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Occasionally, Jon dreams of spiders.
A dark house he doesn’t recognize with a blood-red door. Tiny, black things scuttling toward him at alarming speeds. Climbing up his legs and arms and over his face, creeping in his hair. But sometimes, it’s just one spider. One huge spider with always-moving arms and a bowler hat, and too many eyes. And it pulls him closer, reeling him in with a single thread of spider silk that’s wrapped around his throat…
Martin is carrying a box of files across the archives when Daisy shows up. He smiles at her, even though he’s pretty sure he’s never seen her smile. And also, she terrifies him.
“Hello, Daisy,” he says. She’s got her gun on her hip, like she always does. For protection, she told everyone. Apparently, she’s been unofficially hired to act as their bodyguard? But Martin has no idea when that happened, or if it’s really her job. Part of him thinks she only sticks around for Basira, because she’s stuck here now, and Daisy wants to protect her. He can understand that, at least.
“Martin.” Her voice is soft, as always. But not gentle. Never gentle. “Have you seen Basira?”
“Uhh, not for a while. Last I saw her, she was reading a book on the history of tarot over there.” He points to the darkened corner of behind a shelf of unfiled statements.
Daisy looks at the dim, creepy corner and then back at him with a suspicious frown, like he might be leading her into a trap, or something.
Martin just shrugs. “Hey, take it up with Basira,” he says. “I keep telling her to use the break room like everyone else. But I’m pretty sure she finds a book she’s interested in and just drops right where she’s standing.”
Daisy makes a sound adjacent to a laugh without the smile. “Sounds like her, actually. Thanks.” Just as she’s walking away, Martin hears a CRASH, and he drops the box of papers.
Daisy whirls, gun already in hand.
“Jon?” Martin is already running. The sound definitely came from his office.
Daisy’s footfalls are directly behind his, but Martin doesn’t care that she’s following, probably hoping for trouble. Probably with her gun already in her hand.
“What the hell was that!” Tim demands, racing out from between the stacks. Melanie is right behind him, her eyes wide.
“It came from Sims’s office,” Daisy says dangerously.
Martin hurries faster. Whatever is happening, it’s best if he is the first one to get there…
And he is. Which is a good thing, as Jon comes racing out of the open door just as Martin turns the corner. And he shows no signs of stopping.
Their bodies crash together in a tangle of limbs that sends them both hurtling to the floor.
“WOAH!” Tim yells, more angry than concerned.
“Jon—” Martin tries pushing him off, but Jon is hyperventilating, punching and kicking, and gasping. That’s when Martin realizes his eyes are closed.
“Sims!” Daisy shouts. With a chill, Martin sees a flash of her gun in her hand.
“DON’T!” he cries, throwing up one hand, even as Jon continues to struggle. From the outside, it probably looks like Jon has attacked him. He’s on top, throwing hits – though none of them land. It looks almost like he’s trying to shake something off of himself. Like he’s covered in bugs and trying to get them off.
“GET OFF HIM!” Tim shouts, moving closer like he’s going to pull Jon away.
Martin holds up his other hand. “No, don’t! He’s asleep—”
“SIMS!” Daisy yells again, with more force than before. Her finger is on the trigger. The only thing stopping her is that Martin is there, too, right in the line of fire.
“Jon!” Martin tries desperately, pushing him back, bringing up his hands and hooking them around Jon’s arms like a straight jacket or an embrace. “Jon, wake up!”
The fight goes out of him then, slowly. He’s still gasping for air, and shaking, but his eyes are open wide. They’re glassy and red-rimmed from lack of sleep, or maybe tears.
“It’s all right,” Martin says, unsure of who he’s addressing. Maybe everyone.
Daisy lowers her weapon, and Tim backs down. Melanie just looks shocked and a little worried.
“It’s all right,” Martin repeats, loosening his grip on Jon, who continues leans against him as he drags in shallow, terrified breaths.
A while later, they’re both sitting in Jon’s office with the door closed. The others have mostly backed-off, but he got the feeling they didn’t want him in the same room as Jon, in case he were to…what? Attack him again? Ridiculous. If Martin were a betting man, he’d say they’re all out here right now with their ears to the door.
