Archive of Our Own

1. Isolation

Martin knows that Jon isn't the most emotionally articulate person. Emotionally intelligent, sure, he know, but… emotional articulate? No. For all of his wordiness and clever vocabulary, Jonathan Sims isn't very good at talking about his feelings.

He used to be a lot worse at letting himself feel them, too, but Martin likes to think he's had a positive impact on that. Something about knowing he has a soft place to land whenever he needs it seems to have been good for Jon in getting him to let go sometimes. He no longer hides under the covers after waking from a nightmare — instead he turns to face Martin and lets himself be held as he shakes. And Martin is happy to do it. Martin is happy to coax him from his thorny shell when he withdraws into himself from guilt and grief, because he loves him.

Jon has been through so much, and Martin is happy to be his resting place. Do you think we kicked someone else out? Jon had asked when they walked through the door into the hallway, littered with battered oxfords and matted loafers. Martin had said that no, he didn't think so, because who's to say that a dinky, perfect apartment couldn't materialise out of nowhere if Jon could survive and the fears could be banished? He'd said it easily to allow Jon some peace of mind granted by a logical argument even though Martin had worried the same thing, himself.

Jon has been worrying about others for so long. He deserves being put first for a while.

So when Martin drops his favourite mug when making tea, he doesn't make a fuss.

He hasn't even managed to pour any water in, so there's just the pieces of porcelain to deal with. He somehow knocked the bottom of the kettle into his mug and, perched on the edge of the counter as it was, that was enough to push it onto the floor where it shattered magnificently into several big chunks, but also tiny ceramic shards.

"Martin? You alright?" Jon calls from the sitting room.

Martin takes a deep breath. "I'm alright!" he shouts back, "knocked over a mug, is all. Could you get the broom?"

He hears the thud of Jon's book hitting the table and then hurried steps through the apartment. "Alright," Jon's voice is coming closer again, "stand still and I'll get it all. D'you reckon we need the hoover?"

Martin glances at the floor again, winces at the sight of the tea-loving pug he adores so much cracked down the middle. He swallows. "Yeah, that'd be good, I think."

Jon comes into the kitchen dressed in slippers, both the broom and hoover in hand, ready to clean. His eyes widen at the sight of the mess in the kitchen. "Good lord," he mutters, and Martin's heart drops into his stomach.

"I know," he laughs, and thinks he does rather a good job of it, too. "It's almost impressive, isn't it?"

Jon nods, and then starts pushing the larger pieces of the mug into the dustpan. "Rather is. I didn't even know mugs could shatter like this. What happened?"

Martin feels a bit of genuine mirth at that, his happiness and love for Jon bleeding through and lightening the odd heaviness of losing his mug. "Well, you've got to learn things like the rest of us now, don't you?" Jon huffs. Martin shrugs toward the still steaming kettle on the counter top. "Knocked the kettle into it and it fell to the floor."

"Hm," Jon says as he plugs in the hoover. They both wince at the high-pitched whine of it. It's sort of shit, really, but it's what was stowed into the cleaning closet when they first came here and they haven't really bothered with going electronics-shopping yet.

The noise is over soon enough though, and once Jon's satisfied Martin is safe from any mug debris, he walks over and rubs his arm.

"You alright?" he asks, and Martin realizes he must be doing a poor job of seeming relaxed about the whole affair. He smiles.

"Yes, Jon. I'm still alright ten minutes after you asked last." He nods toward the mug still on the counter, with a lonely, dry teabag in it. "Yours is still alright."

Jon wrinkles his nose, and then he looks over to the full dustpan. "Oh, Martin," he says sadly. "Was that your tea cup?"

"Tea cup" had become their shorthand for Martin's favourite mug very quickly after they moved in. It is — was — a white mug printed with a happy pug and the words "I FLIPPIN' LOVE TEA" in neat handwriting on it. The I-flippin'-love-tea-cup was a little bulky.

"Yeah," he admits, and Jon squeezes his arm. "It's alright, though, not like I don't have plenty more."

"Yes, but," Jon protests, eyebrows crinkling like this is a very serious matter and not just Martin suffering the consequences of his own clumsiness. "It was your favourite, wasn't it? We should go get you a new one."

"I don't think they sell it any more," Martin says absently, turning himself around and carefully reaching for the kettle again. It hasn't been very long, and the water inside is still steaming hot. He fills Jon's mug up and doctors it with cream and sugar before turning again.

Jon is still frowning. "That's bollocks," he says.

Martin kisses the crease between his brows and smiles. "I'll be alright, love." He presses the mug into Jon's hands (printed World's Best Boss) and backs up. "I'll be right back, just need to use the loo."

He leaves Jon in the kitchen, frowning, and makes his way over to the bathroom. As soon as he closes the door behind him, he feels something claw its way up his throat, and he turns on the tap to hopefully the mask the sound of his gasps.

Martin doesn't even sit down when the tears start coming, just wraps his arms around himself and curls forward, tense like a bow. He doesn't know what's happening, just that his eyes sting and he can't breathe.

He can't breathe and it feels like he's being suffocated by his own traitorous emotions. It's like he was on track, and then something in his brain slammed on the brakes and derailed him completely, sent him skidding sideways. He shudders and tries to press the sobs down, down into something quieter and subtler and less earth-shaking. He's going to break and fall apart and he won't ever feel anything other than this ever again.

The tears burn hot down his cheeks and he squints his eyes and thinks of the happy pug cracked right down the middle and his chest goes tight again. He's sobbing, gasping for air and not even trying to stop the scalding tears from wreaking their havoc on his face.

Nobody can know about this. Jon can't know about this. He doesn't know for how long he's been crying, if too much time for either type of toilet break has passed. Cleaning himself up after this is going to be dreadful if he doesn't want to seem suspicious.

And he still can't stop crying. He doesn't know what to do. He feels like his chest is caving in on itself, so Martin steps a single foot into the tub and cranks on the shower. A shower can take a long time, and maybe that will explain his extended absence to Jon. If he could just get himself to stop—

"Martin?" Oh, fuck. "Are you showering?"

He tries to get himself to say anything, something to make Jon go away and leave him alone until he's managed to wrangle himself into a something more presentable, into a less burdensome state. He's sure he can. He opens his mouth to say, "yes, could you leave a spare jumper outside the door?" and instead a sob bursts from his lips.

It's quickly followed by several more and a fresh bout of tears. He scrambles for something, anything, but finds the bathroom empty. The shower and the tap are running but Jon is right outside the door and it doesn't matter.

"Okay. Martin, I don't give a damn whether you're decent or not, I'm coming in."

The door opens slowly, and that's when Martin remembers he forgot to lock it. Can't even do that right. The crease is still stuck between Jon's brows, but his eyes are wide and sad and searching now. It's Martin's fault it's Martin's fault—

Thin arms around him and a hand in his hair and then his face is being pressed into Jon's bony shoulder and he's gone.

"Hey, hey," Jon soothes, "you're alright, darling. You're alright, I'm here, you'll be okay."

Martin wants to hold Jon so badly but that's not how this supposed to go. "No," Martin whines pathetically. He can't even get himself to let go of the death grip he has on his own knitted vest. It's also one of his favourites, and it's going to be stretched and ruined after this. The tears start afresh.

"Do you want me to…?" Jon starts, loosening his grip around Martin.

Martin yelps. "No! No, nonono," he mumbles, and he finally wraps his arms around Jon in return and squeezes hard enough that Jon wheezes.

