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It wasn’t that Jon was unaware of such wild and abstruse concepts as ‘days off’ and ‘weekends’. It was just that he seemed perfectly convinced that they only applied to other people.
Tim, Sasha and Martin all had a more than reasonable leave allowance and were very much not expected to come in at all hours, on all days, regardless of how busy they were. Sick leave was encouraged, at the slightest cough or sneeze, thanks to Jon’s fiercely denied mother-henning; and lateness to work was only taken note of, if a message hadn’t been dutifully sent to reassure the others that the absentee had not met with some dire, and probably eldritch, peril, but had merely overslept or thought it would be rude not to stop and admire a puppy, for example, when said puppy was available for admiration.
When it came to Jon, however, he seemed to assume himself on duty at all times, and on all occasions, including through any illness or injury which he hadn’t actually been hospitalised for. He had been known to start a case at three o’clock in the morning, with no indication that this was in any way unreasonable, and had a sleep pattern for which the word ‘erratic’ was a grave understatement.
Martin had, of course, made every effort to change all this, but his success was only partial. He had mostly gotten Jon to leave the office before seven, but, for every day of rest that he managed to sweet-talk Jon into, there was a juggernaut of late nights, or early mornings (or ‘simply not going home at all’s) to follow.
And it was true that there was always a queue of people who badly needed his help - and that Jon’s particular niche in the detective world had a population of one - but Martin also had the feeling that Jon conceptualised himself through his work and felt slightly adrift, and less real, when away from it for too long; as if his untethered personality might unravel and dissolve, like candyfloss in water.
But, after a string of urgent life-or-death cases meant that Jon worked three forty-eight hour shifts in two weeks, Martin decided that an intervention was required.
“Jon, you can’t keep doing this.”
“Somebody has to.”
Jon stayed focused on the notes he was taking, to wrap up the last case. It had been a particularly unpleasant one, involving a very literal interpretation of showing people what you were really like on the inside.
(Martin had seen plenty of anatomical diagrams, but none of them had ever smiled politely at him and talked about the weather, with their kidneys all hanging out).
“Look, you can’t help anyone, if you work until you collapse.”
“I hardly ever collapse.”
“Oh, really? Would you like me to give you an itemised list of occasions?”
“I’d much prefer if you didn’t.” Jon looked up, finally; his eyes shadowed by tiredness and that confounded sense of responsibility which he never, ever put down. “Fine. I should, perhaps, more correctly have said, that I hardly ever collapse from overwork. Most of those times were kidnap-related.”
“Okay, leaving aside the fact that ‘kidnap-related’ and ‘work-related’ is generally the same thing, in your case, you shouldn’t need me to tell you that the correct amount of times to collapse from overwork is zero.”
Jon closed his eyes and rubbed them, radiating a tiredness which seemed in danger, not just of overwhelming him, but of slipping into the depth of his bones and refusing ever to leave. It took a huge amount of willpower not to just pick him up and take him home to sleep.
“That’s a fair point, I suppose. But —”
“But nothing, Jon. Look, I can’t make you stop working, but your body can and then you won’t have any choice about how long you’re out of commission.”
“Okay. Okay, you’re right. I’ll head home and get some rest. Start fresh in the morning.”
“Well … that’s part of what I had in mind …”
~~~
Martin suspected that, if the office was left open, an emergency would, with absolute certainty, contrive itself and hook Jon back in, like a gaffered fish. And, besides, the task of keeping Jon from ‘accidentally’ working, seemed like one which would benefit from reinforcements. So the holiday had ended up being a whole team event.
Georgie and Gerry had promised to keep an eye on Hogules and make sure there were enough paperclips (and a stray sock or two, for variety) left out for the gulper. Which left the rest of them free to take three days - the maximum they could get Jon to agree to - on the Cornish coast. It felt to Martin like a nice, safe choice: so full of refreshing sea air and gorgeous scenery, golden sands and dramatic sunsets, that even the Fears probably just gave in and wandered around like tourists, munching on a pasty and pretending to be King Arthur.
Tim had found them a, frankly incredible, deal, on a cottage in Penzance, through an old connection whom Tim had apparently given such a very nice time, three years ago, that they were still inclined to be indulgent. And Sasha had been so delighted to have a chance to use her car for something other than dull family visits, that she insisted on driving the whole way and working through her entire collection of eighties’ bangers, at full blast.
