Archive of Our Own

If anyone were to ever ask, Martin Blackwood doesn’t think he could ever quite answer the question of when or how he fell in love, or, at least, not with the neat, satisfying answer expected for such a thing. Neither does he think he could ever properly describe his partner, for he doesn’t think he could ever encompass everything that Jonathan Sims is into a few carefully chosen words.

Not that anyone does ever ask, of course - Martin’s life has always been fairly small, few friends, no remaining family to speak of, no one exactly making many prying attempts at learning more about his love life - not that that has ever stopped Martin from thinking of what his answer would be, though. He’s hopeless, he thinks, every time he finds himself thinking over such a thing and ending up with a silly little smile on his face as he gazes off into the darkness of the room while Jon sleeps beside him.

If anyone were ever to ask, Martin thinks he’d have to say he fell in love with Jonathan Sims twice, or perhaps a million times over. He’d fallen first all at once and suddenly, the spiralling, nerve-wracking, cliché love at first sight type of love from the day he first met Jon and was a lost cause to his own crush instantly - and then, a second time, slowly and cautiously and piece by piece. Ask Martin for a description of his love, and he’d build Jon up like a puzzle from those pieces, those tiny beloved parts and every part of his love they’ve come to stand for.

Everything that Jon is inside his mind is a messy description, one built up over time, but, Martin thinks, it’s quite perfect when he thinks about it. It starts, he decides, with a few key moments, and a few perfect things.

1 - Hair

It’s raining that day as they walk home from work side by side. Martin’s always been a fan of the rain, when it’s light enough to walk about in or when he’s tucked away inside somewhere warm to watch it through a window. This is neither - gone is any sense of enjoyment of the weather, and all that is left behind is that terrible sudden torrent of a downpour that winter in London so loves to dump on unsuspecting pedestrians, the water cold and grey and blurring Martin’s vision as it settles over his glasses. It soaks through his shoes and jacket and their walk has become closer to something of a jog by the time they get to Jon’s flat. Not, perhaps, the most romantic start to the weekend they’d intended to spend together, Martin thinks, but Jon holds his hand on the way up the stairs anyway even though Martin’s fingers are too numb with the cold to hold on properly and laughs at him so gently when he struggles out of his wet jacket that Martin finds himself struggling to breathe properly.

It’s still new at this point, a couple of months of nervous, tentative dating, both of them too nervous to have put a label onto it until just a few weeks ago, so new Martin still feels his stomach pull tight every time Jon looks at him or accidentally brushes against him, but already when Martin looks him in the eyes he feels like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

He looks pretty fresh out of the rain like this, Martin thinks, little curled strands of hair plastered to his face, glasses tipped up onto his head now the condensation on them has gotten too much to see through, his skin speckled with heavy drops of water still clinging onto him. Martin fights the urge to reach out and brush one raindrop away from the scar that lingers next to Jon’s left eye, deciding maybe that’s a step too far past the boundaries neither of them have been brave enough to properly voice out loud, and so he just smiles giddily at Jon instead in silence for a while until one of them decides to move away from the door and further into the flat.

Jon’s always been an enigma to Martin. Even now, months into this, he can never quite tell what the man’s thinking, let alone what he wants. It makes Martin’s head hurt at times, trying to work out if the little things he wants to do would be accepted by Jon, who’s always rather silent about his own wants in what Martin expects is nervousness. That’s another thing about Jon that Martin thinks the outside world would never believe - he’s nervous to a fault, jittery about everything, always so cautious of putting a foot wrong. Martin’s not yet worked up the nerve to tell Jon that nothing he could do would ever scare him off, that Martin doesn’t think he could ever be truly upset at Jon for long even if he tried.

But later, when they’re sat together on the sofa, mugs of tea in hand and Jon bundled in one of Martin’s sweaters he’d put on after a shower, Jon slips into one of those quiet little moods of his - thinking, Martin is pretty sure it is - and then, ever so quiet and careful, shuffles himself around to lay down over Martin’s lap.

Martin’s still for a long moment, too nervous to even breathe. His stomach coils itself into a tight, nervous knot and then relaxes again. When Jon rolls over onto his side so he can just about squint up at him through one eye, it’s enough to make Martin laugh nervously through the tight feeling in his chest.

“Hi,” he says quietly, in lieu of anything better to say, and Jon smiles up at him, eyes squinted but shining with a happiness Martin doesn’t get to see there much during the day. He’s once again filled with that possessive little pride of his in the knowledge that he’s certain no one else gets to see this, that no one at work nor in their life outside of the quiet of the flat knows just how soft Jon truly can be.

