This is a sideblog for my fanfiction. Right now I'm writing exclusively Magnus Archives fics, but in the future, who knows? My AO3 username is iamcringebutiamfree (and I apologize to tumblr user iamcringebutiamfree, I didn't know you existed when I picked that username)
Reading this tumblr post got me thinking about Gale’s relationship with mortality and food, and the inherent sensuality thereof, and since I was already thinking about Gale trying his hand at poetry post-canon, I figured I’d take a crack at writing what that might look like:
(View on AO3)
The gods have no need for food, but they like to pretend
Elysium is positively littered with fruit bowls
It’s charmingly mortal, they think
As they raise the perfect globe of an apple —
Seedless and unblemished —
To their immortal lips
It bears little resemblance to fruit grown on mortal soil —
With piths and pits, seeds and stones,
Misshapen and bruised —
But they’ve forgotten that
My lover lifts an overripe cherry to my mouth,
And I dutifully part my lips
The fruit is all bruises — it bursts at the slightest pressure
Spilling juice across my tongue
Staining my mouth and my lover’s fingertips a deep, sanguine red
They bring their finger to their lips
And their soft, wet tongue darts out to taste the nectar
I smile as I work my mouth around the cherry
Stripping away the soft flesh from the pit
Until all that’s left is that gnarled stone —
The little imperfection at the centre of the thing
For the flesh to shape itself around
In time all that’s left will be a bowl full of cherry pits and a few red stains
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Hey all! I’m thinking of branching out and writing fics for some other fandoms, and rather than rebranding my current fanfic sideblog, I’m going to leave @grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks strictly tma-focused and make this sideblog a new general space for all of my fanfiction. I still plan to write more Magnus Archives stuff in the future (and hopefully update my unfinished fics), but I don’t want to commit the cardinal sin of writing fanfic based more on fanon and derivative works than the work itself, so that will have to wait until my next relisten. Huge thanks to everyone who’s supported me on my existing blog, especially during this long hiatus!
Read this in @grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks ‘ amazing fic Come, my dear, and be a part of my home!! The mental image was so good I was posessed to draw it immediately
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A quick little Scottish Safehouse fic for you. Check it out on AO3, or read below. Reblogs, replies, etc are always extremely appreciated.
They didn’t talk about it, at the safehouse. They talked about everything but – the weather, the dishes, the neighbors’ cows. They talked about Daisy, but only to comment about her decor, or her taste in books and music made evident by the small collection of vinyl and battered paperbacks scattered across the house. They didn’t talk about what she might be doing now. They didn’t speculate about whether Basira had made good on her promise yet.
Jon didn’t ask Martin about anything he’d said in the Lonely, though the words I really loved you, you know burned a constant hum in the back of his mind. Martin didn’t ask about any of the things he’d Seen. He wouldn’t know what to ask, even if he wanted to. Was it real? Do you love me? He wasn’t sure he needed to ask. What does it mean? Where do we go from here? That was closer to the mark, but terrifying. Everything felt so fragile at the moment. He didn’t want to push. It was easier, safer, to keep things light. Was the tea in Daisy’s cupboards still good? Had Jon seen that grey heron in the stream outside the window? Should they stop by the library the next time they went into town for groceries?
They barely spoke at all when they went to bed. The nerve-wracking reality of sharing a bed, just inches apart, overpowered any instinct to chat. So they said nothing, falling asleep to the sound of the other’s breathing until it was time for one or both of them to be woken by a nightmare.
***
The first night, it was Martin. He tossed and turned in his sleep, badly enough to shake Jon from his own bad dreams, so Jon could hear the second he woke with a hitched, choked breath.
“It’s alright,” he whispered. “You’re alright, it was just a dream.”
“Jon?”
“I’m here.”
Jon reached across and slipped his hand into Martin’s, and Martin squeezed it like a lifeline. They didn’t say anything else, after that, but when they finally fell asleep nearly an hour later, their hands were still clasped together.
***
In the morning, they talked about the crossword.
“How do you spell obstinate?” Martin asked across the breakfast table.
“O-B-S-T-I-N-A-T-E.”
“Hmm. Too many letters, then.”
“What’s the clue?”
“Stubborn, 8 letters.” Martin told him. “First two letters are O and B.”
“What about ‘obdurate?’”
Martin pencilled it in. “It fits.” He frowned down at the puzzle with a contemplative hum. “And if that’s an R, then that means I was right about 4 down from the beginning…” He filled in a few more clues, then looked up from the puzzle and scoffed. “Obdurate,” he repeated, incredulous. “Who uses the word obdurate?”
***
Jon was woken after midnight by Martin’s harsh, shuddering breaths – crying or on the verge of tears; Jon couldn’t tell. He reached out, and Martin breathed out a shaky sigh.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I was on the beach again,” Martin whispered. “I was alone.”
“You’re not alone anymore.”
“I know.” Another sigh as he struggled to calm his breathing. “I know.”
***
The next day, they talked about the laundry.
“We forgot to buy detergent,” Jon informed him after spending the morning inspecting Daisy’s laundry room and its ancient washer-dryer.
“Daisy didn’t leave any behind?”
“You can look for yourself if you want, but I didn’t see any.”
“I trust you.”
Jon settled on the couch and spread the throw blanket across his lap. “How much did you pack? Do you think we can put off doing laundry until after we go to the shops?”
“Sure,” Martin told him, though in truth he hadn’t packed much. “We’ll be fine.”
***
When Jon woke, he didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. He lay on his back, letting his tears slide down his cheeks in total silence, certain that he hadn’t woken Martin. But when he finally had to breathe – the tell-tale hiccuping inhale of someone who had just been crying – Martin rolled over to face him.
“Jon?”
“It’s nothing. Just a bad dream,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
Martin watched him. Jon’s chest rose and fell unsteadily, and in the light of the nearly-full moon outside their window, Martin could see the tear tracks glisten, incriminating, on his face.
Jon finally turned to face him, and they lay face to face for a long, silent moment. A strand of long, grey-streaked hair had fallen into Jon’s face with the movement, and Martin reached out to tuck it behind his ear.
“Oh, Jon…”
He let his hand linger, cupping his jaw, then moved it an inch to brush aside the tears from Jon’s cheeks. His hand was warm, and Jon’s skin was cold, and Jon turned his face to press into that point of warm, gentle contact.
Jon waited for Martin to pull his hand away. Martin waited for Jon to turn away again. Neither of them moved.
Finally, Jon closed the space between them to tuck his face into the crook of Martin’s neck. Martin held his breath for a moment before bringing his arms up to pull Jon even closer.
They woke up that morning entwined in each other’s arms, but they didn’t talk about it.
***
“We’re almost out of eggs.”
“Already?”
“It’s probably my fault,” Martin admitted. “I used a lot of them for my omelet yesterday.”
“Well, we needed to go shopping anyway.”
Martin hmm’ ed thoughtfully. “There was something else we needed. Wasn’t there?”
“There was,” Jon agreed. “God, what was it?”
“We should start writing these things down.”
***
That night, Jon had another nightmare. Martin could hear him trying to stifle his crying once again, and reached out.
Jon froze at the contact, caught like a deer in the headlights. Then he turned to press himself against Martin’s chest and let himself be held.
“Nightmare?” Martin asked, and Jon nodded.
“I couldn’t look away,” he murmured. “I tried to, but– I just stood there and watched.”
Martin pressed Jon to him. “It’s alright,” he said, though it wasn’t exactly true. Then he whispered, “I’m here,” which was.
***
The next day, they went into town for groceries. They chatted a bit on the walk there.
“God, breathe that air,” Martin exclaimed, sucking in a good lungful for himself.
“I’m breathing it…” Jon said. “Is there… something I’m supposed to notice?”
“It’s fresh!” Martin told him. “It’s good, country air! I don’t miss London right now, I’ll tell you that.”
“No.” Jon glanced at Martin, bundled in his worn peacoat against the highland chill. “I can’t say I miss London either.”
They chatted more in the grocery store.
“Where are you going?”
“I just want to look at the tea selection…”
“We already have so much back at the house.”
“I’m just looking!”
And more, on the walk back.
“Ooh, look there! Is that a falcon? Or a hawk?”
“A hawk.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, it’s a Eurasian sparrowhawk.”
“Know-it-all.”
“Yes, Martin, that’s sort of the idea.”
And more, when they got back to the safehouse.
“Geez,” Martin said as they walked through the front door, “it’s getting a bit nippy, isn’t it? Should we have a fire tonight?”
“Yes, that’s probably–”
Martin dropped the tote bag he was holding with an abrupt clunk.
“Laundry detergent!”
Jon didn’t have to ask what he meant; he just swore under his breath.
“Damnit!”
“We forgot laundry detergent.”
“Look, Martin, you finish putting the groceries away and I’ll run back to the shop.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t have to. It’s a long way–”
“I want to.”
“Alright.” Jon bit his lip around the urge to smile. “If you’re sure.”
***
It was Martin’s turn for a nightmare that night. It was too much to ask, it seemed, that just once they both sleep soundly.
He was crying. Quietly, but not so quietly that it didn’t stand out starkly against the silence of the house. He had his back to Jon, and Jon watched his shoulders shake for a single hesitant moment before he wrapped his arms around Martin’s waist.
“Was it the same dream?” he asked in a barely-there whisper, and Martin shook his head.
“You were there this time,” he said. “In the Lonely. But you… you hated me. You didn’t say it, but I could tell– I knew– you wanted me to go.”
“I’m sorry.”
Martin sniffled. “It was just a dream,” he said, as much to himself as to Jon.
“I… I don’t want you to go.”
“I know. You don’t have to… It was just a dream,” Martin repeated.
They let the silence hang in the air for a time, Jon holding Martin in a wordless embrace, Martin letting the tears come without trying to fight them this time. Jon broke the silence to murmur,
“I was prepared to stay.”
“What?”
“When I went into the Lonely, I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull you out – I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull myself out. I just knew…” he took a steadying breath, and pressed his ear to Martin’s back to hear the quiet beating of his heart. “I’d rather be there with you than leave you there alone.”
“Oh.”
Martin took Jon’s hand in his, pressing it to his chest like a talisman, like it could ward off the Lonely. Maybe it could.
“Thanks, Jon. I…” Another sentence he couldn’t finish. “Thank you.”
Jon turned his head and pressed a kiss to the back of Martin’s neck. In that moment, it felt natural. It felt simple. It felt right.
Martin sighed. The sound was warm, and gentle, and content, and it felt so loud against the silence of the room.
They didn’t talk about it.
***
The next day, they did laundry.