"Alright. Alright, Martin. It's alright."

He doesn't know for how long they stand there before Martin's sobs die down into hitching breaths. His eyes hurt. Jon is stroking his back gently, every so often stopping to scratch lightly at his neck.

"I'm sorry," Martin says when he regains his bearings.

"Whatever for, darling?" Jon says, softly like he only does in the middle of the night when he wakes up and Martin is staring a little too far into the distance.

Martin takes a step back, wipes at his eyes and straightens his vest. He gestures to himself. "This," he says.

Jon's frown deepens, Martin can't seem to get him to shed it, today. And why ever could that be? a voice in his head whispers. He doesn't have the energy left to cry, but apparently his body has spared enough water for more tears to leak out even though he feels numb all over.

Jon steps closer and pulls him back into his embrace. He kisses the side of Martin's head, a gentle pressure over the copper curls resting there. He adjusts to reach Martin's temple, skin on skin. Martin shudders.

"I'm sorry I'm a mess," he says. "I don't know what came over me, this isn't—"

"Martin—" Jon says.

"I promise I'll be better soon, this is just some—"

"Martin," Jon interrupts, firmer this time and with a pointed but careful squeeze to the back of Martin's neck. He leans back and tugs Martin up so they can meet eyes. "You don't have to apologize for being upset. I know you liked that mug, and… and you're always telling me that I should feel my feelings. I know I'm not as good at this as you are—"

Martin inhales to protest Jon's self-deprecation and is promptly shushed.

"No, that's not me bullying myself," Jon clarifies. "That's just a fact. I lived a great many years of my life pretending I didn't really have emotions whatsoever. But I'm learning. I'm better now, and that's because of you. It's for you, Martin. I want to be here for you, as well."

"I can't cry any more," Martin says, halfway between a laugh and a hitch of breath. Jon kisses his temple again.

"I love you," he whispers, "and I'm here for you. Whatever you need."

Martin doesn't know what he needs. He knows what he wants but he doesn't know if he's allowed to want it.

"It's not just the mug, is it?" Jon asks after a bit of silence, breached hitherto only by Martin's sharp, hitching inhales. Martin shakes his head, and Jon presses their foreheads together. "Okay. Let me help?"

Martin closes his eyes, focuses on Jon's warmth against his skin. "Yeah, okay," he whispers. "Kiss me?"

Jon obliges, pressing his lips slowly and firmly to Martin's. His hands bracket Martin's cheeks, warm and soft and rough with textures where the horrors that haunted them has scarred him. Then, he pulls Martin back into a hug, which Martin finds himself reciprocating instantly.

"I love you," Martin says. "Thank you."

"I love you, too," Jon says. "Anytime."

Three weeks later, a package arrives in their mailbox. When Martin opens it, he's met with a white ceramic mug. It's printed with a pug saying "pour the tea in my face", clearly illustrated by the same person who drew his tea cup. They dub it his pug mug.

2. Touch

Jon loves Martin. Jon is in love with Martin Blackwood, and he's alive to enjoy it. That's not to say that getting to where they are now was entirely without struggle. When Jon woke up in hospital, aching everywhere and chest smarting something awful, he almost didn't believe he was alive. He couldn't be in hospital because his boyfriend stabbed him in the chest, because said boyfriend was sleeping in one of the strange armchairs in Jon's room and not in prison.

Jon had gasped and woken Martin, and hadn't realised he was crying until Martin was holding his face and wiping his tears off his cheeks even as he cried himself. Since then, he's been blessedly alive to experience confusion at his place in this new world and anger at himself and guilt for what he's done and made Martin do. But there's also been joy at seeing Martin puttering about their tiny flat, gratitude that he gets to argue about which marmalade they should buy, and the comfort of waking up surrounded by Martin's arms.

Jon's known it about himself for a long time that he likes being touched. He likes hugs and holding hands, he likes kissing and skin-on-skin contact. For a long time, this stood in contrast to his lack of sexual attraction, and was a bit of a hurdle in finally arriving to the label of asexual for himself. He's bumbled through the talk before, but with Martin the stakes felt higher. Not only because one of them had been hunted by an all-seeing eye and the other by a manifestation of loneliness, but because… it was Martin. He'd talked himself through it for days, going over it again and again to make sure he said all the right things, only for Martin to blurt out 'wait, you're asexual, right?' over lunch one day. The talk that followed was filled with profuse apologies and stuttered explanations and more apologies about invasion of privacy.

But it'd all turned out well in the end, and the cottage in Scotland had been lovely in it's own isolated, foreboding way. There, the touches had been partly out of necessity, though. They'd found that Jon staying in contact — quite literally — with Martin had helped with the drifting and the fog and the numbness. There was a kind of urgency to it, then.

There is a kind of urgency to it now, as well, Jon thinks, but a very different kind. There's a lot less worrying that Martin will slip away from him at any moment and a lot more thinking he's quite beautiful and wanting to touch him just for the sake of it. He finds himself clinging to Martin in the mornings when they wake up and Martin wants to go for a cup of tea. Jon feels a bit as if he's landed himself and his brain in romantic comedy logic — he wants to press himself flush against Martin's back when he's cooking or doing the dishes, wants to hook his chin over Martin's shoulder and lean their heads together. He wants to hug him for a quarter hour when he gets off work, lay his ear against his chest and listen to his heartbeat.

That's absurd, though. He isn't in a romcom, even though being resurrected with the love of your life into a world where you have a lovely little flat and your dream jobs does sound as if from a film. So he refrains. He allows himself the standard-fare relationship things, sure. He likes holding his boyfriend, and hugging him in the mornings and when he gets home. And Jon is pretty sure Martin likes it when he does those things, as well. But there's a limit of reason where Jon's desire for touch goes from being desired and nice to overbearing and pestering.

And Jon won't say he's starving for touch. He's felt starvation, of the non-hunger kind, and it's nothing like this. He's been starved and emaciated, and this isn't that. Not even close. He can't say he feels deprived, either, because he's getting plenty of touch. It's simply that he's chosen to ignore his own feeble wants for the sake of not being left because he's simply an unreasonable person.

That's not to say he thinks so lowly of Martin that he believes that he'd leave Jon just because he wants a hug sometimes. But him being needy on top of all the other things wrong with him. Well. Jon Sims is many things but in want of more flaws is not one of them.

So, he walks around slightly wanting for touch. It isn't anything, really, considering he has everything he should reasonably need to be happy and content. So long as Martin doesn't ask for anything, Jon will not take more than he is given. He is happy like this, and who is he to ask for more, really?

Besides, what they have now is plenty nice, and very respectful. Martin is nothing but a gentleman in respecting Jon's boundaries, it's just that perhaps… Jon has lied about his boundaries a bit. Well, not lied, per se, but he's omitted some of the things that he perhaps feels he would quite enjoy. When Martin said 'you probably won't want to… well, be naked, I suppose', Jon hadn't protested. He likes sleeping shirtless, and Martin likes sleeping in a worn tee shirt, so all is well on that front. They cuddle, and Martin holds Jon and all is well. It doesn't matter that Jon would quite like them to maybe be naked and pressed chest to chest.

And it isn't as if Jon feels that way all the time. After all, it's very difficult to be discontent with anything when he's in Martin's lap being snogged within an inch of his life.

"Mmh," Martin hums in agreement as Jon settles his weight over his thighs and leans into his broad chest. Jon presses his hands against Martin's shoulders and runs them up his neck into his hair as he leans in to bite at Martin's lower lip.