Jon grumbles something low in his throat that Martin cannot discern at all, and then moves again, eyes disappearing from sight as he presses his face into the bottom of Martin’s sweater, breathing out a low sigh against his ribs. Martin, for once, doesn’t feel the need to check in on how Jon’s doing, can tell from how close he is clinging to him that all the man needs is some quiet affection for now, and so he does not bother himself with words or questions.

Instead Martin focuses on his own hand, resting lazily over Jon’s side, and lets it trail up and over his shoulder, thumb rubbing tiny little pressure point circles as his fingers clutch at the material of his own jumper that’s been stolen from him. Not that Martin minds - Jon swims in Martin’s clothing so slight is his frame, the cuffs of the sleeves always far down past his hands - it’s cute, Martin has decided, and so he never says a word when Jon steps out of the bedroom in a jumper that is definitely not his own in fear of scaring the man off from doing it again.

As his hand drifts upwards, Martin finds himself reaching, almost without thought, for the ends of Jon’s hair where they fall over his back, still damp and warm from the shower. He curls a lock around his finger thoughtfully, before gently shifting it back into place, and the little noise that Jon makes in acknowledgement of the action is positive enough to urge Martin to move his hands further up and settle it properly into Jon’s hair.

It’s been months of dating but Martin’s never been quite sure about this. For all people love to call Jon’s hair messy for it’s long state and the streaks of grey left untended and growing in at the temples, Martin knows for a fact how particular Jon is about his hair. More than enough times he’s laid half asleep in bed, watching Jon lurk before the mirror, pushing his hair this way and that with a little frown on his face. Martin’s never fully sure what the issue is, but whatever conclusion Jon comes to always determines his hair for the day, sometimes half pinned back, sometimes a neat ponytail or piled into a bun, sometimes left long and loose around his shoulders, though Martin is beginning to notice the latter getting reserved more and more as a style only for within the comfort of their home, much like so many of the things Jon likes to wear are. Martin’s always wanted to touch it though, always admiring from afar how neatly Jon can style it and just how soft it looks.

And so as he gently lifts locks of hair to settle his hand against Jon’s scalp, fingers working a soothing pattern over the top of the man’s head, for a second when Jon freezes ever so slightly he expects to have done something wrong, to have pushed his way clumsily over a boundary he wasn’t aware of.

“Is that…okay?” Martin asks nervously, pausing with a lock of Jon’s hair caught between his fingers.

The silence that lingers a second is deafening. But then he gets a hum in answer and a little nod, and when he hesitates a little too long afterwards Jon knocks his head upwards into the palm of Martin’s hand demandingly.

Martin huffs, fondly amused. Like a cat, he thinks, and settles his hand back more comfortably over the side of Jon’s head.

It could be hours, Martin thinks, that he plays with Jon’s hair like that for. It should be boring - he’s never much been one for sticking at menial tasks for long - but it isn’t. Jon’s mostly still and silent, in fact Martin’s pretty sure he falls asleep fairly quickly into it, but he is warm and soft and alive under Martin’s hands and the importance of that is not lost on Martin. This is a real person here, trusting themselves to his touch as he fumbles with what are such clumsy hands through his soft and precious hair, only ever hoping he’s doing what’s good and right.

They do not speak about it in the light of day much, but it soon becomes a thing whenever they are sat together on the sofa or laying in bed together in the morning avoiding properly waking up - Jon will lay his head gently down next to Martin and Martin, dutiful as ever, gets to running his hands through Jon’s hair, pleased by the way his boyfriend slumps and relaxes under his hands in a way that is so painfully trusting it almost hurts.

It evolves with little question into more, Martin combing out Jon’s hair ever so gently when he has a headache in an attempt at easing a little of the tension in his scalp, and absentmindedly twisting it into pretty little braids when they sit together watching movies. It’s become one of their little things, Martin thinks, sitting on the end of the bed one morning helping pin Jon’s hair up into a bun for the day, some little way of showing trust and love that is perfectly theirs.

When Jon’s hair gets too long in the summer, Martin cuts it for him, both of them crammed into the too small bathroom to stand in front of the mirror, laughing nervously as Martin wields a pair of rusty kitchen scissors and threatens to give Jon a bowl cut every time he moves.

“You’re good at this,” Jon remarks when he’s almost done, and Martin pulls a face.

