Chapter Text
The early morning sky is just turning pale pink at the edges when Jon leans down and kisses Martin’s hair.
“I think,” he says, softly. “Well, I think that’s proof then.”
They’re on the tar-papered roof of Martin’s building, cuddled in close on a rickety plastic lounger. For the past several hours they’ve been watching the sky and waiting for dawn. The two of them came up after the others fell asleep. They had to be sure. Very sure.
They’d left Daisy and Basira splayed on opposite ends of Martin’s sofa, feet tangled together, Melanie and Georgie on a pallet set up near the window to catch the breeze, Tim curled up in a nest of blankets beneath the coffee table.
He’d taken the longest to nod off, even with the whisky Martin had poured him very liberally throughout the evening. He’d worried about it the whole time as Tim paced and ranted and turned the music up loud enough to try and drown out his own thoughts. It was difficult not to worry about Tim given the gravity of their vigil.
But he’d tucked him in a little tighter before he and Jon made the climb to the roof, and Tim had been sleeping deeply, albeit with his forehead scrunched into deep trenches of worry. Martin could hardly fault that.
It had been a good decision to gather together for the wait, Martin thinks. To see if the Unknowing ritual would fizzle on its own as they expected. He’d felt more hopeful than he had any right to, with them all huddled around the coffee table eating way too much Chinese take away directly from the containers. It seems like it should be such a simple thing — banding together, talking to each other, actually communicating. But it isn’t. It’s still so hard. Good, though, when they can manage it. So much better than the alternative.
Martin thinks back a few weeks, when they put their ridiculous hail Mary plan into action. There’s no way any of it should have worked. Somehow, though, they all managed to work in tandem…
The flames were really rather pretty to look at, Martin thought as he brought the lighter up to the first statement. He watched the fire slowly creep up the yellowed page and tossed the lighter to Jon without really looking. Then he smiled and let the page flutter down into the open box of statements. They went up like dry kindling with a satisfying wave of heat and light.
He was so distracted by the box full of fire at his feet, that he initially missed the sounds of Jon’s distress. Hard to miss though, the heart-rending scream he let out a moment later when the box at Jon’s feet also sparked into flame.
He’d turned to see Jon falling to his knees in front of the fire.
“Jon!” he yelled, rushing over to grip the other man by the shoulders. “Jesus, Jon. What’s wrong?”
Jon looked up at him with glassy, dazed eyes, swaying slightly.
“Martin,” he said, voice scraped up and jagged. “Martin, it hurts.”
It made sense, in a way. A horrible, sick sort of sense. Martin remembered how ill Jon had looked after burning the page haunted by Gerard Keay’s ghost.How much worse must it be with this volume of knowledge being destroyed?
He gripped Jon underneath his arms and hauled him up, Jon’s arms immediately going around his neck.
“Shit,” Martin cursed.
And of course that’s when Elias burst into document storage, face a reddened mask of anger, eyes glowing an unnatural, sickly green. He breathed heavily, usually greased-back hair falling out of place.
“Martin, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
He spit when he spoke. There was line of sweat beading on his forehead. It was so unlike the usual calm, composed Elias that it made something click in Martin’s brain. He wasn’t just upset about the statements. He was just like Jon in this way. He … He could feel it.
“Tim!”
He called out desperately. Tim was meant to be guarding the door down into the archives, ready to give Daisy and Basira the heads up if Elias got away. Martin only hoped he could hear.
Gently, Martin laid Jon down as far as he could manage from the burning boxes of statements, then stood and brushed ash and dust from his hands.
“Stop right now, Martin,” Elias demanded as Martin sidled over to one of the shelves filled with more statement boxes.
“Hm,” Martin said with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “No. Shan’t.”
“You do not want to make me angry,” Elias growled at him.
He stalked forward, thankfully past the pile of Jon on the floor, right up to stand toe to toe with Martin. It was a discombobulating revelation to see how much taller he was than the head of the Magnus Institute.
“Oh, what are you gonna do to me?” Martin retorted, still managing way more calm in his voice than should be possible. “Zap me with your laser eyes?”
Elias sniffed, pushed his hair back from his face, and sneered.
“This is really getting quite tedious, Martin. You must see you’re hurting your dearest Jon with this endeavor. Not that he would care much for your concern.”
He tsked, looking over his shoulder at Jon.
“Pathetic really, your loyalty to a man who hasn’t a single care for you,” Elias continued. “Now, be a good lad and give me the lighter.”