They're sat on their sofa. It's a lovely sofa, really, plush cushions covered in cosy afghans and more throw pillows than is proper for two grown men to own. They deserve a bit of superfluous comfort, after all they've been through. Martin leans back against a mound of said pillows, sinking into them and taking Jon with him. The feeling swoops through his stomach before they settle softly and he can focus back on his lovely boyfriend.

Martin's hands are as soft and warm as the rest of him, not to mention just as strong. They're settled around Jon's waist right now, a comforting brand even through the pilfered jumper. Jon wraps his arms tighter around Martin's neck, settles their chests flush against each other and feels the slightly irregular way Martin's breaths move them both. He scratches Martin's scalp, pulls lightly at his hair, and is rewarded with a groan and Martin digging his fingers into soft, knitted fabric.

Jon pulls back. "You'll ruin my jumper," he mutters against Martin's lips.

"I'll take my chances, given it's mine," Martin quips. He presses a kiss to the corner of Jon's mouth, and then lets himself drift and press his wet lips to Jon's scruffy cheek, then his jaw and moving down toward his neck. Jon gasps as Martin kisses him hard in a spot once, and then twice, before latching on.

"Oh, christ," Jon swears. "Is this—" he pants as Martin lets go and bites the very same spot before kissing it better. "Is this revenge for my stealing your clothes?"

Martin kisses along the line of the scar on his neck. "Oh, so you admit you stole it?"

"Never denied it," Jon says. Martin kisses him again, but stops well before he approaches the hem of the stolen article of clothing in question. "God."

"This okay?" Martin says, lips pressed right by Jon's ear and voice a raspy murmur.

"God, yes," Jon breathes, and then Martin presses their lips together. He works his tongue into Jon's mouth and they slide warmly against each other. Jon exhales through his nose and runs a hand down Martin's chest, desperate to feel as much of him as he can. He ends up resting it against Martin's heart, feeling it thud under his palm. He wishes Martin would slide his hands down the length of his back and hold his hips. Jon wants to feel the warmth of him over his thighs like a blanket.

But he won't ask that of Martin — won't ask him to understand the weird intricacies of his desires when he can barely untangle them himself. Instead, he resituates himself for better leverage and tilts Martin's head back with a hand in his hair.

"Mm, mmh— Jon," Martin hums, out of breath. "Jon."

And then Jon is being flipped onto his back on the plush sofa and Martin is crowding him into the cushions and kissing him behind the ear. He runs a gentle hand through Jon's hair, the motion so disparate from the show of strength only seconds before.

"Touch me," Jon says, before his brain can catch up with his mouth and his words, and Martin pauses. He leans back and Jon cracks his eyes open, displeased with what's happening. And when he meets Martin's concerned gaze is when he realizes that he's spoken out loud.

"Jon…" Martin says, concern in the very edges of his voice. He looks confused, as well. "I thought we… that you…"

"Well, I— I didn't, we didn't— no, actually, you're not at fault here," Jon stammers.

"Jon," Martin repeats. "I don't want you doing things for me that you're not comfortable with, just because of… of expectations, or whatever."

"No!" Jon shouts, then winces. "Oh, hell, this is all going to shit, isn't it?"

Martin snorts at the language as he sits up, still a comforting pressure on Jon's thighs as he helps him up. It's a reversal of their earlier position, but now Jon just feels small and foolish. "I don't know about all that, but… what's going on, love?"

Love, love, love, Jon's idiotic little brain bounces around in his skull. He takes a deep breath and reminds the rational part of him that Martin loving him means that this isn't going to be the conversation that breaks them. His hind brain is still panicking, eager to run away but trapped under Martin's weight. Martin runs his hand through Jon's hair again.

"I– well," Jon starts, stammering, "perhaps I haven't been quite honest with you. About me."

"Jon, do you not like kissing?" Martin says, loosening his grip.

"Oh, that's not it at all," Jon frowns, "I quite like the kissing. It's just… I maybe… want more?" His voice shrinks and shrinks until the end of the sentence is just a pathetic squeak, the anxiety of confessing fading to the horrifying panic of the fallout from his words. He grabs Martin's free hand with both his own and turns it over, tracing the lines of his palm to keep him somewhat present.

"How do you mean?" Martin asks patiently.

"Well, I— I still don't want… sex," Jon clarifies. "Or, well, maybe sometimes… it's… we've been over that, and that still stands. The— the bedroom situation is, um, handled, so to speak. It's just—" Jon takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what's to come. "It's just that maybe I didn't correct some assumptions about… non-sexual touch, as it were."

Martin presses his knuckle under Jon's chin until their eyes meet. He's smiling, dimples disappearing under his coppery beard. But Jon knows they're there. Martin leans forward to press his lips gently to Jon's.

"Okay, then," he says. "What do you need?"

"Well, I don't precisely need anything. Which is why I didn't—"

"Jon." Martin is laughing as he interrupts now. "What do you want?"

"I want you to touch me," Jon says in a rush.

"So you've said," Martin agrees. "But I'm going to need you to be a bit more specific."

"Just… skin." Jon cringes at his own words. "God, I sound daft. Um, I'd really like it if we were naked together. That doesn't— I don't want to have sex. I just. I like… being close to you."

"Okay," Martin says easily, reaching for the hem of his shirt.

Jon immediately feels his face coloring. "Wait— I, Martin, what!?"

Martin pauses, eyebrows raised. "Well, I'd rather like to get back to kissing, but if it's nicer without a shirt on then I think that's what we should do?" Martin says, becoming a bit more sheepish as the seconds tick by. The tips of his ears flush a red that clashes with his hair. Jon is struck dumb with just how easy some things are with Martin. He nods.

Martin pulls his tee shirt all the way off, and then he brushes his hands against the bottom hem of Jon's — because it is Jon's now, properly besieged — jumper and looks him in the eyes, a question in his gaze. Jon nods again, and Martin helps him wriggle out of the soft knit. Jon shivers as he feels gooseflesh erupt across his arms as the cold air hits his bare skin, but then Martin pulls him close and they're pressed chest to chest, bare skin against skin.

Jon shivers again, but then he's quite promptly interrupted by another kiss, which is indeed very nice.

3. Companionship

Martin doesn't know the first thing about caring for a cat. Or, well, he knows some things. Like that they need to eat, and that they need a litter box. Probably a toy, maybe one of those sticks with a little feathery thing attached at the end. He thinks cats like those. Or laser pointers. His lack of animal care knowledge becomes somewhat irrelevant when there's a malnourished cat in a shoe box sat on the kerb outside his work, though.

"Oh, you're so small," Martin says, crouching down on the pavement and reaching his hand out. The cat immediately takes a wobbly step towards him and presses its tiny head against his fingers. Martin scratches its head carefully, frowning at the ribs he can now see clearly. "Hungry, too, I'll bet."

The shoe box that the cat is sitting in is just that, a shoe box. There are no blankets, and no traces of food or treats anywhere. The box wasn't here when Martin left yesterday, or when he arrived this morning, so he guesses the cat was moved here from somewhere else after no one claimed it. By the looks of the saggy box, it's been a while — it hasn't rained in a good while.

The cat is purring now, halfway out of the box in an attempt to get closer to Martin. It's clearly domesticated, comfortable with humans and even a stranger like him.

He takes it home. What else is he supposed to do?

Jon is already home by the time Martin stumbles through the door — he gets off early on Thursdays — and is probably at the dining table marking papers from today.