“Did I… I mean, you didn’t get hurt, did you?” Jon asks quietly, peering up under heavy-looking eyelids.
“No,” Martin assures him. “I’m tougher than I look.”
He cracks the faintest smile, and nods. “Good.”
“What about you? Are you okay?”
“Fine.” He pauses, pulling in a shaky breath. “Totally fine.”
“Was it…a nightmare?”
Jon winces, like the mere memory of it brings him pain. “Yes,” he says.
“Do you…want to talk about it?”
“No.” Still, when he rubs his arms up and down, as if checking for bugs, Martin gets the sense that he was right on the money with that guess.
“Okay…”
There’s a knock on the door, and Jon gives a small start, but disguises it as a cough. “Come in.”
The door opens, and it’s Tim.
Martin tenses without really knowing why. He isn’t sure what he expects Tim to do. Surely, nothing. But he’s had such a short fuse lately, especially with Jon. As if this whole thing is his fault, when in reality, Jon is as much a victim as any of them. Maybe more so! He’s the only one who’s been kidnapped (multiple times!) And threatened with violence!
“Yes, Tim?” Jon asks, trying to look and sound halfway in control of himself as he sits up straighter in his chair. The exhaustion on his face pulls him down though, like there are weights attached to his shoulders.
Tim’s eyes are on the floor. He’s frowning, but not angrily. More like he’s in here against his will – or perhaps against his better judgment. “I wanted to…” He trails off with a grimace. Then lifts his head and sighs, planting both hands on his hips. “Just checking in.”
“Oh.” Jon blinks.
“We’re okay, Tim,” Martin supplies helpfully, offering a grateful smile.
Tim nods curtly, eyeing Martin over like he’s checking for fresh bruises. Then he looks at Jon, and his eyes tighten a bit more. But if he’s thinking anything hateful, he’s keeping it to himself.
“I get them too sometimes,” he says to the floor again.
“Get…what?” Martin asks, since Jon still looks like he’s trying to decide whether Tim is real or a figment of his sleep-deprived imagination.
“Night terrors. They’re…a real bitch.” He rubs the back of his neck.
“They are, indeed,” Jon agrees after a beat of stunned silence. What is this? His face seems to say. Sympathy?
After a moment of strained silence, Tim nods and backs out again, his hand on the knob. “Anyway. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Guess I’ll, uh—”
“Wait, Tim,” Martin says.
“Yeah?”
“Where’s Daisy?”
His frown deepens. “She and Basira are in the break room. She’s pissed at me.”
“Why?”
“Because I suggested that she not bring a loaded firearm into the archives again,” he says sternly, arms crossed. “Especially if she means to whip it out at one of us.”
“Agreed,” Martin grumbles.
“Right? Whatever. She marched off with Basira, and they’ve been skulking around in the break room ever since. I’m going to get back to work.” Tim’s eyes cut toward Jon one more time. “See you around.” Then he closes the door.
As if he’d been holding his breath that entire time, Jon suddenly exhales. “I think that was the first time in a very long time that Tim and I have exchanged words without it ending in a screaming match.”
“I think he was worried,” Martin says, just as surprised, and they share a couple of slack-jawed looks. Jon’s eyes are big and open. He’s not wearing his glasses, so they look strangely more real. More vulnerable? That sounds weird, but true.
And the weirder part is that their eye contact doesn’t break when it seems like it maybe should. Several long seconds go by, and Martin realizes they’re still staring into each other’s eyes, and the realization makes his heart beat faster. Why is Jon staring at him? Why is he still staring at Jon? Well, he knows why he’s staring, but…
Would it be a horrible thing to say that Jon looks good right now? Tired, yeah, but still nice. He’s wearing his hair down, at the moment. It’s shoulder-length and thick and a bit messy, the kind of ‘just rolled out of bed’ look that people strive for. It’s got enough curl to it that makes the streaks of premature gray look styled. Intentional. No one wears exhaustion better than Jonathan Sims, he swears…
“Martin…” he says, turning in his chair so that he’s facing him again. They’re on the same side of the desk, sitting close together. It feels a lot closer now, all of a sudden. Like the space they’ve been occupying for the last five minutes has abruptly shrunk in size. “Thank you.”
