there, though, and Jon sits up, blinking in confusion. He pats the bedside table for his glasses and fishes around on the floor with his feet to find his slippers – he dedicates more of his life now than he once would have thought possible to feeling around for things he can’t see – and sits on the bed to talk himself into standing.

Before he can get to his feet, though, the kitchen door creaks open and he hears familiar footsteps on the tile floor.

“Martin?” he calls. “Is that you, or should I be concerned.”

There’s a moment of hesitation as Martin, out of sight behind the wall, struggles to situate his ridiculously overcrowded keychain onto the little hook by the door. Yep, that’s him all right. “Morning, Jon,” he calls cheerily. “Sorry, just popped out to help Mrs. Williams bring her seedlings in.”

“Ah, the seedlings. Yes, I can imagine that would be quite an emergency.”

Martin appears around the corner, cheeks red from the brisk morning air and water droplets clinging to his curls. “Would you believe she got four people to help bring them in?”

Jon raises an eyebrow eloquently.

“She’s got quite a lot of them.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.” Jon yawns again. He’s not quite awake enough yet for seedling first-responder work. “You know,” he says conversationally, “I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but we do have quite a nice umbrella on a little wooden tree by the door. Two, actually, I believe.”

“True,” says Martin. “Makes it a little difficult to carry plant pots by the armful, though.”

“Is that so.”

“Besides, a little rain never hurt anyone, yeah? Good for the ground, good for us.”

Jon wins his argument with his legs and pulls himself up to standing, then ambles over to the little closet in the hallway. “Yes, if you believe colds are good for the immune system.”

“Oh, come on, Jon, you know that’s just an old wives’ tale.”

“As are many good and useful pieces of advice.” Jon runs a hand along the mismatched collection of bath towels on the shelf and picks the softest one, then carries it over to Martin. “Here.” He drapes it haphazardly over Martin’s head and makes a show of tugging it around his shoulders. “Can’t have you dying over basil and rosemary, can we.”

“What about lavender? Or tomatoes, or peppers?”

Jon pretends to consider this. “Hm. I do like tomatoes.”

Martin snorts. “She’s got quite a selection of things this year for me to die defending. Apparently she’s wanting to build some raised beds. You should have heard her – she sounded so excited when I was over there the other morning.”

Jon puts the kettle on and pulls two mugs down from the cupboard, pops a teabag out of the box for himself and spoons the leaves into the little ladybug tea infuser for Martin. “Ah, Martin. You and old ladies. You just can’t resist.”

Martin barks a laugh. “Jon, why would you say it like that?”

The implication of his own words catches up to him. Years ago, Jon would have sputtered in embarrassment. Now he just rolls his eyes and smiles. “You know what I mean.”

They settle into a comfortable sort of intermittent silence, moving around one another in the kitchen with practiced ease. Martin asks about Jon’s plans for the day; Jon says cheerfully that he’s putting them all off on account of the rain. Martin points out, amused, that Jon is self-employed and works entirely from home; Jon agrees and says that his boss has given him the day to pet his cat and snuggle his husband. Jon makes the tea. Martin opens the windows and inhales deeply.

When the tea is done Jon sets it down on the coffee table and shakes a finger silently at the cat. “Right,” he says to Martin. “Shall we pick up where we left off?”

Martin looks confused for just a moment. “Oh! Yes. Just a tick.” He heads into the bedroom and retrieves a library paperback. Jon sips his tea primly as Martin stretches out on the couch, propping himself up on the same stack of pillows he always does. When he’s ready, Jon grabs the good quilt from the back of the armchair and settles himself half on top of Martin, tucking the quilt in so it wraps them both up in a cocoon. Martin lets Jon rest his head in the crook of his arm before grabbing the book, a terrible science fiction novel, and sliding his glasses onto his nose. “Right,” he says, thumbing through in search of the receipt he’s been using as a bookmark. “Where did we leave off?”

Jon’s voice is muffled against Martin’s collarbone. “I believe we were ignoring all the laws of physics in order to make space sound more interesting.”

“Ah, yes. Chapter seventeen.”

Jon alternates between making snarky commentary on the quality of the book (“Jon, you do realize this is the book you picked, right?” “Yes. Keep reading.”) and drifting on the slow waves of Martin’s voice.

By the time Martin reaches the end of chapter eighteen, Jon is well on his way to falling asleep again. Martin sets the book down in favor of scratching lightly at the hair at the base of Jon’s skull. “You with me?” he whispers.

“Not for long.”

“Thought not.” Martin kisses his forehead. “Sleep if you want to.”

“It’s not a bad thing, you know.”

“Sorry, come again?”

“Making friends with – grandmothers.”

“Oh.” Jon’s eyes are closed but he can hear the smile in Martin’s voice. “Is that so?”

“You’re a good person, Martin,” Jon mumbles.

Martin buries his answering smile in Jon’s hair. “Thanks, Jon.”

“I love you.”

Martin breathes in sandalwood and cedar and a touch of cat dander. “I love you.”

The rain pours and the birds sing and Martin ends up drinking the rest of Jon’s tea.