“I used to have to cut my mother’s,” he says, and waves it off when Jon makes an attempt at an embarrassed apology, hushing him so he can focus instead on evening up the ends of his hair. There are times for serious talks about their feelings - lord knows they have enough of those - and this light, easy summer evening, Martin decides, is not one of those times.

He barely takes off an inch, but Jon smiles when it’s done and says the weight off is a relief and thanks Martin with a quiet kiss on his forehead. Later he lets Martin tie it back for him before they get into bed, and if he notices Martin deliberately restarting his work of smoothing down every strand of it perfectly into place several times over he does not mention it, even when it sets their bedtime back at least half an hour.

The next time someone asks Martin about his partner, he tells them his boyfriend has the prettiest hair in the world.

2 - Hands

“I brought you tea.”

It’s becoming a common turn of phrase in their relationship, Martin thinks as he utters the words that day, pushing open Jon’s office door with his foot as he balances the mugs in his hands, the one he’d made for Tim already dropped off on his desk on route.

Jon looks up from the stack of paperwork on his desk with a faint smile, and beckons Martin over with a jolt of his head. There’s been a spare chair sitting in the corner of Jon’s office now for weeks - if anyone’s questioned it’s presence, Jon hasn’t told Martin, and nothing about it has gotten back to him. He settles himself down onto it happily, pushing the mugs onto the already cluttered desk, and swings his feet out happily to knock against Jon’s shins.

“Anything good?” Martin asks, nodding at the stack of statements on Jon’s desk, piled so haphazardly Martin always expects them to slide sideways into a heap on the floor at any given moment.

“Mostly nothing,” Jon says, “And something about meat.”

“Ugh, always the meat ones,” Martin groans, “Why do they have to be so…gross?”

“I think it would be more disturbing if tales of flesh monsters weren’t viscerally horrifying,” Jon sighs, leaning back in his chair and raising his hands to crack his knuckles absent-mindedly. The popping sound echoes far too loudly around the little office space.

Martin winces. “Jon, your poor hands.”

“Martin,” Jon tuts fondly, “I’ve told you, it’s not going to hurt me, that’s a myth. Can’t make them any worse.”

“I know,” Martin sighs, “But…your hands.”

Jon’s right: it’s a conversation they’ve had before. Years of archival work have damaged Jon’s hands in much the expected ways - joint pain, carpal tunnel, Jon’s hands always ache a little and he’s not good at hiding it. Martin’s watched him for long enough at work to note the way he pauses every ten minutes to stretch out his fingers and crack the bones in his knuckles and wrists, never quite able to fully ease the built up tension and pain. And there’s always been a slight tremor in them, a shaking deep within his fingers that leaves Jon fumbling over items like his phone often. It embarrasses him, Martin thinks, and so he doesn’t bring it up.

But the archives of the Magnus Institute are, of course, not any ordinary archives, and the usual wear and tear on Jon’s hands are far outshone by the much worse and the far less normal.

Jon’s right hand is a patchwork mess of deep, twisting scars, the burns left behind by Jude Perry so long ago now. They dig deep down into the flesh in places, leave pits and whorls behind in Jon’s hand, and twist upwards past his wrist in curling patterns almost reminiscent of flames. His other hand is riddled with less poignant scars, knicks and cuts from messy jobs and the unavoidable scattering of long healed worm holes.

Jon’s more open about the scars than Martin had thought he would be for someone so private about his other aches and pains. Several times he’s sat and told Martin little tales of his scars on his hands and elsewhere - it had been almost funny how many of them had been so normal, nothing more than childhood accidents or misdemeanours with kitchen knives. But there is always a little frown on Jon’s face when he gets to the worst ones, not upset nor angry simply…uneasy, like he’s expecting something worse to happen.

Martin doesn’t ask, now, when he reaches across and takes Jon’s hands away from his work on the desk to hold them in his own. They’re warm from where he’s just set the hot mug of tea back down, and Martin turns them over in his own and runs his thumbs over rough, calloused knuckles. Jon’s told him before, quietly in the darkness of the living room as they’ve sat together half ignoring a tv shown they’ve watched twice already before, how he can feel so little anymore in the burned hand other than random painful firings of half dead nerves. It’s never bothered Martin, though, never driven him off from trailing his fingers over the hand even if his touch can’t be felt, chasing patterns through the scarred skin, picking out pictures and stories in the warped flesh.

“It’s a star,” he said once, tracing the outline of the scars around the bottom of Jon’s thumb, and the man had actually laughed, glancing over and shaking his head.

“I don’t see it.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Martin had admitted with a shake of his head.