“For what?” His voice comes out too soft, too breathy. It’s embarrassing, but Jon doesn’t seem to notice. When he speaks again, his voice does a similar thing.
“For…I don’t know…always being on my side, I suppose. That sounds wrong. I know there aren’t ‘sides,’ but… Thank you, anyway.”
Martin nods. “You’re right. There aren’t sides. Everyone here does care about you, Jon. Even if Tim is angry, and Melanie is off plotting and blaming everyone, and Daisy is skulking around looking for something to punch. We care about you. I care about you.” The last bit comes out even quieter.
Jon is still looking into his eyes, so Martin sees the flicker of emotion in them. It’s hard to name because it looked like a lot of feelings in one. Relief, and pain, and sadness mixed up with warmth and affection. It’s a Rorschach in a pair of dark-brown eyes.
Would it be extremely fucked-up to say he wants to kiss him right now? He’s not going to… It would be too much like taking advantage of his vulnerability. But he wants to. So bad.
But at that very same moment, something breaks in the air. It’s like a storm cloud has burst, but instead of rain tumbling down on them, it’s Jon’s too-breathy voice saying, “Martin.”
And then they’re kissing.
Martin doesn’t know who moved first, or if they both move at the exact same time. And he doesn’t care. Because Jon’s mouth is on his, and his mouth is on Jon’s, and it feels so good. Better than he could have ever dreamed – and he’s done a lot of dreaming. In those fantasies, their first kiss is always something shy and coy. A cautious peck on the mouth. But this is not that.
There is nothing careful about this.
Jon’s hands are on either side of his face, pulling him closer, closer, crushing their mouths together, like he can’t stand for there to be any space left between them, not an ounce of daylight. And Martin’s hands are in Jon’s hair, on his shoulders, on his waist. Everywhere, everywhere. Everything about him is soft. His sweater, his hair, his lips. His lips. When they open under Martin’s mouth, he groans, and he isn’t even embarrassed.
Jon climbs into his lap, letting his own chair roll backwards into the desk with a thunk. His legs straddle Martin’s hips in his quest for closer, closer, closer, and Martin feels his head spin. Thankfully, Jon is still cupping his cheeks, so it can’t go far.
As his hands continue roaming, Martin’s fingers find the line on Jon’s throat where Daisy cut him. He lays a kiss on it and feels Jon shiver against him.
“Martin,” he says.
“Yes?” Martin is still kissing his throat and down his neck, and Jon’s head has tipped to the side to give him better access. His hands have moved down to grip the front of Martin’s shirt, and Martin can feel the racing heartbeat in the pulse under his lips. He likes it. The fact that Jon is as worked-up about this as he is.
“I…I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?” Martin takes a break from kissing Jon’s neck to look up and meet his eyes. He’s never needed to look up to see Jon before.
“This. Kissing. People.” For a moment, Martin is worried they’ve gone too far, freaked him out, but Jon doesn’t look scared or worried. He looks like he’s making a confession.
“Could have fooled me.” Martin smiles and uses his free hand (the one not still currently wound around Jon’s waist) to push back a piece of long dark hair that has fallen into his face. Just because he wants to. Just because he has wanted to for years.
And Jon smiles, suddenly shy. Which is kind of funny, considering he’s still straddling Martin’s hips. “I just mean… Is this—to you—is this just a…kiss? I mean, are we just…messing around, or…?” Jon’s face is red, and he’s being so sincere, so Martin really shouldn’t laugh. But he does. He can’t help it.
“Why are you laughing?” Jon asks, affronted.
“I’m sorry—” Martin shakes his head. He’s beaming from ear to ear, he can feel it. The inside of his head feels like it’s glowing, like it’s gold. “I feel giggly. But—no. No, it’s not just a kiss. Not to me.” To illustrate his point, he takes another soft nip at Jon’s neck, enjoying how he leans into it. “You?”
Jon shakes his head immediately, and his expression is so serious that Martin almost starts laughing again. Instead of answering out loud, Jon kisses him square on the mouth again. When he pulls back, his pupils are big and dark. “No.”
Martin isn’t exactly surprised. He wouldn’t have taken Jon to be the ‘just messing around’ type. But hearing it said out loud, seeing it… It still makes his heart pound.
