#trans!jon

He can feel that the fur on the back of his neck has gone cowlicky, and he attempts to smooth it down and shake his fringe out of his eyes as he raps smartly on his new neighbor’s door.

He can feel his shoulders hunch automatically, his customer service smile coming out. Martin knows he’s big, even for a minotaur, and he wants to put his new neighbor at ease even if he’s feeling fed up and exhausted.

There’s a soft, dry susurrus of sound behind the door, like dry leaves rasping against each other on a forest floor.

Martin can barely keep his eyes from fluttering shut when the harsh snap of locks being undone has him snapping to attention as well.

The door creaks open as the occupant shoves themself through, glaring up at him over the rims of their square glasses, eyes rich and deep. The hair falling across their forehead is velvety black, peppered with strands of grey like light shining off silk. A smart-looking button-up shirt is rolled up to their elbows and partially unbuttoned, giving Martin an unwitting glimpse of the slim, svelte form and black chest binder beneath. Below their waist, a tail of rich, deep green scales glitters in the fluorescents of the hallway, appearing to extend far into the apartment behind them.

Martin feels his breath catch.

Oh. Oh no.

This person is incredibly handsome. Almost too good-looking to really feel real, you know? Someone so far out of Martin’s league they’re not even batting in the same proverbial park. This person is in the 02 in front of millions of people, universally beloved, while Martin’s still down in a requisitioned council playing field, not even worthy of rowdy kids’ taunting. Hypothetically, he means.

Ooh, Martin’s in trouble.

“What.” Says the insanely handsome lamia in a deep, smooth, masculine voice. “Do you want.”

“I-uh.” Martin has to swallow to get his throat working, make his thick-feeling tongue form actual words. “Hi? I’m, uh, I’m Mar-Martin, Blackwood! Martin Blackwood, yes, I, um, live at the end of the corridor? Right, right next to you, actually, and-and I couldn’t help overhearing some, some noises? And normally, I wouldn’t mind but I just got off of work and I’ve another shift in a few hours, so, so I was wondering if there was anything you needed. Help? With?”

It takes a lot of willpower for him not to turn right around and brain himself on the wall behind him in response to that word salad.

The lamia scoffs, leaning heavily against the doorframe. “Well, Mr. Blackwood, unless you happen to have a degree in veterinary sciences, I very much doubt that you’ll be in any position to help me whatsoever.”

Martin’s about to protest that, okay, he maybe doesn’t have a degree, but he’s worked at a no-kill shelter for five years now so he could be considered more of a help in this particular field than maybe the average person.

But then he catches sight of what’s cradled in the lamia’s arms, and.

Well.

That’s certainly. A Creature.

In the impossibly pretty lamia’s arms is something small and hairless, apart from a patch of thick curls on the top of its rounded head. It’s a little bigger than a loaf of bread and the sort of color that Martin’s learned to associate with classroom furniture, the shade of brown kindly described as “neutral”.

It has four chubby legs, but its each of its forelegs end in an odd, starfish shape with five protrusions that’re eerily similar to hands, while its hind-legs end in a flatter, rectangular shape, also with five protrusions. The main body is also pretty chubby-looking, with small folds of skin forming where it twists and wriggles. For some reason it has a blue and pink garment covering its lower body.

It’s face is oddly flat, overall. There are two rounded things on either side of it’s head that Martin assumes are ears. There’s an odd dimple between its nose and its mouth, which is full of mostly flat, white teeth. It’s eyes are screwed shut and leaking what could be water, but also could be some other kind of clear and potentially toxic fluid. Whatever is coming out of its nose definitely is.

It’s whimpering like it’s contemplating starting up the racket that it had been making earlier again, but doesn’t know whether it has the strength to do so.

“What is that?” Martin can’t help breathing.

The lamia draws themself up, cuddling the creature closer with an imperious look. “This happens to be a cat, if you don’t mind.”

Martin looks at the lamia. Looks back down at the creature, whimpering unhappily in their arms.

“I’m sorry, in what world is that any sort of cat?”

The lamia’s expression mixes indignation, outrage, and a pout that Martin finds unfairly adorable. “They-they can’t help that they were born with a few, a few mutations!”

“A few?!” Martin can’t help the octaves his voice is reaching, even as it makes his ears flick. “Yeah, I suppose you could say that, if by ‘a few mutations’ you mean they’re an entirely different species!! Their ears aren’t even in the right place, they’ve got no whiskers, an-and do they even have claws?!”

The lamia hisses at him, fangs out in a threat display, but that causes the creature in their arms to let out a dangerously upset whine. They instantly are focused on it, bouncing it gently while making soft shushing noises until it settles once more.

Martin pinches the bridge of his snout.

“Look.” He sighs, weariness in his bones. “Has it. Has it eaten anything today?”

“You think I didn’t try that?!” The lamia hisses, sans fangs this time. “I, I gave them dry food when they arrived, and they ate a few pellets of that but then they wouldn’t touch it, or the wet food I opened!”

Martin privately feels the creature at least has a modicum of taste, because he wouldn’t touch what goes into most wet cat foods either.

“Maybe it’s not up to really digesting those foods yet.” He suggests. “Have you got any baby formula? Or, or milk in a pinch?”

The lamia makes a face that Martin suspects means ‘why on earth would I have either of those things’.

