Work Text:
It is very difficult for Jon to look back and point out a time in his life in which he was happy. His childhood had been too muddled with horrors, both natural and not, for him to have the same idyllic experience as many of his peers. Much of his teen and adult life found him either too isolated or exhausted to ever consider himself actually happy.
He had days, of course, weeks and even months where he was happy. Most of his life before the Archives, even, he would have said he was perfectly alright—He wasn’t miserable, and one who isn’t unhappy must be happy, right?
Then he was promoted to Head Archivist, and it’s hard to say that happiness has appeared to him since taking that job in anything more than rare bursts, which rapidly became more scarce as time wore on.
There is a world of difference, Jon has learned, between “not suffering” and “happy,” but it wasn’t experience with the former that taught Jon the truth of the latter.
No, what’s taught Jon what it means not to be not-unhappy—taught Jon what real, genuine happiness feels like—is one Martin K Blackwood.
Jon could easily call his life up until this point a nightmare. Jon is painfully familiar with them by now—He hasn’t been so lucky as to even sleep dreamlessly since Naomi Herne first came into their Institute so many nights ago. Most children are lucky enough to have a parent assure them that their night terrors are simply fiction, but Jon never had anyone to teach him that.
Instead, Jon learned a different lesson. Nightmares are true and vivid terrors, unrelenting and ever-changing, forcing Jon to experience horror after horror in sleep to parallel his waking life.
But if the Institute was a nightmare, then Jon hopes Scotland is not a dream. Dreams, as he knows so well now, can be stolen. Worse, still, is that even the most wonderful of dreams is fleeting, and when they end, they’re so very rarely remembered. Those which remain in the light of day rarely hold up under scrutiny—They’re impossible, and worse, they leave a lingering bafflement. What was I thinking? Was I even thinking at all?
So Jon wants to be living neither a nightmare nor a dream. He doesn’t know where that leaves him.
At least he’s living, which is better than he thought he’d be doing—both in that his heart is beating (both still beating and beating again ), and that he’s doing more than just surviving. He’s living, truly living, with the man he loves beside him. Their peaceful escape after two years of unending battery.
Jon isn’t suited for peace. In the absence of any looming attack or apocalypse, Jon has found a new fear to consume him.
The object of his anxieties is the same as that of his affections: One Martin K Blackwood, and his happiness.
No happy person comes to work at the Magnus Institute. Jon knows happiness is as new to Martin as it is to him. But for Martin’s happiness to be new means Martin has to be happy now, and Jon knows this to be true as well. After all, he’s seen it.
It’s not like every second of Scotland has been perfect. The train ride up had seen them drained and desperate, clinging to each other like letting go would be the last thing either would ever do. Jon had spent the entire trek split between keeping an eye on Martin and keeping an eye out for pursuers, and in his scattered vigil had nearly tripped on the front step of the house.
What makes Scotland so extraordinary is the way all his familiar miseries give way to joy, rather than opening a path to further pain. That exhausted clinging is what led them to fall wordlessly into the same bed, an arrangement Jon treasures now that they’ve long passed the point where one of them could take to the house’s other bedroom.
Stumbling on the step had been so mundane a danger that Martin had laughed at him—actually laughed, loud and warm in a way Martin hadn’t been in months. It was that sound that made Jon finally believe that maybe things could be alright.
They’re still adjusting, of course. Martin still looks surprised to see Jon sometimes, like he’s having just as much trouble suspending his disbelief for all this as Jon is. Once the shock wears off, though, Martin’s face gives way to a soft, easy fondness. The next time Jon’s company sneaks up on him, he’s a little less surprised, a little sooner reminded, and a lot more fond.
At the risk of sounding too much like the poetry he’s derided so harshly in the past, Jon feels he could understand all those metaphors about fog that clears away to reveal the easy glow of a fresh sunrise, or whatever it is poets like to write their prose about. Time spent with Martin is radiant in a way so much of his life has not been. Perhaps the beauty of poetry is just another thing he can credit Martin with teaching him.
Therein lies the heart of Jon’s biggest problem, though. Jon worries he might be a dream. One which Martin will eventually wake up from and, when viewed in the light of day, Martin will realize was pleasant but completely nonsensical.
