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When Martin first met Jon, he had mentioned, with a breathtaking casualness, that he had been kidnapped thirteen times. Martin’s initial reaction had been shock that it was so many.
After knowing Jon for a few months, he had become even more shocked that it was so few.
It wasn’t until they had been together a year, and Martin had had an extensive crash course in Jonathan Sims, that he finally put together the upsetting fact that, what Jon had actually meant, was that there had been thirteen kidnappings which were severe enough, by Jon’s extremely skewed standards, that they ‘counted’.
If it lasted less than a day; if he didn’t sustain more than minor injuries (again, in Jon’s less than reliable opinion); or if he ended up on friendly enough terms with his kidnappers that he could overlook the less than ideal circumstances of their meeting, then Jon simply didn’t consider it a ‘proper’ kidnapping - i.e. something he would actually allow himself to categorise as ‘rather distressing’, before shutting it away in his box of ‘experiences I refuse to fully process, on the grounds that curling up and screaming for a whole year straight would be detrimental to business’.
Martin - along with Tim and Sasha - had done their best to alter this mindset, but with only partial success. And snapping, periodically, out of worry, fear and frustration, or just plain yelling at Jon about the whole business, didn’t help either of them.
It was just that part of Martin was convinced that, if he just took these things a little more seriously, it wouldn’t happen to him so much.
Jon had calmly and apologetically pointed out that he was far too entangled with the Fears in general, and the Web and Ceaseless Watcher, in particular, to ever be free of ‘unwelcome excitement’ in his life, whatever precautions he took. That his being in such frequent and specific peril was, in any case, a part of the toll he paid the Eye in order to exist as the Detective and not the Archivist, sucking torment directly from people’s minds and leaving them with a permanent Fear hickey; and that the good he could do in this role, however limited, was still enough for him to feel it was worth it.
And these were all valid points, but that didn’t stop Martin from taking it personally, whenever Jon was hurt - again - or kidnapped - again - or put through some traumantic emotional wringer - again. Even Martin had to admit that there was only so much that tea and positive thinking could do, as a panacea for the anxiety and upset and the general worrying whether this one was finally it; the moment that the End would yawn and reach out a lazy arm, scoop Jon out of the squabbling clutches of its siblings and lay its own, very final, claim.
Which meant that sometimes - just sometimes - he slipped into remarks and behaviour which were not compatible with the perfectly loving and supportive Martin he really wanted to be, but petty and snappish and selfish. That, sometimes, he got outright angry with Jon, not for any particularly justified reason, but just for being Jonathan Sims, with all of the baggage that necessarily entailed.
The fact that Martin also loved him - so very much - for being said Jonathan Sims (baggage et al) and wouldn’t even consider swapping this life for something less stressful, but unthinkably lacking in Jon, didn’t really matter in those moments. It was simply impossible to live under such constant emotional pressure without exploding, from time to time.
Which was probably why, when Tessa Winters came in, Martin was still too unbalanced by the aftermath of one of their rare, but painful, serious arguments (and a nagging sense that he might have tipped over the line from ‘I have reasonable and fundamentally caring concerns, on which I refuse to back down’ to ‘being a whole actual jerk’) to make entirely sensible choices.
~~~~~
“He just … ate the whole thing?”
Martin glanced, involuntarily, at his own computer, which sat there, stoic and distinctly unappetising, with a light dusting of crumbs which he kept meaning to clean out of the keyboard before they festered. In this environment, that probably meant turning into something very alive, very horrible and very dangerous.
Jon would probably adopt it.
“Extremely slowly and painfully, yeah. He cried a lot.”
Martin considered the forceful crunching of plastic and glass and how they would feel sliding down his throat and concluded that, yes. Sobbing your heart out was a proportionate response.
Tessa, it turned out, didn’t actually know this ‘Sergey Ushanka’ guy personally, but had just been supernaturally compelled to watch a seventeen hour long recording of his attempt to digitise himself, by taking ‘you are what you eat’ entirely too literally. She seemed to think that maybe someone should look into it.
But, most of all, he felt that she really wanted someone to tell the story to, to get all of that unpleasantness out and shared and in the open air, without being instantly judged or dismissed. It was quite often the case that their clients didn’t fully believe that the CW Detective Agency would actually help; they just wanted someone who would listen to them.
Well, Martin was very qualified for that. He took down the details patiently, with encouraging questions and genuine sympathy, while mentally doing his habitual Fear Flagging.