“But they’re not a baby.” They mutter. “I ordered an adult cat. Look how big they are!”

Martin looks. And whatever it is, it is quite large for an infant, even if its behavior puts him in mind of puppies or kittens crying fretfully for their mothers.

“Sometimes some breeds can be bigger than others. Like—like Maine Coons, you know?” He says, conveniently omitting the fact that he severely doubts any domesticated cat could get that large.

The lamia looks doubtfully at the creature.

The creature opens its eyes to stare dolefully back up at them and Martin, hiccoughing.

“Look, wait here a tick.” With that, Martin jogs back to his apartment, grabbing his keys out of the door where he left them.

He doesn’t have any formula lying around, but at the bottom of his bag he does find a feeding bottle that he rinses out with steaming water just in case. He also has fresh milk in for tea, so he grabs the carton.

He takes a moment as he locks his door behind him to desperately hope that whatever this creature is, it’s one that can digest cow milk without problem.

He returns with his bounty to where the lamia is waiting. “May I come in?”

“O-oh.” The lamia shifts, moving out of the doorway enough that Martin can shuffle through. “Ri-right, of course.”

Martin enters the apartment. It’s fairly neat all things considered, only a few boxes left unpacked and everything. The only mess is a box with several blankets spilling out of it and a vast assortment of cat paraphernalia, including one food bowl of kibble and another of water, both with a splash radius. A tin of wet cat food is going off on the counter.

Martin discretely sweeps it into the bin.

“Right, it might be a good idea to maybe give their face a wipe with a warm cloth or something? Can’t imagine having all that drying on them is very nice for the poor mite.” He holds up the milk carton and bottle. “I could warm this up on the stovetop for them if that’s alright with you?”

“Of, of course. Uh, saucepan’s, saucepan’s just in that cabinet there.” The lamia points out one of the lower cabinets as they snake over the floor towards the bathroom.

Martin bends over to get it and nearly clonks his head on the inside of the cupboard when the lamia’s voice comes, “My-my name’s Jon, by the way. Jonathan Sims.”

“Oh, oh, er, nice to meet you!” He calls back, spotting a work lanyard discarded on the counter by the stovetop that bears the same name and a fancy-sounding workplace.

The lanyard also has He/Him under Jon’s name in slightly smaller font. Martin files that information away carefully as he half-fills the saucepan, places the milk temporarily in Jon’s fridge, and turns on the heat.

“So, you, ah. You placed an order for a cat?” Martin asks as he warms the milk on a low heat.

“Mm.” Jon’s voice sounds distracted over the sound of running water. “You’re being very good now, aren’t you? Just need to get under your eyes here…”

“How, um. How come you didn’t go to a shelter? There are some pretty good ones nearby…”

The resulting silence has one of Martin’s ears flicking nervously.

“…Didn’t want to run into someone I knew there.” He thinks he picks up over the water. “Besides, I spoke with a representative of the Rescue Center on the phone, and their website was very comprehensive.”

Martin tilts his head, watching the pot. “Oh? Think you could contact them again then? See if the, uh, cat has any special care needs?”

A mutter that’s too quiet for Martin to hear even as the water’s turned off is his only response.

“Beg your pardon?”

“I said the number’s been disconnected.” Jon’s voice comes from directly behind him, making him jump. “And the website url keeps bringing up a page saying ‘it doesn’t exist’ or what have you, which is ridiculous, because it was just there yesterday—!”

Ah. He got scammed then.

Martin switches off the heat before the milk starts to steam, moving it to another hob to let it cool a bit before pouring it into the bottle.

Jon is behind him, the creature bundled into his arms. It’s blinking at him sleepily, sclera slightly pink. It looks…a little bit better? Martin really can’t tell.

Martin attaches the nib to the bottle, and after testing the temperature, holds it out to Jon. “Um. Do you want to…?”

The lamia’s face is briefly consumed by wild-eyed panic, before a superior expression covers it and he turns up his nose. “Not all of us are mammals, you know.”

Martin draws his hand back, mildly stung. “Hey.”

“No, I mean.” He groans, drawing a hand down his face, before peering up at Martin over his glasses. “I wish I could say I’m better when I’m more awake, but I’ve been reliably informed I’m not. I apologize. I meant that I don’t…have any experience, in this style of feeding. Is there. Is there some trick to it?”

Martin, damn him, melts despite himself. If questioned on his quick capitulation later, he’s going to blame it on sleep-deprivation. “Not, not really? If you don’t feel comfortable, I could always show you…?”

Jon and the creature almost appear to exchange glances for a moment.

Jon slides closer and, with an incredibly reluctant expression, holds the creature out. “Just. Mind you’re careful with them. They’re, they’re delicate.”

Martin takes them carefully, giving Jon a reassuring smile. He tries to pretend he’s treating one of the animals at the shelter instead of…whatever this is. “Hello, you. Are you hungry?”

The creature watches him, suspiciously.

But when he holds the bottle close to their mouth, they latch onto the nib with surprising gusto, sucking down the warm milk greedily. One of their forelegs even comes up to clumsily grasp at the bottle.

“Easy!” Martin chides, chuckling quietly. “It’s not going anywhere, duck, you can take your time.”

“I am not,” Jon objects, slithering closer. “Calling them that. It’d be ridiculous to own a cat named Duck.”

