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It’s warm when Jon wakes up, warmer than he’s used to. Blinking his eyes open, he immediately realises why.
When they had gotten to the safehouse the night before, Martin and him, they had been too tired to do anything other than fall into the bed. Jon had at first made to sleep on the aging sofa, but Martin’s tentative hand on his arm and plaintive look had quickly changed his mind.
So here he is, in bed with Martin and almost too warm. The sticky heat is comforting though; he knows the Lonely isn’t anywhere near. One of Martin’s arms is slung over Jon, the other tucked under the pillow beneath his head, and their legs are pressed together. Jon can’t remember the last time he’s been so physically close to someone. Surprisingly, he finds he doesn't mind.
He studies Martin’s face. Over the past year, he hasn’t had many chances to properly look at him, and hasn’t seen him sleeping since before Prentiss. He’s mostly the same, aside from the thick beard and the white strands in his hair. Jon carefully maneuvers one of his hands up to cup Martin’s cheek. His skin is possibly paler than it used to be, although it’s hard for Jon to tell in the dim room. There’s a tightening in Jon’s chest as he strokes with his thumb gently.
Thank God I didn’t lose you, he thinks.
Martin shifts slightly, and frowns. Jon quickly pulls his hand back as Martin huffs a breath, the hand resting on Jon’s back squeezing into a fist around the t-shirt he’s wearing for a second before loosening again. Unsure what to do, Jon simply watches. Making a small noise in his throat, Martin’s eyes crack open as he wakes up. They go wide when he sees Jon, who realises that they too have paled.
“Hey,” Jon says, rasping slightly.
“Hi,” Martin replies, his voice full of quiet awe. His eyes roam over Jon’s face, looking with as much intensity as Jon had done a few minutes prior. The position they’re in dawns on him, and he draws his arm away from its place around Jon, an apology on his lips. Jon misses it immediately.
“No—” he starts, grabbing at Martin’s arm, “It’s fine. It’s—it’s good.”
Letting out a small “oh”, Martin rests his arm around Jon again and they return to their contemplative silence, until Martin shifts again. “My other arm is gonna go numb though, lift your head?”
Jon does so, allowing Martin to stretch his previously folded arm with a slight groan.
“Won’t it still go numb with me leaning on it?” Jon asks, a smile pulling at his lips. Martin makes a face.
“Probably. My elbow’s not bent anymore, that’s the main thing.”
They lie there quietly again, the sound of birdsong filtering through the window. Jon shuffles even closer and hesitantly places a hand on Martin’s chest, feeling it rise and fall as he breathes.
“You’re warm,” he murmurs. Martin responds by tightening his arm around Jon, spreading his hand flat against his back. He doesn’t rub, for which Jon is grateful.
“So are you.”
Sighing, Jon turns his head and noses Martin’s arm. “You were so cold. When…” He glances at Martin’s face. “I thought…”
“I know, I-I know.” Martin sighs.
Withdrawing his arm from Jon’s back, Martin instead grabs his hand. He moistens his lips and takes a breath. “Jon?”
Staring back at him, Jon hums an acknowledgement.
“What’s next?”
“Uh.” Jon racks his brains. “Buy food, I guess? There’s a—there’s a Tesco nearby. I suppose also clean—”
“No,” interrupting, Martin squeezes his hand. “I mean… obviously yes, we’ll need to do those things too, but I meant, uh. Between us. Are we…”
Jon sucks in a breath. “Oh.”
“I… love you,” Martin says, face red. “Present tense. Just—just to make that clear.” He glances down at their now entwined fingers, and Jon’s chest tightens again. There's a slight hilarity to the situation, properly confessing their feelings only after having shared a bed.
“I-I do too, I,” stammering, Jon brings his other hand up to hold Martin’s in both of his. “Love you. As well, I mean.”
When he looks up, Martin is smiling. His happiness and sheer contentedness is almost palpable, and Jon can’t help but smile back. Detangling his fingers from Jon’s, Martin reaches for the side of his head, gently stroking a few stray locks of hair behind his ear. Jon just looks, his breath caught in his throat. Martin pulls his head forward slightly and kisses his forehead.
“Good,” he whispers. He leaves his hand on Jon’s cheek, mirroring their positions from a few minutes earlier. Jon feels like his chest is about to burst and he Knows, for the first time in a while, that he’s safe.
