Chapter Text
The dull thud of ceramic atop the bedside table draws Martin out of his book. He looks up, blinking in the lamplight, to see Jon. His hand is lingering, unsure, by the steaming mug he’s just set down.
“Jon is...is this for me?” Martin asks, his voice pitching up a little more than usual at the end. Jon nods once, jerkily, and Martin smiles, feels warmth bloom in his chest. It’s a shy thing, delicate. Neither of them are used to this.
Jon withdraws his hand from the handle and shoves it into his pocket. The other pulls and twists the fraying threads of his sleeve. Jon is fidgety like that. Martin has noticed over the past few weeks that even sleeping, Jon never quite stops moving. When they lay in bed, Jon’s fingers trace patterns against their quilt or Martin’s woollen jumper. When he is sleeping, his limbs jerk erratically and he tosses and turns all night as he Watches the nightmares of others.
Jon clears his throat, a nervous habit. But he smiles, his head cocked to the side as he regards Martin with quiet fondness. “Thought you might like it.”
Martin tucks his bookmark against the spine of his book and sets it aside. He sits up against their rusty, antique metal headboard. The pillow he has propped against it blunts the way it digs into his back, but just barely. He takes the offered mug and cradles it between his palms, relishing the way the cup warms his hands and the steam billows around his face.
He asks, “Kiss?” and manages not to stutter. Jon nods and leans down. Martin bridges the distance between them and joins their lips together softly. The angle isn’t optimal--it cricks Martin’s neck a little. Jon’s lips are dry and worry-bitten and Martin can feel Jon’s stubble brushing against his cheek. He catches a whiff of the spices from their dinner on Jon’s breath. He pulls back and smiles. “Thank you.”
“Will you come lay down with me?” He asks as he pats the space next to him. Jon obliges, curling around Martin like a cat. Martin hooks an arm around him and pulls him close.
They cling to each other like that as Martin sips his tea and reads. Jon reads over Martin’s shoulder and mumbles running commentary, much to Martin’s chagrin. Jon slips into restless sleep first, and Martin drifts off soon after.
A few mornings later, Martin shuffles into the kitchen, his face still slack with the remnants of sleep. He had woken up alone, and had a moment of panic before hearing the clanging of pots and pans, signalling that Jon was in the kitchen. He had breathed a sigh of relief and forced the icy tendrils of the Lonely out of his mind.
He finds Jon hunched over the counter, his shoulders drawn high around his neck. Martin can’t see his face or what he is doing, but he is wearing Martin’s light blue jumper and his thick, dark hair is tied back loosely in a low ponytail. His hair falls and curls around his face in the front, where grey had started to creep shortly after the Archive’s encounter with Jane Prentiss. That incident marked the beginning of Jon and him really getting to know one another, bonding over a shared traumatic experience. At that time Jon’s emerging grey hair worried Martin, worried him sick that Jon wasn’t getting enough to eat , wasn’t getting enough rest , enough…
He hadn’t stopped worrying. He never would. But now the grey is just... Jon . Another part of him that Martin loves. It is testament of everything Jon has weathered, stubbornly, and come out of on the other side.
“Morning.” He envelops Jon in a hug from behind and rests his chin atop Jon’s head. The contact grounds him and chases away any last remnants of the fog from earlier. “You making breakfast?” Martin peers over top of Jon and scans the counter. He blinks in surprise and furrows his brow.
Instead of the makings for breakfast, Jon has Martin’s tea supplies scattered out on the counter. His tins (Martin had insisted they buy tins, even though they were more expensive. He said it was the only proper way to store tea, and Jon didn't have the heart to refuse him), his strainers, his honey and sugar, milk, and a mug with a cartoon, smiling bee printed on the side. Martin casts his eyes to the left and sees his kettle on the stove.
He remembers a few nights ago, when Jon had brought him tea unprompted. Was he trying to do that again? He feels his chest constrict with something aching and tender, unbidden.
Jon’s shoulders unwind slightly at Martin’s touch. He sets down the tin of Earl Grey he had been examining and exhales a soft laugh. “Not exactly. I...had hoped to try my hand at making you tea again. I don’t think my last attempt was very good.”