“Why not?” Martin teases, head feeling foggy with exhaustion. “S a good name, Duck. Could call them Robber instead. Robber of Sleep, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

The creature says nothing, just keeps emptying the bottle, eyes half-lidded.

“Don’t be mean.” Jon’s pouting outright now. It’s just as unfairly adorable as it was before. “…Do you want to sit down? You look…”

“Thanks,” Martin yawns agreeably, too tired to even question when Jon leads him over to a cushioned, circular structure with an odd, canopy-like overhang made of wood and a pair of quilts.

It won’t dawn on him ‘til later that this is most likely Jon’s bed.

In the moment he keeps watch as the creature gradually empties the bottle, eyes drifting slowly but surely closed as Jon pulls himself up onto the structure behind him.

“I could, ah.” He murmurs, trying to twist around to face Jon under some vague idea that not doing so would be impolite. “My work at the shelter has a book. Big book, on all sorts of animals and their diseases and mutations and care and stuff. I could take a look at it f’you. If you like.”

Jon’s eyes glint in the dark behind his glasses. “S please. If it’s not too much trouble.”

Martin huffs a soft laugh as he puts down the empty bottle, shifting the creature up to his shoulder to prepare to burp them, rubbing their back gently. “No trouble. Happy to help.”

He’ll just close his eyes for a moment, he tells himself. Just a moment, and then he’ll make his excuses and go. Just a moment…

Martin wakes up a little too warm and comfortable, with the creature snuffling softly on his chest, Jon’s head pillowed on his shoulder, and his not-inconsiderable tail tangled up with Martin’s legs.

He is also thirty minutes from being very late for work, if his cheap plastic watch is any indication.

The easy part is moving the creature off his chest onto Jon’s, and gently shifting Jon’s head off his shoulder onto a pillow.

The difficult bit is attempting to untangle Jon’s tail from his legs. Particularly since it keeps tightening to keep him in place, like a python around its prey.

He ends up toppling off what he’s realizing to his own mental panic is obviously a bed (extremely handsome Jon’s bed!!!) in his attempts to free himself. Somehow this clatter doesn’t wake the two occupants.

He then wastes time dithering over whether he should leave Jon a note, then over what he should write the note on, then over the fact that for all his neatness Jon somehow doesn’t have a table or any chairs, and ends up leaned over the countertop scribbling his phone number on the back of an instructional pamphlet called ‘Your Cat Friend And You’, along with instructions on how to make the creature more warm milk and some reassurance about how he’ll be back later but call if there are any problems, any at all!

It isn’t until he’s fled Jon’s apartment, grabbed his own bag, and is on the bus towards the shelter than he realizes that he signed the note, love, Martin.

This time he doesn’t hold back from attempting to brain himself on the bus’s safety pole.

His boss at the shelter is a lovely orc, who’s extremely understanding about his flailing attempts to explain that someone came to him with an animal emergency, which is why he hasn’t showered or changed clothes from yesterday. She even offers him paid leave, if he wants it.

That makes him feel even worse, if anything, because she is a genuinely good, lovely person and Martin always ends up feeling a bit like a heel whenever he can’t quite live up to that himself or leaves her in the lurch. Part of his brain (one that sounds a lot like his mum, if he’s honest with himself) whispers that she’s genuine in a way that he can never hope to be.

Still. He waves off her offer, places himself on feeding and cleaning duty to make up for the trouble he’s caused, and only allows himself to ask to look at the office encyclopedia once.

She agrees, of course.

Martin pours over the book on his break, an extra strong cup of tea at his elbow to help make up for skipping his morning dose of caffeine, trying to place what on earth kind of creature is in Jon’s apartment.

It’s an excellent encyclopedia, with glossy, high-definition photographs of various animals accompanying through descriptions of their habits, health, and care.

The creature is probably a mammal, as it was warm and has no feathers, scales, or exoskeleton. It’s not hairy enough to be any kind of bear, and didn’t have any claws, ruling out many other predators of that type. It has no hooves, so it’s not an ungulate. It’s teeth are too dull to be a raccoon, koala, or a badger. It’s too big to be a naked mole rat, a mouse or a pooka. The ends of its hind-legs are the wrong shape for chimpanzees, bonobos, gorillas, or any other kind of ape, though Martin feels that these are probably the closest.

It certainly isn’t any sort of cat, domestic or otherwise.

He gives a small groan, munching on the rich tea biscuits that serve as his lunch. He’s almost starting to think it’s not here, that Jon was somehow scammed into taking some sort of—of alien under his wing.

There is one last entry, right at the back of the book.

It’s the only one without any photographs, instead using an artist’s rendition of the animal described in the text on the opposite page.

It looks fearsome, regardless. A bear’s feet and an ape’s hands, chest like an orc and legs like a tengu, a merperson’s head filled with a raccoon’s teeth and a cow’s eyes, downed all over with thin, fine hairs.

Humans, Martin reads, were apex predators at one point in time before their extinction, specializing in endurance and tool crafting to catch their prey. Due to their ability to adapt nigh-impenetrable defenses against their predators, their species bred like wildfire, causing an overpopulation crisis that nearly took the planet down with them.

These animals were highly dangerous, the book says. While extinct, any potential resurgence of their species is a matter of international concern.

Martin shudders and begins flicking back through the book, trying to find a more likely candidate.