“Martin,” Jon murmurs now, watching him with furrowed eyes, but Martin’s onto the other hand, counting the worm scars he knows so well in their creeping pattern around the side of Jon’s hand and around up his wrist. Nine of them - he counts each one like he has a million times and feels some strange relief in the fact there has been no addition to them.

“You really should take better care of yourself,” Martin chastises, if only to fill up the silence, “Your hands are as stiff as anything.”

“It’s all the writing,” Jon says.

“You spend half your day talking into tape recorders!”

“And the other half writing.”

“Hmm.”

“You really needn’t worry,” Jon says as Martin rubs his thumb into the centre of Jon’s palm, “They’re horribly ugly things anyway. Who cares if they’re stiff as rakes? Not doing much good either way.”

Martin’s found these days he’s rather good at biting back the sharp sadness that always over takes him when Jon speaks about himself in that way.

“Not ugly,” he corrects, “Nothing about you is ugly.”

“I think most people would disagree.”

“Well I don’t.”

“That’s because you’re biased, love,” Jon tuts, “You only ever see good in me. I’m inclined to call it a character flaw.”

He’s half teasing, but Martin frowns at him anyway.

“I don’t care if I’m biased, I’m right,” he says, “And you shouldn’t argue with me I’m your boyfriend.”

Jon smiles ruefully, hands twitching in Martin’s grasp as if to pull away - Martin only clings on tighter.

“The scars aren’t pretty, Martin,” Jon says, “You don’t have to lie.”

“Do you think my scars make me ugly?”

The question catches Jon off guard. It catches Martin too - he’d only half known it was going to come out of his mouth before it did, but he doesn’t take it back, and stares Jon down perhaps a little too insistently.

“Of course not,” Jon sighs, “You’re gorgeous and so are your scars, but -”

“Exactly,” Martin says, “Now shut up or tell me I’m right.”

Jon grumbles for a second, but then he ducks his head with a sigh. “Fine, fine, you’re right,” he relents, and Martin grins, triumphant.

“You’re perfect,” he tells Jon when he’s done gloating, “Perfect, okay?” And when Jon nods reluctantly Martin lifts his hands again and leaves Jon glowering at him through a profuse blush when he kisses his knuckles.

“Haven’t you got work to do?” Jon grumbles, swatting him away.

“Mmh, probably,” Martin hums, getting to his feet, “See you at lunch?”

Jon rolls his eyes at him with a smile. “You know the answer’s yes.”

“Great,” Martin grins, and blows Jon a kiss as obnoxiously as he can as he heads for the door, if only to leave him spluttering, flustered, behind him when the door slams shut.

He forgets his tea on Jon’s desk and comes back for it five minutes later. And if he catches Jon staring vacantly at his own hand on the desk when he does so, he decides to forget that little piece of information quite quickly.

He never mentions it to anyone, but Martin thinks his boyfriend’s hands are so very pretty - in fact, if ever asked, he thinks he’d say in some terribly cliché way that the scars on them tell a story. Half of him’s almost inclined to call it their story.

3 - Clothes

For the first month or so that they date, Martin doesn’t see Jon out of his usual formal work clothes much. They go for coffee at lunch or for walks or dinner after work, and always Jon is in his usual outfit of neat trousers and a soft knit vest over a formal shirt. Martin’s beginning to wonder if he only owns the one outfit - like a cartoon character, he thinks, and brushes it off as nothing when Jon asks what he’s smiling to himself about.

When he starts staying over at Jon’s place more, though, he gets treated to the occasional rare sight of Jon in something more comfortable, buried in a turtleneck sweater or lounging around in a loose button up. It’s entirely different one morning, though, when he wakes up to find the bed already empty, and Jon whisking around the kitchen with his usual morning rush, a skirt drifting gently around his ankles. It’s long, brown and spotted with little flowers, a soft jumper piled over the top of it, and Martin has to stop and stare for a second because he doesn’t think he’d ever imagined Jon could look so perfect, so right, in such an outfit.