The washer seemed up to the task, but the dryer, which Jon had been dubious of since the moment he set eyes on it, gave out halfway through the first spin cycle. In the end, they had to hang it up to dry.
They worked as a team, Jon handing Martin clothes and pegs and Martin hanging them on the laundry line that stood in the yard behind the safehouse.
They chatted while they worked.
“I’ve never seen you wear this in my life,” Martin remarked as he hung up one of Jon’s old tee shirts from uni.
“Yes, well, I was in a bit of a hurry when I packed…”
Martin read the text printed in too-small serif across the front of the shirt, and his face split into a grin.
“Wait, am-dram? You did am-dram in uni?”
“Very briefly.”
“This explains so much about you.”
“Shut up, Martin,” Jon muttered without any real venom.
“Well, let’s hear something! You must have a bit of Shakespeare memorized.”
He did, but he wasn’t going to say as much while Martin was mocking him.
“I’m not a performing monkey.”
“Oh, come on, just one quick monologue! Just a little, ‘But soft, what light through yonder window breaks…’”
“It is the east, and Juliet is the sun,” Jon finished rotely and without intonation. “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou her maid art far more fair than she – and that’s as much as you’ll get out of me.”
Jon bent over to grab more laundry and did his best to hide his face.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
Martin grinned. “Very.”
“Well… that’s good,” he said stiffly. “I’m glad.”
Martin looked at Jon – desperately embarrassed, surrounded by sodden tee shirts, windswept silver-black hair gleaming in the late September sun – and felt more fond than he ever had of anyone in his life.
“I love you.”
The words slipped out before he realized what he was saying. Jon’s head swung around to stare.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t– I mean– I know it’s–”
“You do?” Jon’s words were quiet and utterly serious.
Martin gave an anxious little nod. “Yeah.” His voice came out smaller than he expected. “I do. I really, really do.”
Jon let the pair of trousers he was holding fall to the ground as he surged forward to kiss him.
***
Another nightmare. Another round of whispered reassurances.
“It’s alright, you’re alright, I’m here.”
When the shock wore off and they were able to shake the residual dread from their respective bad dreams, they turned to face each other on the mattress. The light from the barely-waning moon painted everything in shades of dusky silver.
For a long time, they didn’t speak; they simply studied each other’s faces. Eventually, Jon brought his forehead up to rest against Martin’s.
“I love you.”
Martin swallowed. He still wasn’t used to hearing it. Jon wasn’t used to saying it.
“I love you, too.”
Their lips met in one soft, slow kiss, and then they pulled away just enough to gaze at each other as they fell back into sleep.
A quick little Scottish Safehouse fic for you. Check it out on AO3, or read below. Reblogs, replies, etc are always extremely appreciated.
They didn’t talk about it, at the safehouse. They talked about everything but – the weather, the dishes, the neighbors’ cows. They talked about Daisy, but only to comment about her decor, or her taste in books and music made evident by the small collection of vinyl and battered paperbacks scattered across the house. They didn’t talk about what she might be doing now. They didn’t speculate about whether Basira had made good on her promise yet.
Jon didn’t ask Martin about anything he’d said in the Lonely, though the words I really loved you, you know burned a constant hum in the back of his mind. Martin didn’t ask about any of the things he’d Seen. He wouldn’t know what to ask, even if he wanted to. Was it real? Do you love me? He wasn’t sure he needed to ask. What does it mean? Where do we go from here? That was closer to the mark, but terrifying. Everything felt so fragile at the moment. He didn’t want to push. It was easier, safer, to keep things light. Was the tea in Daisy’s cupboards still good? Had Jon seen that grey heron in the stream outside the window? Should they stop by the library the next time they went into town for groceries?
They barely spoke at all when they went to bed. The nerve-wracking reality of sharing a bed, just inches apart, overpowered any instinct to chat. So they said nothing, falling asleep to the sound of the other’s breathing until it was time for one or both of them to be woken by a nightmare.
***
The first night, it was Martin. He tossed and turned in his sleep, badly enough to shake Jon from his own bad dreams, so Jon could hear the second he woke with a hitched, choked breath.
“It’s alright,” he whispered. “You’re alright, it was just a dream.”
“Jon?”
“I’m here.”
Jon reached across and slipped his hand into Martin’s, and Martin squeezed it like a lifeline. They didn’t say anything else, after that, but when they finally fell asleep nearly an hour later, their hands were still clasped together.
***
In the morning, they talked about the crossword.
“How do you spell obstinate?” Martin asked across the breakfast table.
“O-B-S-T-I-N-A-T-E.”
“Hmm. Too many letters, then.”
“What’s the clue?”
“Stubborn, 8 letters.” Martin told him. “First two letters are O and B.”
“What about ‘obdurate?’”
Martin pencilled it in. “It fits.” He frowned down at the puzzle with a contemplative hum. “And if that’s an R, then that means I was right about 4 down from the beginning…” He filled in a few more clues, then looked up from the puzzle and scoffed. “Obdurate,” he repeated, incredulous. “Who uses the word obdurate?”
***
Jon was woken after midnight by Martin’s harsh, shuddering breaths – crying or on the verge of tears; Jon couldn’t tell. He reached out, and Martin breathed out a shaky sigh.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I was on the beach again,” Martin whispered. “I was alone.”
“You’re not alone anymore.”
“I know.” Another sigh as he struggled to calm his breathing. “I know.”
***
The next day, they talked about the laundry.
“We forgot to buy detergent,” Jon informed him after spending the morning inspecting Daisy’s laundry room and its ancient washer-dryer.
“Daisy didn’t leave any behind?”
“You can look for yourself if you want, but I didn’t see any.”
“I trust you.”
Jon settled on the couch and spread the throw blanket across his lap. “How much did you pack? Do you think we can put off doing laundry until after we go to the shops?”
“Sure,” Martin told him, though in truth he hadn’t packed much. “We’ll be fine.”
***
When Jon woke, he didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. He lay on his back, letting his tears slide down his cheeks in total silence, certain that he hadn’t woken Martin. But when he finally had to breathe – the tell-tale hiccuping inhale of someone who had just been crying – Martin rolled over to face him.
“Jon?”
“It’s nothing. Just a bad dream,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
Martin watched him. Jon’s chest rose and fell unsteadily, and in the light of the nearly-full moon outside their window, Martin could see the tear tracks glisten, incriminating, on his face.
Jon finally turned to face him, and they lay face to face for a long, silent moment. A strand of long, grey-streaked hair had fallen into Jon’s face with the movement, and Martin reached out to tuck it behind his ear.
“Oh, Jon…”
He let his hand linger, cupping his jaw, then moved it an inch to brush aside the tears from Jon’s cheeks. His hand was warm, and Jon’s skin was cold, and Jon turned his face to press into that point of warm, gentle contact.
Jon waited for Martin to pull his hand away. Martin waited for Jon to turn away again. Neither of them moved.
Finally, Jon closed the space between them to tuck his face into the crook of Martin’s neck. Martin held his breath for a moment before bringing his arms up to pull Jon even closer.
They woke up that morning entwined in each other’s arms, but they didn’t talk about it.
***
“We’re almost out of eggs.”
“Already?”
“It’s probably my fault,” Martin admitted. “I used a lot of them for my omelet yesterday.”
“Well, we needed to go shopping anyway.”
Martin hmm’ ed thoughtfully. “There was something else we needed. Wasn’t there?”
“There was,” Jon agreed. “God, what was it?”
“We should start writing these things down.”
***
That night, Jon had another nightmare. Martin could hear him trying to stifle his crying once again, and reached out.
Jon froze at the contact, caught like a deer in the headlights. Then he turned to press himself against Martin’s chest and let himself be held.
“Nightmare?” Martin asked, and Jon nodded.
“I couldn’t look away,” he murmured. “I tried to, but– I just stood there and watched.”
Martin pressed Jon to him. “It’s alright,” he said, though it wasn’t exactly true. Then he whispered, “I’m here,” which was.
***
The next day, they went into town for groceries. They chatted a bit on the walk there.
“God, breathe that air,” Martin exclaimed, sucking in a good lungful for himself.
“I’m breathing it…” Jon said. “Is there… something I’m supposed to notice?”
“It’s fresh!” Martin told him. “It’s good, country air! I don’t miss London right now, I’ll tell you that.”
“No.” Jon glanced at Martin, bundled in his worn peacoat against the highland chill. “I can’t say I miss London either.”
They chatted more in the grocery store.
“Where are you going?”
“I just want to look at the tea selection…”
“We already have so much back at the house.”
“I’m just looking!”
And more, on the walk back.
“Ooh, look there! Is that a falcon? Or a hawk?”
“A hawk.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, it’s a Eurasian sparrowhawk.”
“Know-it-all.”
“Yes, Martin, that’s sort of the idea.”
And more, when they got back to the safehouse.
“Geez,” Martin said as they walked through the front door, “it’s getting a bit nippy, isn’t it? Should we have a fire tonight?”
“Yes, that’s probably–”
Martin dropped the tote bag he was holding with an abrupt clunk.
“Laundry detergent!”
Jon didn’t have to ask what he meant; he just swore under his breath.
“Damnit!”
“We forgot laundry detergent.”
“Look, Martin, you finish putting the groceries away and I’ll run back to the shop.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t have to. It’s a long way–”
“I want to.”
“Alright.” Jon bit his lip around the urge to smile. “If you’re sure.”
***
It was Martin’s turn for a nightmare that night. It was too much to ask, it seemed, that just once they both sleep soundly.
He was crying. Quietly, but not so quietly that it didn’t stand out starkly against the silence of the house. He had his back to Jon, and Jon watched his shoulders shake for a single hesitant moment before he wrapped his arms around Martin’s waist.
“Was it the same dream?” he asked in a barely-there whisper, and Martin shook his head.
“You were there this time,” he said. “In the Lonely. But you… you hated me. You didn’t say it, but I could tell– I knew– you wanted me to go.”
“I’m sorry.”
Martin sniffled. “It was just a dream,” he said, as much to himself as to Jon.
“I… I don’t want you to go.”
“I know. You don’t have to… It was just a dream,” Martin repeated.
They let the silence hang in the air for a time, Jon holding Martin in a wordless embrace, Martin letting the tears come without trying to fight them this time. Jon broke the silence to murmur,
“I was prepared to stay.”
“What?”
“When I went into the Lonely, I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull you out – I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull myself out. I just knew…” he took a steadying breath, and pressed his ear to Martin’s back to hear the quiet beating of his heart. “I’d rather be there with you than leave you there alone.”
“Oh.”
Martin took Jon’s hand in his, pressing it to his chest like a talisman, like it could ward off the Lonely. Maybe it could.