Martin kisses the top of Jon’s head. “Your attempt was fine. I appreciated it.” And because he can’t help himself, smiles cheekily and whispers, muffled by Jon’s hair, “You remembered to take the tea bag out, so I’d say it was a marked improvement on before.”
Jon sighs. “ Martin. ” Martin can hear the smile in his voice, but there is an edge underlying it that betrays Jon’s frustration. Martin sobers up.
“Jokes, jokes” he laughs. “Really though, it was fine. Took me by surprise, but it...it was really sweet of you.”
“It’s just--” Jon cuts himself off and Martin can see him worrying at his lower lip. He can feel tension relace itself into Jon’s back. He steps away, knowing that Jon might need space while he figures out how to say what he is feeling. He moves a tin of Chamomile to the side and rests his elbows on the countertop so he can get a better look at Jon’s face.
Moments pass and Jon is still staring hard at the tea boxes, brow furrowed and mouth set in a hard line. Martin finally decides to prompt him. “Jon?”
Jon exhales shakily and rakes a hand through his hair, gathering it loosely before letting it fall back around his face. His eyes flash with sudden intensity, and they flit to meet Martin’s for a second before darting away. “I uh...hm.” He tries again, articulating with his hands but still not looking at Martin. “I’m not used to... this. ”
The last word is bitten out, sharp. When Martin had first met Jon, that tone would have sent him into a spiral of anxiety searching for what he had done wrong. He knows now that it is Jon’s frustration with himself leaking through. He cocks his head, brow knit with concern. “ This? What, do you mean...this house? This... everything ? Could be a number of things.”
Jon shakes his head and waves Martin’s suggestions away. “No, uh. Living with another person, it’s, ah. Making room for someone else. In my life, for the most part, it’s always just been me.”
He falls silent for long enough that Martin begins to sputter out a half-formed answer, but Jon continues with a surge of intensity.
“ You , though,” He faces Martin finally. “You always go out of your way to take care of other people. I guess I…” His dark cheeks are glowing with a faint blush. It’s gorgeous to see. “I want to do the same for you. I want to learn how.”
That is...a lot. Jon’s eyes are dark and piercing and Martin finds himself feeling far too much like a deer in the headlights for this early in the morning. Jon’s confession should make him swoon--it definitely would have had he heard it a year ago. Right now it only makes him freeze, anxiety worming its way into his gut. He hates that this is his reaction.
He takes a steadying breath. Jon is watching him intently, anxious for any sign of rejection. Martin musters a smile for Jon’s benefit. Jon must notice the strain at the corners of Martin’s mouth, because he frowns.
“Okay,” Martin sighs. “Breakfast first? We can talk about this after we eat.”
Jon opens his mouth like he wants to press the issue, then closes it. He nods once. “Alright.”
Damn it, Martin wishes that he didn’t feel so panicky. Too soon after the Lonely, he figures. Too much. He still gets overwhelmed sometimes when he goes into town to restock on groceries, unused to people milling around him. People who don’t know him, but can see him, and talk to him and form opinions on him.
He and Jon fry eggs and bacon in a cast iron skillet they had found in the cupboard when they arrived. They work in relative silence, and slowly Martin calms down. By the time they sit down on Daisy’s worn couch, he is feeling significantly more grounded.
“Okay, so,” Martin begins. “Mind telling me what brought this on?” He has his legs tucked beneath him and a knit blanket draped over his shoulders, the end of which is folded over Jon’s lap. Both of them cradle steaming mugs in their palms--Martin had taken over making tea with only minimal protest from Jon.
“What, I can’t want to be nice to you without an explanation?” Jon says, a little too sharply. He winces. “Sorry.”
Martin nods in acknowledgement. “It just seems like you’ve been thinking about this for a while. Like it’s been weighing on your mind.” He fixes Jon with a Look that Jon knows to mean Do Not Try to Bullshit Me, Jonathan Sims . “It’s not just about making tea, is it?”
Jon swallows. “No.” He removes his glasses for a moment and scrubs at his face with one hand. His shoulders droop with an exhaustion that comes over him suddenly.. “Look, I just...want to do something nice for my boyfriend. Is that so strange that I’m going to be interrogated about it?”
“I’m not interrogating you, Jon. I’m just asking,” Martin says firmly. He feels a flash of anger at the insinuation that he is interrogating him. “I’m concerned is all. I just don’t want you to be doing it for the wrong reasons.”