Martin’s presence is both comforting and stifling.  Jon wants him there.  He wants to lean into Martin and melt into Martin’s open arms, knowing he’ll be safe and loved in their embrace.  He wants to push Martin away, to run, to hide.  Martin is too close, too near.  It’s a secret.  Jon’s secret.  Keeping it guarantees his safety.  He can’t, he shouldn’t…

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Martin says quietly, tentatively.  His fingers twitch.  Jon knows Martin wants to reach out to him, to hold him, reassure him.  He won’t, though.  Not unless he knows Jon is okay with it.  It’s a boundary Martin will never cross without consent.  The thought of that, that small consideration almost no one else ever cared to give, brings a small smile to Jon’s lips.

“I don’t need to see anything.  I love you.  No matter what.  Okay?”

Jon can feel Martin’s searching gaze on him, Martin’s attempts to make eye contact, to connect wordlessly and maybe gain a hint of what’s going through his mind.  Jon doesn’t meet Martin’s gaze.  Simply, silently, he raises his shoulders and lets them fall.  His shirt slips off him and falls to the ground in a heap.

Martin’s next words, whatever they are, get caught in his throat.  He chokes on them and splutters.  

Jon turns his head up and looks at Martin then, just to see the blush overtake the one he loves’s face.  Jon tilts his head and lets himself smile fully at Martin.  “You’ve seen all my other scars,” he finally speaks, softly.  “I want you to see the ones I chose for myself.”  Jon reaches out his hand unmarred from burns and holds it for Martin to place his own in.  When Martin does, Jon guides it to his bare chest, to a scar more surgical, precise, than any of the others.  Older too.  Jon puts Martin’s hand down atop the scar and releases his hold on him.

“This is,”  Martin starts, trying, and struggling, to find the right words.  Jon can see the emotions as they flicker across his face.  The fluctuation between Martin’s own awkwardness at seeing, touching, Jon’s bare chest and his desire to say something.

“Top surgery scars,” Jon tells Martin before he can blunder through whatever words he’d have chosen.  “Right after university, I—I knew long before that, but that was when I could…” he turns away from Martin again, not wanting to look at him.  Jon knows Martin knows about his identity.  He came out, as both trans and ace, long before this.  This really isn’t necessary.  At all.  He doesn’t need to, never needed to, not with Martin.

Without consciously deciding to, Jon pulls away from Martin.  He bars his arms across his chest and hunches his shoulders in.  This was a bad idea.  He never should have.  He’s being ridiculous.  He’s made it awkward for both of them.  It didn’t have to be.  If he’d simply left well enough alone…

“Thank you,” Martin speaks hesitantly, “for trusting me enough to show me.”  He pauses, and Jon knows he’s considering his options, the best way to balance giving Jon space and support at the same time.  “Do you want to sit down?  Talk about anything?”

“Mhmm.”  Jon makes a noncommittal noise.  He wanders over to their sofa, not waiting for Martin to follow (but confident he will regardless).  They sit down, side by side, with enough space between them that they won’t accidentally touch.  Jon knows Martin is waiting for him to make the first move toward…whatever comes next.

What does he want to happen next?  This, showing Martin his scars, his first scars, felt like such an important thing to do beforehand.  Now, it just seems redundant.  Martin already knew about his identity.  There was no need for Jon to make a whole thing of this and yet he has and now they’re here and…

Martin’s going to berate him for wasting time.  Jon knows this, he’s sure of it.  This is what he does.  What he’s always done since he was a child.  He wastes time on unimportant things when he should be focusing on matters of greater importance.  Jon feels himself begin to tremble.  Then, he feels Martin’s hand place itself atop his own, hesitate, and then clasp around and give his hand a reaffirming squeeze.

“Is this okay?”  Martin asks him, his voice a hushed whisper.

Jon nods.  The action is simpler than trying to pull himself together for vocal articulation.  He shuffles closer to Martin, trying to communicate what he wants without actually speaking it into existence.  Thankfully, Martin knows his body language well enough to understand.

Martin reaches over and pulls Jon in close.  He tugs the blanket off the back of the sofa and wraps it around them, cocooning them in its warmth.  When he feels Jon lean against him and relax, Martin strokes his hair out of the way and kisses his temple.

“Better?”

Jon nods again.  He breathes deeply, inhaling the familiar scent of Martin’s shampoo.  Although he always recognizes the bottle in the store, he can never remember what type it actually is.  Regardless, being so close now calms his nerves.  Jon closes his eyes, and buries himself deeper in Martin’s embrace.

When so much has been forcefully taken, being able to share something so personal, having it be seen, on his own terms, feels good.

Martin was having a great time, with the relative calm and safety he hadn’t had in a while, even Jon had something like a smile playing on his lips as Tim told a story from one of his university mates that had accidentally thrown his roommate's engagement ring down a drain. 

Martin zoned out for a bit, enjoying the pleasant buzz of the alcohol and his friends laughter and Jon’s animated movements that indicated that he was talking about something he actually found interesting.

 Jon was apparently telling his own story with some relation to engagement, something about a girl at a wedding that had acted strangely, Martin caught something about “purposely spilling wine on her dress”, which Martin agreed was quite wierd. 

“She was totally trying to woo you, Jon.” Sasha said as Jon got to the bit where they had to help her find some clean towels in a storage closet. 