The minute Jon turns around though, his demeanour changes. His shoulders stiffen and instantly one of his hands is at his side, pressed against the skirt as if to hide it. Martin would question it, really he should, but there’s a defensiveness in Jon’s eyes that wards him off from it, so he doesn’t say a word, just crosses the kitchen to greet him with a kiss and then sets about making tea, because no matter how hard he tries Jon can never quite do it the way Martin likes. Not that Martin minds of course - he likes this little role of his he’s fallen into, the tiny chores designated to him and only him that make him feel like he has some measure of importance in the grand scheme of Jon’s life, even if it only is just making the perfect cup of tea and providing good morning kisses that make Jon smile in that silly little way. Sometimes he thinks Jon knows this; recently he hasn’t even made an attempt at making tea before Martin can take over, just leaves him to it. It’s nice, Martin decides, handing a mug over to Jon and watching his eyes light up appreciatively at the first sip. The tea is warm and the kitchen filled with early morning sunlight and Jon seems to have forgotten about his skirt for a moment and it’s all nice.

It’s a Sunday, nothing planned for them, and they spend it like most of their weekends, drifting around the flat in a state of comfortable boredom, watching movies or reading books and enjoying each other’s company majorly in silence. The skirt seems to still bother Jon, though. Martin watches, all day, as he runs his hands over the material, bottom lip caught between his teeth almost anxiously, or throws a pillow over his lap when he sits down as if to hide the thing from sight once again. Soon, it’s beginning to bother Martin too. If Jon’s so uncomfortable in the thing, why is he wearing it? No matter which way he looks at it, Martin can’t fight the nagging worry that Jon’s only wearing it for him.

“Do you like wearing skirts?” Martin finally dares to ask that night as he watches Jon, for the hundredth time, adjust the end of it around where his feet are drawn up onto the sofa, fidgeting with the material in a way Martin can only interpret as discomfort.

Jon looks…oddly nervous when he answers.

“Yes,” he says eventually, voice tight, restrained. It’s not the answer Martin had expected, but he knows somehow instantly it’s the truth as Jon goes on, “Does that bother you?”

“No,” Martin says, “God, no, it looks…it looks lovely. But you seem so…uncomfortable?”

Jon sighs, a deep, resounding thing, and then kicks his feet off of the sofa, ends of the skirt falling down towards the floor. “I was worried about you,” he admits, “I’ve never…looked like this around you before. I didn’t want you looking at me differently.”

Oh.

“Jon,” Martin sighs, and when his boyfriend looks up Martin catches his jaw with one hand and forces him to look at him properly. “You’re not going to make me love you any less by wearing a skirt. That’s ridiculous.”

“But,” Jon protests, “Looks are…they’re important in relationships. They’re important to you.”

“You’re more than your looks, Jon,” Martin sighs, “And anyway you look…you look great.”

“Great?” Jon echoes.

“Yeah, you look…” Martin fights his own thoughts for a moment, struggling to find the right words, unsure which ones are right, which ones will be accepted or appreciated. Eventually he just goes with what he knows to be true, and hopes Jon is okay with it. “You look pretty,” he says, “Really just…you’re gorgeous, Jon. And if you like skirts well then…good, actually, because I think you look nice in them.”

Jon splutters out a little nervous laugh. “Really?”

“Really. Do you…have any others? Is this a thing you do or was this just like…trying something?”

The smile that spreads on Jon’s face then, a proper, relieved smile tells Martin his questions are appreciated, and when his hands begin to twitch in that pleased little way of his as he delves into answering them, it’s the nicest sight Martin’s seen in years.

“I’ve got a few, yeah,” Jon nods, “Been…collecting them, over the years, when I’m brave enough to buy them. I’d like more but…don’t wear them much anyway. But I like them, usually when I’m home alone but…I’ve always found them quite affirming.”

The weight that hangs on that last word tells Martin everything he needs to know, though he doesn’t ask any further, leaving Jon to explain the rest to him in his own time if he wishes.

“People aren’t usually kind about this sort of thing,” Jon says after a moment, “Not…not with me.”

“I’ll kill them all.”

The joke pays off, Jon’s nervous little smile breaks away into a proper grin and his head rolls sideways onto Martin’s shoulder as he chokes out a laugh.

“Don’t you make me be one of those people who’s dating an inmate,” Jon laughs.

“Ah, you wouldn’t find a protective murder spree romantic?” Martin teases, “Wouldn’t let me put those dickheads in their place?”

“I’d rather you allowed people to continue being dickheads if it meant you stayed by my side, actually,” Jon says, “I’d quite like you here with me forever instead.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry,” Jon stumbles, “Too much?”

And no, it’s not too much. Forever - it’s all Martin’s ever wanted, he thinks, something stable, something that, even so early on, he knows is meant to last. Even better, he thinks, that it’s with the person who means the most to him in the entire world, the person he’s certain was made to be in his life and stay there from the moment he walked into it.

“Not too much,” he says, “I’d like that too.”

