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Evening light doesn’t so much slant its way into the room as it does claw its way over rooftops to spill weakly onto a small sliver of carpet just below the window. It’s not terribly interesting, to watch the slow transition of late evening to night, to bear witness to the death of the day’s final hours as they give way to the dark, but here Jon is, sat on the squashy sofa tucked up in Martin’s flat, head heavy against the back of it. He presses his temple a little more firmly against the fabric, a faded cream-and-floral print that looks like it belongs in an antiques shop.
Jon isn’t entirely certain how he ended up here—well, no, he’s very sure of the route he and Martin took out from the Institute and down the street to the Tube, the exact number of stops they rode and blocks they walked and steps they climbed until they were here. He just knows. He wishes he didn’t.
No, what he’s not certain of is how he ended up here, why he agreed to go home with Martin (“Not, not like that, Jesus, Jon.”), why he sat down so placidly when Martin had gestured, helplessly and slightly out of his depth, to the sofa, or why the thought of Martin just a room over, humming as he bustles about the kitchen, fills Jon with such an odd warmth, like coming in from the cold. It’s a… soft feeling, maybe. Not safe, Jon knows by now how little true safety there is in the world, but close enough to it. Like throwing a heavy cloth over a warped and splintering table. The cracks are still there, but they’re smoothed over for now, a thick layer between him and it.
Martin’s flat is very warm and Jon’s eyelids are very heavy. He doesn’t let them close, though, instead rolls his head against the back of the sofa, oddly listless away from the Institute and his research and the frantic energy that comes with the threat of the apocalypse.
It’s warm, and his worries and fears are muted, under that cloth along with that table with its hypnotizing pattern and the thing with its double-triple-quadruple jointed arms whose voice he knows is wrong yet sounds so right and—
“Shit—”
The curse comes from the kitchen and whatever doze Jon had slipped into immediately falls away. He’s standing before he quite knows what’s happening and striding for the kitchen (striding, not scrambling, he’s the picture of calm in a crisis), only slightly out of breath as he skids to a stop, socks sliding briefly on the smooth linoleum.
Martin is stood by the counter, cradling his hand. Jon checks the window and the shadows and the corners of the ceiling for something before he notices the red gleam of blood on Martin’s fingers and then he truly scrambles, rushing forward to Martin’s side. His hands flutter, awkward, hesitant.
“What happened?” Jon asks, torn between wanting to reach out and inspect the damage himself and not wanting to overstep the tenuous boundaries between them. Martin shakes him off and steps over to the sink to begin rinsing the wound. His cheeks are pink when he ducks his head.
“I was chopping up some onions, and I got a bit… distracted.” His voice is very small as he says the last part, glancing at Jon from the corner of his eye before quickly returning his attention back to his hand. The water runs clear over it, but Jon can still see the shallow slice that cuts into the side of his knuckle, curving down and into the pad of his forefinger.
“... Right,” Jon says after the moment has stretched too long. He offers Martin a towel when he glances about, which is taken with a quiet noise of thanks. Martin wraps his finger up and clamps down on it with a slight wince and Jon just watches the way his nose scrunches up at the brief sting of pain.
He tears his eyes away, feeling more than a little nauseated that even here, far away from the Archives and the statements it houses, all he can do is watch. Jon clears his throat. There’s a small crack that meanders through the yellowed linoleum of the kitchen floor. He toes it and its uneven edges catch on the weave of his sock. “First aid kit?” Martin’s frowning down at his hand, eyebrows drawn low in a faint grimace. His eyes flick up to Jon’s, then away, and it’s clear that he hadn’t quite caught what Jon had said. Fighting off the undercurrent of desperation that just makes him sound impatient, he adds, “Bandages, plasters, tape, anything?”
“Oh, um. Under, under the sink?” There’s an uncertain uptick at the end, which isn’t exactly inspiring, but Jon dutifully checks. A small plastic box is tucked behind dish soap and scouring pads, and a quick check reveals it to be well stocked, surprising as that is. He snaps it shut and straightens.
“Found it,” Jon says, redundantly, and drops it onto the table as he lowers himself into a chair. Martin takes the one next to him at the little round table. His left hand is still wrapped up in the towel, a misshapen mitt in the mockery of a limb, as he fumbles with the box. Jon watches (watches, damn) and Martin’s lips part in concentration, tongue held firmly between his teeth and pushing his bottom lip out. He watches as Martin awkwardly tears the paper of the plaster, watches as he gets stuck to the adhesive while trying to avoid touching the sterile pad, watches as Martin’s typically sunny and easy-going demeanor cracks, like the table under the cloth, like the floor in the kitchen, and he huffs, crumpling up the plaster before reaching for another.