Martin stands still in the hallway, not entirely sure what to do now. He's told the cat — still nameless and of unknown sex — very politely to be quiet, but its trembling in his arms. He shushes it and tries rocking it like a baby. He suddenly remembers that he has no idea how to care for a cat.

"Jon?" he calls through the flat, "could you come here for a second?"

His voice wavers, and Jon rounds the corner with a crease between his brows and his mouth pulled into a tight line. "Martin, are you alri— oh."

He stops right across from Martin, a couple metres away, and stares at the cat in his arms. "Surprise?" Martin tries. Jon starts coming closer, looking a bit cross now, and he panics, "it was on the kerb outside work, and it just looked so sad and it was in this little box. But it was really friendly, so I think someone left it."

Jon stops, and Martin chokes on his words. He starts gearing up a million excuses and apologies, ransacks his brain for any information on local animal shelters.

"How could—" Martin takes a deep breath. "How could someone do this?" Jon says, reaching a hand toward the cat, who mewls and noses at his fingers. The tension runs out of Martin. Right. Right, of course Jon isn't cross about seeing a cat. Jon loves cats. Jon's cross that someone cares so little for this animal that they'd leave it outside in the cold.

"Can I?" Jon looks up at Martin, still leaned over slightly and reaching for the cat.

"Oh, yeah, go ahead," Martin says. He's got new shoes, and he thinks they're giving him blisters. Jon very carefully extricates the cat out of Martin's arms, and it yowls in protest. Martin's heart melts and pours itself out into his chest cavity at the little shushing noises Jon makes for the cat.

"Oh, little dear, you're so skinny. How'd this happen to you?" Coincidentally, Jon seems to be echoing a lot of the sentiment Martin had toward him when he first broke free of the lonely and saw him again. "Don't worry, you're safe now, you're alright."

Martin gets his shoes off and finds that he hasn't got any blisters, but just a very sore spot on his right heel. Jon is still cooing at the cat. Martin feels the need to explain himself again. "I know we haven't really talked about this, but… it was just sat there in the cold and it looked so sad, and I know you like cats—"

"Martin," Jon says softly. He looks lovely when he stands there, his long hair tied up carelessly and work slacks traded for a pair of joggers, clutching a cat like it might escape at any moment. Martin feels warm all over, and when he glances at the cat he gets a slow blink in return.

"Well," he says, "I don't mind a cat."

Jon lets a careful smile spread across his face. "I don't mind, either. And, really, we've got the budget for it. And the space. I think a cat tree would be a lovely touch to the living room, don't you?"

Martin smiles back and leans in to press a kiss to Jon's lips. "Absolutely."

The cat meows softly from underneath him. Jon coos down at it. "You can have a kiss later, love, you might be sick right now. We don't really know where you've been, hm?"

There's a Martin from before a lot of things happened that would've probably died had he heard Jonathan Sims baby-talking anything like this. The word adorable flashes through his mind, as it often does, and he pats Jon's cheek.

"Right, then, silly man." Jon frowns in confusion and Martin laughs. Placates him with another soft kiss. "I'll see if we can't find a 24-hour vet clinic. I did a bit of googling on the tube home. Well, as much as I could with one hand occupied. Two, most of the time. It's a bit of a handful, honestly."

"God, I feel awful calling the cat it over and over," Jon mutters, "yes, let's sit down and look for a vet."

They end up finding an emergency clinic that isn't incredibly busy when they call them, and wrap the cat in a towel before hauling themselves into a taxi. It's a bit of a rush, Jon staying in the clinic with the cat — which they learn is in fact a "she", and not microchipped — and Martin rushing to make it to a pet shop before closing hours to pick up a crate and litter box and food. He doesn't bother with a bed, sensing somewhere that pets have a tendency not to use all of the fancy things you purchase for them. The cat tree can wait.

God, pets. They have a pet together, now. Jon and Martin have been through the literal apocalypse together, traveled between worlds to get where they are, and somehow adopting a cat seems like such a monumental step, still.

When Martin comes back to the clinic, the cat's gone through a full basic checkup and seems to be mostly healthy except for the obvious malnutrition. They stand in the reception to set up insurance and the legal side of things, which is a hell of a thing to be doing at eight in the evening after a full day of work. The receptionist taps away at her ancient, clacky keyboard.

"And what's her name?"

Jon and Martin look at each other. Right. That little detail.

"Right," Jon says, echoing Martin's thoughts. They both look to the little greyish tabby in the crate, looking up at them with round yellow eyes. She's got little white paws, like she's stepped in a dish of cream.

"Scone?" Martin offers.

"We can't name her scone, Martin." He sounds so much like the Martin met when he first started at the Archives that he has to keep himself from laughing. So fussed about naming a cat. But, Martin supposes, it's a big thing to name their first together. "She's far too dignified for that."

The cat is very cute, but Martin doesn't know about dignified. This isn't a point he's keen to argue before supper, though. "Hm," he hums, sticking a finger through the crate's door. "What'd you have in mind, then?"

He glances up at Jon, and finds him flushed. It's subtle, but Martin's very perceptive and also very keen to fluster his boyfriend. "Well… I, um. Well."

Martin raises his eyebrows, and Jon scoffs at him, haughty.

"Well. I quite like Saoirse."

"That's so specific, Jon!" Martin laughs.

"I— well—! It fits her, doesn't it?" he sputters indignantly.

Martin regards the skinny thing in the crate, her little white paws and pink-spotted nose. "Huh. I suppose it does."

The receptionist seems to take that as an official agreement between them — she's probably at the end of a long shift, herself, and it's probably a correct assessment — and Saoirse slots easily into their lives after that.

Martin learns that there isn't much more to cat care than the things he originally knew, after Saoirse puts on a bit of weight. He isn't quite prepared for just how much she likes company, though. He's heard a lot about cats being independent, so her rarely being in another room from them comes as a bit of a surprise. She's hilariously similar to Jon, and competing for Martin's lap is an oddly common occurrence in their household after she moves in.

She's also very clever, and always seems to know when something's off. When Martin slips out of bed instead of staying with Jon under the blankets on a Sunday morning, she'll brush up against his legs and jump on the counter. She'll pester him until he pats her back and that will bring him out of it enough to remember that he's supposed to be making two cups of tea — one for Jon and one for himself. He isn't alone.

One evening when he comes home, he's just barely had time to hang his keys on the dog bum hook by the door when Saoirse comes running through the apartment, yowling with all the air she has in her little lungs. He knocks off his shoes, worried as he follows her into the apartment to where Jon is sat on the sitting room floor between the sofa and the coffee table, hyperventilating. Martin falls to his knees in front of him and prises his hands away until he can meet Jon's red eyes and pull him into an embrace. Saoirse circles them all the while, flicking her tail against Jon's bare forearms over the few but irritated streaks from his nails digging into the skin.

Once Jon comes back to himself, and the letter beginning Hello, Jonathan, has been thoroughly burnt to ash over the kitchen sink, Jon picks Saoirse up into his arms and digs his nose into her fur. She seems content as ever with this, happy to be of assistance in whatever way she can.

4. Rest

Between Jon's teaching and Martin's eight to five, it's hard to find time for a lie-in. It's one of the few things that they could actually unabashedly enjoy during their time in the cabin, where neither of them had a job — or any other obligations, really. So, while their sleep was rarely uninterrupted by nightmares they could at the very least laze around in bed when they woke late enough in the morning.