 “I assumed she was just having a rather hard time,” Jon said, seemingly only now thinking of the implications of spilling wine on your dress and then faking needing help, to be fair to Jon that was a very weird tactic to pull and Martin would not have put two and two together either.

“Well what did you do in that closet then?” Tim asked with an incredibly over the top suggestive look. 

Jon pulled a face then, Martin thought it looked rather endearing really with his nose all scrunched up and his eyes narrowed, but he was clearly uneasy. 

“I don’t- I don’t really do… that sort of thing.”

Martin snapped back in the moment, feeling a weird but familiar anxiety in his stomach as the conversation lulled. He felt rather protective for a moment, instinctively knowing this seemed important. This turned out to be rather unnecessary, as Tim spoke up again quickly.

“Oh,” He and then, earnestly, ”I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Jon.” 

And then Jon smiled, properly, like he didn’t often and waved his hand dismissively but pleased.

“Thank you, well it's not like you could have known that, but anyway as I was saying-” 

 It was but a moment, but it stuck with Martin for a bit, mulling it over and not really understanding his own reaction.

 Eventually Martin settled back into the pleasant buzz, enjoying his friends chatter and Jon’s over exaggerated hand gestures.

-

It was an uncharacteristically slow day in the archives, not a worm in sight and Martin had only a bit of boring research to do for a very clearly fake statement.

Martin usually tried to be nice about it but this one featured a guy named “Richard Dickson” and was entirely about a fever dream someone had about a haunted accordion, he had listened to the recording that Jon had emailed him and it sounded like even he was having a very hard time trying not to laugh at it.

“Who comes up with this stuff?” Sasha said as she handed him back the statement. “Sure, I know we are being attacked by a worm woman but I really hope we can draw the line at haunted accordions that play spooky renditions of High School Musical and a prophetic dream guy called Dick Dickson.”

She was laughing too and Martin thought that she looked better than she had in awhile, it was nice, seeing her like this. 

“Well at least I won’t have to stay extra time for the research of this one, I would go home early but.” he shrugged and gestured in a you know the whole staying here cause of a worm woman situation, she gave him a sympathetic look.

“Well I am leaving early, got a very fun evening planned.” she said with a wink.

She had looked really rather excited and somewhat giddy all day, Martin realized. 

“Oh,” Martin said, “Who is the lucky person then?”

Sasha looked at him puzzled for a few seconds, slowly blinking at him, then the penny dropped.

“What? Oh no, I mean- Tim I guess, we usually have a sort of movie night every once in a while, this one is extra special though, because I found this book about the categorisation of demons, it’s partially in latin? Tim said he would help me look into it. ”

Martin felt his face heat up, feeling the urge to profusely apologize, Sasha continued however:

“It’s not like that though,” she said with a rather annoyed look, and then somewhat softer, “I am not really a dating kind of person, you know?”

Martin wasn’t sure he fully understood what she meant, but that was fine and she was clearly still very excited, so he relaxed.

“Sorry, shouldn’t have assumed, I do hope it’s not one of those books Jon goes on about, they aren't exactly...friendly.”

Her eyes lit up once again.

“Oh it's definitely not a Leitner! I do look out for that sort of thing, the interesting thing about the book is though-”

And she went on for a bit, the moment somewhat unimportant in a way but it still churned in Martin’s mind. 

-

Things with Sasha...shifted after the Jane Prentiss attack, everyone had different ways to cope with trauma of course, Martin knew that.

Maybe that was the thing really, while Tim, Jon and Martin himself were having a hard time processing (even if Tim and Jon refused to properly acknowledge it) Sasha seemed fine, a few weeks of being shaken maybe and she was now back to her regular old self. 

She even had a new boyfriend, Martin had no idea why that irked him so much.

He’d said as much to Tim, who was sitting next to him while both slacked off from their jobs on the stairs to the back courtyard of the institute (why there even was a courtyard was one of the great mysteries of this place).

Tim looked uncharacteristically solemn, seldom did he let his walls down like this. 

“I thought I was in love with her you know,” he said rather suddenly, “I mean we’ve been friends for years now and there was- is no one I would rather spend time with, so I mean if not her then- then who?”

He sighed and Martin made comforting noise, trying not to break whatever spell had made Tim genuinely speak about his feelings. 

“I mean I figured out I wasn’t in love with her before this whole...thing, we talked about it, I think? Some stuff is hazy. Just- I shouldn’t be jealous you know? She is allowed to have a boyfriend.”

“Your feelings are valid no matter what they are.” Martin said seriously.

Tim sighed and leaned into Martin, who enveloped him in his arms.

“Sure, doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck though.” 

And well there wasn’t much Martin could say about that.

After a bit of comfortable hugging silence Tim spoke up.

“Maybe her boyfriend is a vampire though, I totally get to be jealous about a vampire.”

“Tim don’t say that.” he said, trying to hide a smile. 

“What?” Tim said, pretending to be serious, “Everything is possible Martin, worm women and all that, I could obviously not compete with a vampire and their sexy glittering skin.”

Martin shook his head, not able to contain his laughter anymore.

“Can’t believe you are exposing yourself as someone who watched Twilight.” he said.

Tim smiled wickedly up at him from where he was still half cuddled into him.

“The fact that you got that reference exposes you in turn,” he said, sticking his tongue out, “Check mate.”

“Touché.” 