The morning goes well. Everything goes mostly as planned: they buy the food they need. (The Tesco is further away than anticipated, but there are brands there Martin prefers to the local store. Jon relents, conceding that the walk will probably be good for them.) They clean up a bit, dusting off surfaces and rinsing the sink and basin. (Jon insists on wiping the entire bathroom down as well, even though Martin assures him it was clean enough. Jon knows it wasn’t.)
Their lunch isn’t anything special, some toast and a bowl of shop-bought soup. Jon can’t stomach all of it; the food sits heavy in his stomach without satiating any of his hunger. Martin doesn’t mind.
“We have cling film, I can put it in the fridge and reheat it later,” he says. “Should be fine right? There’s no meat in it.” Jon agrees.
Later, when they’ve finished fighting with the ancient Henry vacuum that almost definitely needs a new bag and the carpets aren’t as dust filled as they were, Jon slumps onto the sofa.
His mind wanders as Martin goes to the kitchen, and lands on the thought of them in bed that morning, Martin’s hands on him. Jon can feel the familiar sick feeling of trepidation in his gut. It’s stupid—he knows it’s stupid. He enjoys being with Martin, enjoys being touched by him. Martin touching his hands, his head, his neck, his back—it’s fine. He trusts Martin.
But it’s not enough, an ugly voice in his mind whispers. It’s never enough.
Jon puts his face into his hands and groans. This has always been a stumbling block for him in the few relationships he’s been in. His mind would skip ahead to what could happen, to what the relationship would eventually involve, to what all relationships supposedly involve, and he’d be filled with dread. Jon knows that’s not always how it has to go. Georgie had patiently taught him new words, ways to express how he felt, that he wasn’t alone. The knowledge doesn’t make it any easier to believe, though.
He needs to tell Martin. As soon as possible, get it over with and—
“Jon? Are you okay?”
Looking up sharply, Jon sees Martin standing in the doorway, holding two mugs of tea. Jon smiles slightly despite himself, fingers twisting together nervously.
“Yes! I’m, uh…” he trails off. “I need to tell you something.”
Martin seems unaffected by the anxious energy in the room, although Jon suspects it's just a placating act. “M’kay. Is tea acceptable while you tell me?” He raises the mugs and his eyebrows at Jon, who nods.
The tea is placed on the coffee table in front of them and Martin makes himself comfortable on the sofa next to Jon.
“So,” Martin says lightly. “What’s up?”
Jon cradles his mug in his hands, and takes a sip. The tea is still too hot and burns his tongue, but it grounds him. He can feel himself shaking, his heart beating erratically and takes a deep breath to steady himself. It’s fine, he repeats to himself. It’ll be fine.
“I’m… asexual.”
There’s a beat. Jon stares into his tea, psyching himself up to explain himself, the prickling heat of shame creeping across his neck.
“Oh!” Martin laughs a bit, before putting a hand to his mouth. “Sorry, I’m—I’m not laughing at you! I’m the same, actually.”
Jon's head jerks up, his jaw going slack. That wasn’t a reply he had imagined. Martin catches his eye and half shrugs.
“I mean, I guess grey-ace or demisexual might be more specific? Like, if my partner’s down then I’m down, for the most part. Sex can be nice, it’s just,” he breaks off, looking for the right words. “Not really important for me.”
“Oh,” Jon says, his voice small. He feels a bit dazed.
Martin continues, “God, sorry, this was you coming out to me, I just—you looked so scared.”
“Oh! No, it’s fine, really,” Jon sucks in a breath, and lets it all out at once. He places his mug on the table. “I wasn’t sure how this would go.”
“Oh, Jon,” Martin holds out his arms. “C’mere.” He falters slightly. “I assume hugging’s good, yeah? This morning—”
In way of reply, Jon moves closer and buries his face into Martin’s chest, fingers clutching at the material of his top. Martin gently fits his arms around Jon, careful not to hold too tight.
“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” he murmurs into Jon’s hair. Jon wriggles slightly to get more comfortable, rearranging his legs and finally sighing in contentment. “Although we definitely should have a proper talk about boundaries at some point,” Martin adds. “Don’t wanna make each other uncomfortable by mistake.”
Jon hums in response and turns his head to speak more clearly. “For now, um… most touching is good just, give me a heads-up. Or at least make sure I can see what you’re about to do. And kissing’s fine but… not too deep?”
“Course. Let me know if you think of anything else. I will, too.” Martin hums softly. “No hair pulling, I guess? That’s all I can really think of right now.”
“Sure.” There’s a pause, in which Jon cuddles ever so slightly closer. “Also uh… if we’re doing a whole coming out thing, I should probably tell you that I’m trans, too.” He says, his voice muffled by Martin’s jumper. Martin lets out a strange choked snort, before his body starts shaking. Sitting up in confusion, Jon sees that he’s desperately trying not to laugh.