Honestly, Jon doesn’t even think he’s a very good dream. Even without being a monster straight out of the actual nightmares of over a dozen people, it’s not like being around him is exactly the pinnacle of human interaction. He’s rude, often unfairly, something Martin himself has been a victim to in the past. He has a tendency to zero in on a certain task, completely neglecting anything and anyone around him, no matter what the cost. Every single time Martin needed him most, he hadn’t been there. Even the Lonely had been a last-minute rescue, the result of a dozen failures to prevent and protect.
At the back of Jon’s skull is the doubt that he’s just one wrong move away from finally waking Martin up, letting Martin see just how strange and stupid of a choice he’s made to stay here. He’ll finally realize Jon just isn’t enough, and he never once has been.
Jon knows exactly what that move is, too—the final nail in the coffin sealing away his and Martin’s chance at happiness. Or, rather, the move Jon won’t make.
There are certain steps every relationship is meant to take. There’s the first dates and all the dates that follow—the candle-lit dinners, the long walks under the moon, the going out to movies and plays and museums—there’s the anniversaries, the holidays, the chocolates and flowers on valentines. There’s meeting the parents, showing off to the friends, changing your statuses to match one another on the social media site of the day.
Jon and Martin have taken almost none of these steps. That’s not something that would usually bother Jon—It’s just not really on his radar, and besides, it’s not like much of his life has followed a conventional script—But he’s starting to worry it might bother Martin.
It was just some stupid joke Martin made, really. Something offhand about how many milestones they’d missed, and something about how he didn’t think his first date would involve a murder. Jon’d laughed, sure, but it had stuck with him.
Jon has read Martin’s poetry. Some with Martin’s consent over the past few days, and some in the days after Prentiss’s attack, found in the trash or among the detritus of the newly-vacated document storage (another strike against Jon, that). He knows Martin to be a romantic at heart, someone who would appreciate the sappy gestures or the dinners or the long walks on the b—
Well, no, not that one. They've done that, and it wasn't nearly as romantic as Jon might have hoped.
Besides the point. Martin is the type to appreciate a decent romance, and what can Jon offer him? They’re lying low from the police and Jon runs the risk of eating people’s trauma, so it’s not like they’re doing much in the way of nice dates out on the town. Both of them are now completely alone in the world, save for each other, so there will be no meeting of family or friends.
So none of the first milestones will do, but what about the future? Is there anything else they can do? A wedding? Riding off into the sunset? A happily ever after?
No. No, probably not. Jon is far too entrenched into this world to leave now—Martin himself even said so. As much as he’d like to, he has trouble believing he’ll be able to give Martin the long, happy life he knows Martin deserves. Capable, resourceful Martin may very well survive that long, but Jon? Jon has already died once and, in retrospect, had far too many close calls to count. It’s only a matter of time before the coming end stops letting him ignore it.
So, the first steps were skipped or cut out entirely, and the ending is nothing more than a dream. That leaves Jon in the middle steps of the relationship, which…
There’s moving in together, which they’ve done—one point for Jon, he supposes, for all the good that will do him—and there’s… God, he feels sort of crass even thinking it to himself, but the only other normal relationship thing Jon could offer Martin is sex.
If this were a relationship under normal circumstances, Jon might feel comfortable telling Martin how badly he wants that to be off the table. He’d love to promise Martin all the other gestures—He’d promise a million dates on the Head Archivist’s not-exactly-lucrative salary. If he could, he’d uproot every flower in the world until he smothered Martin with them. He’d be happy to proudly introduce Martin to their friends as his boyfriend, to take congratulations from Georgie or Melanie or Basira. Or Daisy. Or Tim, or Sasha.
He can almost picture the four of them crammed into a booth, Tim and Sasha on one side, and him and Martin on the other, pulled along for drinks after work the way Tim always used to try to invite him. Maybe somewhere there’s a universe where Jon accepted, where Jon realized sooner just what a wonderful man Martin has always been, where Tim and Sasha gently tease him over drinks about how it took you long enough!
Maybe in that universe, where Tim and Sasha still have their smiles, Jon could make up for this deficit. But he doesn’t even remember what those look like anymore, and that’s just another godforsaken thing Jon’s helped take, isn’t it? Sasha’s happiness, Tim’s happiness… He really doesn’t want to make it three for three.