Then Tim stood up and said: 

“Well, Time to go back to our trans containment zone.”

“The fact that we just happen to be trans and were transferred to the archives is a coincidence.”

To that Tim only answered: “Trans-ferred Martin, can’t you see? You cannot call that a coincidence.” winked and back in through the door he went. 

Martin let out an exaggerated long suffering sigh.

Back inside they walked to their respective desks.

“Well lets hope work gets lets shit.” Tim said. “That’s such a low bar, and yet.”

“Paciencia y fé.” Martin said, which was in his repertoire of spanish phrases that just didn’t pack the same punch in english along with “ya pasara” and “digamos que si”.

Tim shrugged.

“Don’t think whatever grandmother made up that phrase could have imagined it being applied to our situation.”

“And yet we still have to hope for it to get better don’t we, see it works.”

Tim flashed him one last smile as he sat at his desk and Martin went to put on the kettle.

-

Martin had assumed Jon’s I-don’t-do-that-sort-of-thing included dating as well and it hadn’t bothered him really, he enjoyed clinging to his crush to Jon like a small steady comfort, even if he knew it wasn’t actually going to amount to anything, there was no harm in day dreaming after all and Martin was perfectly capable of caring about him as a friend too, it was harmless.

Of course the fact that he now knew Jon had been staying at his ex-girlfriends place and the fact that Jon might actually date people didn’t really change anything.

At least that is what Martin tried to tell himself as he shakily poured two cups of tea and mustered the courage to walk to Jon’s office. 

And he was at least a little right, even if Jon dated people, even if Jon would return his feelings (which Martin really did not let himself dwell on), these were particularly unfavourable circumstances to start a relationship, there was the matter that neither of them was able to string together a conversation, because the mundane ones sounded so inane and hollow and the important ones required being genuine and vulnerable and they might just be somewhat allergic to that. 

And there was the matter of the impending apocalypse they had to stop.

Martin knocked on the door and he heard a soft: “Come in, Martin.” from the other side of the door. 

The office was a mess as always and Jon looked like he hadn’t slept in a week and had aged about ten years in the last few months. 

But Martin’s breath caught in his throat anyway because, as was usual for Jon now, he also looked just a little more...comfortable, as you could anyway. They were wearing a hoodie with cats on it that was just slightly too big and a long flowy patterned skirt. 

Jon clearly caught martin staring because he ran his hand through his hair a bit self-consciously and said: “I know it goes against dress code, but I think you get a pass after you get kidnapped by an evil circus.” 

“Oh I mean, you look nice, I mean it looks nice on you. I didn’t mean to uhm, stare?”

“It was- I was just joking.”

“Oh.” 

They just stared at each other, painful silence falling over them. 

Jon broke the silence clearing their throat.

“So... you brought tea?” They said.

“Yeah, it's for you.” Martin said and immediately cringed because who else would he have brought Jon’s favorite chai exactly the way he always takes it.

Jon smiled though, reaching out to take the cup from him. Their hands brushed just a little and Martin's brain briefly shut down and he realised that maybe he should admit to himself he was really hopeless and too far gone.

That is though, how he ended up stupidly staring at Jon’s hands and how he spotted the shiny black ring on the middle finger of his right hand. 

“Thats a nice ring, don’t think I have ever seen you wear jewelry before.” 

That seemed to snap the tension out of the moment a little, Jon looked down at the ring and smiled a little.

“It's an ace ring,” they said, “I used to wear it a lot a while back, not sure why I fell out of the habit, but now I guess I think I am allowed whatever small comfort I can get.”

They were looking at the ring and then at Martin. 

Martin wanted to freeze the image right there, at the small not quite guilty smile Jon had as he looked up at him, at the feeling that things were OK, good even just for a bit.

Then something fell off Jon's desk and they both startled, flinching at the sudden loud noise. 

All the worry and tension flooded back into the room immediately.

“Right.” Jon said. “Did you need anything else?” 

Martin wasn’t sure how to even answer that.

So he just shook his head and started to leave.

Just before he was about to turn around Jon called his name, Martin turned around to face Jon that seemed to be fighting for the words he wanted to say.

“Yes, Jon?”

“Thank you.”

Martin smiled a sad smile.

“Anytime.”

-

It’t not that Martin had never heard the word asexual before, or that he didn’t know Jon was ace, he’d just never dwelled much on the actual meaning of it.

He had however never heard of ace rings before and he gave it a google for curiosity's sake. 

A black ring usually wore on the right middle finger to indicate the wearer is asexual (“ace”). 

It seemed nice to Martin, small token of your connection to a community, of course his curiosity did not end there, he had assumed previously Jon didn’t do relationships at all, and if he did, what did asexual mean then?

He found out rather quickly that asexuality was about sexual attraction, and aromantic was another thing all together, he also found out that asexuality didn’t mean a person couldn't have a libido, or like sex.

And maybe he just stood there staring at his laptop screen for a while knowing that sexual attraction had never really made sense to him, maybe it felt like something clicked.

And so knowing he definitely did not have the time or the emotional energy to deal with it he quickly closed his laptop, he had an apocalypse to stop and a boss to dispose of after all.

-

Martin was trying very hard to read Hija de la fortuna by Isabel Allende, every other sentence he sighed and grabbed his phone to look up a word the meaning of which he didn’t know.