Martin’s eyes darted around the room, noting the tell-tale shadow in one corner, the familiar silhouette in the door. He hoped his panicked look properly communicated his message, and was certain it did when when Tim gave him a terse nod.
“You know,” Martin said. “For someone who prides himself on always knowing what’s going on, you are shockingly out of the loop on this one.”
He took pleasure in watching the affected sneer fall from Elias’ face, replaced by a look of confusion. Then he turned his back to the man, flicked open the lighter, and held it up to another box.
“Now, Melanie!” He called out just as Elias grabbed at his shoulder.
He heard a soft grunt, and when he turned, Melanie had her pen knife plunged into the soft meat of Elias’ side and Tim had scooped Jon up bridal-style and was rushing out the door with him. Thank god.
The shelf of statements at Martin’s back crackled warmly. Elias growled in pain and anger. Melanie pulled her knife from his guts and plunged it in again.
“You. Little. Bitch,” Elias gasped out, and Martin really wasn’t sure which of them he was referring to.
But it was Martin’s shoulder he gripped, nails digging though the knit of his jumper and into flesh. A trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, as his upper lip curled in distaste. His eyes were blown wide and bloodshot.
“Takes one to know one,” Martin spat back at him, recklessly.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise when Elias pulled the knife from his own side and stuck it into Martin’s gut, but it was. He hadn’t even felt the pain of it initially, just the shock. He expected Elias to try some spooky eye magic on him, not stab him. He felt light-headed and half drunk.
“That,” Martin slurred, body swaying precariously. “Is dead unsanitary.”
He was wobbling a bit too much for a man standing in front of a crackling fire, but he couldn’t stop no matter how much he willed himself to do so. And Elias was still there, eyes boring into him, a bloody, self-satisfied smile on his face.
“You have no idea the pain I’m about to bring upon you,” he growled.
Martin believed him, but he couldn’t figure out just what to do about it while his vision blurred around the edges. He could at least remember the most important thing, which was that Elias was here, focused on Martin rather than on anything else.
He was trying to make up his mind whether it would be best to fall back onto the shelves or forward into Elias —remaining upright was no longer an option — when the storage room door opened with a bang and a crash and the room was filled with incomprehensible yelling.
In the ruckus, Martin decided to fall forward, and proceeded to do so. Just before he passed out, he saw Elias being forced to his knees by a couple people in uniform. That was good, right? He nodded to himself and closed his eyes.
“Martin!” Suddenly Melanie was slapping his face. “Wake up. Fucking Christ, he’ll never let me live this down…”
Martin grumbled, but he managed to stay awake long enough to be loaded into an ambulance while Melanie fussed and cursed at him. Was it strange he found that comforting? It was very, very comforting.
It was only later, from a hospital bed with Jon curled up beside him, clutching his hand protectively and the other assistants clustered around his bed, that Martin got the full story of what happened. Tim had called 999 after carrying Jon out of the institute, and the Section 31 officers who arrived had wasted little time in dragging Elias off to … Somewhere where they had been assured he was securely locked up. And Basira and Daisy had done an effective job in raiding his office while he’d been distracted. They’d found a collection of tapes in a locked drawer in his desk as well as a key to a safety deposit box.
They all went together to go through the contents of the box a few days later. It had been horrifying, if not surprising, to hear Elias shoot Gertrude in cold blood.
The shocking part came when they started to read through Elias’ notes. He had been so insistent that they needed to deal with the Unknowing, but apparently that was all false danger. The rituals couldn’t succeed. Not separate from the other fears. Or so Elias believed. So Gertrude believed. Enough to completely ignore the Dark’s attempt at apocalypse. It all made Martin feel sick to his stomach.
But Jon looked much worse than he felt — his face turned an ashen grey, his hand trembling as he clutched a sheet a paper in his hands. Martin was quick to take it from him and scan it.
“Jon … what is this?” he asked, trepidation thickening his voice.
The words turned Martin’s blood to ice in his veins. Come to us in your Wholeness. Come to us in your Perfection. They burned themselves onto the back of his eyes.
“I think, uh, I think it’s a ritual?” Jon whispered. He’d sunk down to a crouch, hiding his face in his shaking hands. “And I think it was meant for me, Martin.”