“Ah,” Jon nods, and this time it’s his turn to turn red and flustered, “Good. That’s…good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Very good.”

Martin snorts at his awkwardness, and gets an elbow jostled into his ribs for his troubles, and the two of them laugh quietly, the moment broken up into something a little easier as a laugh track on whatever old tv show has come on without their knowledge plays in the background.

“Really,” Martin says a while later, when the moment’s long passed and Jon’s sprawled in his lap, gazing up at Martin, his eyes struggling to stay open, “You’re beautiful, Jon.”

Jon’s too tired to speak, and god knows he’s never been great at putting his thoughts into words, but the tired smile Martin gets in return is enough. It’s more than enough, better than any words could ever be - it’s everything to him.

-

Jon wears a skirt to work the next day. Martin’s not expecting it, though when Jon finally steps out of the bedroom after half an hour of deliberating in front of the mirror with the door shut to keep Martin out, he suddenly understands what had been holding the man up. It’s another long one, smooth and black, joined by Jon’s usual collar and vest situation. He looks as gorgeous as ever, and Martin tells him as much, pretending his voice doesn’t stumble as he does so - he’s never had much confidence in his ability to give compliments, much less so now when so much rides on it.

He doesn’t question Jon’s decision, or what had made him make it, but as they pause for a second before the door he takes Jon’s hand in his and asks him quietly, “You’ll be okay?”

“Will you be there?” Jon asks.

“Always.”

Jon’s smile is enough to assure Martin everything will be fine.

If they get stares in the street on the way to work, Martin tries his best not to notice them, just puts an arm around Jon’s shoulders as they walk and does his best to glare down anyone who so much as glances in their direction. He keeps his arm there as they sit beside each other on the tube, aware of every set of eyes on them, and feels once again that weird stab of pride that he can do this, that he can sit like this and have every person in that carriage know with certainty that Jon is his. He’s always been a little possessive, he thinks, in the healthy way of course. Jon appreciates that, he thinks, and that’s nice too.

Tim whistles when they step through the doors into the archive that morning. It’s piercingly loud amongst the quiet shelves and Martin feels Jon jump out of his skin against his side, but Tim’s smile is kind and well-intended, and Martin doesn’t fail to notice the way Jon smiles privately to himself after their friend has ducked away back to his work.

“Beating the shit out of gender roles, huh?” Tim asks later, in the break room, and Jon actually stifles a laugh.

“Something like that, yes,” he says and Tim nods approvingly.

“Well, looking good boss,” he nods, “You know, I wore a dress once at uni. Was more of a dare but, you know, I looked pretty hot. Would have done it again but this kid in my dorm, James I think he was called, he -”

Martin ducks away before Tim’s story can continue, leaving Jon to suffer it alone. He’s already had to listen to enough of Tim’s tales of his uni days for an entire lifetime, Jon’s just not yet learned when’s best to walk away from them.

By the end of the work day Jon’s practically glowing with happiness and relief. Neither of them even mention it a few days later when Jon puts on another one, and by the end of the week he’s talking about buying more formal skirts specifically for work.

For his next birthday, Martin buys Jon a collection of the prettiest skirts he can find and a soft woollen sweater he’d seen him staring at in the shops some weeks before. Both of them pretend Jon doesn’t have to blink back tears when he opens the neatly wrapped parcel, and when an old school friend of Martin’s asks him about his boyfriend a while later Martin gushes about how pretty Jon’s outfits are for so long he embarrasses himself.

4 - Eyes.

Jon is always watching him. It takes Martin less than a week of dating him to realise this, but a while longer to really come to see it for what it is.

At first he barely notices it, sees nothing more than a few glances shot his way at home while they’re watching the tv and Jon’s gaze drifts, or at work between shelves as they get on with their individual tasks and pretend they don’t see their colleagues smirking at them when they think their backs are turned.

It’s not something Martin ever thought he’d really like. He’s always been uncomfortable at the sensation of eyes on him, had spent an entire childhood watched by cold, uncaring, cruel eyes at school and at home, and has learned well to shrink away from the attention of other people in a bad attempt at protecting himself. But, even though god knows it makes him nervous as anything, Jon’s gaze on him has never made him feel that way, has never brought him that urge to shrivel and curl away from sight like everyone else’s always has done.

He’s aware of the way Jon watches him, and it’s nice. Having him gaze up at him from his lap as they lay on the sofa, eyes curious and thoughtful as he traces Martin’s face, or staring at him sleepily over breakfast, is enough for Martin to, for once, feel observed kindly, to feel worth something. And if Jon enjoys it…well he’s not about to stop him.