This wasn’t an exact science, as there was frequently a lot of overlap and blurring of lines and even outright collaboration - not to mention that some Fears stole the others’ methods, from time to time, which, according to Jon, turned intra-Entity relations into a rabid soap opera - but he noted down the most likely candidates. On initial consideration, he leaned towards the End (for the fear of death), the Spiral (for the unsettling feel and Tessa’s concerns about her grip on reality) and/or the Web (partly because Martin just suspected them in general, partly because it seemed like, whatever Ushanka may originally have intended, his actions were more of a compulsion, than anything he could stop).
And, actually, there might be a bit of the Ceaseless Watcher, as well, forcing Tessa to gorge on a feast of suffering and horror. Martin hated when the Eye was involved in one of their cases, because Jon always took it very personally and wore the resulting guilt like Jacob Marley’s ghostly shackles, dragging it around for days afterwards and almost audibly clanking.
Tessa handed over a usb drive, which she strongly advised they didn’t open, paid the minimum consultation fee in cash and left, without giving any further contact details.
“I just felt like the story needed to be shared. Duty, maybe, or compulsion … I can’t really say. You never can tell how your mind actually works, can you? People tend to automatically backfill and tweak all their motives and memories, so that it makes some sort of personal narrative sense, but who knows what’s actually going on in there? All the secrets you hide from yourself?
“Anyway, it was between you or the Magnus Institute and, honestly, there’s some wild rumours about that place. So, here it is, do with the information what you will. Anything, except dragging me back into it.”
“Understood.”
Martin walked Tessa to their battered door with a sympathetic smile and his head full of thoughts.
Standard procedure, when Jon wasn’t taking the initial interview, was to determine, first, whether it was a case they were willing to take on; then, whether it counted under ‘mundane’ or ‘supernatural’. If it was just a straightforward case - missing person (or cat); divorce issues etc. - then it could be assigned to anyone who was free. Anything with even a hint of the odd, though, had to go through Jon.
That was a hard and fast rule, no exceptions. Jon would (reluctantly) accept back-up on his cases, but he flatly refused to let any of them try to tackle a Fear on their own.
“The one good thing about being in the unending, miserable grip of a Fear Entity, is that it gives you a slightly better chance of surviving other Fear Entities. You all have a great deal of bravery, intelligence and an, admittedly impressive, ability to use our excess paperclips for evil…”
Jon had eyed Sasha and Tim meaningfully, as they hastily tucked their current projects behind their backs.
“ … but that won’t always be enough. Sometimes, yes, there might be an exit strategy, just because the Fears often like to play with their food, but most of the time there won’t be a trick or a loophole, or something you could have done, if you’d only been better or smarter or stronger, any more than you can think your way out of a piano falling on your head. The only thing, then, that might give you a chance, is having a rival piano, which has reserved your head for its own particular crushing and doesn’t want to share.”
And Martin agreed, in principle, that because Jon had spooky Eye powers and a certain amount of his patron’s protection (even if that sometimes looked almost indistinguishable from ‘persecution’) he should take the lead on most of their caseload.
However.
The sensible thing to do with this one, would be to ignore it. To note the case for the records, destroy the usb and call it closed. They would be receiving no further money for their efforts, the person primarily involved was already dead and the whole thing screamed ‘Very Bad Idea’ in Martin’s ear, with the force of a megaphone.
But Martin knew very well that Jon would not see it that way. Not only would his own curiosity, and the urging of the Ceaseless Watcher, mean that he absolutely would be pouncing on the link - which was practically labelled ‘Get yer trauma, misery and regret here!’ - like a cat with a ball of string; but there was also the whole thing about the pain that Ushanka’s lingering consciousness seemed to be in.
The angles cut me when I try to think. They peel my mind like knives.
The phrases sliced into Martin’s own deep well of compassion like a devastating scythe and he knew Jon far too well to think that he would just ignore that and not try his best to get the man some peace; whatever the risk to himself.
Martin was very, very tired of nearly losing Jon.
So what were his choices?
He could destroy the thing himself, before Jon and Sasha got back from their current case, and just ‘forget’ to mention it; but then the Ceaseless Watcher would gleefully pluck the secret from his mind and drop it into Jon’s at the worst possible moment, using the lie to push against the current sore spots in their relationship, before they could fully heal.
Or he could destroy it and explain why: which would likely go little better. Jon was usually far too accepting of wrongs and slights against him - up to, and including, attempted murder - but if there was one thing guaranteed to raise his hackles and bring out his snappiest, coldest side, it was taking away his choices.