Their next kiss is slower, warmer. But still just as sweet. Jon sighs into it. And Martin hugs him close, so he doesn’t feel like he’s the only one who needs them to be together. Because he isn’t.
Martin cracks the door open, peering out both ways. Jon is pressed close to him, trying to crane his neck to see out as well. Their hands are woven together. They haven’t broken physical contact since the kissing started, which was a while ago.
“I don’t see anyone,” Martin whispers.
“Are you sure?”
“I think so? Why are we sneaking out, anyway?” A sudden panic grips his chest. “If…if you don’t want anyone knowing about this…”
“No! Martin, no.” Jon pulls him back into the office and lets the door close. He touches the side of Martin’s face and smiles. “It’s not that. Of course not. I’m just…” He thinks for a moment, then huffs. “I’m in a very good mood at the moment, and I’m not keen on seeing anyone that might ruin that.”
“Oh.” Martin smiles too. “So, like Daisy? Or Tim?”
“Or anyone, really.” He mutters something else after that, but Martin doesn’t quite catch it. It sounded like anyone but you, but Martin isn’t nearly full of himself enough to believe that’s what he actually said.
So, after Martin checks around a few more times to be sure the coast is clear, he and Jon slip out and close the office door behind them. Jon doesn’t bother locking it. His hand is warm in Martin’s but his fingers are cool, squeezing.
They haven’t discussed where they’re going, just that they both felt like leaving. Like not being at the Institute anymore. It’s a bit early in the evening to leave work, but it’s not like Elias cares what they do. It’s not like they can get fired…
They make it through the archives without incident. It seems like the others have all gone to their separate corners to work or sulk. Normally, that would bother Martin. He’s always the one going around, checking on everyone, trying to get them to make up and be friends. But right now, he couldn’t care less.
At the top of the stairs, Jon opens the door and peeks out into the Institute proper. “Clear,” he says, pulling Martin after him. There are a few people milling about, but no one from the archives. There’s David, Jem from the library, and Krista, one of the new cleaners, but Martin is certain Jon doesn’t know any of them.
David sees them, and his eyes flick down to their latched hands, and then he gives Martin a surprised stare, which Martin deftly ignores.
And a minute later, they’re outside.
It’s a wet, cold afternoon, so there are more cars and buses than people. Jon is leading now, but it seems like he just picked a direction and started walking. Not that Martin minds. Anywhere is better than the Institute, and even walking in the chill and the rain is completely incredible with Jon squeezing his hand.
Still, it is rather damp out…
“Do you want to go in there?” Jon asks after a few blocks, stopping to point at a small windowfront across the street. There’s no name, but the sign out front reads café and they can see a few people sitting at the tables inside, sipping from white mugs.
“Tea does sound nice,” Martin admits. So, they jog across the road and go inside.
It’s warmer inside the café, and quieter without the roar of tires and the thrum of the rain. They order tea and sandwiches and sit in a corner booth away from everyone else, where they can talk at almost a normal volume without prying ears listening in.
Jon is smiling at their hands, which are on top of table now. “Sorry about dragging you halfway across London,” he says with a hint of a laugh. “I didn’t really have a plan…”
“That’s all right,” Martin says. “Totally worth it.”
“For tea and sandwiches?” Jon quirks an eyebrow that says he already knows that isn’t what Martin meant, and he’s just being coy about it.
“For you,” Martin clarifies anyway. God, it feels good to say it. “For this.” He pulls Jon’s hands closer to him. They haven’t let go of each other, not once. Maybe they’ll never let go again. That might make drinking tea and eating sandwiches harder, but they’ll make it work. He’d do just about anything to make this work, to keep this smile on Jon’s face.
They sit in the café for hours, probably being a nuisance, probably taking up too much room. They each drink two more cups of tea, and they have scones with butter and strawberry jam, and they do let go of each other’s hands eventually. It feels like a loss, which is so silly, but Martin feels a little bit silly right now. Like waxing poetic and being a complete romantic idiot.
Jon is talking about scones in the way that only Jon could talk about scones. That is: a long and thoroughly-detailed info-dump on their origin, and history, and the different ways they’re eaten across the world. Martin listens with a smile. He’s fairly certain he could listen to Jon read an instruction manual for watching paint dry and he would still find it interesting.