Jon is very, very lucky to have gotten a second (third?) lease on life, but life does indeed come with obligations. So, when he gets home early after his half day, he makes his way right to the kitchen to make himself a disappointing cup of tea — he's pretty sure Martin makes it the exact same way he does, but somehow Martin's is always nicer — and takes said cup of tea right to the study.

The desk isn't small by any means, even though it's smaller than his old, relatively massive one at the Institute. It's already covered in papers and folders, but he digs his newest stack of collected papers from his messenger bag and places them on the last available sliver of free space. Then, he tugs off his peacoat and tosses it to a corner of the room to be taken care of later. He's at the tail end of how long he can be not working before he loses all momentum. He lays his bag on the floor and sits down in his ergonomic chair — definitely Martin's doing, or whatever past version of Martin was here before they arrived, and definitely a hard sell to that Jon — and plucks a red ballpoint out of his pen cup.

His students have just finished Frankenstein, intended as a fun nod to the upcoming holidays and a teaching opportunity about Victorian-era literature. He hadn't anticipated the students getting quite so into it and the absolute, unbridled passion a select few of them now have for Mary Shelley's most famed work. As a result he's got a fair few essays that are quite long. This isn't a result he's displeased with, but he does have more work than he anticipated. He decided to tackle the longest one first, and pulls Abigail's 2000 words to the top of the pile. He supposes it's alright when the rest of the essays average 800 words. Jon's learned an important lesson about hard versus soft word limits.

He takes a sip of his tea and finds it as subpar as he expected it to be, wastes no time in diving into the first essay. Thankfully, he did manage to catch the tail end of his productive period and once he's started reading through the essays he slips easily into mechanical motions. Read a paragraph, click his pen, write a comment, click. He's not surprised to see several… shall he say inspired works among the ones clearly borne of genuine interest. It's more or less a given that you'll be handed a few Sparknotes-derivatives as a secondary school English teacher. They're horrifically boring every time, regardless, but not incorrect as such. Jon underlines an argument and comments 'this would be an interesting point to expand on further' in the margins, clicks his pen.

There's a chirp and then a loud yowl from the doorway, and he finds Saoirse sitting primly just inside his office. "Hello, Sir," he greets her.

She chirps again and stands up to walk slowly towards his desk. He puts his pen down and pushes his chair out just slightly, turning to make his lap available for her to jump into. She takes the opportunity readily and hops up on his knees before starting the meticulous job of kneading his skinny thighs until she considers her temporary bed properly made. He winces as her claws dig into his skin through his wool trousers.

"You comfortable, hm?"

She lies down, becoming a comfortable weight in her curled-up state instead of four sharp points of pressure. He scratches her head and she blinks slowly before tucking her face under her socked paws. Jon leaves her to rest and picks up his cup of tea to take a sip, and finds it cold. He swallows it anyway, suffering through the bitter edge.

He picks up his pen again and finds it heavier than it was before Saoirse joined him. His eyes have started to burn, drying out from the cold air in the study. He shivers. It wasn't this cold when he walked in, he doesn't think. He blinks to counteract his dry eyes, and a rare pang of longing back to being an avatar of the Beholding. Menial things like dry eyes and cramping hands and backaches never seemed to trouble him, then. Sure, there were other… not great aspects of the position but he could do with having kept the quality of life improvements. (Jon does not actually know whether the Eye actually prevented any untoward effects of extended periods of deskwork or simply kept him from perceiving them.)

He gets through three more papers before there's rattling from their front door's finicky lock and Saoirse leaps out of his lap. She presses on a bruise he got when standing up too quickly from his desk at work and subsequently knocking the top of his thigh into it. He swears quietly under his breath, then coughs from the dry air making its way into his airway.

He glances at the pile of printed-out forum pages and personal blog posts. They're not quite statements, but almost. They don't need to be — he doesn't want them to be. All Jon wants is to figure out if the Fears followed them here, and if so how strong they are in this universe. He has a hard time believing that he should be so lucky as to be dropped into a world without the Fears, even though he has found no evidence for genuine supernatural presence so far.

"Hi, Saoirse!" Martin coos from the hallway. "Where's Jon, hm? No chance he's taking a nap, or you'd be down for the count, too, wouldn't you?"

A brief pause, presumably as Martin kneels down to pat Saoirse and scratch the spot under her chin that she likes. Then, the soft noise of Saoirse getting up and having a good shake before she pads to have a snack. Jon smiles to himself as he imagines Martin frowning at her leaving him so quickly.

Jon blinks and then there's a knock on the doorway. He turns around and sees Martin leaning into the room, bracing himself against the wall. "Hi, Jon," he says quietly.

"Hello, darling," Jon says, meaning to get out of his chair but finding it too comfortable to leave. He knew the ergonomic chair was a bad idea!

Martin's brow knits, suddenly, inexplicably. He tilts his head and walks into the room. "You look tired," he says.

"Thanks," Jon replies. It's a trained response, an easy barb to ward of any discomfiting concern and well-practiced since many years back. Martin frowns deeper. "Sorry."

Martin steps into the room proper, now, and stands next to Jon. A large, autumn-chilled hand presses itself into the grey hair at Jon's temple and he leans into it. The cold feels nice, comforting. "You're just like Sir," Martin mumbles. "How long've you been sat in here?"

"Mmh," Jon hums. "Depends, what time is it?"

He peeks an eye open to glance at the little clock in the corner of his computer screen. He can't tell from this far away, leaned back in his chair as he is.

"So, since you got home, then," Martin states, clearly displeased with this fact.

"I've been marking essays," Jon explains, "I'm almost finished; just four more left, actually."

"Have you taken a break at all? You really do look exhausted, Jon."

"I'm fine," Jon says, because he is. He just wants to get these essays done, and then he can do his due diligence in making sure that his apocalypse hasn't spread beyond relative containment. It's just one world out of so, so many, but it's the least he can do. "Really, Martin, I'll be done before supper."

Martin scoffs lightly. "Okay, now we both know that's not true." Jon does not, in fact, know that that's not true. He supposes his expression says as much, because Martin's expression softens and he passes his hand through Jon's hair again. "Jon, you always say that. 'I'll be done until X or Y time', and then you get so caught up in it that it's been six hours."

He tries to dig for a counterargument in his head, but finds his thoughts muddled and his his usually sharp wit blunted. Martin's hand in his hair is so lovely.

"Hmm," Jon just hums instead, not entirely intentionally.

Martin spins his chair around so they're fully facing each other and pulls his hand out of Jon's hair. He huffs and puffs about it for a second, before both of his hands come to rest on his cheeks. Martin's thumbs run softly under his eyes, where there are likely deep bags. Jon's eyes drift shut.

"Hey, hey," Martin says, tapping on his cheek. "Jon. Are you not feeling well?"

And as soon as Martin says it, damned perceptive prick, Jon realises that he isn't. It's difficult to tell, sometimes, with the residual aches and pains after all he's been through. There are few days that he doesn't hurt, and the easy answer would be to say that he doesn't ever feel well, at least not like he did before his world started crumbling around him.

But he doesn't. Because today Martin is holding him, and his chair is too comfortable. He feels too warm and too cold simultaneously, the statements and the essays on his desk seem suddenly like impossible work. The ache in his bones is different than usual.

"I suppose I'm not," Jon says, blinking his eyes open and meeting Martin's concerned gaze. He can see the surprise slotting onto Martin's face at the rare admittance, where usually he would run himself into the ground until he collapses. Time has eroded his carefully built walls, and Jon thinks he's finally reaching a point where he no longer sees a point in rebuilding them.