Jon surprises himself when he reaches out to take the plaster from Martin’s grasp, stilling him with a light touch to the back of his hand. Martin’s eyes are wide when Jon glances up, seemingly as startled as he.
“For god’s sake, Martin,” he mutters in an attempt to save face, cheeks aflame, “let me help.”
“... Okay,” Martin says, drawing out the o in that way he does when he’s trying to buy himself time to think. A beat passes and he seems to shake himself, holding his hand out to Jon. “Okay,” he says again, more sure, more steady.
It feels like… too much, to just reach out and take Martin’s hand like that, not when he offered it so easily, so readily, the unbearable trust implicit in the gesture, so Jon searches about the box while he tries to calm himself. He snags a tube of antibiotic ointment before turning back to Martin, and he notes distantly, with some small degree of hysteria, that the towel is patterned with snuffling pigs, all mud-splattered rumps and curly pink tails.
He can feel Martin’s eyes on him. And while he’s no stranger to being watched, to having his every move carefully catalogued, Jon finds himself thoroughly off balance. He breathes in, out. It’s just a little cut. No need to be so weird about it.
Never mind that being weird about things is kind of his modus operandi.
He takes Martin’s wrapped hand and begins to pull the towel away, inordinately pleased that his own don’t shake too badly. Before long, he’s sat there, cradling Martin’s warm hand between his chilly ones, gone cold with anxiety, webbed purple as his blood is shunted back towards his core. Martin’s palm is wide and sturdy, his fingers short and nicely tapered. Faint freckles dot the backs of his knuckles and a few moles march up the outside of his pinkie. Jon swallows, then turns his hand over.
The cut doesn’t look too bad—shallow enough but annoyingly placed. It curves around Martin’s finger in the shape of an angular C, in such a way that just the one plaster should suffice. The edges are pale and slightly pulled away.
Jon picks up the ointment, squints briefly at the name before deciding he doesn’t actually care, and dabs some onto the cut. He’s careful to smear it out evenly, holding his breath to steady himself as he gently works it into Martin’s skin. He smooths his thumb along the sweeping line of the cut, cautiously, avoids pressing too hard. The dim light coming from the kitchen window shines off the ointment and it almost seems as though it shimmers, a desert mirage caught on a plain of skin.
The plaster is next, held carefully to avoid making a mess, and Jon wraps it around Martin’s finger, firm but not too tight. The ends of the plaster curl around his knuckle, looking for all the world like an embrace. Jon presses on them to make sure they won’t peel away, then pats Martin’s hand. His fingers linger. Martin doesn’t pull away.
It’s then that Jon notices the silence, the stillness that hangs in the air, delicate like shards of glass dangling from a wire. Martin watches him with an odd look in his eyes, color high on his cheeks. His lower lip shines, wet. Jon isn’t sure why he notices.
“There,” Jon says, and taps a finger against the plaster, still carefully light, “all done.”
Martin nods, but still he doesn’t take his hand back. Reluctant to let go, Jon holds himself perfectly still.
“Thanks—um, thank you, Jon,” Martin says. Finally, finally, he draws his hand away. The other one comes up to press at the plaster and Jon tries not to mourn the loss of that gentle, warm contact. It’s been so long since he’s felt a kind touch. Jon shakes himself. That’s not helpful.
Martin glances at the counter, where the cutting board of half-chopped onions sits, abandoned, traitorous chef’s knife glinting next to it. “How do you feel about takeaway? I don’t think—I’m not. Hm.”
“Takeaway would be fine,” Jon says and Martin quirks a smile his way.
“Indian?”
“Sounds lovely.”
“I’ll order while you find some documentary, or whatever boring thing it is you watch.”
Jon can’t help himself; he laughs. Martin stares, wide-eyed. “Yes, alright,” Jon says as he pushes away from the table. He tries not to think of how Martin’s hand had felt in his, warm and solid and soft, and ignores the feeling of his eyes on his back.
He’s no stranger to being watched, but this feels different: kind, fond, lov—well. Affectionate, at the very least.
It’s nice, for a change, and Jon honestly can’t find it in himself to mind the comfort of its weight.