Halfway through the lecture, Martin’s phone buzzes. He would normally ignore it, but Jon hears it too and closes his mouth, suddenly looking very aware of how much he’s been talking.
“Sorry—” he says sheepishly. “You can get that.”
Martin pulls the phone out of his pocket, feeling crabby about it. It’s a text from Tim: “Where did you go?”
“It’s Tim,” Martin says, already tapping out his reply: “Left early.” And he plans to leave it at that. He’s been working on not feeling the need to explain himself at every turn.
“Is he wondering where you’ve gone?” Jon asks, tilting his head with a grin. If Martin didn’t know better, he’d almost say he looks smug.
“Yes,” Martin says. He’s about to put the phone away when Tim texts again.
“Are you with Jon? We haven’t seen either of you in hours.”
“He wants to know if you’re here, too,” Martin says. “Should I tell him?”
“He probably thinks I’ve taken you hostage or something,” Jon grumbles. “Yeah, go ahead and tell him.”
“He doesn’t think that…” Martin taps out a quick reply. “Yes, he’s here. We’re fine.”
“David said he saw you holding hands…”
Martin puts the phone away, choosing to pretend he didn’t see that last message.
“We’ve been taking up this booth for quite a while,” Jon says, glancing around. “We should probably leave.”
They probably should. Even though Martin would be content to sit here listening to Jon talk about every subject under the sun for the rest of his life. They should probably go.
But where are they going? Somewhere together? Or is this goodnight? Jon could probably use a decent night’s sleep…even if Martin won’t get a wink. He has a feeling his heart will still be racing tomorrow morning.
The streets are dark now, and they linger outside the café, under the glow of a streetlight. Martin’s phone is still buzzing in his pocket. A few times, it even feels like phone calls, but he ignores all of it.
“So…” he says without much of a plan for what to say next.
“So…” Jon agrees.
Thankfully, it has stopped raining, so he doesn’t feel rushed to decide anything. The phone keeps buzzing, and a bus rumbles by. Martin opens his mouth to say something (he doesn’t know what) but before he can speak, Jon jumps in.
“Spiders,” he says.
“What?”
He looks embarrassed. “My…my nightmare. It was about spiders.”
“Oh.”
“Y-you asked earlier, and I didn’t say...” Jon shrugs. “You could say I’m an arachnophobe.”
“Really?”
“Not like—I don’t break down at the sight of anything eight-legged, I just don’t like them. And I…have dreams sometimes.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve never had night terrors. They seem awful.”
“They’re not…fun.”
Martin reaches for his hand, capturing it again. “Is there something I can…?”
Jon kisses him, and Martin’s brain short-circuits and instantly goes blank of everything but him. His mouth (he tastes like strawberry jam), his smell (like rain and ink and warmth), his everything. His free hand grips a fistful of Martin’s sweater, and he uses it to pull himself up higher, onto his tip toes. As a result, the sweater gets hiked up, and he can feel the evening chill on his skin. When Martin leans down to make it easier, Jon slips his tongue into his mouth, and it basically turns him to putty.
“Jon,” Martin breathes. His head is spinning. He feels like he’s on fire and also floating.
“Hmm?” They’re still kissing, speaking when they should be snatching quick breaths of air.
“Do you want to come to my house?”
Jon pulls back an inch, breaking the kiss suddenly. His eyes have gone huge, and only then does Martin realize what he said.
“O-oh, Martin, I, uh—"
Martin gasps. “N-not like that! I mean—”
“No, I just—”
“I meant for, like, a movie or…”
“Oh—”
“I just don’t really want to say goodnight yet…if you don’t.”
“Oh.” Jon puts a hand over his heart, like he’s genuinely relieved. Martin’s not hurt by it (not really) but Jon looks like he’s afraid that he might be. “Not that I wouldn’t—I mean, not that I don’t… It’s just very soon and— It’s not you! I just…”
“Jon, Jon, it’s okay. I know. I wasn’t suggesting…”
“I know.”