“Thanks, Jon. I…” Another sentence he couldn’t finish. “Thank you.”
Jon turned his head and pressed a kiss to the back of Martin’s neck. In that moment, it felt natural. It felt simple. It felt right.
Martin sighed. The sound was warm, and gentle, and content, and it felt so loud against the silence of the room.
They didn’t talk about it.
***
The next day, they did laundry.
The washer seemed up to the task, but the dryer, which Jon had been dubious of since the moment he set eyes on it, gave out halfway through the first spin cycle. In the end, they had to hang it up to dry.
They worked as a team, Jon handing Martin clothes and pegs and Martin hanging them on the laundry line that stood in the yard behind the safehouse.
They chatted while they worked.
“I’ve never seen you wear this in my life,” Martin remarked as he hung up one of Jon’s old tee shirts from uni.
“Yes, well, I was in a bit of a hurry when I packed…”
Martin read the text printed in too-small serif across the front of the shirt, and his face split into a grin.
“Wait, am-dram? You did am-dram in uni?”
“Very briefly.”
“This explains so much about you.”
“Shut up, Martin,” Jon muttered without any real venom.
“Well, let’s hear something! You must have a bit of Shakespeare memorized.”
He did, but he wasn’t going to say as much while Martin was mocking him.
“I’m not a performing monkey.”
“Oh, come on, just one quick monologue! Just a little, ‘But soft, what light through yonder window breaks…’”
“It is the east, and Juliet is the sun,” Jon finished rotely and without intonation. “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou her maid art far more fair than she – and that’s as much as you’ll get out of me.”
Jon bent over to grab more laundry and did his best to hide his face.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
Martin grinned. “Very.”
“Well… that’s good,” he said stiffly. “I’m glad.”
Martin looked at Jon – desperately embarrassed, surrounded by sodden tee shirts, windswept silver-black hair gleaming in the late September sun – and felt more fond than he ever had of anyone in his life.
“I love you.”
The words slipped out before he realized what he was saying. Jon’s head swung around to stare.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t– I mean– I know it’s–”
“You do?” Jon’s words were quiet and utterly serious.
Martin gave an anxious little nod. “Yeah.” His voice came out smaller than he expected. “I do. I really, really do.”
Jon let the pair of trousers he was holding fall to the ground as he surged forward to kiss him.
***
Another nightmare. Another round of whispered reassurances.
“It’s alright, you’re alright, I’m here.”
When the shock wore off and they were able to shake the residual dread from their respective bad dreams, they turned to face each other on the mattress. The light from the barely-waning moon painted everything in shades of dusky silver.
For a long time, they didn’t speak; they simply studied each other’s faces. Eventually, Jon brought his forehead up to rest against Martin’s.
“I love you.”
Martin swallowed. He still wasn’t used to hearing it. Jon wasn’t used to saying it.
“I love you, too.”
Their lips met in one soft, slow kiss, and then they pulled away just enough to gaze at each other as they fell back into sleep.
A quick little Scottish Safehouse fic for you. Check it out on AO3, or read below. Reblogs, replies, etc are always extremely appreciated.
They didn’t talk about it, at the safehouse. They talked about everything but – the weather, the dishes, the neighbors’ cows. They talked about Daisy, but only to comment about her decor, or her taste in books and music made evident by the small collection of vinyl and battered paperbacks scattered across the house. They didn’t talk about what she might be doing now. They didn’t speculate about whether Basira had made good on her promise yet.
Jon didn’t ask Martin about anything he’d said in the Lonely, though the words I really loved you, you know burned a constant hum in the back of his mind. Martin didn’t ask about any of the things he’d Seen. He wouldn’t know what to ask, even if he wanted to. Was it real? Do you love me? He wasn’t sure he needed to ask. What does it mean? Where do we go from here? That was closer to the mark, but terrifying. Everything felt so fragile at the moment. He didn’t want to push. It was easier, safer, to keep things light. Was the tea in Daisy’s cupboards still good? Had Jon seen that grey heron in the stream outside the window? Should they stop by the library the next time they went into town for groceries?
They barely spoke at all when they went to bed. The nerve-wracking reality of sharing a bed, just inches apart, overpowered any instinct to chat. So they said nothing, falling asleep to the sound of the other’s breathing until it was time for one or both of them to be woken by a nightmare.
***
The first night, it was Martin. He tossed and turned in his sleep, badly enough to shake Jon from his own bad dreams, so Jon could hear the second he woke with a hitched, choked breath.
“It’s alright,” he whispered. “You’re alright, it was just a dream.”
“Jon?”
“I’m here.”
Jon reached across and slipped his hand into Martin’s, and Martin squeezed it like a lifeline. They didn’t say anything else, after that, but when they finally fell asleep nearly an hour later, their hands were still clasped together.
***
In the morning, they talked about the crossword.
“How do you spell obstinate?” Martin asked across the breakfast table.
“O-B-S-T-I-N-A-T-E.”
“Hmm. Too many letters, then.”
“What’s the clue?”
“Stubborn, 8 letters.” Martin told him. “First two letters are O and B.”
“What about ‘obdurate?’”
Martin pencilled it in. “It fits.” He frowned down at the puzzle with a contemplative hum. “And if that’s an R, then that means I was right about 4 down from the beginning…” He filled in a few more clues, then looked up from the puzzle and scoffed. “Obdurate,” he repeated, incredulous. “Who uses the word obdurate?”
***
Jon was woken after midnight by Martin’s harsh, shuddering breaths – crying or on the verge of tears; Jon couldn’t tell. He reached out, and Martin breathed out a shaky sigh.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I was on the beach again,” Martin whispered. “I was alone.”
“You’re not alone anymore.”
“I know.” Another sigh as he struggled to calm his breathing. “I know.”
***
The next day, they talked about the laundry.
“We forgot to buy detergent,” Jon informed him after spending the morning inspecting Daisy’s laundry room and its ancient washer-dryer.
“Daisy didn’t leave any behind?”
“You can look for yourself if you want, but I didn’t see any.”
“I trust you.”
Jon settled on the couch and spread the throw blanket across his lap. “How much did you pack? Do you think we can put off doing laundry until after we go to the shops?”
“Sure,” Martin told him, though in truth he hadn’t packed much. “We’ll be fine.”
***
When Jon woke, he didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. He lay on his back, letting his tears slide down his cheeks in total silence, certain that he hadn’t woken Martin. But when he finally had to breathe – the tell-tale hiccuping inhale of someone who had just been crying – Martin rolled over to face him.
“Jon?”
“It’s nothing. Just a bad dream,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
Martin watched him. Jon’s chest rose and fell unsteadily, and in the light of the nearly-full moon outside their window, Martin could see the tear tracks glisten, incriminating, on his face.
Jon finally turned to face him, and they lay face to face for a long, silent moment. A strand of long, grey-streaked hair had fallen into Jon’s face with the movement, and Martin reached out to tuck it behind his ear.
“Oh, Jon…”
He let his hand linger, cupping his jaw, then moved it an inch to brush aside the tears from Jon’s cheeks. His hand was warm, and Jon’s skin was cold, and Jon turned his face to press into that point of warm, gentle contact.
Jon waited for Martin to pull his hand away. Martin waited for Jon to turn away again. Neither of them moved.
Finally, Jon closed the space between them to tuck his face into the crook of Martin’s neck. Martin held his breath for a moment before bringing his arms up to pull Jon even closer.
They woke up that morning entwined in each other’s arms, but they didn’t talk about it.
***
“We’re almost out of eggs.”
“Already?”
“It’s probably my fault,” Martin admitted. “I used a lot of them for my omelet yesterday.”
“Well, we needed to go shopping anyway.”
Martin hmm’ ed thoughtfully. “There was something else we needed. Wasn’t there?”
“There was,” Jon agreed. “God, what was it?”
“We should start writing these things down.”
***
That night, Jon had another nightmare. Martin could hear him trying to stifle his crying once again, and reached out.
Jon froze at the contact, caught like a deer in the headlights. Then he turned to press himself against Martin’s chest and let himself be held.
“Nightmare?” Martin asked, and Jon nodded.
“I couldn’t look away,” he murmured. “I tried to, but– I just stood there and watched.”
Martin pressed Jon to him. “It’s alright,” he said, though it wasn’t exactly true. Then he whispered, “I’m here,” which was.
***
The next day, they went into town for groceries. They chatted a bit on the walk there.
“God, breathe that air,” Martin exclaimed, sucking in a good lungful for himself.
“I’m breathing it…” Jon said. “Is there… something I’m supposed to notice?”
“It’s fresh!” Martin told him. “It’s good, country air! I don’t miss London right now, I’ll tell you that.”
“No.” Jon glanced at Martin, bundled in his worn peacoat against the highland chill. “I can’t say I miss London either.”
They chatted more in the grocery store.
“Where are you going?”
“I just want to look at the tea selection…”
“We already have so much back at the house.”
“I’m just looking!”
And more, on the walk back.
“Ooh, look there! Is that a falcon? Or a hawk?”
“A hawk.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, it’s a Eurasian sparrowhawk.”
“Know-it-all.”
“Yes, Martin, that’s sort of the idea.”
And more, when they got back to the safehouse.
“Geez,” Martin said as they walked through the front door, “it’s getting a bit nippy, isn’t it? Should we have a fire tonight?”
“Yes, that’s probably–”
Martin dropped the tote bag he was holding with an abrupt clunk.
“Laundry detergent!”
Jon didn’t have to ask what he meant; he just swore under his breath.
“Damnit!”
“We forgot laundry detergent.”
“Look, Martin, you finish putting the groceries away and I’ll run back to the shop.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t have to. It’s a long way–”
“I want to.”
“Alright.” Jon bit his lip around the urge to smile. “If you’re sure.”
***
It was Martin’s turn for a nightmare that night. It was too much to ask, it seemed, that just once they both sleep soundly.
He was crying. Quietly, but not so quietly that it didn’t stand out starkly against the silence of the house. He had his back to Jon, and Jon watched his shoulders shake for a single hesitant moment before he wrapped his arms around Martin’s waist.
“Was it the same dream?” he asked in a barely-there whisper, and Martin shook his head.
“You were there this time,” he said. “In the Lonely. But you… you hated me. You didn’t say it, but I could tell– I knew– you wanted me to go.”
“I’m sorry.”
Martin sniffled. “It was just a dream,” he said, as much to himself as to Jon.
“I… I don’t want you to go.”
“I know. You don’t have to… It was just a dream,” Martin repeated.
They let the silence hang in the air for a time, Jon holding Martin in a wordless embrace, Martin letting the tears come without trying to fight them this time. Jon broke the silence to murmur,
“I was prepared to stay.”