It had been days and days of arguments — screaming matches between Tim and Jon and Melanie and Daisy, quiet seething and biting passive aggressiveness from Martin and Basira — but they had decided. In the face of the Unknowing, they would do nothing. They would wait and watch, and then they would plan for the future. Provided there is a future. There might actually be a future.
“I’m not losing anyone else,” Jon had said, finally, in the quiet of a decisive, cooling fight. “Not if there’s another way.”
Tim hung his head, shoulders tight in defeat.
“Fine boss,” he said. “Whatever you say.”
So here they are on Martin’s rooftop, watching the sky and whispering. In many ways it reminds Martin of those late-night phone calls when Jon was in America, when this thing between them started in earnest. He looks at the faint pinprick stars, and listens to Jon’s voice. Only it’s better now because he can feel the rumble of his voice as he speaks, with his head on Jon’s chest.
Martin’s mind is tense and racing, but his body feels heavy with sleep. At this point it’s mostly the conversation that’s keeping him from drifting off.
“Obviously I was the last to figure it out,” he says when there’s a lull, and his eyes keep slipping closed for dangerously long spaces of time. “But when did you know? That you wanted us to be together?”
Jon chuckles, his breath ruffling Martin’s hair.
“Honestly?” he asks.
“Yes,” Martin says. “I think I can take it.”
“I … Well, I was rather enamored with you from the first day we met.”
Martin cranes his neck at an awkward angle to look up into Jon’s smirking face.
“Bullshit,” he says. “Tell me the truth.”
“But I am,” Jon insists, tone light with suppressed laughter. “How could I not be? Martin, you came into my office wearing that shirt that makes your arms do the thing —”
“What thing?” Martin asks. “My arms are perfectly normal, thank you.”
“You’re arms are excellent, dearest. And you were wearing the shirt that makes them do the popping, ‘look at me, I could carry you about without any strain’ thing, and you were breathless and trying to help a stray puppy.”
“You were so mad about the dog!”
“I was flustered! You made me … Very flustered in those early day. And it came out all twisted. Because you were unfairly attractive, and I thought you had a degree in parapsychology and at least five years on me, and I was your under-qualified boss and, well. I’m sorry for the way I treated you. I truly am.”
“I know,” Martin says quietly, nestling deeper into Jon’s hold. “I know, Jon.”
“Anyway, I told myself nothing could come of it. But then I went to America, and it started to feel like talking to you was the only thing keeping me sane, some days. I was so lost, and it felt like you were this beacon that I could follow, when things were at the worst. It still feels like that. I didn’t want to lose that. I don’t.”
“You won’t,” Martin says, placing a kiss in the hollow of Jon’s throat as he speaks, the closest bit of skin he can reach. “I promise.”
Jon doesn’t reply, just squeezes him a little tighter. They watch the sky in comfortable silence for a while.
“So,” Martin says. “You don’t hate dogs then?”
“I prefer cats,” Jon hedges.
“I mean, we could do one of each,” Martin says, with a yawn. “If we found a pet friendly place.”
The hand that’s been stroking through the short hair at the back of Martin’s head stills, and he realizes he may have just said something very stupid. Too fast. It must be too fast. Mustn’t it?
“Oh?” Jon says. “Is there, um, something you’d like to ask me, Martin?”
“I—I mean. M-Maybe not just yet?” Martin’s heart is beating frenetically He feels like he’s breathing too quickly and taking in no air whatsoever. “But if I did ask. What do you think you’d say?”
Jon’s hand resumes its comforting motion. A cheek settles against the top of Martin’s head.
“Yes. I’d say yes. If you asked.”
“Well,” Martin says, breath and heartbeat settling. “That’s very good to know.”
They talk of inconsequential things until the sky pinks, and the sun rises properly, and their grim vigil is complete. Slowly, Martin unfolds himself from his curled and twisted position. He stands and stretches out his spine with a pop. He reaches a hand down to help Jon up.
“Suppose we should go down and check on the others,” he says.
There are so many plans to be made. Elias is technically in jail, but none of them think that’s a situation that will last very long, and the fears are still out there, terrorizing people. Even if the rituals aren’t a threat, the members of the archive are some of the few in a position to challenge them. It’s part overwhelming, part energizing to think of the work ahead of them. Jon’s hand is clasped in Martin’s, but he pauses. Hesitates.
“Or perhaps you could go without me? I could just head home. Give you all a bit of time to yourselves.”
“What?” Martin asks, dumbly.
Jon grunts as he allows Martin to haul him to his feet.