Then they both stop talking, and it’s awkward. Is it awkward? It hasn’t been awkward this entire time, not even after they kissed and ran away from the Institute, and Martin worried that it might become awkward, or he might somehow make it awkward. It never did. Mostly thanks to Jon and his seriousness and his ability to talk so much. If left to Martin, it probably would have become awkward. Is this awkward?
“So…” Martin begins, realizing his sweater is hiked up from Jon’s hands. He smooths it down.
“So…” Jon agrees. He clears his throat.
Yeah, it’s awkward…
“Do you…want to come over?”
Jon looks down at his shoes. “Uh, yeah, I…sure. That sounds nice.”
They hail a cab and ride most of the way in silence. It isn’t as uncomfortable anymore, there just isn’t as much to say. Especially not with the cabbie up front. A couple of minutes into the drive, though, Jon’s hand creeps over and covers Martin’s on the seat between them.
Martin smiles out the window and tries to relax.
Shit, his house is a mess, he forgot. As soon as the door is open, Martin wants to grab Jon by the shoulders and push him back out. Then kiss him in the rain. It started raining again, by the way. And he’s been thinking of nothing but kissing Jon in the rain ever since. Except for now. Now, all he wants to do is magically clean his house, so Jon doesn’t think he’s a slob. Which he isn’t. He was just running very, very late this morning…
It’s not that bad, he tells himself as they quietly walk through the entry into the living room. Floor’s unvacuumed, some breakfast dishes in the kitchen. Air’s a bit stale, could use a candle. But it’s not like a hurricane went through or anything…
In fact, Jon makes a pleasant sound as he looks around. “Nice place.”
“Er, thanks.” Martin scratches the back of his head. “Can I get you something to drink? Tea?”
Jon gives him a sideways look. “Could you just drink tea all day?”
“Practically do.” Then, he crosses his arms. “Are you judging me?”
Jon chuckles. “No. Water’s fine, though.”
Martin slides the breakfast dishes into the sink before Jon enters the room, then puts on the kettle for himself and pulls down a glass for Jon and fills it from the spigot of filtered water. He’s making a point of not looking at Jon, at the moment. Even though he wants to. But if he gives in every time he wants to look at Jon, he’ll never look anywhere else. He’ll spill the glass of water he’s filling up.
They settle in on the sofa in the living room, but the TV never comes on. They just talk instead. For hours. Who knew he and Jon had so much to talk about? It’s nearly nine p.m. before the conversation hits a lull, and only because Jon has to use the bathroom. Martin shows him where it is, then lets his head fall back on couch until he comes back.
However, before he does, there’s a knock on the door.
Martin’s brow furrows as he looks at the clock. It’s after nine, who would be here at this hour? Feeling somewhat nervous, he gets up and goes to the door. After the Jane Prentiss attack, he got a door with a peep hole, and peering through it, he sees Tim standing on his steps, wrapped in a jacket and looking around anxiously.
Martin opens up. “Uh…hi, Tim.”
Tim jumps like he didn’t expect anyone to answer. Then he stares at Martin like he’s grown a third head. “Martin?”
“Hi? Were you…expecting someone else?”
“W-no. I just didn’t think you’d answer. I mean, I didn’t think you were home.”
What? “Do you…often knock on my door when I’m not home?”
Tim gives him a frown. “No! I thought…” He huffs. “I don’t know what I thought. You weren’t answering your phone, and Melanie got me all…freaked out talking about you and Joe Spooky, so I…wanted to pop over and make sure you were…all right.”
“Oh.” Martin blinks. “Well, I am.”
“I see that.”
Martin supposes he should be flattered that Tim cares enough to come all the way here at nine in the evening to make sure he’s all right. But all he can hear is the insinuation behind it… You and Joe Spooky. He feels himself frowning. “What exactly did Melanie think happened to me?”
Tim shrugs, and it’s obvious that he doesn’t think Jon is still around, or that the supposed hand-holding that David mentioned meant anything, because he says, “She thought he might have gone all Bates Motel on you, or something.”
Martin feels a wave of indignation, but as he’s opening his mouth to argue that Jon isn’t like that and they all need to stop being so cruel to him… Jon comes out of the bathroom.
“Martin? Something wrong?” He appears beside him, then freezes when he sees Tim.
And Tim freezes when he sees Jon. And his eyes flick down, to Jon’s socked feet, then back up. And the pieces snap together. Martin almost hears the click. “Oh…” he says.