“What?”
“When I went into the Lonely, I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull you out – I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull myself out. I just knew…” he took a steadying breath, and pressed his ear to Martin’s back to hear the quiet beating of his heart. “I’d rather be there with you than leave you there alone.”
“Oh.”
Martin took Jon’s hand in his, pressing it to his chest like a talisman, like it could ward off the Lonely. Maybe it could.
“Thanks, Jon. I…” Another sentence he couldn’t finish. “Thank you.”
Jon turned his head and pressed a kiss to the back of Martin’s neck. In that moment, it felt natural. It felt simple. It felt right.
Martin sighed. The sound was warm, and gentle, and content, and it felt so loud against the silence of the room.
They didn’t talk about it.
***
The next day, they did laundry.
The washer seemed up to the task, but the dryer, which Jon had been dubious of since the moment he set eyes on it, gave out halfway through the first spin cycle. In the end, they had to hang it up to dry.
They worked as a team, Jon handing Martin clothes and pegs and Martin hanging them on the laundry line that stood in the yard behind the safehouse.
They chatted while they worked.
“I’ve never seen you wear this in my life,” Martin remarked as he hung up one of Jon’s old tee shirts from uni.
“Yes, well, I was in a bit of a hurry when I packed…”
Martin read the text printed in too-small serif across the front of the shirt, and his face split into a grin.
“Wait, am-dram? You did am-dram in uni?”
“Very briefly.”
“This explains so much about you.”
“Shut up, Martin,” Jon muttered without any real venom.
“Well, let’s hear something! You must have a bit of Shakespeare memorized.”
He did, but he wasn’t going to say as much while Martin was mocking him.
“I’m not a performing monkey.”
“Oh, come on, just one quick monologue! Just a little, ‘But soft, what light through yonder window breaks…’”
“It is the east, and Juliet is the sun,” Jon finished rotely and without intonation. “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou her maid art far more fair than she – and that’s as much as you’ll get out of me.”
Jon bent over to grab more laundry and did his best to hide his face.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
Martin grinned. “Very.”
“Well… that’s good,” he said stiffly. “I’m glad.”
Martin looked at Jon – desperately embarrassed, surrounded by sodden tee shirts, windswept silver-black hair gleaming in the late September sun – and felt more fond than he ever had of anyone in his life.
“I love you.”
The words slipped out before he realized what he was saying. Jon’s head swung around to stare.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t– I mean– I know it’s–”
“You do?” Jon’s words were quiet and utterly serious.
Martin gave an anxious little nod. “Yeah.” His voice came out smaller than he expected. “I do. I really, really do.”
Jon let the pair of trousers he was holding fall to the ground as he surged forward to kiss him.
***
Another nightmare. Another round of whispered reassurances.
“It’s alright, you’re alright, I’m here.”
When the shock wore off and they were able to shake the residual dread from their respective bad dreams, they turned to face each other on the mattress. The light from the barely-waning moon painted everything in shades of dusky silver.
For a long time, they didn’t speak; they simply studied each other’s faces. Eventually, Jon brought his forehead up to rest against Martin’s.
“I love you.”
Martin swallowed. He still wasn’t used to hearing it. Jon wasn’t used to saying it.
“I love you, too.”
Their lips met in one soft, slow kiss, and then they pulled away just enough to gaze at each other as they fell back into sleep.
A quick little Scottish Safehouse fic for you. Check it out on AO3, or read below. Reblogs, replies, etc are always extremely appreciated.
They didn’t talk about it, at the safehouse. They talked about everything but – the weather, the dishes, the neighbors’ cows. They talked about Daisy, but only to comment about her decor, or her taste in books and music made evident by the small collection of vinyl and battered paperbacks scattered across the house. They didn’t talk about what she might be doing now. They didn’t speculate about whether Basira had made good on her promise yet.
Jon didn’t ask Martin about anything he’d said in the Lonely, though the words I really loved you, you know burned a constant hum in the back of his mind. Martin didn’t ask about any of the things he’d Seen. He wouldn’t know what to ask, even if he wanted to. Was it real? Do you love me? He wasn’t sure he needed to ask. What does it mean? Where do we go from here? That was closer to the mark, but terrifying. Everything felt so fragile at the moment. He didn’t want to push. It was easier, safer, to keep things light. Was the tea in Daisy’s cupboards still good? Had Jon seen that grey heron in the stream outside the window? Should they stop by the library the next time they went into town for groceries?
They barely spoke at all when they went to bed. The nerve-wracking reality of sharing a bed, just inches apart, overpowered any instinct to chat. So they said nothing, falling asleep to the sound of the other’s breathing until it was time for one or both of them to be woken by a nightmare.
***
The first night, it was Martin. He tossed and turned in his sleep, badly enough to shake Jon from his own bad dreams, so Jon could hear the second he woke with a hitched, choked breath.
“It’s alright,” he whispered. “You’re alright, it was just a dream.”
“Jon?”
“I’m here.”
Jon reached across and slipped his hand into Martin’s, and Martin squeezed it like a lifeline. They didn’t say anything else, after that, but when they finally fell asleep nearly an hour later, their hands were still clasped together.
***
In the morning, they talked about the crossword.
“How do you spell obstinate?” Martin asked across the breakfast table.
“O-B-S-T-I-N-A-T-E.”
“Hmm. Too many letters, then.”
“What’s the clue?”
“Stubborn, 8 letters.” Martin told him. “First two letters are O and B.”
“What about ‘obdurate?’”
Martin pencilled it in. “It fits.” He frowned down at the puzzle with a contemplative hum. “And if that’s an R, then that means I was right about 4 down from the beginning…” He filled in a few more clues, then looked up from the puzzle and scoffed. “Obdurate,” he repeated, incredulous. “Who uses the word obdurate?”
***
Jon was woken after midnight by Martin’s harsh, shuddering breaths – crying or on the verge of tears; Jon couldn’t tell. He reached out, and Martin breathed out a shaky sigh.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I was on the beach again,” Martin whispered. “I was alone.”
“You’re not alone anymore.”
“I know.” Another sigh as he struggled to calm his breathing. “I know.”
***
The next day, they talked about the laundry.
“We forgot to buy detergent,” Jon informed him after spending the morning inspecting Daisy’s laundry room and its ancient washer-dryer.
“Daisy didn’t leave any behind?”
“You can look for yourself if you want, but I didn’t see any.”
“I trust you.”
Jon settled on the couch and spread the throw blanket across his lap. “How much did you pack? Do you think we can put off doing laundry until after we go to the shops?”
“Sure,” Martin told him, though in truth he hadn’t packed much. “We’ll be fine.”
***
When Jon woke, he didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. He lay on his back, letting his tears slide down his cheeks in total silence, certain that he hadn’t woken Martin. But when he finally had to breathe – the tell-tale hiccuping inhale of someone who had just been crying – Martin rolled over to face him.
“Jon?”
“It’s nothing. Just a bad dream,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
Martin watched him. Jon’s chest rose and fell unsteadily, and in the light of the nearly-full moon outside their window, Martin could see the tear tracks glisten, incriminating, on his face.
Jon finally turned to face him, and they lay face to face for a long, silent moment. A strand of long, grey-streaked hair had fallen into Jon’s face with the movement, and Martin reached out to tuck it behind his ear.
“Oh, Jon…”
He let his hand linger, cupping his jaw, then moved it an inch to brush aside the tears from Jon’s cheeks. His hand was warm, and Jon’s skin was cold, and Jon turned his face to press into that point of warm, gentle contact.
Jon waited for Martin to pull his hand away. Martin waited for Jon to turn away again. Neither of them moved.
Finally, Jon closed the space between them to tuck his face into the crook of Martin’s neck. Martin held his breath for a moment before bringing his arms up to pull Jon even closer.
They woke up that morning entwined in each other’s arms, but they didn’t talk about it.
***
“We’re almost out of eggs.”
“Already?”
“It’s probably my fault,” Martin admitted. “I used a lot of them for my omelet yesterday.”
“Well, we needed to go shopping anyway.”
Martin hmm’ ed thoughtfully. “There was something else we needed. Wasn’t there?”
“There was,” Jon agreed. “God, what was it?”
“We should start writing these things down.”
***
That night, Jon had another nightmare. Martin could hear him trying to stifle his crying once again, and reached out.
Jon froze at the contact, caught like a deer in the headlights. Then he turned to press himself against Martin’s chest and let himself be held.
“Nightmare?” Martin asked, and Jon nodded.
“I couldn’t look away,” he murmured. “I tried to, but– I just stood there and watched.”
Martin pressed Jon to him. “It’s alright,” he said, though it wasn’t exactly true. Then he whispered, “I’m here,” which was.
***
The next day, they went into town for groceries. They chatted a bit on the walk there.
“God, breathe that air,” Martin exclaimed, sucking in a good lungful for himself.
“I’m breathing it…” Jon said. “Is there… something I’m supposed to notice?”
“It’s fresh!” Martin told him. “It’s good, country air! I don’t miss London right now, I’ll tell you that.”
“No.” Jon glanced at Martin, bundled in his worn peacoat against the highland chill. “I can’t say I miss London either.”
They chatted more in the grocery store.
“Where are you going?”
“I just want to look at the tea selection…”
“We already have so much back at the house.”
“I’m just looking!”
And more, on the walk back.
“Ooh, look there! Is that a falcon? Or a hawk?”
“A hawk.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, it’s a Eurasian sparrowhawk.”
“Know-it-all.”
“Yes, Martin, that’s sort of the idea.”
And more, when they got back to the safehouse.
“Geez,” Martin said as they walked through the front door, “it’s getting a bit nippy, isn’t it? Should we have a fire tonight?”
“Yes, that’s probably–”
Martin dropped the tote bag he was holding with an abrupt clunk.
“Laundry detergent!”
Jon didn’t have to ask what he meant; he just swore under his breath.
“Damnit!”
“We forgot laundry detergent.”
“Look, Martin, you finish putting the groceries away and I’ll run back to the shop.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t have to. It’s a long way–”
“I want to.”
“Alright.” Jon bit his lip around the urge to smile. “If you’re sure.”
***
It was Martin’s turn for a nightmare that night. It was too much to ask, it seemed, that just once they both sleep soundly.
He was crying. Quietly, but not so quietly that it didn’t stand out starkly against the silence of the house. He had his back to Jon, and Jon watched his shoulders shake for a single hesitant moment before he wrapped his arms around Martin’s waist.
“Was it the same dream?” he asked in a barely-there whisper, and Martin shook his head.
“You were there this time,” he said. “In the Lonely. But you… you hated me. You didn’t say it, but I could tell– I knew– you wanted me to go.”