It was frustrating, he once had been almost fluid in spanish as a child, but then his dad had left and his mother wasn’t able to and didn’t want to maintain his fluency. He hadn’t exactly had time or money for classes either and so now he attempted to regain some of it by watching movies and reading books.

It was not just the language of course that made it hard, Martin was so entirely full of worry. It was rare he got to spend a day in his flat these days, usually cooped up in the Institute hiding from something, or at the side of Jon's hospital bed talking to him, reading to him on occasion.

The anxiety, the fear, the pain, it had festered into Martin, the tiniest sounds made him jump and even when he got tiny little moments in which he wanted to, needed to, rest he still felt like a watched prey animal, or the full force of grief threatening to crush him.

Today he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop, nothing remarkable had happened in a handful of days and it made him uneasy, he was waiting for Melanie to call him about a new attack, he was waiting for Peter to summon him with a weird cryptic request. 

And you would think that with all this other worry he wouldn’t be fretting about his sexuality.

But apparently there was plenty of anxiety to go around for all the areas in his life and he just couldn’t get that moment, months ago now, out of his head.

He sighed at set the book aside, grabbing his phone and opening google.

He felt like he was 14 again asking his mother what gay meant and getting only a nasty look in return, or 17 and anxiously looking for a book about being trans in the library. 

It was silly to look it up and read articles about how to know you were ace, because he already knew somewhere, but he desperately needed the confirmation.

The third or so blog post he opened was about a woman in her 50’s that had recently figured out she was ace.

Its freeing  the article read it’s freeing to be who you are and to understand yourself better, even if you aren’t sure, its OK, it will be OK.

Martin was only crying a little, he laid down his phone and stared at the wall.

He thought about how he had never quite fit, he wasn’t quite english, not with the people asking him where he had come from or asking his mother as a child where she had gotten him from. He wasn’t Bolivian either, he had never been there, his spanish was limited, he could only cook about three and a half recipes that the internet had taught him.

He had never been a woman and he would never fit what society thought of as a man. And what that exactly meant for his relationships.

He never understood other people, but he never thought he was bad enough to seek help for it.

Sexual attraction was vague and he didn’t get it, but in the few relationships he had had in the past he hadn’t minded sex, he enjoyed watching a nice movie together just as much but there was a nicety to it, especially taking care of someone else, having them unravel infront of you. And he had found it weird that he didn’t want anything back, that he felt uncomfortable sometimes.

He imagined he meant he was wrong, like with everything else Martin Blackwood also couldn’t do that right. 

But maybe there was something here, in Martins corner of human experience, in the small stack of books about Bolivia that he read, in the trans pin on his backpack and patches he sewed onto his clothes, in calling himself gay man even if that didn’t cover the nuances because it felt good, in the chew necklace that hung around his neck because it eased his anxiety.

Just like all of those things, Martin was ace, he wasn’t wrong or broken he was just different and there were all those other people who were different too and it was nice. 

And Martin was crying because of the overwhelming sense of belonging, and because he finally understood Tim when he had once asked “But what does romance even mean, Martin?” and he would never get to tell him, because this is yet another thing he and Jon could have talked about if the world had been kinder to them, this is something he could be talking about to Jon if he wasn’t in a coma.

But even in these miserable circumstances Martin made sense to himself a little more and no one could take that away from him.

-

The past week in the safehouse had been a whirlwind of emotions, but both Jon and Martin were trying, trying hard to heal, to learn how to feel safe again, to love each other.

For all that trying they hadn’t talked about it much, it was hard still, but Martin was quietly holding on to the hope that they would get there.

Today had been quiet, with the biggest setback being that Jon had found it hard to find all the ingredients for the sambar he wanted to make for dinner. 

“I know it won't be like my Pāṭṭi (பாட்டி) taught me, but you would think they would at least have coconut.”

Martin found their grumpiness adorable, reveled in the mundaneness of this worry. And he hadn’t been able to contain his laughter when they finally had found coconut and Jon had held it up triumphantly.

The food had been delicious and now they sat on the couch, it was hard Martin craved touch so dearly but it was like stepping into hot water after standing on ice for a while and Jon flinched so often, not used to not being hurt and sometimes Martin’s unnaturally cold skin brought up unpleasant memories. 

They could have wallowed in guit and yearning, but they were both stubborn, and so even if it took a while and millions of slow movements and asking if something was OK they managed. 

So it was that Jon had his legs draped over Martin's lap, enough to bring comfort, not too much as to be overwhelming, and their hands were lightly on top of eachother.

Jon seemed pensive, but not worried, Martin shot him a questioning glance.

“We went at this in such a sideward way,” Jon said, “I mean we live together now but we haven’t really...talked about it. We never- we never asked?”

There was a beat of silence where Martin just looked at Jon and then a smile spread over Martin's face.

“Jonathan Sims do you want to ask me out?”

Jon averted their gaze in a way that meant even though Martin couldn’t see it they were definitely blushing.

Martin just couldn’t contain his delighted laughter.

“Must you laugh at me,” Jon said, faking offence, he was also smiling now.

A bit of seriousness returned to his voice as he spoke up again.

“I don’t care that we have done it all backwards Martin,” they said, “But, I love you.”

And as he said that Martin stared at him, mouth agape and his heart thundering in his chest, he lost his ability in any language. Jon said it firmly and securely and Martin really didn’t know what he was supposed to do with all the feelings he had, Jon continued however. 