And, apart from causing a rift between them, both options would probably end up with him going to almost spitefully dangerous lengths to try and save Ushanka anyway.
But not destroying it would be like stabbing all that inevitable misery and danger personally into Jon’s heart, because, whatever arguments he used, Martin couldn’t see any possible circumstance under which Jon wouldn’t take on the case.
Unless. Unless someone broke the rules; and took the case first.
~~~~~
“Okay, Martin, you can do this.”
Tim had gone to lunch; Jon and Sasha were out on a Corruption case, which usually took extra time, because of the multiple showers required afterwards; and there was really no point waiting any longer, hovering pathetically on the edge of the deed, instead of boldly striding right into it.
The link sat innocuously on his screen, almost flirting with his cursor as he repeatedly moved it over the words and away again.
“It’s just … watching someone eat a computer. You’ve seen plenty of reality TV, this can’t be that much worse.”
You’re doing this for Jon, he reminded himself (even if Jon would argue very much otherwise; even if this was very much on the list of things that he would explicitly not want to be done for him, underlined three times, with an angry vigour).
Martin hesitated; and then his finger slipped, the link was pressed and the point was moot.
He had braced himself for a scene of unspeakable, inescapable horror. Unfortunately, he hadn’t braced himself for what actually happened.
He had a brief sense of the door opening (“… all for personal fashion choices, Jon, but I draw the line at using rat-tailed maggots as a cocktail dress …”) before something reached out and pulled.
~~~~~
Against expectations, it didn’t hurt at all when the computer ate him. But, then, he supposed that pain receptors were more of a ‘body’ sort of thing and he seemed to have carelessly left his behind.
It took a while, though, to recognise this summarily redesigned consciousness as his own. Partly because he was so … organised. It came as a shock to realise that every single aspect of him was sorted and neatly filed, able to be pulled up and examined on command.
Though shock was not exactly the right term. Emotions also seemed to be a body thing. He had all the data for them - fear, shock, anger; joy, wonder, love and all the rest: each in their separate folders - but they all carried the exact same weight and sensation; or lack thereof. He could remember that he had once felt them rather differently, but not quite how he had managed it.
Which sparked a connection inside him and he swiftly cross-referenced his situation with the Lonely. It wasn’t quite the same - feelings were muted, there, not rendered entirely inaccessible, and fear was always very much present - but there were parallels.
He wondered if the Entities would enjoy a digitised version of fear just as much as the organic, messy sort, or whether it would be like eating plastic. It would be theoretically satisfying, he thought, to force-feed them artificial fear, in the same way that Sergey Ushanka had chomped down, so painfully, on his keyboard and mouse and monitor.
(If that whole thing wasn’t just bait, a copypasta staged by the Fears themselves, because this didn’t feel at all the same as he would have expected. Or maybe Ushanka had died exactly as Tessa saw, but his afterlife had been disappointingly peaceful and neatly categorised, so a little spice had to be added because ‘the angles cut me’ is a lot scarier than ‘My memories are now tidier than my sock drawer’.).
Would the Fears bleed? Could they? Maybe Jon would know or could ask.
Jon. Martin had a lot of files pertaining to Jon (and that was a proper Jon word, pertaining - it felt correct and in the right place).
Kidnapping, fear of yet another. Losing forever, abject screaming terror of. Soft sleeping face, an ode to. Irritating Jon things: A to Z. Adorable Jon things: A-Z in several volumes. And love. There was so much encoding for love.
It should feel different from the parts of him that were, say, his memories of childhood; his complicated set of files for his mother; his friendships; his jealousy; his petty moments; his brave moments; his sharpest insights; his stupidest assumptions; his preferences in toaster design (cute and retro).
But it didn’t.
Every part of Martin was laid out flat and stark and complete; and identical in emotional impact (i.e. zero).
No judgment. No preference. No good, no bad, no pride, no shame. No sorrow. No joy. No pain. Just a long, long string of data.
Existence, without life. Martin wondered if there was a Fear for that. Or a fanclub.
He wondered how Jon was feeling right now and whether he envied or pitied him for the ability to do so at all.
~~~~~
“Martin. Are you in there?”
It was an odd experience; not hearing, or seeing, but having words appear in his consciousness. Someone was typing at him, Martin realised. Which meant that they knew where he was. He was probably glad about that. It was hard to tell.
He tried projecting his reply back, unsure whether he was shouting into the void, or if it would be neatly typed up on the screen.
“Yes.”
“Oh god, Jon was right.”
Ah. That worked then. Martin acquired some strings of code which were categorised as ‘pleased’.