Despite this, Jon had fallen utterly asleep within the first few lines of ‘Take on Me’ and not woken until the last strains of ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ as they pulled into the cottage.
Martin had hoped that the rest would make him a little more amenable to having a good time. But it turned out that ‘Jon’ and ‘fun’ were two words that only ever circled each other warily, but declined to actually approach.
This was clear from the moment that Martin made the, not wildly unreasonable, suggestion, that they start their coastal visit with a trip to the beach.
“You see, the thing with beaches is, they’re far too sandy. The second you even look at a beach, it takes that as an open invitation to clamber into your hair, your eyes, your clothes, your lunch and your immortal soul, and just lodge in the corners, so you can never quite get it all out. Oh, and also, sometimes you bump into the Sandman, gathering fresh supplies, and barely escape with your eyes.”
With anyone else, Martin would assume they were being whimsical; with Jon, this was clearly one hundred percent literal.
“Oookay. Well, I’m sure we’d all like to hang on to our eyes, so … fine. Beaches are out. But there’s a whole lot else which doesn’t have to involve sand. I mean, we’re quite close to Land’s End?”
Jon looked guiltily down at his hands and fidgeted them.
“Ah. That’s … sort of a stronghold of the Vast? And, let’s just say, I didn’t make any friends the last time I went there.”
“Pony-trekking, then.” Tim sprawled out luxuriously on the couch, his limbs already very much in the holiday mood and set to ‘casual’. “You like animals, right? I know a couple of great places near here. They’ll find something even you can’t fall off.”
There was a pause.
“I … I do like animals. Generally.”
Martin put his face in his hands.
“Go on, then, what horrific horse-related thing happened to you?”
Jon sighed and put on his ‘resolute’ expression.
“You know what, it’s fine. It was just this one occasion, on some deserted moors, where there were some … horse-like creatures, which breathed fire, as if the depths of hell were belching forth from their mouths and calling for judgment. And there may have been a moderate amount of gnawing on gobbets of human flesh. I’m sure I’ll get over it.”
Tim took out a list of possible activities and crossed ‘Pony trekking?’ firmly off, mouthing ‘Gobbets?’ under his breath and wearing the look of a man who had gained a haunting mental image, which just wouldn’t quit.
“Look, I’m sorry. I did say at the start, that I wasn’t really a holiday sort of person. And there’s nothing to stop you three from doing all of that. I just doubt that it would be a good idea for me to do it with you. Things tend to get rather —”
“Spooky?”
That earned Sasha a deserved glare. The word was still a bit of a sore point.
“I was leaning towards ‘eerie’. Not to mention horrifically dangerous.”
“And gobbety.”
“On occasion, unfortunately, yes. A bit gobbety.”
Martin saw his holiday plans crumbling and resting in a small sad heap on the floor.
“But, look, we can’t just leave you here, while we go out and have fun!”
“Oh, I shall also be having fun. I brought some exciting books on mycology and the history of glass-blowing.” Jon smiled at him happily, before noticing that Martin didn’t quite share his level of enthusiam. “Ah, but, if that’s going to upset you, I could just go back home and —”
“No! No, the whole point is that you get away from work for a bit. And I was also hoping we’d get to spend a bit more free time together, without, you know, wrestling with monsters. Honestly, that’s far more important than beaches, or the countryside, or any of that. So how about I stay here and read with you, maybe work on a little poetry, and Tim and Sasha can go out and risk evil sand creatures and fire-breathing horses?”
After a little discussion, they agreed that Martin would spend the mornings lazing pleasantly with Jon, before heading out to meet the others in the afternoon, because Jon was so anxious that Martin was missing out on his holiday (and so disinclined to believe that Martin would quite happily spend three days in a cardboard box, if Jon was there with him) that he’d probably end up feeling worse at the end of the holiday, instead of nicely refreshed.
And somehow, against all the odds, it actually worked.
Martin had rarely let himself simply lounge.