“They hate me, Martin,” he says, eyes focused on the ground. “Surely it’s best if I let them celebrate in peace.”
“They don’t hate you.”
Martin has no idea how Jon manages to make a snort clearly sarcastic, but he does.
“No really, they don’t,” he insists. “Look, Jon. I think we’ve all struggled to treat each other kindly recently. There’s been a lot of pressure on everyone. But you have to realize you were just the easiest target. You were a scapegoat. But I think we’re all determined to do a bit better, now. Right? Treat each other a little more gently,”
Jon looks at him for a long moment, his face a grimace.
“And if you’re wrong?”
Martin feels his own face turn hard and stubborn.
“Well, they’ll just have to adjust their attitudes, won’t they? We’re a package deal.”
“Are we?”
“Yes!” Martin insists with a stamp of his foot that feels childish even as he does it.
Jon’s hand is still in his, and he uses it to tug him close so he can wrap an arm about his waist.
“After all,” he says, softly. “You are my boyfriend, right?”
Jon snorts, and Martin swears he hears him mutter “Took you bloody long enough,” under his breath. But then he surges forward to plant a searing kiss on Martin’s lips. They’re both a little breathless when they break apart. He rests his forehead against Jon’s.
“I love you, you know,” Martin says, heart almost unbearably full. “I’m really glad the world hasn’t been taken over by creepy mannequins.”
He gets a groan in response to that one, but Jon’s still smiling up at him.
“Yes, Martin,” he says with an indulgent sigh. “I love you too.”
*
Everyone else in the flat is still asleep when Martin succeeds in persuading Jon back to his apartment. The rummage-sale quaintness of the space is ruined slightly by the empty beer cans and takeaway containers strewn throughout the living room and the burly police detective snoring thunderously even as she’s half fallen off the couch.
That position … really cannot be good for Daisy’s neck, Jon thinks as he’s pulled into the kitchen. Not that he’s going to do anything about it. Waking a sleeping Daisy seems like a very dangerous proposition.
Jon really does despair of Martin’s kitchen, he thinks as he surveys the cramped space. He’ll have to insist on something a bit larger when they look for a place of their own. Pet friendly, big kitchen … He’s assembling quite the list in his head. Might be difficult to swing, but sharing expenses they might be able to find something acceptable.
It’s a warming thought, after all they’ve been through in recent weeks. Sharing space together. Making a home. It’s almost possible, now, for him to imagine it without picturing it being immediately ripped away from them.
There’s still plenty to worry over, but it’s easier not to see catastrophe with every step than it has been in a very long time. Martin releases his hand and puts the kettle on for tea. He’s moving better now, but he still favors the side where he was stabbed, rubbing at it gently while he waits for the water to boil.
Jon can’t help but go over and wrap his arms around Martin’s waist, resting his head on his shoulder so they can both watch the stovetop.
“Hmm,” Martin makes a pleased noise and settles back against him, which is really quite lovely. “How about you show off your culinary prowess and make some breakfast for everyone.”
“But,” Jon protests. “I’m very content just now.”
“Might be a good start to thawing the mood around here,” Martin continues. “What’s that they say about hearts and stomachs?”
“If you want breakfast, love, all you have to do is ask,” Jon can’t help but snark, even as he heads to the fridge to hunt up ingredients. The soft expression the endearment brings to Martin’s face is an added bonus.
He settles on making a big pan of eggs in purgatory, and has no choice but to make fresh flatbread after Martin presents him with the stale abomination that passes for a loaf of bread in his home. Really, Jon has some standards.
As the smells of tomatoes and garlic fill the air, Jon starts to hear rustlings from the living room. Martin lays out a line of mugs and begins to make tea assembly-line style.
Surprisingly, Tim is the first to make his way into the kitchen. His hair is sleep-ruffled, his eyes are red-rimmed, and he looks significantly worse for the night they had. Standing in the doorway, he rubs sleepily at his eyes and blinks in confusion at Jon and Martin, mouth forming the beginnings of a pout.
“Are you both … you?” he asks in a small, tired voice rough from drink and sleeplessness.
“Of course we are!” Martin splutters.
Jon considers, approaches Tim cautiously but steadily.
“Nothing happened last night, Tim,” he says, putting as much conviction in his voice as he can muster and looking directly in Tim’s eyes. “The ritual failed. But I understand if you need to … confirm for yourself. That I’m telling the truth.”