Jon has gone stiff. “Uh, oh…hello, Tim…”
Oh God, this is awful.
The horrendous silence hangs for what feels like an hour but could only be a second or two before Tim steps backwards and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “Anyway…I was just…making sure you…you two were…okay.”
“We’re fine, Tim,” Martin says shortly.
Jon is silent. Probably dying of humiliation. Martin is too afraid to look at him to check.
“Good. Good. Well, uh…see you…tomorrow. I guess.”
“Yeah…”
“But, uh, not too early, I suppose—” Tim goes white like he instantly regrets that, and Martin wishes it wasn’t a lawful offense to shove an entire mailbox down a man’s throat. “Anyway, I’ll be going now.”
As Tim flees with his tail between his legs, Martin closes the door, then looks at Jon. His lips are pressed so tight they’ve become a straight, white line across his face. When he glances up at Martin, the corners of the line twitch up. Is he laughing??
“Are you laughing?”
Jon’s face breaks into a grin like he can’t help it. “Come on, that was funny.”
“In what way was that at all funny! And since when are you the one with the sense of humor!”
“It was funny.”
“It was not.” Okay, it sort of was…
Jon laughs. “Can you imagine what he must have thought?”
“He thought you killed me.”
“And then he comes here and sees you and me in my socks. He probably thought… Good Lord.” Jon is shaking his head and chuckling.
And as very not-funny as Martin found that whole exchange, it’s so good to see Jon laugh that he can’t help but giggle. They kiss, just a chaste peck on the lips, and wander back toward the sofa, hand-in-hand.
“Everyone is going to know by tomorrow,” Martin says with a sigh.
“I don’t care,” Jon says. Then, “Do you?”
Martin pulls his leg up so he can fully face him and gives Jon a soft smile. “No. Plus, it will give them something good to talk about, rather than constant doom and gloom.”
Jon smirks. “Like the royal wedding.”
“Exactly. We’re like William and Kate.”
They laugh, and Jon lets his rest on the back of the couch.
“You look tired,” Martin says, reaching out to brush back a piece of his hair. It feels indulgent, like having a second slice of cake.
“I am a bit,” Jon says with a shrug.
“You’re welcome to stay, if you want.”
Jon hums and leans into Martin’s hand. “It is tempting,” he concedes. “But…”
“What?”
He sits up, away from Martin’s touch and rubs the back of his neck. “Well…it’s just that the…spider dreams tend to happen a few nights in a row.”
Martin waits for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “I’m not following.”
“So, I just don’t think it would be very attractive for me to tackle you in a panicked fit in the middle of the night.”
“Jon,” Martin says, scooting closer. “One, everything about you is attractive to me. Let me finish. And two, I don’t mind. And I didn’t mind today, just so it’s on the record. Ergo, you should stay.” He punctuates it with a smile.
Jon isn’t as bowled over by the smile as Martin hoped he would be. Yeah, he softens a bit, but there’s a still a bit of tension behind his eyes, like it’s really worrying him.
Martin sighs. “Hey.” He slides even closer, close enough that their knees bump and they’re breathing each other’s air. He reaches up to touch the side of Jon’s face, and he leans into it again (a good sign.) “If you’d be more comfortable at home, that’s fine with me. But if you want to stay over, don’t let some silly nightmare stop you.”
Jon looks like he has almost given in, but the nervousness is hanging on by a thread. So, Martin kisses him, just to make a point. And also to kiss him.
Jon’s arms come up immediately, looping around his shoulders. Martin nips at his lower lip. “Will you stay?” he asks.
Jon swallows and nods. His eyes are dark again. “If you really don’t mind…”
“I really don’t.”
And then they lay down, both of them on the couch, crushed together with their legs tangled, not an ounce of daylight between them. They’re going to be stiff as all hell in the morning, and Martin can already tell he’s going to lose all feeling in his right arm, but it’s worth it. They could move to the bed, but he doesn’t want to make it seem like a suggestion. And this is fine. This is warm, and easy, and fine, and it’s Jonathan Sims sleeping in his arms, with his head nuzzled against Martin’s chest.
In other words, it’s heaven.