There had always been something that needed doing. Work: whatever he could get with his limited qualifications and increasingly desperate lies. Looking after his mum: a job which he had tried so hard not to resent, but which she had resented enough for both of them. All of those little tasks which never seemed to end, and which he’d had ingrained into him, that it would make him lazy and feckless, if he left them undone (not that he wasn’t called lazy and feckless, anyway, when he did get them done, but that didn’t seem to make a difference to his need to try: to achieve that impossible goal of ‘good son’).
So, there was something about having a really indulgent lie-in, which felt almost forbidden; even a little bit magical.
There was nowhere he needed to be, nothing he needed to do, and the quilt was a comforting haven, which called to him, like some big fluffy siren, to stay and wallow in its warmth and safety. Even better, of course, was Jon, tucked up all warm and comfortable against him, for as long as he could keep his restlessness in; and then humming delightfully, as he pottered about in the kitchen, making tea and the fixings for that most decadent of luxuries, breakfast in bed.
When Jon brought in the tray for him, with a shy smile that betrayed some anxiety about the condiment choices, Martin damn near cried into his well-buttered toast.
There was a garden attached to the cottage, small, but well-kept, and overflowing with the sort of bright and cheerful flowers, which felt like a burst of direct sunshine to the heart.
So, after seeing Tim and Sasha off, with happy discussions of surfing and seals, they settled outside, Jon disappearing so deeply into his book, that it might as well have swallowed him. Martin just watched him for a while, charmed by how relaxed and peaceful and endearingly absorbed he looked, cast deep in the realm of fungi. Then he got out his own book and well-worn notebook and spent the morning switching comfortably between reading, writing, and simply enjoying the sight of Jon amongst the flowers, sprawled and loose.
Martin was enjoying the day so much, that he was reluctant to leave after lunch; but Jon was determined he didn’t miss out. And, in the end, he didn’t regret the experience of wandering through some of the streets of Cornwall with Tim and Sasha, and even risking the horrors of the Sandman, for the sheer joy of an ice cream cone by the sea, on a warm afternoon.
They returned, tired and happy, with wrapped paper packets of fish and chips, to find Jon - to Martin’s secret relief - not kidnapped (as a small part of him couldn’t help but have feared) or stealthily working on some case, but still sprawled out in the garden and just as absorbed as before, though he’d moved on to a different book. After the meal, a blissful paean to the dream team of salt, fat and vinegar, they played ridiculous games together for a few hours, before falling into bed and, almost immediately, to sleep.
The second day followed a similar pattern and Martin allowed himself to feel rather smug about the success of Project ‘Get Jon to chill the heck out’; which had also had the unexpected side effect of making him realise that maybe he needed to take a little more time too, just for himself.
So, naturally, it was the last day, when things went awry.
They all had a much shorter lie-in that morning, because they needed to tidy the cottage before leaving; not that it took long, only a matter of being ruthless with crumbs and doing the washing-up, before packing their things (then going back, once or twice, to catch all the stray socks and other bits and bobs which had mischievously turned themselves invisible, on the first few sweeps).
It was just as they were leaving, that Martin had the misfortune to remember two things: first, that Jon had once, in passing, mentioned fairground carousels in terms which were unreasonably adorable, even for him.
And, second, that there just happened to be a fine example of the species, fairly close by.
Jon was reluctant, citing ‘the high probability of eeriness’, but Martin had the idea in his head, now, and it felt suddenly imperative that they do this; that they finish off the holiday, all having fun together, doing something harmless and silly and perfect.
And it all would have been fine, if, just as they entered the theme park, a sudden fog hadn’t rolled in.
~~~
“Jon? Tim? Sasha? Jon!”
There were people all around, just as you’d expect in a popular attraction, but none of them were his friends; and he was beginning to have a strong suspicion that none of them had faces. Which, well … Martin wasn’t one to judge on appearances, but that really didn’t seem like a good sign.
He sat down for a moment to think (and because his legs were getting a little uncertain about their ability not to collapse in a forlorn heap) then almost jumped a full foot, as a tall man, even more solid than he was, sat down as well, on the other side of the bench.
“So nice to meet you, Martin. It is Martin, isn’t it?”
Martin hadn’t met Captain Peter Lukas before, but he’d heard of the man and it didn’t take much to put him and the fog together and make ‘Forsaken’.
“You’re wasting your time with me. I’ve got Jon, I’ve got good friends. I’m the least lonely I’ve ever been in my life.”