“I’m sorry.”
Martin sniffled. “It was just a dream,” he said, as much to himself as to Jon.
“I… I don’t want you to go.”
“I know. You don’t have to… It was just a dream,” Martin repeated.
They let the silence hang in the air for a time, Jon holding Martin in a wordless embrace, Martin letting the tears come without trying to fight them this time. Jon broke the silence to murmur,
“I was prepared to stay.”
“What?”
“When I went into the Lonely, I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull you out – I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull myself out. I just knew…” he took a steadying breath, and pressed his ear to Martin’s back to hear the quiet beating of his heart. “I’d rather be there with you than leave you there alone.”
“Oh.”
Martin took Jon’s hand in his, pressing it to his chest like a talisman, like it could ward off the Lonely. Maybe it could.
“Thanks, Jon. I…” Another sentence he couldn’t finish. “Thank you.”
Jon turned his head and pressed a kiss to the back of Martin’s neck. In that moment, it felt natural. It felt simple. It felt right.
Martin sighed. The sound was warm, and gentle, and content, and it felt so loud against the silence of the room.
They didn’t talk about it.
***
The next day, they did laundry.
The washer seemed up to the task, but the dryer, which Jon had been dubious of since the moment he set eyes on it, gave out halfway through the first spin cycle. In the end, they had to hang it up to dry.
They worked as a team, Jon handing Martin clothes and pegs and Martin hanging them on the laundry line that stood in the yard behind the safehouse.
They chatted while they worked.
“I’ve never seen you wear this in my life,” Martin remarked as he hung up one of Jon’s old tee shirts from uni.
“Yes, well, I was in a bit of a hurry when I packed…”
Martin read the text printed in too-small serif across the front of the shirt, and his face split into a grin.
“Wait, am-dram? You did am-dram in uni?”
“Very briefly.”
“This explains so much about you.”
“Shut up, Martin,” Jon muttered without any real venom.
“Well, let’s hear something! You must have a bit of Shakespeare memorized.”
He did, but he wasn’t going to say as much while Martin was mocking him.
“I’m not a performing monkey.”
“Oh, come on, just one quick monologue! Just a little, ‘But soft, what light through yonder window breaks…’”
“It is the east, and Juliet is the sun,” Jon finished rotely and without intonation. “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou her maid art far more fair than she – and that’s as much as you’ll get out of me.”
Jon bent over to grab more laundry and did his best to hide his face.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
Martin grinned. “Very.”
“Well… that’s good,” he said stiffly. “I’m glad.”
Martin looked at Jon – desperately embarrassed, surrounded by sodden tee shirts, windswept silver-black hair gleaming in the late September sun – and felt more fond than he ever had of anyone in his life.
“I love you.”
The words slipped out before he realized what he was saying. Jon’s head swung around to stare.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t– I mean– I know it’s–”
“You do?” Jon’s words were quiet and utterly serious.
Martin gave an anxious little nod. “Yeah.” His voice came out smaller than he expected. “I do. I really, really do.”
Jon let the pair of trousers he was holding fall to the ground as he surged forward to kiss him.
***
Another nightmare. Another round of whispered reassurances.
“It’s alright, you’re alright, I’m here.”
When the shock wore off and they were able to shake the residual dread from their respective bad dreams, they turned to face each other on the mattress. The light from the barely-waning moon painted everything in shades of dusky silver.
For a long time, they didn’t speak; they simply studied each other’s faces. Eventually, Jon brought his forehead up to rest against Martin’s.
“I love you.”
Martin swallowed. He still wasn’t used to hearing it. Jon wasn’t used to saying it.
“I love you, too.”
Their lips met in one soft, slow kiss, and then they pulled away just enough to gaze at each other as they fell back into sleep.
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
I am once again posting a oneshot instead of updating my WIPs. Really sorry about that, but I promise I will get to them eventually. In the meantime, enjoy some Somewhere Else/Upton House fluff!
Content Warnings for this work:
memory loss
“I love you.”
It was a rainy Sunday morning, threatening to turn into a rainy Sunday afternoon as they lazed in bed in a cottage very much, though not exactly, like Daisy’s, in a Scotland very much, though not exactly, like their own. Jon lay with his head on Martin’s chest while Martin played absentmindedly with the long, sleep-tangled curls of Jon’s hair. In response to Jon’s admission, he gave a warm, contented hum.
“I know it’s bad form to say that before we’ve had our first date, but–” Jon said with a soft chuckle. The absurdity of their situation always struck him at odd times.
“Jon, we live together,” Martin laughed, before Jon’s words fully hit him. “Wait, what do you mean? Yes, we did. Remember? At– Oh, right.”
“Hmm?” Jon rolled over so that he could see Martin, and so that Martin could see his puzzled frown.
“At Upton House,” he explained in a quiet murmur, voice suddenly soft and mournful. “I always forget you don’t remember.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“Sure.” Martin shifted, pulling Jon slightly closer. When he spoke, he addressed the ceiling, eyes glazing over with memory. “We had a picnic. You made scones.”
Jon laid his head back down as he listened. He could feel as well as hear Matin speaking, like this – the pleasant rumble of breath and vocal chords hummed from Martin’s chest into Jon’s, and he savored the sensation.
“You insisted it wouldn’t be romantic if I helped – which I vehemently disagree with, by the way – so you shooed me out of the kitchen while you baked. Which meant a couple hours wandering aimlessly around Upton House, waiting for Annabelle Cane to pop out and say something cryptic.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was cute,” Martin said. “You always get so focused when you have a plan, and it’s adorable.”
“Hmm.” Jon was fairly sure Martin used the word ‘adorable’ specifically because he knew Jon objected, so he grumbled dutifully at the descriptor. “If you say so.”
“After that, we found a nice spot by the lake and laid down a blanket. It was gorgeous – all water lilies and dragonflies. You should have seen it. Well, I mean, you did see it, but– b-but you know what I–”
“I know what you mean,” Jon said.
“Honestly, I would have written a poem about it if I’d been in the right headspace. But the– y’know, the apocalypse sort of put me off it for a while there.”
Jon traced his finger in fond loops across Martin’s arm. “Do you think you’re in the right headspace now? Now that we’re here?” In their Scotland, Martin had left snatches of poems scribbled on every available scrap of paper in the safehouse, and Jon had noticed, but not mentioned, its absence in their new home.
“I don’t know,” Martin whispered. “I think I just need some more time.”
Jon brought Martin’s hand up to his lips and gave it a quick and hopefully reassuring kiss. “What did we do next?”
“Oh, you know, just ate, really. We had the scones and some sandwiches, and, heh, and a bottle of champagne.” Jon raised his eyebrows, and Martin flushed. “Well, Salesa wasn’t going to miss it! Believe me, he had plenty to spare.”
“So we just ate?” Jon asked. “Well, and drank, I suppose.”
“And talked.”
“What about?”
Martin’s face clouded. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Oh.” It was precisely the sort of thing to awaken that old, disastrous curiosity in Jon, but he had learned, since losing his connection to the eye, to resist temptation, so he said. “Alright. You don’t have to–”
“Sorry, it’s just– we talked a lot about… y’know, the state of things, and it’s– I know it’s stupid, I mean, we’re fine now, but I– I don’t like to think about how I felt back then. Just so completely helpless. The whole world was broken, and we didn’t even know if there was any fixing it, let alone if we could manage it, and you–” His voice broke. He looked at Jon with a terrible sort of sincerity painted across his face. “You’re the only thing that kept me going. You know that, right? I would have fallen apart without you.”
Jon lifted Martin’s hand to his lips again. This time he lingered, pressing a long, purposeful kiss to his knuckle.
“I can’t say that I agree, but–”
Martin gave a wet, startled laugh. “What?”
“Mr. ‘I’ve already packed our bags; I found some tea under the sink?’ You would have made it to London in record time and defeated Jonah yourself. I only slowed you down.”
“I would have gone insane on day one.”
“You–”
This time it was Jon’s turn to be kissed. Martin lifted himself up to press a kiss to the corner of Jon’s mouth. “You were my reason, Jon.” He flushed, just a bit more, before he confessed, “Still are.”
Jon swallowed.
They’d been in an odd place, since coming here. They still hadn’t talked about everything, not really – it was all too fragile and too fresh – and Jon knew that eventually they were going to have to have a long discussion about everything that had happened in the Panopticon. It felt like they’d spent the last few weeks in the eye of a terrible storm, waiting for it to wreck everything they’d built, but this grounded Jon. Martin was his reason, his anchor, and, despite everything, he was still those things for Martin. Whatever happened next, that wouldn’t change. They could handle this.
In the long silence that followed that admission, Jon pressed his ear to Martin’s chest so he could hear the reassuring pumping of his heart.
“Anyway,” Martin said after a moment. “What I’m trying to say is, it was hard, at Upton House. You were the one thing I could count on, and without the Eye, you were… fading.”
Jon took Martin’s hand and laced their fingers together, reassuring him that he was here. They were safe.
“Tell me more about the scones,” he murmured. “What did we have them with?”
Martin’s lips twitched. It wasn’t quite a full smile, but it was on the way to one. “Strawberry jam,” he said. “We couldn’t find any clotted cream, so we had to make do with jam and butter, but it was good. You definitely used too much baking powder, which wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me help, but–”
“Bold words.”
“But they were– they were nice. Really nice.” His voice was wistful, and more than a little sad. Jon squeezed his hand.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Everything?” Jon offered. It was always his instinct.
But Martin sighed, “Not helpful, Jon,” so he tried again.
“I’m sorry I forgot? I’m sorry I ended the world. I’m sorry you had to go through all of that.”
“Okay, in order: you didn’t choose to forget, you didn’t choose to end the world, and I just told you you were the only thing that made going through all that at all bearable.”
“Well,” Jon muttered, not quite willing to give up on his apologies. “I’m also sorry for putting too much baking powder in the scones.”
Martin smiled, still a bit sadly. “That one I can’t forgive.”
They laughed, and for a moment, all was well.
Sunday was the only day they both had off. Martin Blackwood, king of lying on his CV, had put his skills to good use finding them new identities and new jobs, but their options had still been limited, and their schedules left plenty to be desired. Some weeks they hardly saw each other at all, communicating almost exclusively through sticky-note love letters and post-nightmare soothing.
This week was different, though. Jon’s rotating one day off per week, given to him in compensation for working Saturdays, fell on a Friday this week, and he knew that Martin was in the habit of leaving early at the end of the week. (It was a habit that had irritated him to no end as Martin’s manager, but as Martin’s boyfriend, he was grateful for it.) Which, conveniently, gave them the better part of the afternoon for Jon to enact his plan.