“What?!”
Martin just looks at him, shoulders shaking with the effort of suppressing his laughter as a smile eventually breaks through.
“No.” Jon lets out a delighted laugh of his own in surprise. “No way!”
Letting his head fall back, Martin finally laughs out loud, his nose and eyes scrunching up. “I thought you knew!”
Jon just shakes his head. Their laughter eventually subsides into giggles, and Jon lays his head back down on Martin’s chest.
“Clearly the Beholding is bloody useless.” Jon says, still grinning.
“You really didn’t know?” Martin asks incredulously. “I mean, I’ve always been open about it, even before your fancy clairvoyant powers.” Jon half-heartedly shoves Martin’s chest at that, causing him to giggle again. “Seriously though, I think all of my coats have trans pins on them permanently.”
“Yes, well… shut up.” Martin snorts at him. “You didn’t know about me either. I’d say we’re even.”
“True.” Martin relents. “To be honest, back when I first had a crush on you, I thought you might’ve been straight.”
Jon makes a noise of disgust. “How dare you.”
Snickering, Martin replies, “Well I didn’t know, did I!” He runs a hand through Jon’s hair absentmindedly, who in turn sighs contentedly and snuggles closer. “Okay, as nice as this is, you need to sit up ’cause I want to drink my tea and I don’t want to spill any on you.”
Jon grumbles, but does as he’s asked, picking his own mug back up. They sit in comfortable silence for a while before a thought occurs to Jon.
“Martin?”
Martin side eyes him, suspicious at his tone of voice. “…Yeah?”
“When did you first have a crush on me?”
“Oh, God.” Martin swipes a hand across his face, grinning despite himself. “A crush specifically? I mean, I thought you were cute when I first saw you—”
“I’m not cute.”
“Shut up, yes you are!” Martin insists. “No, don’t say anything back, no self-deprecating remarks. I think you’re gorgeous, end of.”
Jon shuts up, face hot.
“Anyway uh,” continues Martin. “I guess it properly started after I was transferred to the archives. Even though you were, y’know…”
“A prick?” suggests Jon, smiling a little ruefully.
Martin chuckles into his cup. “For want of a better word, yeah. You got better though! And my crush got bigger, until after I was besieged by worms and you let me stay in the archives… and I realised I really liked you.”
Jon nods thoughtfully. “I guess we have something to thank Jane Prentiss for then.”
“Ah yes, thank you ‘Worm Queen’ for trapping me in my flat for two weeks and letting me know just how little my neighbours cared—”
“No!” Jon smacks Martin’s arm lightly. “That’s not what I meant! I... also really warmed up to you, while you were staying there. So that was a good thing. Kind of.”
“I guess.” Martin takes a last swig of tea and places his empty mug down before shifting on the sofa to face Jon fully. “What about you then? Is that when you first liked me? Like, romantically.”
“Oh.” Drinking the last of his tea in smaller sips, Jon considers. “In retrospect, maybe, yeah?”
Martin snorts and shakes his head. “Seriously? Damn. I knew I should’ve taken my shot back then.”
“I did say in retrospect,” says Jon, “I don’t think it would’ve gone down too well. I’m… I’m not particularly that good at recognising my own feelings. It only really clicked when…” He chews his lip, sorting out his thoughts before continuing. “When I got back from America there was a tape—well. A few tapes that I listened to. One of them had Basira and Melanie, ah… gossiping. About you. Us.”
“Oh man.” Martin rolls his eyes and sighs. “Yeah. Melanie wanted me to get over you, and Basira wanted me to make a move but, well.” He gestures vaguely. “Y’know.”
“Yeah.” Jon reaches over and takes hold of Martin’s hand. “At least it’s worked out now.”
Stroking the back of his hand with his thumb, Martin smiles warmly. “It has.”
After a fairly simple dinner, Jon takes a look at Daisy’s small book collection. It’s abysmal. But, he supposes, better than nothing. After choosing what is hopefully the least cheesy romance and setting it on the kitchen table for the next day, he walks into the bathroom, intent on brushing his teeth and having a quick shower before he gets into bed. He doesn’t expect to find Martin already there, hunched over the sink and staring at himself in the mirror.
“Hey,” says Jon. “You good?”
Martin sighs before abruptly turning to Jon. “Should I shave?”
Jon blinks. “What?”
“My beard.” He rubs at it, looking back at himself in the mirror, frowning.