"Okay," Martin nearly whispers, reverence in his tone. "Alright, love. How do you feel about the sofa and some Taskmaster?"

"That sounds nice," Jon says and smiles. Next thing he knows, he's in the air, bracketed by Martin's strong arms and held to his broad chest, being carried out to the sitting room. "Martin!" he laughs, "what on earth!"

Martin grins down at him. "What, can't a man carry his lovely, hardworking boyfriend to the sofa any more?"

The words die in Jon's throat as he's placed on the cushions and promptly covered in a blanket. Martin kisses his forehead and murmurs something that sounds like I'll be right back, love, before disappearing out of the room.

The patchwork afghan is very comfortable, but Jon is still dressed in wool trousers and a no-longer crisp white shirt underneath it, and that isn't very comfortable. He shrugs the blanket off and pads toward the kitchen, seeing Martin hunkered over their kitchen counter and two mugs, which he's doctoring with lemon and honey. Jon smiles, walks up to him.

Martin's jumper is soft when he runs his hands over his waist to close his arms around it.

"Hey, what're you doing up?" Martin says, glancing over his shoulder.

"Wanted a nicer shirt," Jon explains, "this one isn't very comfortable."

Martin nods in agreement. "I could've gotten another one for you. Helped you out, you know. You're ill!"

"I'm not dying, Martin! I can change my shirt on my own." He gasps theatrically. "Or perhaps… Mr. Blackwood, are you trying to take my clothes off?"

"Oh, you've caught me," Martin deadpans, "and here I was, so eager to undress you and ravish you on the sofa. However will I cope?" Jon snorts and presses a kiss to the exposed part of his neck, tickled by the coppery hairs on his back. Martin shivers. "Go change, Jon, and let me finish my tea. After this, I'm keeping you on the couch!"

Jon loosens his grip and starts toward the bedroom. "Why, Martin, I'm learning so much about you today. Keeping me hostage, now, are you?"

Martin splendidly proves how the passage of time has healed them by nodding seriously, still facing the mugs on the counter. "Oh, yes. I'll even tie you down, if worse comes to worst."

Jon pulls his tie off and tosses it at him before fleeing to the safety of the bedroom where he undresses and redresses in one of Martin's soft graphic tees. He pulls one of his own cardigans out of the wardrobe and tugs it on over top. It's an old one, vaguely reminiscent of a knitted jumper he used to have back in their original universe. The acrylic yarn is soft and worn thinner with age, gentle against his scarred skin.

Martin's on the couch when he returns, Taskmaster already on in the background, one of the mugs clutched in his hands. Jon's favourite mug is sitting on the table, still steaming. The scent of honey and ginger fills the sitting room. Martin smiles at him, holding out his arms. Who is Jon to refuse such an offer, really? He's promptly covered in the afghan again and embraced.

"Thank you," Martin says quietly.

"What for?" Jon asks.

"For letting me take care of you."

"Thank you for taking care of me."

Martin places a hand under Jon's chin to tilt his face up, finally, finally, kissing him. It's been far too many minutes since he got home for this to be their first kiss of the afternoon. He hums happily and extricates an arm from the blanket to lay it against Martin's chest, to feel his solid heartbeat beneath his palm. Jon licks the seam of Martin's lips and finds himself happily welcomed and the grip on his jaw tightened just slightly. Just as he leans into Martin's chest, trying to tip his weight, there's a chirp from between them and Martin pulls back.

Jon glares at Saoirse. Martin chuckles and Jon glares at him, instead. Martin leans forward to peck him on the lips, and when Jon tries to linger Saoirse yowls.

"Oh, what now, you infernal creature!?" Jon snaps, and Martin laughs so hard he has to turn away and muffle it in his sleeve. Jon plucks Saoirse — slight creature that she is, barely three kilos — up by the armpits and looks her in the eyes. She purrs happily. "Is this what you want?"

"Jon!" Martin says, still laughing.

"She's purring, Martin! This is what she wants!" Jon leans in and presses not entirely non-violent kiss to her forehead. She purrs louder. "She wants all the attention for herself."

"Christ, Jon, put her down!" Martin places a hand over his and Jon lowers her enough so her hind legs can once more press into his thighs. She makes a little noise. "I promise I have enough love for the both of you. Drink your tea."

Jon sighs with put-upon exasperation and lets go of Saoirse. She curls happily in his lap. Martin leans in to give him another long but closed-mouth kiss.

"I love you," Jon breathes against his lips.

"Love you, too," Martin agrees. "Drink your tea."

Jon dutifully picks up his cup and takes a sip, feels the ginger and honey tea warming him up from inside. He exhales and the ginger soothes the tickle in his throat from earlier. He leans against Martin's shoulder, still holding the mugs in his hands, warm but slightly less intense on his right through the scar tissue. Martin places a hand on his waist, thumb making little passes over the place where two of his ribs were taken.

"Why do you work so hard?" Martin says, worry bleeding back into his tone.

Jon watches a famous radio personality try to fit a frozen banana into a glass bottle and feels an immediate kinship as he tries to wrestle his thoughts into words.

"The kids' essays can wait for a day. They've lots of other stuff going on, don't they?"

"Yes, but…" Jon says. Another contestant tosses their banana into a food processor. "I can't fail them."

"Jon they're not going to… making them wait a week for marks because you're ill isn't failing them—" Martin cuts himself off, seems to come to a realisation. Jon keeps his eyes fixed resolutely on where the radio host is back, now poking into the jelly-filled glass bottle with a paintbrush. "Jon."

His stomach drops. That isn't a tone he likes on Martin. "Can we not—"

"Jon, you don't have to… Christ, you don't have to prevent the apocalypse again!" Martin sounds properly upset, now. "It's not your responsibility to make sure nothing bad ever happens to anyone ever again!"

Jon rights himself from Martin's shoulder and looks up at him, desperate, feeling almost crazed all of a sudden. "But is is! If I spread the Fears to all these other places, the very least I can do is make sure they stay in check!" Saoirse hops from his lap at the noise.

"You couldn't possibly do that, Jon! I'm sorry, but you can't! You're not an avatar of the Eye anymore! You're not invincible, you don't have any… spooky powers. You're just a— a scared, traumatised man. You're a normal human like everybody else, now."

He feels dizzy.

"There hasn't been any evidence of the fears yet," Martin says, gentler now. "Jon, you've done enough. You can rest now, you should rest now."

"How am I supposed to rest," Jon heaves, "when I know that there could be someone out there… feeling the exact same pain that— that I—"

He blinks hard as another wave of dizziness hits him. He feels like he's going to be sick. Martin, as always, catches on and gathers Jon into his arms.

"Hey, hey, hey, come here. Come here, love. Breathe, I've got you." Jon crashes into him and rests his forehead on Martin's shoulder. His hands are a comfortable weight on his shoulders as he eases into a more regular breathing pattern. "Jon, I— I don't think I'm going to be able to convince you that it's not really your fault, but if it's your fault it's mine as well. No, don't argue with me. This isn't a pity party it's just… this shouldn't all be your load to bear.

"You're doing good here, Jon. For others and yourself. And it's okay for you to have good things."

"I have you," Jon says nonsensically, and Martin huffs a laugh.

"Yeah, and you're not getting rid of me. So might as well get yourself some other good things, too."

Jon smiles to himself, victorious despite it all. He got Martin to call himself good. "Okay," he says quietly, because if Martin can, so can he. "I'll try."