By the time Martin returned from work, he had cleaned the kitchen thoroughly, scrubbing it free of dirty dishes or any incriminating flour stains. The only remaining evidence of Jon’s machinations was the overstuffed grocery bag sitting by the door.
When Martin opened the door, Jon stepped up to greet him.
“Hi, love,” Martin murmured, kissing Jon first on the cheek, and then on the lips – a habit they’d developed from two parts love and one part indecisiveness.
“How was work?”
“Ugh,” Martin groaned. “I’m just glad it’s the weekend.” He set down his messenger bag at the kitchen table and began massaging his shoulder.
“Are you too tired to go out? I was thinking maybe we could take a walk.”
“That sounds nice,” Martin said. “Just give me a minute to change out of these bloody shoes.”
Martin shot him an odd look when he picked up the grocery bag.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” Jon lied. “Just some things for the walk.”
Martin’s face betrayed precisely how much he believed that, but he didn’t argue.
It was a beautiful day. They seemed to have arrived in this new world only a few days after their own had ended, and a balmy September had given way to a chill and pleasant October. The air was crisp and cool, scented with heather and rich, fertile earth.
“How was your day off?” Martin asked him.
“Not very eventful,” he reported. “Naomi did try to get me to come into the office – I know this will shock you, but they’re short-staffed again today – but I declined. This has been on the schedule for more than a week now.”
Martin shook his head fondly. “Jonathan Sims taking an actual day off. Never thought I’d live to see the day.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Jon brushed him off. “But it’s hard to be a workaholic when the work is this dull.”
“As opposed to the archives, which were so very thrilling.” Jon opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Martin specified, “Before the Horrors started. Obviously things did pick up a bit eventually,” he said, in a bit of an understatement, “But you were working weekends when we were basically still just filing things.”
“Well, yes, but the mystery! There’s no mystery at this job!”
“Look on the bright side,” Martin said. “Maybe your new boss will turn out to be possessed, too.”
“Maybe...” Jon sighed.
They reached a fork in the path. Martin, out of habit, started down the left fork, the one they always took, but Jon tugged his hand toward the right.
“Are you sure? I thought the hills played havoc on your legs.”
“I can manage.”
And he could. He wasn’t going to make a habit of it – the worms had done a number on his calves in a way he’d never quite recovered from, and he didn’t enjoy walking on an incline – but just this once wouldn’t do any harm.
“At least let me take the bag–”
“I’ll be fine.”
And he was. A bit out of breath, by the time they reached the spot, but fine.
The spot in question was a little patch of grass on the lee side of the hill, sheltered from the wind but not yet cast into shadow. The earth spread out below them in a sharp tangle of heather and thistle and wildflower before rising again, and again, a series of rolling hills that seemed to go on forever.
Jon grabbed the blanket he’d stuffed into the bag and spread it out on the soft grass.
“It’s not exactly Upton House, but–”
“It’s beautiful.” Martin stared at him, amusement battling with wonder on his face.
Jon gestured to the blanket, and they both sat down. It was a bit chilly on the hillside, even without the wind, but Jon had prepared for that eventuality. He’d packed a second blanket, this one a bit less ratty, and he pulled it around both their shoulders.
Martin’s expression kept shifting – pleased one moment, uncomfortable the next. Jon knew he had a hard time being on the receiving end of, well, anything – attention, affection, assistance. He could hardly let Jon make him soup when he was ill, so it wasn’t exactly surprising that surprise romantic gestures caught him off-balance. Jon must have learned that firsthand at Upton House, but the memory was gone. Still, he had said that it was nice, that first time around, so Jon plowed on. He reached into the bag again and pulled out a bottle and a pair of plastic cups.
“You actually bought champagne?” Martin’s face was a battleground again, but this time amusement won.
“Well, it is a special occasion,” Jon said, removing the foil and setting to work twisting the metal cage around the cork. “It’s our first date.”
“Second,” Martin corrected.
“Second for you, maybe.”
“I mean, you were there! It’s not like I went on that date on my own!”
“Fine,” Jon said with a faux-irritation that couldn’t have been even the slightest bit convincing. “Second. Still a special occasion, though.”
He popped the cork, and a stream of bubbles fizzed out over the neck of the bottle and down his wrist. He always hated that, both for the waste and for the way it left his hand sticky and wet, but today he couldn’t find it in himself to mind. He poured them both a glass and raised his own in a toast.
“To second chances.”
They both drank to that.
“Now for the main event,” he said, reaching into the bag one last time and pulling out a series of tupperware containers, plus plates, knives, and a jar of strawberry jam.
Martin’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “You didn’t.”
“I had to,” Jon said, grabbing himself a scone. “I take this seriously. And my baking ability has been impugned, if memory serves.”
Martin shook his head. “Petty, petty man,” he muttered with a fond laugh.
“I managed to get some clotted cream this time, so this is already an improvement.”
He sliced his scone in half and spread on a thick smear of jam and a dollop of cream.
It was delicious, in his perfectly impartial opinion. Martin should never have doubted him.
He watched as Martin took a bite.
“What do you think? Too much baking powder again?”
Martin wiped a smear of jam from the corner of his mouth. “The baking powder is good,” he said, and Jon had the feeling that there was a ‘but’ attached to that statement.
“But…?”
Martin bit his lip. “But you may have overmixed them just a bit.”
“Slander!”
“Just a bit!” Martin threw up his hands defensively. “I’m just saying, if you’d let me help…”
Jon sighed.
“I don’t know why you’re always fighting me on this!”
“Martin, you've seen me in the kitchen. It’s–”
“Adorable,” Martin finished for him, and Jon pretended he hadn’t heard.
“Intense,” he said instead. “I don’t know why you think adding another person to the mix will make things less frantic.”
“Because that other person happens to be your boyfriend who, a) loves you very much, and b) is a very good baker!” Martin picked up another scone before muttering, not quite under his breath, “And knows how to measure dry ingredients correctly…”
“Slander,” Jon muttered again. “Unfounded, unprovoked–”
And then, just as petulantly but a great deal more honest:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
I am once again posting a oneshot instead of updating my WIPs. Really sorry about that, but I promise I will get to them eventually. In the meantime, enjoy some Somewhere Else/Upton House fluff!
Content Warnings for this work:
memory loss
“I love you.”
It was a rainy Sunday morning, threatening to turn into a rainy Sunday afternoon as they lazed in bed in a cottage very much, though not exactly, like Daisy’s, in a Scotland very much, though not exactly, like their own. Jon lay with his head on Martin’s chest while Martin played absentmindedly with the long, sleep-tangled curls of Jon’s hair. In response to Jon’s admission, he gave a warm, contented hum.
“I know it’s bad form to say that before we’ve had our first date, but–” Jon said with a soft chuckle. The absurdity of their situation always struck him at odd times.
“Jon, we live together,” Martin laughed, before Jon’s words fully hit him. “Wait, what do you mean? Yes, we did. Remember? At– Oh, right.”
“Hmm?” Jon rolled over so that he could see Martin, and so that Martin could see his puzzled frown.
“At Upton House,” he explained in a quiet murmur, voice suddenly soft and mournful. “I always forget you don’t remember.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“Sure.” Martin shifted, pulling Jon slightly closer. When he spoke, he addressed the ceiling, eyes glazing over with memory. “We had a picnic. You made scones.”
Jon laid his head back down as he listened. He could feel as well as hear Matin speaking, like this – the pleasant rumble of breath and vocal chords hummed from Martin’s chest into Jon’s, and he savored the sensation.
“You insisted it wouldn’t be romantic if I helped – which I vehemently disagree with, by the way – so you shooed me out of the kitchen while you baked. Which meant a couple hours wandering aimlessly around Upton House, waiting for Annabelle Cane to pop out and say something cryptic.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was cute,” Martin said. “You always get so focused when you have a plan, and it’s adorable.”
“Hmm.” Jon was fairly sure Martin used the word ‘adorable’ specifically because he knew Jon objected, so he grumbled dutifully at the descriptor. “If you say so.”
“After that, we found a nice spot by the lake and laid down a blanket. It was gorgeous – all water lilies and dragonflies. You should have seen it. Well, I mean, you did see it, but– b-but you know what I–”
“I know what you mean,” Jon said.
“Honestly, I would have written a poem about it if I’d been in the right headspace. But the– y’know, the apocalypse sort of put me off it for a while there.”
Jon traced his finger in fond loops across Martin’s arm. “Do you think you’re in the right headspace now? Now that we’re here?” In their Scotland, Martin had left snatches of poems scribbled on every available scrap of paper in the safehouse, and Jon had noticed, but not mentioned, its absence in their new home.
“I don’t know,” Martin whispered. “I think I just need some more time.”
Jon brought Martin’s hand up to his lips and gave it a quick and hopefully reassuring kiss. “What did we do next?”
“Oh, you know, just ate, really. We had the scones and some sandwiches, and, heh, and a bottle of champagne.” Jon raised his eyebrows, and Martin flushed. “Well, Salesa wasn’t going to miss it! Believe me, he had plenty to spare.”
“So we just ate?” Jon asked. “Well, and drank, I suppose.”
“And talked.”
“What about?”
Martin’s face clouded. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Oh.” It was precisely the sort of thing to awaken that old, disastrous curiosity in Jon, but he had learned, since losing his connection to the eye, to resist temptation, so he said. “Alright. You don’t have to–”
“Sorry, it’s just– we talked a lot about… y’know, the state of things, and it’s– I know it’s stupid, I mean, we’re fine now, but I– I don’t like to think about how I felt back then. Just so completely helpless. The whole world was broken, and we didn’t even know if there was any fixing it, let alone if we could manage it, and you–” His voice broke. He looked at Jon with a terrible sort of sincerity painted across his face. “You’re the only thing that kept me going. You know that, right? I would have fallen apart without you.”
Jon lifted Martin’s hand to his lips again. This time he lingered, pressing a long, purposeful kiss to his knuckle.
“I can’t say that I agree, but–”
Martin gave a wet, startled laugh. “What?”
“Mr. ‘I’ve already packed our bags; I found some tea under the sink?’ You would have made it to London in record time and defeated Jonah yourself. I only slowed you down.”
“I would have gone insane on day one.”
“You–”
This time it was Jon’s turn to be kissed. Martin lifted himself up to press a kiss to the corner of Jon’s mouth. “You were my reason, Jon.” He flushed, just a bit more, before he confessed, “Still are.”
Jon swallowed.