Jon especially doesn't want to freeze Martin out, not when he already spent so much time outright pushing him away or dancing around how he felt. He knows how cold a line it is he’s drawing, and cold is the last thing Martin needs.
Jon doesn’t think he’s ever held anything that burned with frost in quite the same way Martin’s face had when he’d touched it in the Lonely, and the idea Jon could put him there again— again —terrifies him more than anything.
To push Martin any further away is not just cruel, but dangerous.
Jon’s spent the last two years finding a thousand ways to make his heart race, up to and including having it stop wholesale. He’s experienced both first and secondhand the distinctions between fear and every one of its synonyms, become both dictionary and encyclopedia of every type of horror and terror imaginable, and then those worse than he could have ever thought possible.
He’s more intimately familiar with what it is to be afraid than perhaps anyone else in the world, and every second of it has been for the benefit of powers he can neither comprehend nor escape, much of it without his say. He’s bled and burned and bruised, been battered and beaten and blown apart. His body is used to pain, to fear.
At least this would be his choice, for something he actually believes in.
So Jon initiates. He’s not really sure how to go about doing so, but he thinks the sooner he gets this over with, the better, so asking outright seems to be the best approach.
Martin splutters immediately, looking at Jon over the book he’d taken to reading in the time Jon had been fretting.
“That’s--” Martin looks like he’s trying not to laugh, “You’re hardly setting a mood here, you know.”
“You take the lead, then,” Jon says. Martin actually does laugh, then, setting his book aside with a roll of his eyes. Jon returns it with a smile.
His hands are just as warm as always when he puts them on Jon, but Jon’s skin feels cold underneath them. The feeling is slow and steady, seeping from every point of contact until it consumes his entire body.
It's not like the Lonely, where the chill of Martin's hands bit into Jon's skin, had burned, almost, against Jon's hands. This is a spreading numbness, a freezing at each of his joints, locking every part of him into place. It's ice in his throat and his eyes, keeping them shut. His entire body is shutting down, waiting for this to be over.
He's pretty sure the only thing moving is his heart, which hammers with familiar terror.
It takes maybe a minute for Martin to notice.
“Jon? You look kind of like you’re going to pass out.”
“I’m not." Jon opens his eyes, finding Martin's immediately, "I’m-- I’m fine. You can--”
“Jon.” Martin shuts him down immediately, “I can tell something’s off. Even if it wasn’t written all over your face, you’re clearly uncomfortable. Usually you’re, you know… uh, boneless? You kind of just melt into contact when you actually want it, but right now you’re stiff as a statue.”
“No. No, I’m not!” Jon insists, but Martin’s already pulling his hands away and leaning back. His eyebrows are pinched together, the start of a frown on his face.
“Jon…” Martin starts, wary. He backs off completely, padding a bit of space between himself and Jon. “Well, I’m not doing anything. I’m not comfortable.”
“Sorry,” Jon says. His voice sits somewhere between speaking and whispering, and Martin lies down on his side next to Jon.
“It’s alright. Can you tell me what this is really about?” Martin asks. Jon looks down.
“It’s not you,” Jon says, “I promise it’s not you.”
“Okay,” Martin says, “But…?”
“I don’t actually want to, uh, sleep with you.”
“Then why ask?” Martin asks. There’s a note of… It’s not anger in his voice, exactly, but without looking at his face, Jon can’t really place it. Especially not with the way Martin sounds like he’s trying to cover it.
“I thought I’d get it over with?” Jon says. “It’s not something I’m interested in, but you are, so I thought…”
“Even though you don’t want to,” Martin says. His tone is pointed, though not exactly accusatory.
“I didn’t really think it mattered.”
“Jon, look-- Look at me.” Martin’s hands are on Jon’s cheeks, pulling Jon’s gaze to his own. His hands are warm, just like always, and Jon’s face feels warm under them. “If you don’t want to do this, that’s fine. If that means we do it later, that’s okay. If it means we do this never, that’s okay, too! But I will not ever let myself be the tool you punish yourself with. Especially not if you think you’re doing it for my benefit. It’s not--... I don’t want to hurt you.”