“If… you want to? It’s your beard.”
“Yeah,” Martin sounds unconvinced. “I don’t know. I haven’t really looked at myself for a while and… Obviously I knew it was there but…” He trails off. “I guess it reminds me of, well. What happened.”
“I like it.” Jon blurts out. He panics when Martin looks at him with raised eyebrows. “You look good! I—shit—I mean, y-you uh, always look good, I, um—”
“Jon.” He shuts his mouth with an audible click. Daring to meet Martin’s eyes, Jon finds him smiling. “You like it?”
Jon glances away again, face heating up in embarrassment. “I like you however. But. Yes, I-I think beards are very attractive.”
Martin laughs at that. “Well! Okay! I guess instead of a sign of depression, I’ll consider it a feature that makes me very attractive to my boyfriend.”
The word sends a thrill through Jon.
“Oh.” He says, feeling slightly giddy.
“Oh is—can I call you that? I-I know it hasn’t even been a day yet but—”
Jon nods emphatically. “My boyfriend…” He repeats. They grin at each other for a second before Jon grabs Martin’s arm. “All right, out. I want to shower.”
Half spluttering half laughing, Martin lets himself be dragged out the bathroom. “Sure! Okay! I’ll just wait here, then.”
Hovering awkwardly at the door before closing it, Jon catches Martin’s eye.
“…Yes?” says Martin tentatively.
“I love you.” Jon catches sight of Martin’s face going red and his mouth falling into a small ‘o’ before shutting the door. He leans against the frame and giggles, feeling like a teenager again.
“Jon! You—” Martin mutters something (probably rude) that Jon doesn’t catch through the door. “I-I love you too! Have a nice shower!”
Jon listens to him walk down the passage and reckons that yes, he will have a nice shower.
When Jon comes into the bedroom, wrapped in a towel, Martin is sitting on the bed.
“Oh! You were quick.”
Jon nods. “Didn’t want to use up all the hot water.”
Martin groans in response. “We have a limited amount of hot water?”
“Mm. You could probably get a good fifteen minutes out of what’s left.”
Getting up and grabbing his own towel, Martin makes his way towards the bathroom. “Didn’t realise I’d been so spoiled in my shitty London flat.” He grumbles. Jon snickers.
While Martin showers, Jon changes into his pyjamas. They hadn’t brought many clothes in the rush to get to the safehouse, but he had at least remembered to pack some fairly warm clothes, pyjamas among them. He leaves his top off, skin still hot from the shower and idly plays with the corner of his towel, mind wandering. Lying down on his back, he tries not to think too hard about the institute, about what had happened. Tries not to Know anything that was going on there now. Instead he breathes slowly and focuses on what’s nearby.
The twittering of sparrows finding a place to rest for the night. The call of a startled blackbird, warning others of a fox in the undergrowth. The shrill cry of a goshawk hunting one last pigeon before nightfall. If he concentrates, he can feel the dull fear of the poor bird being hunted, its own knowledge that it will soon be dead. Jon’s face twists. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
He stands up and goes to hang up his towel on the rack in front of the small heater. As he does so, Martin comes into the room, skin still pink from the shower, towel wrapped around his waist.
“Hey you—woah!”
Jon turns and sees Martin staring at him.
“What?” he asks, confused. Then he remembers he’s still topless, and realises Martin probably hasn’t seen the full extent of his scars.
“You have a tattoo?!”
Oh.
“Oh.” Jon says dumbly. “I, uh. Yeah.”
Martin steps further into the room. “Can I see?” His eyes are bright with curiosity and wonder, and Jon’s heart swells. He once had worried about people finding out, that his professional image would be ruined, but he clearly didn’t need to anymore. Probably never had to.
“Um, sure yeah, lemme just—” Jon sits on the edge of the bed, patting the space next to him nervously.
“Ok, hold on.” Martin goes to grab his own pyjama bottoms. Jon averts his eyes, fiddling with his fingernails. The bed dips as Martin joins him and Jon looks at him shyly. He hasn’t thought of the moth tattoo just below his right shoulder in months, but seeing the admiration in Martin’s face, it dawns on him that showing it is much more of a personal moment than he would’ve thought.
“I never thought you’d be the type of person with a tattoo.”
Jon can’t help but grin. “I think most people would agree with you. I got it when I was pretty young.” He hunches his shoulders, the chill of the room finally getting to him and twists so Martin can see the tattoo more easily. “You can, uh. You can touch it, if you want.”
“Are you sure?”