It’s only one night Martin realises that it happens more than he’s been noticing.

It’s the hand on his face, he thinks, that wakes him up. He’s a light sleeper when he’s not alone, usually roused a hundred times a night by Jon’s movements next to him in bed, and this time when he wakes it’s because Jon has a hand over the side of his face and is gently stroking his cheek with a reverence gentler than anything Martin’s felt in months. He opens his eyes up slowly, and feels Jon’s hand slow as he realises he’s awake. His boyfriend’s sat up in bed, leaning over him, and as Martin blinks up at him he shuffles backwards away from him a little.

“Can’t sleep?” Martin whispers into the darkness, finally daring to break the silence, and Jon’s hand pauses at the side of his face, thoughtful.

“Didn’t try to,” he admits after a moment, “It seemed…pointless.”

“Sleep isn’t pointless Jon, it’s necessary,” Martin sighs, “What’s wrong? Nightmares?”

“Always,” Jon sighs, and Martin wiggles away from the hand still stroking his jaw so he can sit up and frown at him properly.

“Please try and sleep,” he whispers, “You need it. Sitting here’s not going to help. I can make tea, if you want? Or we can-”

“It is, actually.”

“What?”

“Sitting here,” Jon explains, “It will help. Usually does, anyway. Watching you, it’s…peaceful. Sorry.”

“Why are you apologising?”

“I’m very much aware it’s considered…creepy, I suppose, watching you while you’re unaware. I wouldn’t want to make you feel unsafe.”

Martin snorts out a little laugh. “Unsafe? No offence but you couldn’t harm a fly.”

“I was suspected of murder less than a year ago, Martin.”

“Yeah but you didn’t do it.”

“I could kill a man!” Jon protests, “I’m…I’m very strong.”

“Right, okay. But you’re not going to kill me in my sleep, right?”

“Obviously not.”

“Then…I don’t know, continue whatever you were doing, I don’t mind.”

“You…don’t mind?”

“No,” Martin sighs, “Just…let me go back to sleep?”

“Yeah,” Jon nods, “Yeah, alright.”

By the time Martin finally drifts back off to sleep, Jon’s almost settling next to him, slumping further and further towards something close to a proper sleeping position, but right up until sleep finally pulls Martin under, he’s acutely aware of eyes watching him from behind, careful and loving.

It’s easy from them on for Martin to start picking out the reason behind Jon’s instances of staring.

Sometimes, it’s for comfort. Through stressful inquiries at work, though moments when everything feels fit to collapse around them, Martin will feel those eyes watching him, and when he turns around Jon is staring at him with a careful insistence. Grounding, Martin thinks it is, reminding himself of what he’s got even when everything else feels awful. Sometimes, when Jon’s staring at him, Martin finds it’s an attempt to communicate, trying to put his thoughts out through his eyes on days when words won’t come so easily for him. Sometimes he’s just watching because he wants to, and Martin never minds, not when it’s usually followed by nervous mumbled compliments from Jon’s direction.

He takes to looking back a lot of the time, nervous at first with the eye contact but eventually finding it comfortable to spend a while simply watching Jon watch him, their eyes meeting but always a little distant. It’s in this time Martin decides Jon’s eyes are the prettiest things he’s ever seen, a hundred different shades of green contained within them and always so bright, like freshly polished glass. He tells Jon this once and gets a snort of laughter and a mutter about “poetry” for his troubles. Not that he minds.

Now when Jon lays in his lap he’ll lay on his back and gaze upwards at Martin, his eyes always so deep, so expressive, eyebrows pulled down low over his eyes as he thinks what thoughts go on in that enigmatic head of his. And Martin stares right back down at him, into those pretty eyes, and brushes hair back from Jon’s forehead to get a better look.

He loves Jon for it, for the watching, even when he thinks maybe he shouldn't. It always makes him feel so safe, after all.

Later, Martin will think, perhaps, to describe his boyfriend by something, anything, other than his eyes, aware of the deep and silent horror always stirred up in Jon when he mentions them. But for now, things are not quite so bad, and when Martin thinks of his boyfriend it is always with those fierce green eyes he does not think he will ever get tired of looking at.

5 - Smile

Daisy’s safehouse is not exactly a romantic getaway destination, Martin decides, sweeping years of accumulated dirt and debris into a growing pile at one corner of the living room. Jon’s crouched by the old fireplace, trying to work warmth out of the wood that is definitely too damp to burn properly - the room will be full of smoke come morning, Martin’s certain of it, but he does little to stop Jon, all too aware of the manic determination setting hard lines into his face as he hunches over a box of matches.