"Good," Martin says. Shifting to hold him more properly. Jon budges up to sit in his lap and Martin laughs at him, hugs him close. "Do you still want to watch Taskmaster?"

"Oh, yes, please." Jon says, turning his head to see the TV screen. They've gone on to the next task, which is apparently playing golf with eggs. He settles properly in Martin's lap and adjusts to see the screen better. Saoirse joins them again once she figures that her humans are done being loud and bothersome. Martin's hand resumes its position in Jon's hair, and he's asleep before he finds out how the putting went.

5. Romanticism

Jon has never fancied himself a romantic, and maybe that's mostly because he's always wanted to see himself as a pragmatist. Jon has always drawn a firm line between the things he wants and the things he needs. He's kept careful track of the overlap between things he wants and things he deserves. Concerningly, the only thing consistently present on both lists was cigarettes — it's easy to deserve something you want if the thing you want is also passively harming you.

But time with Martin has softened his edges, blurred his lines.

Perhaps the reason Jon has never fancied himself a romantic is because he was scared to. It was terribly incongruous with his curated exterior of the Oxford academic — a facade which became more important when he was appointed Head Archivist. He is no longer afraid of seeming incompetent — not to the level he was at the Institute, at the very least — and enjoying a bit of romanticism now and then… well, it hasn't ever hurt anyone, has it?

Plus, Martin deserves the best, after everything.

So, every Sunday morning Jon makes breakfast. He's not a culinary genius, but he's accumulated a fair few dishes that he rotates weekly. Nothing too fancy, but he's tried his hand at homemade scones with clotted cream made from scratch, he's made blueberry muffins — even vegan ones, when he was feeling adventurous — and banana bread. An assortment of things that Martin is always happy to wake up to, regardless of their quality.

Today, though, he's aiming for a higher standard. This morning's breakfast is elaborate and time consuming enough to warrant him setting an alarm, even though he wakes up a good hour and a half before Martin on weekends naturally. He's only a little sour about having to give up time in his soft warm bed, but it'll be worth it. Saoirse has apparently also decided that the early morning is worth it to watch Jon bumble through baking, as she's sat herself down on their little dining table and is following him intently with her eyes.

He stares at the bowl of lukewarm water in front of him and wonders what he's getting himself into. His snarled hair is pulled back with a hair bobble, a cloud of tangled strands at the back of his head. Martin's going to be livid at the treatment when he wakes up, but Jon doesn't want to get any of his hair in the bread.

Right, bread.

He glances at the recipe and then gets to work. If this goes according to plan, he's got homemade pesto (prepared hastily yesterday before Martin got home) and brie and prosciutto in the fridge. They're all hidden behind a net of clementines, and thankfully went undiscovered last night. He wonders if Martin could tell that Jon's spine went rigid every time he passed the kitchen.

He's just transferred the dough from the bowl to a pan when he hears the creak of their bedroom door. He glances at the clock on his laptop screen, where the recipe is still proudly displayed, his hands sticky with dough. It's still about an hour too early for Martin to be awake.

He looks over his shoulder, and sure enough there his lovely partner is in the doorway, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "Jon?" he asks. Saoirse jumps from her perch on the dining table to lean up against Martin's legs.

"Yes, that's me," Jon says, heartbeat racing as he tries to hide his soiled hands and the pan behind his back. "What are you doing up so early?"

Martin shrugs. "Woke up and felt rested. Plus you weren't there, so." Jon's heart swells and he feels warm all over. It shouldn't be possible for a man to be so cute but here Martin is. "What are you doing up?" Martin asks.

"Um," Jon says intelligently.

Martin smiles, squinting at the mess of flour and oil and dough on the counter top behind Jon. "Wait, are you baking?"

"It's Sunday," Jon says weakly, trying to pretend like everything is normal and that he bakes his own bread every week.

"Yes, but…" Martin takes a step into the kitchen. His face lights up once he gets close enough that Jon can no longer hide his little project. "Oh! Jon, what!? This looks amazing!"

He blushes. "Thank you. I'd, um. Quite like to wash my hands, now that the cat's out the bag."

Jon holds his hands up to demonstrate and Martin snorts a laugh. He bends down to pick up Saoirse, and she immediately cranes her neck to sniff at the dough. Martin pulls her back with another laugh and twists his body so he can kiss Jon good morning without her eating something she shouldn't. His smile presses against Jon's lips only briefly, but the feeling of them lingers.

"I'll go sit on the sofa," Martin says.

Jon raises a brow. "You sure? You don't want to go back to bed?"

"Not if I don't have you as my weighted blanket," Martin states, readjusting Saoirse in his arms so she's cradled like a baby. A feeling way too big for so early in the morning settles in his chest. "I'll take a half-doze and a crick in the neck."

What is he supposed to do, really, other than lean in and press another kiss to Martin's lips?

Martin laughs again. "Wash your hands, Jon."

Jon does as he's told as Martin meanders over to the sitting room. Jon then drizzles the bread with more olive oil and flaky salt before putting it in the over and setting a timer for twenty minutes. He pulls the prosciutto and the pesto and the cheese. He takes a deep breath and tries to tell himself that everything is normal. It's just… he's just going to sit on the sofa and cuddle his cat and his boyfriend.

He walks to the sitting room where Martin hasn't quite dozed off, but has a distinctly glazed look in his eyes. Saoirse is dozing in his lap. Jon sits down next to him and manages to stir him from his trance-like staring at the TV playing re-runs of Broadchurch.

Martin smiles dopily at him, and all of Jon's careful circular breathing is made redundant. His heart pounds in his chest and his stomach seems to be creating stupid little butterflies. He smiles back.

"I love you," Jon says.

The smile doesn't fall from Martin's face, but it twists to something more confused and his brows furrow. "What's with you today?" he says. Jon feels a pang of nerves but it's immediately swallowed by fondness when Martin places a finger on his chin and tilts his head to the side before hissing through his teeth. "Jon," he says disapprovingly.

"Didn't want it in the bread," he explains.

"You couldn't have brushed it before!? Christ. Alright. Sir, I'm gonna need you to move over for a bit. Yeah, I know it's inconvenient. But Jon's hair becoming a proper rat's nest is even more of a nuisance, so."

"It's not that bad," Jon argues as Martin's weight lifts from the sofa. There's an almighty tug before the hair previously trapped by the bobbles falls an admittedly shorter distance than it probably would were it not tangled.

"Mm-hm," Martin says, amused. He disappears into the bathroom to fetch a comb and a brush and then settles on the couch again. He runs his fingers lightly through Jon's hair and he feels his eyes drift shut. The comb picks a practiced path through the nighttime tangles. He feels the lost hour of sleep catching up with him, suddenly.

"Mm don' burn the bread," Jon mumbles. "S'important."

"You've got the timer on your phone, Jon," he chuckles. "It's got… fifteen minutes left, to boot."

Jon exhales a relaxed sigh as Martin brushes through his hair and starts gathering it into smaller sections. Then, he changes his mind and lets go of the sections in favour of scratching at Jon's scalp. It's tender from pulling his hair in strange directions, and the gentle touch elicits a near pornographic moan. Martin leans down to kiss the crown of his head before resuming his braiding.

The timer dings a bit after the braid's been tied off.

"Bread's done," Martin whispers into Jon's neck, upon which he's been placing kisses for however many minutes it's been since he finished the braid.