They’d been in an odd place, since coming here. They still hadn’t talked about everything, not really – it was all too fragile and too fresh – and Jon knew that eventually they were going to have to have a long discussion about everything that had happened in the Panopticon. It felt like they’d spent the last few weeks in the eye of a terrible storm, waiting for it to wreck everything they’d built, but this grounded Jon. Martin was his reason, his anchor, and, despite everything, he was still those things for Martin. Whatever happened next, that wouldn’t change. They could handle this.
In the long silence that followed that admission, Jon pressed his ear to Martin’s chest so he could hear the reassuring pumping of his heart.
“Anyway,” Martin said after a moment. “What I’m trying to say is, it was hard, at Upton House. You were the one thing I could count on, and without the Eye, you were… fading.”
Jon took Martin’s hand and laced their fingers together, reassuring him that he was here. They were safe.
“Tell me more about the scones,” he murmured. “What did we have them with?”
Martin’s lips twitched. It wasn’t quite a full smile, but it was on the way to one. “Strawberry jam,” he said. “We couldn’t find any clotted cream, so we had to make do with jam and butter, but it was good. You definitely used too much baking powder, which wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me help, but–”
“Bold words.”
“But they were– they were nice. Really nice.” His voice was wistful, and more than a little sad. Jon squeezed his hand.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Everything?” Jon offered. It was always his instinct.
But Martin sighed, “Not helpful, Jon,” so he tried again.
“I’m sorry I forgot? I’m sorry I ended the world. I’m sorry you had to go through all of that.”
“Okay, in order: you didn’t choose to forget, you didn’t choose to end the world, and I just told you you were the only thing that made going through all that at all bearable.”
“Well,” Jon muttered, not quite willing to give up on his apologies. “I’m also sorry for putting too much baking powder in the scones.”
Martin smiled, still a bit sadly. “That one I can’t forgive.”
They laughed, and for a moment, all was well.
Sunday was the only day they both had off. Martin Blackwood, king of lying on his CV, had put his skills to good use finding them new identities and new jobs, but their options had still been limited, and their schedules left plenty to be desired. Some weeks they hardly saw each other at all, communicating almost exclusively through sticky-note love letters and post-nightmare soothing.
This week was different, though. Jon’s rotating one day off per week, given to him in compensation for working Saturdays, fell on a Friday this week, and he knew that Martin was in the habit of leaving early at the end of the week. (It was a habit that had irritated him to no end as Martin’s manager, but as Martin’s boyfriend, he was grateful for it.) Which, conveniently, gave them the better part of the afternoon for Jon to enact his plan.
By the time Martin returned from work, he had cleaned the kitchen thoroughly, scrubbing it free of dirty dishes or any incriminating flour stains. The only remaining evidence of Jon’s machinations was the overstuffed grocery bag sitting by the door.
When Martin opened the door, Jon stepped up to greet him.
“Hi, love,” Martin murmured, kissing Jon first on the cheek, and then on the lips – a habit they’d developed from two parts love and one part indecisiveness.
“How was work?”
“Ugh,” Martin groaned. “I’m just glad it’s the weekend.” He set down his messenger bag at the kitchen table and began massaging his shoulder.
“Are you too tired to go out? I was thinking maybe we could take a walk.”
“That sounds nice,” Martin said. “Just give me a minute to change out of these bloody shoes.”
Martin shot him an odd look when he picked up the grocery bag.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” Jon lied. “Just some things for the walk.”
Martin’s face betrayed precisely how much he believed that, but he didn’t argue.
It was a beautiful day. They seemed to have arrived in this new world only a few days after their own had ended, and a balmy September had given way to a chill and pleasant October. The air was crisp and cool, scented with heather and rich, fertile earth.
“How was your day off?” Martin asked him.
“Not very eventful,” he reported. “Naomi did try to get me to come into the office – I know this will shock you, but they’re short-staffed again today – but I declined. This has been on the schedule for more than a week now.”
Martin shook his head fondly. “Jonathan Sims taking an actual day off. Never thought I’d live to see the day.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Jon brushed him off. “But it’s hard to be a workaholic when the work is this dull.”
“As opposed to the archives, which were so very thrilling.” Jon opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Martin specified, “Before the Horrors started. Obviously things did pick up a bit eventually,” he said, in a bit of an understatement, “But you were working weekends when we were basically still just filing things.”
“Well, yes, but the mystery! There’s no mystery at this job!”
“Look on the bright side,” Martin said. “Maybe your new boss will turn out to be possessed, too.”
“Maybe...” Jon sighed.
They reached a fork in the path. Martin, out of habit, started down the left fork, the one they always took, but Jon tugged his hand toward the right.
“Are you sure? I thought the hills played havoc on your legs.”
“I can manage.”
And he could. He wasn’t going to make a habit of it – the worms had done a number on his calves in a way he’d never quite recovered from, and he didn’t enjoy walking on an incline – but just this once wouldn’t do any harm.
“At least let me take the bag–”
“I’ll be fine.”
And he was. A bit out of breath, by the time they reached the spot, but fine.
The spot in question was a little patch of grass on the lee side of the hill, sheltered from the wind but not yet cast into shadow. The earth spread out below them in a sharp tangle of heather and thistle and wildflower before rising again, and again, a series of rolling hills that seemed to go on forever.
Jon grabbed the blanket he’d stuffed into the bag and spread it out on the soft grass.
“It’s not exactly Upton House, but–”
“It’s beautiful.” Martin stared at him, amusement battling with wonder on his face.
Jon gestured to the blanket, and they both sat down. It was a bit chilly on the hillside, even without the wind, but Jon had prepared for that eventuality. He’d packed a second blanket, this one a bit less ratty, and he pulled it around both their shoulders.
Martin’s expression kept shifting – pleased one moment, uncomfortable the next. Jon knew he had a hard time being on the receiving end of, well, anything – attention, affection, assistance. He could hardly let Jon make him soup when he was ill, so it wasn’t exactly surprising that surprise romantic gestures caught him off-balance. Jon must have learned that firsthand at Upton House, but the memory was gone. Still, he had said that it was nice, that first time around, so Jon plowed on. He reached into the bag again and pulled out a bottle and a pair of plastic cups.
“You actually bought champagne?” Martin’s face was a battleground again, but this time amusement won.
“Well, it is a special occasion,” Jon said, removing the foil and setting to work twisting the metal cage around the cork. “It’s our first date.”
“Second,” Martin corrected.
“Second for you, maybe.”
“I mean, you were there! It’s not like I went on that date on my own!”
“Fine,” Jon said with a faux-irritation that couldn’t have been even the slightest bit convincing. “Second. Still a special occasion, though.”
He popped the cork, and a stream of bubbles fizzed out over the neck of the bottle and down his wrist. He always hated that, both for the waste and for the way it left his hand sticky and wet, but today he couldn’t find it in himself to mind. He poured them both a glass and raised his own in a toast.
“To second chances.”
They both drank to that.
“Now for the main event,” he said, reaching into the bag one last time and pulling out a series of tupperware containers, plus plates, knives, and a jar of strawberry jam.
Martin’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “You didn’t.”
“I had to,” Jon said, grabbing himself a scone. “I take this seriously. And my baking ability has been impugned, if memory serves.”
Martin shook his head. “Petty, petty man,” he muttered with a fond laugh.
“I managed to get some clotted cream this time, so this is already an improvement.”
He sliced his scone in half and spread on a thick smear of jam and a dollop of cream.
It was delicious, in his perfectly impartial opinion. Martin should never have doubted him.
He watched as Martin took a bite.
“What do you think? Too much baking powder again?”
Martin wiped a smear of jam from the corner of his mouth. “The baking powder is good,” he said, and Jon had the feeling that there was a ‘but’ attached to that statement.
“But…?”
Martin bit his lip. “But you may have overmixed them just a bit.”
“Slander!”
“Just a bit!” Martin threw up his hands defensively. “I’m just saying, if you’d let me help…”
Jon sighed.
“I don’t know why you’re always fighting me on this!”
“Martin, you've seen me in the kitchen. It’s–”
“Adorable,” Martin finished for him, and Jon pretended he hadn’t heard.
“Intense,” he said instead. “I don’t know why you think adding another person to the mix will make things less frantic.”
“Because that other person happens to be your boyfriend who, a) loves you very much, and b) is a very good baker!” Martin picked up another scone before muttering, not quite under his breath, “And knows how to measure dry ingredients correctly…”
“Slander,” Jon muttered again. “Unfounded, unprovoked–”
And then, just as petulantly but a great deal more honest:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
I am once again posting a oneshot instead of updating my WIPs. Really sorry about that, but I promise I will get to them eventually. In the meantime, enjoy some Somewhere Else/Upton House fluff!
Content Warnings for this work:
memory loss
“I love you.”
It was a rainy Sunday morning, threatening to turn into a rainy Sunday afternoon as they lazed in bed in a cottage very much, though not exactly, like Daisy’s, in a Scotland very much, though not exactly, like their own. Jon lay with his head on Martin’s chest while Martin played absentmindedly with the long, sleep-tangled curls of Jon’s hair. In response to Jon’s admission, he gave a warm, contented hum.
“I know it’s bad form to say that before we’ve had our first date, but–” Jon said with a soft chuckle. The absurdity of their situation always struck him at odd times.
“Jon, we live together,” Martin laughed, before Jon’s words fully hit him. “Wait, what do you mean? Yes, we did. Remember? At– Oh, right.”
“Hmm?” Jon rolled over so that he could see Martin, and so that Martin could see his puzzled frown.
“At Upton House,” he explained in a quiet murmur, voice suddenly soft and mournful. “I always forget you don’t remember.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“Sure.” Martin shifted, pulling Jon slightly closer. When he spoke, he addressed the ceiling, eyes glazing over with memory. “We had a picnic. You made scones.”
Jon laid his head back down as he listened. He could feel as well as hear Matin speaking, like this – the pleasant rumble of breath and vocal chords hummed from Martin’s chest into Jon’s, and he savored the sensation.
“You insisted it wouldn’t be romantic if I helped – which I vehemently disagree with, by the way – so you shooed me out of the kitchen while you baked. Which meant a couple hours wandering aimlessly around Upton House, waiting for Annabelle Cane to pop out and say something cryptic.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was cute,” Martin said. “You always get so focused when you have a plan, and it’s adorable.”
“Hmm.” Jon was fairly sure Martin used the word ‘adorable’ specifically because he knew Jon objected, so he grumbled dutifully at the descriptor. “If you say so.”
“After that, we found a nice spot by the lake and laid down a blanket. It was gorgeous – all water lilies and dragonflies. You should have seen it. Well, I mean, you did see it, but– b-but you know what I–”
“I know what you mean,” Jon said.
“Honestly, I would have written a poem about it if I’d been in the right headspace. But the– y’know, the apocalypse sort of put me off it for a while there.”