The fog seemed to thin as he spoke; but not nearly enough. Lukas just hummed, thoughtfully.
“You’re right, of course. It’s surprising I even managed to get you in here. Except …”
He tailed off and gave Martin a huge, and deceptively jolly, smile.
“The Lonely isn’t something you shrug off so easily, Martin. And you had it in deep for a while there, didn’t you? Eating away at your bones, wrapping in knots around your veins, until you began to crave that delicious numbness. That emptiness, so much less painful than toiling through another weary day, knowing that no one truly loved you. That you weren’t capable of being loved.”
Martin huffed impatiently. He wasn’t affected by this - he wasn’t - not by any of it, because he was fine now.
“Well, spoiler alert, turns out I was capable of being loved. So, I’ll just be going now.”
“Oh no, please, you only just came. Join me for a little while.”
Lukas leaned back against the bench and sighed with contentment.
“You know, you mightn’t think it, but these places can be so deliciously lonely. A family, getting increasingly exasperated with each other, small, but incessant, annoyances, rubbing away at their tenderest places, until they want nothing more than peace.
“Couples, trying desperately to fill in the gaps in their relationship with the thrills and excitement they no longer find in each other.
“Then there are those who are here just because they’ve been dragged along to have fun, by people who pretend to care for them, except there’s so much noise and busyness and crowds and pressure, and no one who seems to understand why they hate it so much … and wouldn’t it be better to just be swallowed up by the quiet, forever and ever?”
He turned to smile, slyly, at Martin.
“How is your Jon, by the way?”
“Oh, very subtle. It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it though? I mean, I’m just picking up what you’re laying down, here. Is that the right phrase? And, if you’re worried that, say, Jon’s getting tired of you interfering and fussing over him all the time, that maybe he’s just been humouring you for a while, and now that he’s got Georgie and Gerry back in his life - both so much prettier and more interesting - then what does he even need you for; then, well. I can’t exactly help that.”
“I do not think like that!”
Except that he had done sometimes, hadn’t he? Just a bit. In small, isolated moments. In the cold before dawn, that point when your defences are down and every worst thought and lowest self-opinion, pop into your brain for tea and cake.
And, after all, wasn’t there just the tiniest grain of truth in it? Martin was, by far, the dullest person Jon knew, and, no, he didn’t really doubt that Jon loved him, he showed that every day; but maybe he did doubt that he deserved it? That Jon wouldn’t be better off, if he just quietly disappeared again from his life and …
“Martin! Martin!”
The fog didn’t just disperse, it backed right away, whimpering; while Lukas looked amusingly startled. It wasn’t that he was not expecting Jon - Martin recognised perfectly well his position as hostage - but, just that he had intended him to be more anxious and less flat-out furious.
He tried, however, to plaster back on some insouciance.
“Ah hello, Jonathan, I was wondering when you would …”
“Oh, put a sock in it, Peter.”
At which unexpected colloquialism, Martin though he probably looked just as startled as Captain Lukas.
“Look, I’m really not in the mood for your petty mind games. Whatever you want to see me about, be it evil schemes or … well, actually, it’s generally evil schemes, isn’t it? In any case, you can make an appointment with the office, just like everyone else. Menacing hours start again tomorrow, nine a.m. Right now, though … I’m on holiday with my boyfriend.”
Jon held out his hand and smiled, with such a genuine joy in beholding him, such a deep-rooted, blazing affection, that it ripped through Martin like a housefire and scorched away all the coldness and doubts. He took Jon’s hand in a firm grip, feeling the clank as they anchored one another.
The crowd grew faces again, the sounds returned to the world and Captain Peter Lukas was nowhere to be seen.
But it didn’t matter right then, anyway, because Jon and Martin only had eyes for each other.
~~~
“What? I mean, it is a little thrilling.”
Jon patted his wooden mount - a nice, safe horse, of the type which had never even considered rending human flesh, nor belching so much as a spark - and looked around at the others’ amusement, with genuine puzzlement. Martin wanted to kiss him right then, so badly that it seemed genuinely possible he might die if deprived of the opportunity; and, hell, they were on holiday.
So he leaned across, as the ride started up again, and kissed and kissed Jon on the carousel, until he began to think they might be a little thrilling, after all.
In fact, he was fairly sure that this was his new favourite ride forever.