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“Stole?” Jon looked at him with something between reproach and indignation. “You said it was fine.”

“Because you didn’t ask until after you were already cooking. Anyway, I just assumed that meant we were trading.”

“But—”

“Sit.” Martin waved the spoon toward the new addition to the small kitchen, a little table that sat snugged up against the wall. It was really only large enough for the two of them to share a cup of tea, and they rarely ate at it, but that wasn't the point. Its true and unspoken purpose was exactly the one it was about to serve now: if one of them was working in the kitchen, the other had somewhere to be nearby.

Jon sat obediently, although he made no attempt to cover up the fact that he was put out.

“Oh, come on,” Martin said, as he dumped the chicken in the pan. “I’m doing a lot better, and I mean, the doctor said I should start to be more active. And you worked all day, and I—well—didn’t. Is it really that bad?”

“I suppose not.”

“You’re welcome.” He turned to wash his hands while the chicken continued its slow sizzle. He didn’t want to take his attention away from the pan for too long; he’d recently developed a tendency to get distracted in the kitchen and let things burn. “Speaking of, how was work? After lunch, I mean.”

“It was fine.” Jon’s tone was flat, and Martin frowned. Jon wasn’t always in the best mood when he came home in the evening these days, but he usually cheered up quickly.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Martin prodded at the chicken, and realized it was already starting to brown. He wondered if he had the heat up too high, and turned it down a little after making sure that each piece was turned so that the more-cooked side was facing up. “Jon—what’s wrong?”

“I’m cold.”

It was not the first time Martin had heard that. “You’re always cold when you get home. Go turn on the heat.”

“I didn’t say it was cold, I said I’m cold.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Are you cold?”

Martin considered. “Well, no, actually, I thought—”

“That’s the difference.”

“Turn the heat on anyway.” Martin dumped the chicken back out of the pan into yet another bowl. It was a little darker than he might have preferred, but he had avoided burning it. In any case, it wasn’t like Jon was picky, and it was better to overcook chicken than undercook it.

“It’s not worth it.”

“Jon—” Martin turned his attention back to Jon as he wiped out the pan to prepare it for the vegetables, and Jon’s face told him there was not going to be any turning on the heat. Exasperated, he put the pan back and poured a little bit more oil into it, this time adding some butter. “Well then, fine, just give it a minute. I’m sweating in here. You’ll warm up.”

He overturned the little cup with the onions into the pan and let them sit for a couple of minutes, until he could smell them starting to cook. He’d always liked the smell of onions cooking, but it had come to mean more to him lately. No, it wasn’t particularly hard to cut up an onion and throw it in a pan, but that was part of what he liked so much about it. It was simple, it was something he could do while he was still healing, and most importantly, it was something normal people did in normal homes that he could do for Jon.

He glanced back over his shoulder, hoping Jon’s silence was an indication that he had settled down, but that wasn’t the case. Jon was hunched over, glaring absently at the small table with his arms wrapped over his chest and his fingers stuffed into his armpits; looking at him, he might have been in the Arctic rather than London at the end of spring. Although he did feel that Jon was maybe being a tad overdramatic, Martin felt sorry for him.

“If you won’t turn on the heat, go put on a jumper. Please?” He tried to split his attention between Jon and the pan while he scraped at the onions. He was supposed to add the rest of the vegetables when the onions were translucent, but he couldn’t decide exactly what that meant. “You look miserable. Just go grab one and come right back.”

“I don’t have a jumper.”

“Yes, you do. That grey pullover we just bought for you.” He sighed as he reevaluated the onions; maybe they weren’t as white as they had been when he put them in the pan? Good enough. He poured the mishmash collection of broccoli and peppers and mushrooms and whatever else had been in the fridge into the pan on top of them, stirring them briefly before turning back to Jon. “It looks really nice on you. Go put it on.”

Jon straightened slightly, and for a moment his expression lost its hard edge, but it didn’t last long. “It’s in the laundry basket.”

Martin sighed again and turned back to the pan. “You know you don’t have to wash it every time you wear it.”

“Yes, of course I know that.” Although Jon was silent and Martin wasn’t looking at him because he was busy watching the pan, he could hear the hesitation. Finally, Jon added, “I got mustard on it.”

“You got mustard on it.” Martin shook his head. “Did you at least spray it with the—the stain stuff before you put it in the—”

“Yes,” Jon snapped. “Yes, I sprayed it. After last time—”

“Look, I’m not trying to—it’s just that that kind of stain can really set if you—”

He stopped midsentence, even letting the large wooden spoon rest for a moment until the sound of the vegetables searing against the bottom of the pan reminded him to keep stirring. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t understood earlier. The last few days when Jon had come home from work and complained about being cold, Martin had been right there on the sofa. It had been natural for Martin to take the throw off his lap and pull it over them both (but mostly over Jon), folding him into his arms while they had exchanged quiet words about whatever unimportant things had come to mind.

“Oh Jon,” he started. “I’m—I’m sorry—I really just have to keep my eye on this, I know I’m going to burn it if—”

“I didn’t ask you for anything.”

“No, I know, but—”

“Never mind.” The harshness in Jon’s voice faded a bit as he added, “It’s fine. I’m—I’m fine.”

“Fine,” Martin said, as he continued to push the vegetables around the pan—but he didn’t feel like it was fine. He wondered if he could set the pan on a cold burner for a few minutes and come back to it, but he had a feeling that wouldn’t go well.