Jon nods without looking around. He feels Martin’s thumb gently trace over the outline. It’s an old tattoo from when he was still at university, so it’s completely flat against his skin, but he can almost feel it buzzing at Martin’s touch. His thumb pauses, and Jon knows he’s reached the couple of the worm scars that mar the tattoo, ruining one of the wings of the moth.
Jon gasps as Martin presses his lips to the scars, his beard tickling his back. He twists around to face him, eyes wide. Martin’s eyes dart between Jon’s, worry etched on his face. Jon raises a hand to cup his cheek, and he visibly relaxes. Turning his face, Martin kisses Jon’s scarred palm. Jon thinks his heart is going to beat right out of his chest when Martin gently holds his wrist, loose enough that he could easily pull away, and kisses the mark left there by Nikola’s ropes.
“Is this okay?” Martin asks softly.
Pressing his lips together, Jon nods wordlessly, not trusting his voice. He turns to face Martin fully, tucking a leg underneath him and offers his other hand. Martin takes it and kisses the other rope burn before moving up to the twisting scar left on his forearm by Michael, pressing soft kisses as he goes. Jon’s fingers twitch, and he has to focus on breathing steadily. Martin carefully puts his arm down and reaches for his chest, pausing and looking at Jon for permission. In response, Jon takes both of his hands and places them around his rib cage. Jon sighs, Martin’s hands following the movement. His thumbs brush against the twin scars on Jon’s chest, the first and only major scars he ever expected to get. The one on the left is disfigured by a burn above his heart from the explosion at the House of Wax; the last thing he has left of Tim. Martin’s hold on him tightens, his fingers pressing into Jon’s side, into the grooves between his ribs. Jon’s breath hitches and he arches his back, nerves singing.
“Shit—sorry, I’m sorry—” Martin pulls away, alarmed. Jon makes a small noise of protest, pulling him back.
“S’okay,” he manages. “Just… felt a bit weird.”
Did I ever tell him about my ribs? Jon wonders suddenly. He doesn’t think he has. Any thoughts of bringing it up are lost as Martin bends and tenderly presses a kiss to the scar over his heart. Eyes stinging, Jon wraps his arms loosely around Martin’s neck, who continues to kiss every worm scar he can reach. When he stretches up and kisses the scar Melanie left under his collar bone, Jon lets out a sob. He presses a hand against his mouth, surprised at himself, and finds that he’s crying. Martin sits back immediately.
“Oh God, Jon, don’t—I mean, it’s okay, I didn’t—” his hands hover nervously, unsure what to do.
Jon wipes his nose on his hand and sniffs wetly. “No no, I’m okay, I’m just…” he smiles, and he can feel that it’s wobbly, tears still wet on his cheeks. “Don’t worry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Martin cups both his cheeks in his hands, brushing away the tears, a look of concern still apparent on his face.
“It’s just,” Jon sniffs again, and waves his hands in the air. “Been a while since… y’know.” Since I’ve been touched so carefully, he doesn’t say. Martin knows what he means.
“I’m sorry if it was too much,” Martin says. He’s so sincere, and Jon’s heart aches.
“It wasn’t! Or, well, maybe it was but… in a good way.” Jon takes a deep breath. It’s a bit shaky, and he sniffs once more. “I’m fine, really. I-I liked it.”
Finally, Martin smiles back. “Okay. That’s good. If-if you didn’t, you’d—?”
“I’d tell you.”
Martin nods, swallowing. “Good.” His hands lower slightly, moving to hold Jon’s jaw. “Can I finish?”
Confused, Jon is about to ask what he means when notices Martin’s gaze drop to his lips for an instant. He flushes. Jon’s mouth is dry, but he tries to moisten his lips anyway.
Leaning forward, he reaches for Martin.
“Yes,” he whispers.
They meet in the middle. The kiss is chaste and so, so sweet. One of Jon’s hands grips Martin’s neck, the other splayed across his chest. They part, Martin tucking Jon’s still damp hair behind his ears and kisses his cheek, his forehead, his nose. Jon giggles.
“Your beard tickles,” he explains, grinning softly. Martin scoffs in mock anger, but a smile plays around his lips.
“You’re the one who said I should keep it!”
Jon presses their foreheads together. “I said I liked it. You can still shave it off if you want. I won’t mind.”
“Hmm,” Martin makes a show of thinking about it. “We’ll see. For now…”
He pulls Jon into another kiss, who returns it happily.
I could get used to this, Jon thinks, and then decides thinking is too much of an effort while Martin’s lips are on his.