“And we don’t have to do anything but it just feels like we are dancing around several conver- Martin? Are you alright?”

It was only then Martin realised he was crying and he could only ask:

“You love me?” 

Not because he didn’t know, but because sometimes you just need the confirmation.

Jon squeezed his hand gently.

“Of course I do.”

Martin wanted so badly to answer him, to reproach but he couldn’t, not yet, instead he blurted.

“May I kiss you?”

Jon smiled, a tad nervously.

“That's sort of what I wanted to talk about,” they said, “boundaries?”

Martin understood the necessity of such conversations he really did, but it did not mean he was going to enjoy them.

It did come as a surprise however that Jon suddenly got very nervous and said.

“I mean- I just- I am ace, Martin.”

Martin cokced his head in confusion and said:

“Yeah, I know.”

Jon mirrored his confused look.

“You do?” and then more sour, “You listened to the tape?”

And fine Martin admitted to himself, maybe they should talk more.

“No? You told me, like ages ago.”

Jon laughed, relieved, happy.

“Sorry,” he said, “Ironically my memory is foggy. It has been a rough couple of...years.”

Martin hummed something of affirmation, because he also knew this seemed like a nice moment to come out, and he felt the very familiar anxiety in his belly. Idiotic anxiety because Jon was also ace and there were no stakes in this situation at all. 

Maybe it was just the fact that he had never said it aloud.

Martin heard himself speak:

“I think I am too,” and he could hear how stupidly nervous he sounded, “ace, I mean.”

There was a vague ringing in his ear and if he had been in the position to he might have just run out of the room, apparently facing down unknowable monsters didn’t make coming out easier.

His fear was cut down by the fact that Jon was absolutely beaming at him.

“That's great!” they said, “I mean not that I would have minded if- but it is nice to have someone understand, that's all.”

It was, it was amazing to have Jon here smiling up at him holding his hand and understanding him.

“It really is,” Martin said, then gently bringing the back of Jon’s hand to his cheek and leaning into it, “Doesn’t mean we don’t have to talk boundaries though.” 

Jon smiled at the small gesture and then said serious:

“I don’t want to have sex, ever.” 

Martin knew it sounded like people had tried to debate them on it before and it made his chest ache.

“I know,” he answered and then because honesty was key, “I am not adverse to it, but obviously if you don’t want to, we won’t, ever.”

Jon sat up a bit then, lifting his hand from Martins and gently cupping his cheek. Martin's pulse quickened, his hand moving almost automatically to Jon’s arm.

“How do you feel about kissing?” he asked.

“It's nice,” Jon said, smiling a bit cheekily leaning forward,  “So long as it isn’t tongue kissing that is.”

Martin leaned forward until their breaths mingled at their lips where all but touching.

“May I kiss you then?” He asked, breathless.

Jon could only nod and they both leaned forward the last inch.

Time must have stopped for a bit as they kissed, gentle and full of a thousand promises. 

They both moved away from the kiss gently, they were both tearing up a little, Martin felt so much so strongly and he pulled away from Jon completely.

“Just need a moment.” he said and smiled at Jon's reassuringly if a bit shaky. 

“Take all the time you need,” Jon said and then softer, “Anything you need.”

And Martin was sure he had never loved anyone more. 

-

On the fourth day of their third week in Scotland Jon had gone to run some errands in town and had come back with an incredibly nervous air about him they were sitting across from Martin at the table twirling their hair and checking his pocket every once in a while.

It was making Martin incredibly antsy and by the third time Jon had looked like he wanted to say something only to then go back to the crossword he was definitely making no progress on Martin had had enough.

“Sol mio,” Martin said, very much enjoying Jon’s wide eyed flustered he always got when Martin called him pet names. “Will you please tell me what is wrong.”

Jon looked at him sheepishly.

“There is not something wrong, per se.”

Martin gave him a look.

Jon sighed and stood up, grabbing a small box from his pocket. 

“Nothing is wrong I just… bought something for you beloved.”

Martin very nearly had a heart attack when Jon opened the box and there was a ring inside. Upon closer inspection it was a beautiful black ring and Martin understood. 

There was silence as Martin could do no more but stare at the ring and then at Jon.

“I see how a ring might come over as a gift now,” Jon rambled nervously, “it is not like that- I mean that is something we will have to talk about. I was afraid it would be too much? It is engraved too and I just hope I didn’t-”

Martin cut him off: “Jon let me see it properly.” 

Jon handed him the ring.

Martin lifted the ring out of the box and saw the engraving on it.

 நான் உன்னைக் காதலிக்கிறேன். I love you. Te amo.

Martin promptly sat down again, it was so sappy, just a tad ridiculous and stupidly cute. It hurt in his chest and tears stung in his eyes.

“How did you know I wanted one?” he asked, because he didn't know what else to say.

Jon rubbed the back of his neck self consciously and said:

“You were talking a few days ago, about how you would like something like a- like a token, to remind you and I thought an ace ring might be nice.” 

They lifted their right hand.

“We match now.” 

Martin silently moved to put the ring on, it fit perfectly. He ran his fingers over the tiny groves of the words on it. 

An anchor. 

A small reminder that he belonged, here in the world, here with Jon. 

Martin stood up and gently enveloped Jon in a hug.