It’s been a long few weeks. Martin’s exhausted from days of travel and he still hasn’t shaken off the cold of the Lonely that clings so closely to his bones, and Jon’s been so awfully quiet since they left London that Martin’s almost loathe to start a conversation lest it devolve into an argument like so many of theirs have done recently. It’s been a long few months, actually. Months of separation, of drifting further apart under Peter’s reign of terror, of Martin losing so much hope in everything they’d had. As they attempt to work the safehouse into something vaguely habitable on that first day, Martin’s not even sure what they are anymore.

Days in the safehouse are long and boring and uncomfortable. Martin takes to taking long walks to get out of there, always under the excuse of gathering supplies or making trips out to the nearest phone to call Basira. He spends a lot of time hanging off of the gate to the nearby field, watching the cows within lumber about up to their knees in mud, wishing for the simplicity of their lives.

It’s one day as he’s leaning there, watching a young cow stumble uneasily after its mother, that he suddenly realises he’s not alone. It’s eerie, how silent Jon’s become recently, how good he’s getting at appearing unnoticed in places, so…so far from human these days that Martin doesn’t like to think about it. Because, after all, he’s much the same, isn’t he? He looks in the mirror and sees nothing but whitened hair and swirling fog where there should be a face. Who is he to judge if Jon looks in the mirror and sees nothing but patiently watching eyes?

“Hey,” Martin says quietly as Jon slumps against the fence beside him, “You okay?”

“Wondered where you were,” Jon says, “You’ve been gone for hours.”

“Oh, sorry,” Martin shrugs, “I was…cows. The cows are…nice.” He sighs at his own inability to get words out, at how terribly stupid he sounds, but when he looks over Jon’s staring at him with a look almost of amusement that takes him back a little.

“Cows? Really?” Jon asks.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing, just…you like cows?”

“You don’t?”

“I’ve never had any particular feelings about them.”

“Right, well…we’re stuck out here and there are cows,” Martin shrugs, “At least they’re something. And…they’re cute.”

When he looks over again, he almost falls over at the sudden realisation that Jon is smiling. He hasn’t seen Jon smile like that in months.

It’s a fond, amused little thing, a real proper Jon smile so far from the tight practiced things he uses on irritating visitors to the archives or when he’s dealing with interns in artefact storage. It’s a smile that makes it all the way to those pretty eyes of his and lights them up from the inside.

Martin’s always loved the way Jon smiles when he properly does, the way it makes his face glow. He remembers the way he used to feel when he saw it long ago, back in the flat in London, when things felt easier, when they felt safer. Little tired smiles from Jon in the early morning, excited, uncontained smiles at things that made him happy like soft skirts and cats in the street, nervous, giddy smiles every time Martin told him he loved him, smiles he’d hide by pressing his face into Martin’s shoulder and that were always smiles reserved only for the private security of their own company.

Out here in the cold, unfamiliar air it feels wrong, out of place to see Jon smile like that, and yet it is perfect. The last months have been hard, but in that one moment Martin feels himself fall for Jon all over again. He never fell out of love in the first place, he thinks, this is just falling deeper still.

“Jon,” Martin says, and he sees the way Jon falters nervously, takes a breath like he’s expecting something bad. “I love you.”

“Oh.” Jon breathes out shakily, smile replaced with something far more pained and nervous, and for a second Martin expects nothing until Jon all but lunges forwards at him.

It’s not some cliché movie moment. Jon doesn’t kiss him or bowl him over into the grass in his enthusiasm, he doesn’t even tell him he loves him back. He doesn’t need to. Jon just clings, arms wrapped around Martin so tightly he can barely breathe, butting his head against Martin’s shoulder with as much force as he can muster, and it’s enough. After everything, it’s more than enough.

When Jon pulls back again, he’s grinning wider than anything, and Martin reaches out to hold his face and trace that smile with his thumbs and thinks he’s never seen anything more perfect, that even in such a broken world Jon’s a perfect shining star.

Later on in their lives, there won’t be much call for smiling. Soon it will feel terribly out of place to ever be anything resembling happy. For now, Martin tucks Jon’s hair behind his ear to watch his face light up again, and decides that if ever he gets asked about his partner again, unlikely as it is these days, he’s going to say that Jon has a smile so beautiful he reckons it could end worlds.