“Sorry, Martin, Sasha pointed out that we should check you’re really you and not just an AI automated response thing.
“Or, you know, some sort of digitised horror.”
Martin wondered if, technically speaking, he was an artificial intelligence now. Or, indeed, a digitised horror. Not the sort that, say, reached out through the screen and strangled people, just the standard ‘unsettling tale’ type, told around a campfire.
He would probably need a few exaggerations, though, to be any decent sort of a story. ‘Clicked link, became data’ just didn’t really have any oomph.
Martin probably shouldn’t have immediately started considering the practicalities of how to actually reach through the screen and strangle people, but, hey. It was a perfectly logical follow up thought.
“Okay, so three questions.
“What’s your least favourite tea?”
That was easy. He had the knowledge, even if it lacked the specific discomfort which had always come attached to the tea, so automatically that he had reflexively winced just passing the boxes in shops.
“Oolong.”
“Great. Okay, second question. Who do you like best, me or Sasha?
“Sorry, sorry, I’ve been asked to withdraw the question, as ‘unfair and childish’. Real second question. What’s the airspeed velocity of an unladen …”
There was a lag.
“Martin, this is Jon. Tim has forfeited typing privileges. Which, on reflection, may have been deliberate. So, second question. What was the first poem you ever read to me?”
Martin remembered the occasion perfectly - he could hardly help it, as every bit of that evening was perfectly preserved and filed.
Jon had been dismissive of poetry and Martin had been dismissive of Jon’s opinions; something he had regretted a little, later, as he realised that Jon thought about things in a very different way and genuinely didn’t get the same things from poetry as he did.
Still, over time, Jon had come to appreciate Martin’s appreciation, even if he didn’t feel the same way.
“John Donne, No Man is an Island. Because you had been getting in your head about ‘dragging us all in to your mess’ as you put it. Seeing it as putting us in danger, rather than letting us help you.”
“Ah, yes. And also, I suspect, because you were mildly annoyed with me and wanted to put the emphasis on ‘clod’ in ‘if a clod be washed away by the sea’.”
Martin hadn’t realised that Jon had picked up on that. He had always been so sensitive about being underestimated, that he forgot it was perfectly possible for him to do the same to others; even people he loved.
“That was purely a coincidence.”
“Of course.”
Jon’s dryness somehow came through perfectly.
“Okay, a third question is probably redundant, but just to be thorough. What does the ‘K’ stand for?”
It was a standing joke. Jon had trusted him so unquestioningly and Martin had thoroughly abused the privilege with the most ridiculous name he could think of. He hadn’t felt very guilty, when he finally confessed the truth.
“It stands for ‘poets sound cooler when they have a middle initial and X is so overdone’.”
“Right. Well, I think that’s pretty conclusive. Oh and the Ceaseless Watcher has decided to stop dragging its feet and confirmed that you’re you. How belatedly helpful.”
“It’s a real prince.”
Martin wondered, without emotion, whether the Watcher would also have explained to Jon exactly why he was in this predicament. It was still hit and miss with motivations, but seemed to be getting more of a handle on grasping complexities and emotional responses, these days. It and Jon had been working hard on better communication and an improved mutual understanding.
Which had some benefits, but, unfortunately, hadn’t stopped the Entity from thrusting Jon into situations; it just meant that it got a whole lot more nutrients out of doing so, than merely fear.
“Ah. It has also suggested that …”
A pause.
“Martin, do you actually prefer it in there?”
That was … unexpected. He hadn’t thought about this situation in terms of preference. He knew that things had been different before. That ‘feeling’ had happened. But it was impossible to truly understand from here.
In abstract terms, this probably was better. Despite Tessa’s story, his own expectations, this place - this Martin - was completely free from pain, both physical and emotional. No angles, no sharpness, just order and … flatness. A perfect and complete equality of every part of him. Every part of everything.
Perhaps he ought to see that as chilling; but he found himself filing it under beautiful.
“Because I know that you were angry. Perfectly understandably. And I know this life is often difficult. Being scared all of the time, dealing with so much stress and hurt and horror and sadness. And I’m so, so sorry.”
Martin knew that. Jon had apologised so much, for things that were genuinely his fault and things that weren’t. For things which he had been made to feel were his fault by people who should know better.
“I want you back and yourself, more than almost anything, and, believe me, I am willing to do whatever it takes to achieve that. Martin, I love you so much, but …”
A long pause.
“If you’re truly happier this way. If this is something you genuinely want and freely choose. Then, I …
“I would respect that choice.”