Tim takes a long time to respond, eyes never leaving Jon’s.
“No,” he finally says, hard and decisive. “I trust you.”
“Good,” Jon says with a sharp nod. “Breakfast will be ready in twenty minutes.”
He turns to go back to the stove, but before he can a hand reaches out and grips his shoulder. Tim holds him there, gaze still steady on him.
“Thanks, Boss,” he says after a long beat. “I … Just, thanks.”
Jon feels the muscles in his body relax from their previously tense state. It’s the first time in a very long time Tim has regarded him with anything other than anger or bitter resignation, and he finds he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
He clears his throat.
“Well, um. Yes. Quite.”
He shuffles away, Tim releasing his grip as he goes. Martin takes over from where Jon left off, crowding Tim into a hug that he sinks into before handing him a mug and corralling him into a seat at the kitchen table as the rest of their companions trickle in slowly.
Jon lingers at the oven while Martin distributes tea, listening with half an ear while Melanie whinges about the early hour, consoled by an indulgent Georgie and Basira attempts to dissuade Daisy from taking a trip up to Great Yarmouth.
Eventually he has to either move to the table or overcook the eggs, and some indignities cannot be countenanced. He carries the pan over to the table for serving and takes the empty seat beside Martin.
Jon doesn’t miss how the chatter at the table cuts off when he approaches. Martin’s hand moves to his thigh under the table and gives it a squeeze. He takes a little comfort in the warmth and contact before steeling himself to look up at the group around him.
Instead of the hostility he’s expecting, he’s met with a mixture of shock and curiosity.
“Wait. Do you eat regular food?”
This from Melanie, eyebrows raised to the sky.
“I definitely thought you subsisted solely on statements,” Basira adds.
Jon reaches down and grabs for Martin’s hand, tangling their fingers together.
“Yes, well,” he says. “Turns out you were wrong. Now. Eat your breakfast.”
“It’s not poisoned, is it?” Melanie asks, just as Tim says “This is quite good, boss,” with his mouth half-stuffed full of naan.
“Dosed with truth serum,” Jon says.
Melanie chokes on her eggs while Tim and Martin meet eyes across the table and break out into a giggle. Jon’s chest is suffused by sudden warmth. Maybe this is the way it was always meant to be, teasing and laughing in defiance of the horror around them. It feels nice.
They spend the rest of breakfast judging each other’s taste in tea and arguing about what to do next.
“Three sugars is not too much, Timothy!” Martin says, a little too loud for a Wednesday morning. “Also, I don’t think it would be the worst idea.”
“It is, though,” Tim insists. “You want to be, what? Super heroes?”
Martin has been insisting that, now they don’t have to worry about big rituals, or Elias for the moment, they should spend their time helping individual statement givers. Jon can’t help but think about Helen — her desperation before she walked through that impossible door, the idea that he could have done, well, something about it. Of course Martin’s heart would be in the right place.
“Not super heroes.” Martin insists. “Just, like, I don’t know … A neighborhood watch, but without the casual racism and fixation on grass height?”
“Seems a little idealistic,” Daisy says.
“Well, why shouldn’t it be?” Jon says, on the defensive. Martin deserves to be defended, after all. “Maybe we could all stand to be a little idealistic.”
The smile he gets from Martin, bright and glorious, makes it all worth it.
The rest of the table erupts into argument, but it isn’t like it has been for the past few weeks. Tim elbows Melanie and raises his voice, big and bold, over hers, and Basira lays her head on Daisy’s shoulder even as she tells her she hid all the ammunition.
“And you’ll never find it …” she sing-songs.
“Says you,” Daisy replies with an indulgent smile.
Jon scoots his chair minutely closer to Martin, ruffling himself with pleasure when a strong arm drapes itself around the back of his chair. Across the table, Tim catches this and winks at him before continuing his shouting match with Melanie.
It’s hardly a perfect peaceful moment, but it might be ask close as they come. None of the terrors chasing them have stopped, and Elia is still out there, lurking and watching. Being generally fucking ominous.
But maybe that’s not the only thing that matters, Jon thinks as Martin pulls him close and kisses his temple Maybe moments like this, with breakfast and tea and friends around a table, make the rest of it worth it. Or leastways more bearable. Just a little overcome, Jon buries his face in the sleeve of Martin’s shirt. He feels warm and full and inexplicably happy.
Good Lord. Who would have known?