"Urgh," Jon grunts eloquently. He shoves himself off the couch anyway, determined to get this right. The bread needs to cool before he slices it, but he wants it to be slightly warm, still. He sets another timer for twenty minutes, and curses Martin for getting up early and being so tantalizingly comfortable. Twenty minutes is enough for almost half an episode of Broadchurch. He turns on the electric kettle in the meanwhile and takes two cups out of the cupboard. Choosing just one mug out of their extensive collection is always a challenge, but today he settles on their matching pair.

Martin looks at him inquisitively when he returns, and Jon smiles while holding up the mugs. "Bread turned out well," he says, "it just has to cool down for a minute. Got us tea while we wait."

"Thanks, love," Martin says, taking his mug. "Aw, it's the set! That's cute."

Jon's heart patters in his chest, and if the matching mugs and the bread isn't enough to give him away, then his racing heartbeat is going to do him in. Literally and figuratively. Saoirse's gone somewhere else — presumably to the bedroom in order to enjoy the queen-sized bed for herself — so Jon takes the opportunity and nestles carefully into Martin's lap, taking care not to spill any tea as he does so.

Martin takes it in stride and uses the arm not holding a teacup to steady Jon as he settles down, and then presses a kiss to his jawline. "How come you decided to make bread?" he asks.

Jon would shrug if he were in a less precarious situation. As it is, he just leans into Martin's chest and noses at the hollow of his neck, speaks into his skin. "Don't know," he lies, "just felt like trying something different."

"I'm really excited to try it," Martin says. "It smells really good. Plus, it's one of those things you dream about, right? Tearing into a loaf of bread, fresh from the oven."

There's probably ten minutes left of the timer, and Jon's meticulous sandwich planning is going to go out the window, but…

"Do you want to?" he asks, leaning to look Martin in the eye. "Tear into it, I mean. It's probably still warm, but it's cooled a bit and you probably won't burn yourself and the toppings aren't going to be any worse for it, I don't think—"

He's interrupted with a kiss. "I'd love that, Jon.

Jon extricates himself and then holds out a hand to help Martin up. They keep them clasped on the short way to the kitchen, where the bread sits shiny and golden brown in its pan.

"Oh, that looks delicious, Jon!" Martin marvels. "Are you sure it's okay? You seemed like you had a bit of a—"

Jon is already cutting up a slice of the foccacia, feeling the seam rise up and lick his fingers. He fishes the piece up and hands it to Martin. He wouldn't have looked happier if Jon were holding a basket of puppies. Martin reverently plucks the bread from Jon's hand with his forefinger and thumb. It's still glistening with oil and the flakes of salt dot the browned surface. Still, Jon finds himself looking instead at Martin's freckles, the indent in his beard that speaks of a dimple hiding beneath it. His lips, now shiny as he chews.

He waits with bated breath, tracks the minutiae of Martin's expression. Martin hums happily, and Jon allows himself a giddy smile. He made bread!

"Fuck," Martin says emphatically, "this is really good, Jon."

"You think so?" Jon is clutching the knife hard enough in his hands that his knuckles are paling. He loosens his grip and puts the knife down. His hands go instead to the hem of his sleep shirt.

Martin leans in to quickly kiss Jon, and he brings salt and yeasted wheat dough with him. Jon smiles into it. "I definitely do. Did you have…?" Martin glances at the counter and his eyes widen. "You did! God, Jon, what is all of this? Have I missed our anniversary?"

"You have not," Jon says. "Like I said: I just felt like trying something different today."

"Well, I'm also very excited to try it. Can I help you make the sandwiches?"

They've already taken a wrecking ball to Jon's carefully crafted plan, so he figures he might as well enjoy some company. He leans in to press his lips to Martin's cheek and mutters a please to the scruff-covered skin. David Tennant and Olivia Coleman's bickering voices filter in from the sitting room as they slice the bread and add toppings in comfortable silence.

"Sitting room or dining table?" Jon asks when they've plated their breakfast. Martin considers this for a moment before deciding that the dining table is nicer. As soon as Jon has sat down in the little alcove next to their kitchen, Martin stands back up.

"Going to get us more tea," he explains, and before Jon can protest further Martin shushes him and laughs. "No, let me do this! You've done so much already, the least I can do is make us both a fresh cuppa."

As soon as Martin leaves, Jon feels his heart begin to race again. He's acting strange, isn't he? Any second now, Martin's going to find him out and all of his carefully laid plans will crumble at his feet. Martin comes back with two mugs — new ones, because neither of them is keen on interrupting their cosy breakfast with the washing up — with the bags still in. He places Jon's cup down in front of him then sits down opposite with his own.

They float through easy conversation over lavender-spiced Earl Grey, and Saoirse comes in to beg a piece of brie off Jon. She's still licking remnants off his fingers when he half-interrupts Martin's rant about how most cats are actually lactose intolerant, which doesn't actually seem to be the case for Sir.

"How d'you feel about a walk through Hyde Park today?"

Martin blinks, then smiles. He's been talking about a nice nature walk for a while now, but their schedules never seem to line up, and then there's London weather to consider, and Jon's myriad of lingering aches and injuries. "That sounds nice," he says softly. He reaches over the table to hold Jon's hand — the one that isn't being held hostage by Saoirse licking cheese-remnants from under his fingernails.

They finish their sandwiches after Saoirse's been bribed with a piece of ham and is snoozing contentedly by Martin's feet. After that, it's a cascade of activities to get them ready for a walk: doing the washing up after all, because they both hate coming home to a dirty kitchen, taking a shower that's a bit too drawn out without guilt over the water bill because they shower together, and getting dressed in layers appropriate for the late September weather. Martin has just deemed Jon's scarf sufficiently well tied, and is pulling on his worn leather boots when Jon's heart bursts in his rib cage.

Martin's ears are poking out through his copper curls, squeezed between the collar of his coat and his bobble hat. He's huffing and puffing, swearing under his breath at an errant shoelace apparently hell bent on escaping his grasp. He's just lifted his foot to get the damned thing into it's proper loop when Jon speaks.

"Will you marry me?" he says, and immediately regrets it. Not because he doesn't want to marry Martin — the fact that he wants to has been clear for a long time now — but because he was supposed to do this in a sun-speckled Hyde Park under a tree just shifting colour to shades of orange that match Martin's hair. As it stands, Jon blurts the four cursed words out as they stand in their cramped hallway and Martin nearly falls over in shock while trying to tie his shoe.

"Jon— I— what!?" he says, eyes wide and mouth hanging ever so slightly open.

"I— erm. This wasn't the plan." Jon considers how the rest of the day has gone, and the fact that Martin most definitely heard him, and figures he might as well. He gets down on one knee, and Martin breathes what could be a gasp or a laugh or a sob. "Martin… I love you, and you're… the best thing that's ever happened to me. I'm so lucky to have you, and I— would like to… to keep you. Forever. If you're amenable to that."

"If I'm amenable," Martin mocks, but he's smiling wide and teary-eyed. "Just ask like a normal person, you fool."

"Will you marry me, Martin?"

"God, yes. Of course, Jon. Yes. Yes!" He reaches for Jon's face and leans down to kiss him. The whole affair leaves Jon kneeling on the ground and Martin nearly bent in half to reach down to his lips. Martin remedies the uncomfortable positions by pulling Jon up and up. Jon wraps his legs around his waist.

"I do have a ring, you know," he murmurs against Martin's still-smiling mouth.

"And I still want to go for a walk," Martin says, "but we're in no rush, are we?"

Well. He supposes they have all the time in the world, now.