Jon traced his finger in fond loops across Martin’s arm. “Do you think you’re in the right headspace now? Now that we’re here?” In their Scotland, Martin had left snatches of poems scribbled on every available scrap of paper in the safehouse, and Jon had noticed, but not mentioned, its absence in their new home.
“I don’t know,” Martin whispered. “I think I just need some more time.”
Jon brought Martin’s hand up to his lips and gave it a quick and hopefully reassuring kiss. “What did we do next?”
“Oh, you know, just ate, really. We had the scones and some sandwiches, and, heh, and a bottle of champagne.” Jon raised his eyebrows, and Martin flushed. “Well, Salesa wasn’t going to miss it! Believe me, he had plenty to spare.”
“So we just ate?” Jon asked. “Well, and drank, I suppose.”
“And talked.”
“What about?”
Martin’s face clouded. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Oh.” It was precisely the sort of thing to awaken that old, disastrous curiosity in Jon, but he had learned, since losing his connection to the eye, to resist temptation, so he said. “Alright. You don’t have to–”
“Sorry, it’s just– we talked a lot about… y’know, the state of things, and it’s– I know it’s stupid, I mean, we’re fine now, but I– I don’t like to think about how I felt back then. Just so completely helpless. The whole world was broken, and we didn’t even know if there was any fixing it, let alone if we could manage it, and you–” His voice broke. He looked at Jon with a terrible sort of sincerity painted across his face. “You’re the only thing that kept me going. You know that, right? I would have fallen apart without you.”
Jon lifted Martin’s hand to his lips again. This time he lingered, pressing a long, purposeful kiss to his knuckle.
“I can’t say that I agree, but–”
Martin gave a wet, startled laugh. “What?”
“Mr. ‘I’ve already packed our bags; I found some tea under the sink?’ You would have made it to London in record time and defeated Jonah yourself. I only slowed you down.”
“I would have gone insane on day one.”
“You–”
This time it was Jon’s turn to be kissed. Martin lifted himself up to press a kiss to the corner of Jon’s mouth. “You were my reason, Jon.” He flushed, just a bit more, before he confessed, “Still are.”
Jon swallowed.
They’d been in an odd place, since coming here. They still hadn’t talked about everything, not really – it was all too fragile and too fresh – and Jon knew that eventually they were going to have to have a long discussion about everything that had happened in the Panopticon. It felt like they’d spent the last few weeks in the eye of a terrible storm, waiting for it to wreck everything they’d built, but this grounded Jon. Martin was his reason, his anchor, and, despite everything, he was still those things for Martin. Whatever happened next, that wouldn’t change. They could handle this.
In the long silence that followed that admission, Jon pressed his ear to Martin’s chest so he could hear the reassuring pumping of his heart.
“Anyway,” Martin said after a moment. “What I’m trying to say is, it was hard, at Upton House. You were the one thing I could count on, and without the Eye, you were… fading.”
Jon took Martin’s hand and laced their fingers together, reassuring him that he was here. They were safe.
“Tell me more about the scones,” he murmured. “What did we have them with?”
Martin’s lips twitched. It wasn’t quite a full smile, but it was on the way to one. “Strawberry jam,” he said. “We couldn’t find any clotted cream, so we had to make do with jam and butter, but it was good. You definitely used too much baking powder, which wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me help, but–”
“Bold words.”
“But they were– they were nice. Really nice.” His voice was wistful, and more than a little sad. Jon squeezed his hand.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Everything?” Jon offered. It was always his instinct.
But Martin sighed, “Not helpful, Jon,” so he tried again.
“I’m sorry I forgot? I’m sorry I ended the world. I’m sorry you had to go through all of that.”
“Okay, in order: you didn’t choose to forget, you didn’t choose to end the world, and I just told you you were the only thing that made going through all that at all bearable.”
“Well,” Jon muttered, not quite willing to give up on his apologies. “I’m also sorry for putting too much baking powder in the scones.”
Martin smiled, still a bit sadly. “That one I can’t forgive.”
They laughed, and for a moment, all was well.
Sunday was the only day they both had off. Martin Blackwood, king of lying on his CV, had put his skills to good use finding them new identities and new jobs, but their options had still been limited, and their schedules left plenty to be desired. Some weeks they hardly saw each other at all, communicating almost exclusively through sticky-note love letters and post-nightmare soothing.
This week was different, though. Jon’s rotating one day off per week, given to him in compensation for working Saturdays, fell on a Friday this week, and he knew that Martin was in the habit of leaving early at the end of the week. (It was a habit that had irritated him to no end as Martin’s manager, but as Martin’s boyfriend, he was grateful for it.) Which, conveniently, gave them the better part of the afternoon for Jon to enact his plan.
By the time Martin returned from work, he had cleaned the kitchen thoroughly, scrubbing it free of dirty dishes or any incriminating flour stains. The only remaining evidence of Jon’s machinations was the overstuffed grocery bag sitting by the door.
When Martin opened the door, Jon stepped up to greet him.
“Hi, love,” Martin murmured, kissing Jon first on the cheek, and then on the lips – a habit they’d developed from two parts love and one part indecisiveness.
“How was work?”
“Ugh,” Martin groaned. “I’m just glad it’s the weekend.” He set down his messenger bag at the kitchen table and began massaging his shoulder.
“Are you too tired to go out? I was thinking maybe we could take a walk.”
“That sounds nice,” Martin said. “Just give me a minute to change out of these bloody shoes.”
Martin shot him an odd look when he picked up the grocery bag.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” Jon lied. “Just some things for the walk.”
Martin’s face betrayed precisely how much he believed that, but he didn’t argue.
It was a beautiful day. They seemed to have arrived in this new world only a few days after their own had ended, and a balmy September had given way to a chill and pleasant October. The air was crisp and cool, scented with heather and rich, fertile earth.
“How was your day off?” Martin asked him.
“Not very eventful,” he reported. “Naomi did try to get me to come into the office – I know this will shock you, but they’re short-staffed again today – but I declined. This has been on the schedule for more than a week now.”
Martin shook his head fondly. “Jonathan Sims taking an actual day off. Never thought I’d live to see the day.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Jon brushed him off. “But it’s hard to be a workaholic when the work is this dull.”
“As opposed to the archives, which were so very thrilling.” Jon opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Martin specified, “Before the Horrors started. Obviously things did pick up a bit eventually,” he said, in a bit of an understatement, “But you were working weekends when we were basically still just filing things.”
“Well, yes, but the mystery! There’s no mystery at this job!”
“Look on the bright side,” Martin said. “Maybe your new boss will turn out to be possessed, too.”
“Maybe...” Jon sighed.
They reached a fork in the path. Martin, out of habit, started down the left fork, the one they always took, but Jon tugged his hand toward the right.
“Are you sure? I thought the hills played havoc on your legs.”
“I can manage.”
And he could. He wasn’t going to make a habit of it – the worms had done a number on his calves in a way he’d never quite recovered from, and he didn’t enjoy walking on an incline – but just this once wouldn’t do any harm.
“At least let me take the bag–”
“I’ll be fine.”
And he was. A bit out of breath, by the time they reached the spot, but fine.
The spot in question was a little patch of grass on the lee side of the hill, sheltered from the wind but not yet cast into shadow. The earth spread out below them in a sharp tangle of heather and thistle and wildflower before rising again, and again, a series of rolling hills that seemed to go on forever.
Jon grabbed the blanket he’d stuffed into the bag and spread it out on the soft grass.
“It’s not exactly Upton House, but–”
“It’s beautiful.” Martin stared at him, amusement battling with wonder on his face.
Jon gestured to the blanket, and they both sat down. It was a bit chilly on the hillside, even without the wind, but Jon had prepared for that eventuality. He’d packed a second blanket, this one a bit less ratty, and he pulled it around both their shoulders.
Martin’s expression kept shifting – pleased one moment, uncomfortable the next. Jon knew he had a hard time being on the receiving end of, well, anything – attention, affection, assistance. He could hardly let Jon make him soup when he was ill, so it wasn’t exactly surprising that surprise romantic gestures caught him off-balance. Jon must have learned that firsthand at Upton House, but the memory was gone. Still, he had said that it was nice, that first time around, so Jon plowed on. He reached into the bag again and pulled out a bottle and a pair of plastic cups.
“You actually bought champagne?” Martin’s face was a battleground again, but this time amusement won.
“Well, it is a special occasion,” Jon said, removing the foil and setting to work twisting the metal cage around the cork. “It’s our first date.”
“Second,” Martin corrected.
“Second for you, maybe.”
“I mean, you were there! It’s not like I went on that date on my own!”
“Fine,” Jon said with a faux-irritation that couldn’t have been even the slightest bit convincing. “Second. Still a special occasion, though.”
He popped the cork, and a stream of bubbles fizzed out over the neck of the bottle and down his wrist. He always hated that, both for the waste and for the way it left his hand sticky and wet, but today he couldn’t find it in himself to mind. He poured them both a glass and raised his own in a toast.
“To second chances.”
They both drank to that.
“Now for the main event,” he said, reaching into the bag one last time and pulling out a series of tupperware containers, plus plates, knives, and a jar of strawberry jam.
Martin’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “You didn’t.”
“I had to,” Jon said, grabbing himself a scone. “I take this seriously. And my baking ability has been impugned, if memory serves.”
Martin shook his head. “Petty, petty man,” he muttered with a fond laugh.
“I managed to get some clotted cream this time, so this is already an improvement.”
He sliced his scone in half and spread on a thick smear of jam and a dollop of cream.
It was delicious, in his perfectly impartial opinion. Martin should never have doubted him.
He watched as Martin took a bite.
“What do you think? Too much baking powder again?”
Martin wiped a smear of jam from the corner of his mouth. “The baking powder is good,” he said, and Jon had the feeling that there was a ‘but’ attached to that statement.
“But…?”
Martin bit his lip. “But you may have overmixed them just a bit.”
“Slander!”
“Just a bit!” Martin threw up his hands defensively. “I’m just saying, if you’d let me help…”
Jon sighed.
“I don’t know why you’re always fighting me on this!”
“Martin, you've seen me in the kitchen. It’s–”
“Adorable,” Martin finished for him, and Jon pretended he hadn’t heard.
“Intense,” he said instead. “I don’t know why you think adding another person to the mix will make things less frantic.”
“Because that other person happens to be your boyfriend who, a) loves you very much, and b) is a very good baker!” Martin picked up another scone before muttering, not quite under his breath, “And knows how to measure dry ingredients correctly…”
“Slander,” Jon muttered again. “Unfounded, unprovoked–”
And then, just as petulantly but a great deal more honest:
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