He couldn’t be too far from finishing at this point, right? He checked the recipe; he was supposed to add the chicken back to the pan with the garlic and ginger when the vegetables were ‘crisp tender’. What did that even mean? As far as Martin was aware, crisp and tender meant opposite things. He eyed the vegetables again and decided they looked edible, and that was good enough for him. He returned the chicken to the pan, and shook the garlic and ginger out on top of it. That was only supposed to sit for a minute before the—

“Wait,” he said, turning back to Jon, temporarily abandoning the spoon in the pan. He grabbed his own jumper at the waist, pulling it up and over his head, quickly turning it right side out again. “Here.”

“Martin, I can’t—” Jon started to protest, but Martin had already tossed the jumper to him and he had to catch it. “I can’t wear this.”

“Put it on.”

“Martin, I’m going to drown in it.”

“Just—put it on. I’ll tell you what to do with the arms.” Martin was pouring the sauce into the pan now after throwing in the cashews, but could tell by Jon’s grumbling and the quieter background sounds of fabric sliding over fabric that he was putting it on, and he was relieved.

He stirred together the sauce and the vegetables; the only thing he had to do now was let it come to boil, and then turn it down to simmer until the sauce had thickened. He felt safe to turn back to Jon, who sat facing him with his arms held up in front of himself, demonstrating how the sleeves flowed over the ends of his fingers. “Really, Martin?”

Martin grinned; he couldn’t help it. “I don’t see the problem.”

Jon was unamused, and grabbed the extra portion of sleeve as if he were about to pull the jumper off again.

“Wait. I’m kidding. I mean, it is cute, but—ok. Ok, now look." He realized he didn’t have his own sleeves to demonstrate, and he had the spoon to contend with, but that was ok. Jon had gotten pretty good at understanding his pantomiming over the years. “Pull the sleeves back and—and grab the edge, at the wrist, then just—twist it. Like—grab with the same hand then twist it with the other one, and just—yeah. Keep going.”

“Oh. Like that. I—I see.” It took a lot of twisting, but eventually the sleeves were wrapped more tightly around Jon’s arms, and the ends were no longer engulfing his hands. “That’s—that’s not too awful.”

“See? And now it’s actually warmer, too, because of the—” Martin had let one hand drift back to settle on the stove behind him, and he was interrupted by a small hot sting on the back of one of his fingers. The stir fry had begun to boil, and the tiniest bit of sauce had splashed out of the pan. “Ow—shit—sorry. Almost done.”

He turned the heat down and poked the spoon into the mixture; it didn’t seem like it had thickened at all. For a moment he was worried he had messed it up, but as the boil settled into a simmer it began to take on a more viscous texture. He continued to stir it for another minute or so, then moved it to another burner as he turned off the heat. It actually might taste pretty good, or at least not too bad.

Pleased, he returned his attention to Jon. He found that he had lain his arms, still enveloped in the soft knitted wool of the jumper, out across the table, and was resting his head on the sleeves. His eyes were closed and his face was buried in the fabric, and Martin wondered if he had fallen asleep.

“You doing ok?” Martin asked softly as he approached the table. “Still cold?”

Jon issued a muffled acknowledgement, and without really thinking about what he was doing, Martin knelt down next to his chair. Reaching up, he pressed his fingertips gently to Jon’s shoulder to make sure he didn’t startle him, but Jon barely moved—he must have anticipated the touch.

He let his hand travel around to Jon’s back, intending to rub his shoulder blade, but before he could Jon had slipped out of the chair and joined him on the floor. There was an awkward moment as Jon attempted to avoid putting any pressure on Martin’s stomach, near his still-healing injury, but Martin pulled him in as close as he could.

“Wait, I don’t want to—”

“You won’t. It’s ok, Jon. I’m ok.” He waited until Jon relaxed, until Jon’s arms were comfortably around his ribcage, to shift to a slightly different position where he could more easily support both of them. “See? I’m ok. And—and you’re ok too. All right?”

“All right.” Jon nodded, and Martin bent his head to kiss to the top of Jon’s. He noticed the particular softness of his hair; it had grown out a bit from when they’d cut it. It would be time for a trim soon, if Jon would let him.

“I’m sorry for earlier,” Martin said. “I didn’t—”

Freeing one hand, Jon pressed it lightly against Martin’s mouth; Martin realized the sleeve of the jumper had fallen over the end of Jon’s fingers again, but it didn’t seem to bother him. A moment later, straining to reach his face, Jon kissed him before returning his head to rest against his chest.

Martin realized Jon was exhausted.

“Hard day?” Martin asked.

“Not especially.”

Martin was about to push back on that when he it occurred to him it was actually probably true—maybe only technically so, but true nonetheless. This was almost certainly weeks of hard days and exhaustion, the very human type that Jon hadn’t felt in a long time, that were finally showing themselves. At least it made Martin feel better about insisting on his turn at dinner. He decided he wouldn’t push Jon to talk about it just yet; there would be time for that when Jon was ready. Instead, he held him tighter and ran his hand over Jon’s back in large, soothing circles, his palm brushing over the familiar fabric of his own jumper.

Seconds passed that way, then minutes; he began to wonder again if Jon was falling asleep.

“Jon, love?”

Jon didn’t answer him, but shifted in a way that let Martin know he had heard him.

“You hungry?” he asked.

Jon nodded into his chest.

“You’re going to have to let go then,” he pointed out, removing his hand from Jon’s back to smooth his errant hair behind his ear. It was just barely long enough to stay tucked back. “Just so we can eat, ok?”