“It doesn’t bother you?” Jon asks. He moves his hands up to cover Martin’s, “Even if it’s never?”
“I’d be a lot more bothered by the idea I’d touched you when you didn’t want me to,” Martin says, “Seriously. I need to be able to trust you’ll tell me these things. Do you really think I’d feel good if we went through with this and I found out after you hadn’t wanted to?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Jon admits. Martin raises his eyebrows.
“What were you thinking about, then?” Martin asks.
“I… I just don’t want you to be unhappy with me,” Jon says, “And I know I’m not easy to get along with, and I already… I just didn’t want to add another thing to the pile and have you finally realize I wasn’t worth the effort.”
“Oh, Jon,” Martin mumbles. “You know, if someone had told me back when I started working with you that we’d end up here, I’d have thought they were making fun of me. I never thought I’d even have this, or that you’d ever want to be with me. I already feel extremely lucky. Whether or not we’re sleeping together on top of this doesn’t really matter to me.”
His voice is soft with fondness. Jon usually loves that—especially when Jon is the cause—but this time, Jon’s stomach churns.
“No, that’s not-- That’s not fine,” Jon says. He pulls Martin’s hands off his face, holding them both in his own, “You shouldn’t settle for me just because you thought… I know it seems like finding anyone else would be impossible, with everything our lives have become, but it isn’t. Leaving is possible, if you wanted to, and you’re… You’re wonderful, Martin. I’m lucky to-- Anyone would be lucky have you. We aren’t the last two people on Earth, we aren’t… We always have choices. I won’t let you feel like you’re just taking scraps because you don’t feel you have any other options. I don’t want you to be unhappy.”
“Wait, sorry, that’s not what I meant,” Martin says, “I’m not just happy to have a relationship as a concept, or… I’m happy it’s you, Jon. Not because I don’t think I could never find anyone else. I’m happy I’ve got to be close to you, despite everything that’s happened. This could have just as easily ended with us both dead, or… I mean, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I never left the Lonely.”
“I wouldn’t have left you there,” Jon assures immediately, and Martin snickers.
“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” Martin says, “I want to be with you because it’s you. I don’t care if ‘close to you’ means sleeping together or if it means dozing off with you on the couch. I’m not settling. I want to be with you, no matter what capacity. Not because I never thought I’d be good enough to have you, but because I love you.”
“...Oh,” Jon says. It’s all he can really think to say. Martin hums, squeezing his hands. When Jon doesn’t say anything else, he continues.
“What makes you think I’m not happy?” Martin asks.
“Aside from the evil fear gods which have murdered our friends and ruined our lives?”
“I’ll try that one again. What makes you think I’m not happy with you? ” Martin clarifies, “Other than you being a smartass.”
“You like that about me,” Jon asks.
“I do,” Martin says, “But you didn’t answer me.”
“I just don’t… We’re never going to get to have normal lives,” Jon says, “Maybe if I’d realized how unfair I was being to you sooner, we could have had… Well, not normal lives, but more normal. Could have made a few dates, at least, rather than skipping directly to running away to Scotland.”
“I’ve liked running away to Scotland,” Martin notes. Jon exhales a laugh despite himself, which makes Martin smile. Jon meets it for a second, but it wilts away quickly enough, and he sighs.
“I have too, but we’ve already-- I mean, I don’t need to tell you how much we’ve lost already. And I know you were kidding, but you said we’d never really got to go on any dates, and… I don’t know. It just got to me, I guess,” Jon admits, “I just don’t want to take anything else away from you”
“Right. Well, for starters, you’re not taking anything away from me,” Martin says, “I won’t lie and say I don’t wish we’d got to do some of that stuff, but it’s just because I like spending time with you. If we end up doing that some other way, that’s fine.”
“That’s…” Jon says. He sighs, and with it goes the last of the stress he’d been holding onto. He laughs, quietly, “I feel kind of like an idiot.”
“Yeah, well, next time just talk to me instead of getting all up in your head again,” Martin says. “I’m here for you, you know. No matter what.”
“I know,” Jon says. He pauses a second, before some of the earlier conversation catches up to him. “Oh, and Martin?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you, too,” Jon says.