Martin couldn’t blink, like this, but he did whatever was the digital equivalent. And then he really, properly thought about it.
Was he happier? The quick answer was no. He was not capable of feeling happiness. That wasn’t something he currently regretted or was relieved by; it was just a statement of fact.
Martin was nothing but a statement of facts, right now. And that was … easy. Comfortable. There was no agitation, frustration, anger, fear, anxiety, hate. He didn’t feel guilt over those parts of him which were less than perfect.
And there would also be no joy, happiness, that little tinge of smugness, when he surprised someone, that bone-deep satisfaction at having helped.
He thought that the old Martin would miss those things. He didn’t know if this new Martin did.
“Give me a minute?”
“As long as you need.”
Martin considered the length of himself, the vast swathes of data that he was; and made a start on reviewing it.
~~~~~
It should have been an easy decision. Choose life, choose love, choose being able to leave the confines of an abstract digital space, where he didn’t have a corporeal existence.
If he stayed here, like this, there would be no more experiences of any kind, no more sunsets, no more of that fresh, just rained, feeling, no more autumn leaves and cows and hugs. No more kisses.
But.
But none of that felt real, here. What did feel real was the safety. The freedom from hurt and stress, not just through recent traumas, but old, lingering self-hatred and guilt and insecurity.
Freedom, as well, from death itself, at least for a good while longer than his flesh body would have managed (and Squidgy Version Martin had feared death, he knew, saw it as something to be very much avoided; so it would be perfectly sensible to choose the extended warranty option).
Plus, he would still have Jon and Tim and Sasha in his life, be able to talk to them whenever he liked. Jon - or, more likely, Sasha - would probably find a way of making him portable, so he wasn’t confined to the office. He’d be able to talk to Gerry, Georgie, Daisy, Basira; though not to Hogules. Not unless he could read ‘good pig, don’t eat clowns’ and type back an acknowledgment with his snout (which might not be impossible, actually. It wasn’t as if there were handbooks on monster pigs).
Jon would make him feel valued, he knew, in whatever form. He wouldn’t be a mere information resource, like Gerry had once suffered through, to be used when needed and then forgotten. He would be a cherished companion, taken on walks, consulted on cases and fondly chatted to.
Maybe he could even get a cool robot body, with hands that could crush steel and laser eyes. There was a big part of Martin which, so the data suggested, would be very much in favour of these things.
And, most of all, he just wouldn’t have to worry any more. There was a large swatch of data dedicated to worrying and how much he hated it. How, sometimes, he felt that all he was, was a combination of sheer, manifested anxiety and a comfort blanket.
But.
There were three reasons why Martin thought that, actually, maybe, he didn’t want to stay like this.
Third, was that his files on fear and anger and all of the things which bothered him, were not, when he calculated them, collectively larger than the files on happiness, friendship, goofing about, laughter, quiet contentment and overwhelming love.
Second, was that, after reviewing the files, he had so much more experience, so much more compressed and packed data, since he met Jon; and he hadn’t fully realised before quite how very much of him there was. If he stayed here, then he wouldn’t lose all that, but … any new files would likely be thin in comparison. Dull. Repetitive.
Less.
First, of course - as always, these days - was Jon.
Martin couldn’t feel, in any concrete, emotional sense, all the love he had for Jonathan Sims, but there was something about seeing it, stretching out into what felt like infinity and threaded all through him, that gave him … not quite a sensation, but just the tiniest spark. He wanted to see Jon again. He wanted to touch. He wanted to know, once again, how that had felt, right through to his soul.
And, on a purely objective view of the data, Martin’s could see that the Jon-related files for happiness, fun, adoration, amusement, satisfaction, joy, were so much greater than those for terror and anxiety and wishing the man would just stop getting hurt, already.
That was perhaps the deciding factor. Until and unless, Martin could achieve his ideal killer robot form, he would be unable to do anything to protect Jon like this, except to nag at him from time to time.
And, hey. He’d not only saved Jon, in the past, he’d helped save the whole actual world. Wasn’t it logical to go back to the version of himself which was capable of doing so, even with all the weaknesses and drawbacks?
“It’s calm here. Safe. Like a comfortable sofa and hot chocolate, forever. But I think I’d prefer to return, if that’s okay?”
“That’s very much okay, Martin. That’s more than okay.”
“Right. Good. Back to the old flesh prison, then. Um. How are you going to do that exactly?”
The length of the pause would probably have given Martin severe anxiety, if he was currently capable of such things.
“Hey, Martin, it’s Sasha. Jon is just … fixing it now. All fine, no need to worry. :) So, want to chat about being computer data?”
“It’s kind of … relaxing? I guess?”
Martin did his best to convey what he was feeling - nothing - and to transcribe the general experience in words which weren’t really made for it.
“Everything’s crisp and clear and complete. No fuzzy bits and uncertainties. It makes sense to me, but I don’t think Solid Martin would have liked that. He preferred the crackle of vinyl and tape, small imperfections, in everything but himself. I’m just not quite sure why, any more.”
“Well, you will again, soon.”
Martin supposed so.
“Hey, Sasha, if Jon can’t get me out …”
“Which he will.”
“Which he will. But, just hypothetically … what would be my options, robot body-wise? And how violent could it theoretically be?”
~~~~~
“Good Lord, this is odd.”
“Jon? You … you’re in here? Why are you in here?”
“To get you out, Martin. Obviously.”
“But … look, it’s not like there’s anything to grab onto. Won’t this just mean that you’re stuck here as well?”
“There’s … a small, but distinct, possibility that that might be the case, yes. But I’m fairly confident this will work. Trust me?”
Well, of course he did. Martin knew himself backwards and forwards, now, and that was patently clear. But did Jon know that? Had Martin given him too much reason to doubt it?
“There’s no one I trust more.”
“Well, then. Let’s give this a try.”
There was nothing; then there was, very abruptly and overwhelmingly, something.
Martin found himself wrapped fiercely around a warm, bony, familiar form, as they spilled out onto the office floor. The lights were too bright, the sounds too sharp and reawakening feelings kept punching him all over, like mad march hares.
It hurt, to be fully alive again, but it didn’t just hurt. And when he pulled back a little, from his death grip on Jon - just far enough to see his smile, so quietly, utterly relieved - well, then it was just plain glorious.
~~~~~
Jon didn’t ask Martin why.
Which might have been because he knew everything anyway, or because he was Being Good. It was hard for him, sometimes, to distinguish between polite personal enquiries, a legitimate need to know and sheer Eldritch Nosiness, so he would often err on the side of caution.
But they really did need to talk.
“I’m sorry, Jon.”
Jon turned to look at him, from where he was making them tea (which he had insisted on doing himself, as Martin was ‘recovering from forcible digitisation’). He gave Martin an unbearably soft smile, the sort that stops hearts, if they’re not careful.
“You don’t have to apologise for getting caught up in a Fear, Martin.”
“No, but … I’ve made you think you have to, before, haven’t I? Blamed you for getting hurt, for getting involved. And that’s … it’s really not fair of me. I get frustrated and upset and angry and worried and exhausted, but that’s not because of you, Jon. It’s the circumstances, the Fears, hell, even the crappy bits of life that aren’t the Fears, but never you. And I’m sorry if I ever made you think it was.”
Jon’s eyes were wide and surprised, his shoulders tense. He was uncomfortable being apologised to; it was too rare and outside of the normal pattern of things.
For a moment, Martin thought he was going to deny it, that Martin had ever hurt him; but then he nodded, quick and awkward.
“Thank you, Martin.”
He handed over a mug - brewed just as Martin liked it, milky and strong enough that a spoon couldn’t quite stand up in it, but might feel emboldened to try - and they settled down on the sofa together; Jon pressing close, so that Martin could feel emphatically solid and real. He appreciated that - appreciated life, love, his friends, Jon - more than he could say.
Maybe he’d have to work up to it.
“I can’t believe I considered choosing a life without tea.”
“I suppose we could have programmed in the chemical components. You could have appreciated it aesthetically.”
“Ah, but there are so many distinct elements to tea. It’s not just the flavour, you know …”
“It’s the ritual.”
Jon shot him an amused look, well aware of Martin’s various diatribes on tea and apparently quite content to let him begin another, but not without a little silent teasing about it. Martin regally ignored it.
“Right, exactly! It’s the whole process and all of the associations of calm and comfort and control …”
Martin expounded on tea, deliberately intense, with one arm wrapped around Jon like an anchor.
There would almost certainly be times when he would regret coming back to this - back to the world of actual feeling, with all its breathless highs and agonising lows - such as the next time Jon was kidnapped (because he knew better, by now, than to hope it wouldn’t happen again; and the betting pool had it by next Thursday at the latest).
But they would be far, far outweighed by these moments, big and small, when love and happiness warmed him through even more effectively than tea; and Martin expanded his files, on and out into infinity.