“Like what ?” Jon huffs.
“Obligation. Guilt. I don’t feel like...You don’t neglect me, Jon. I know that you care.” About me, he doesn’t say. He knows it, in a sense, but it still feels too delicate to verbalize.
He looks up and Jon is looking at him, eyes like a dark well. The irritation is gone from his face, and for this moment he just looks...hungry. “You do,” he breathes. It might have been a question, Martin can’t tell. “That’s...good.”
His speech is stilted, but the weight Jon puts behind the word good conveys what he means. What he would say if he were better with words.
Martin isn’t sure what to say in the face of such tenderness, so he settles for, “Yeah.”
They sit in thick silence for a moment. Martin sips his tea.
“Still,” Jon says, “Let me do this for you. Please. I..I think it would help me. To be able to do this for you.”
Martin cocks his head. That is...not what he expected Jon to say. He takes a slow sip of his tea before responding. “How so?”
“I--hm,” Jon rakes his hands over his joggers while he thinks. Martin lets him take his time.
“I want to know that I’ve done something good, that helps you. I... need it to be simple and clear-cut.” Jon stammers out at last. He is blushing furiously and his voice is small.
Martin narrows his eyes as an idea strikes him. Before he can stop himself, he is leaning forward and says, “Jon, would you--” Then he remembers Melanie and Basira’s conversation and turns bright pink himself. “Ah! Nevermind.” He jerks back.
Jon looks at him, wide-eyed and bewildered. “What?”
“N-nevermind!” Martin stutters. “I had an idea, but you wouldn’t be interested. Forget about it.”
One corner of Jon’s mouth quirks up in a cat-like smile. “Oh? Now I’m really curious.”
“Please don’t try to Know,” Martin groans. “I’m sorry. It was silly.”
Jon shakes his head and frowns a little. “I won’t. What--” he speaks slowly, making sure there is no trace of Compelling in his voice. “What was it? You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to. But whatever it is, I won’t get mad.”
“It’s, ugh.” Now it is Martin’s turn to scrub his face. He might as well. “I used to um. Visit a... club ? Fine,” he huffs at Jon’s raised brow, “a BDSM club. Uh, back in London.” His face is burning.
Now both of Jon’s eyebrows are raised, but he doesn’t look disgusted, just surprised and curious. Martin continues. “What you were saying about wanting to do something good, and wanting it to be clearly defined--it just reminded me of, um. Some of the scenes I’ve done.”
Jon blinks and chews on his lip silently. “Huh,” he says finally. “Yeah, I can see that, actually.”
Martin gapes. “Really? But I thought--I heard that you didn’t... do that.”
“Do what?” Jon blinks and widens his eyes, looking adorably worried. “Wait, you heard ?”
Martin cringes. “Yes, sorry. I...overheard Melanie and Basira talking. They said you didn’t...like sex.” He leaves out the part where Basira asked if he and Jon had ever had sex.
“Oh.” Instead of looking upset or betrayed that they were gossipping about him, he smiles softly and gets a far-off look in his eyes for a moment, remembering them. “I imagine Melanie heard that from Georgie.” He rubs his thumb over the handle of his mug absently.
Then he comes back to Earth, and a line of worry creases his brow. “Is that...will that bother you?”
“What? No!” Martin waves his hand back and forth frantically. He reaches for Jon’s hands. They are cupping his mug, so Martin lays his hand over Jon’s. “Jon, I. I don’t want anything from you that you don’t give willingly. Okay?”
Martin holds Jon’s startled gaze until he nods, slowly, and relaxes. “Okay,” Jon says, and he sounds like he believes it.
Jon strokes his thumb over the top of Martin’s hand for a few moments before Martin breaks the silence. “So…” Jon looks up as he speaks. His heart flutters anxiously at the prospect of asking, but he needs to know. His mind is buzzing with the possibilities of what he thinks Jon has just admitted.
“Are you? Interested in BDSM?” He wills himself to ignore the way his voice squeaks at the end. The question hangs between them, heavy. Or that could just be Martin’s anxiety talking. Jon doesn’t look bothered. His thumb has stopped tracing circles over Martin’s hand, but he doesn’t remove it.
“I’m...curious. I’ve never had the chance to experience it.” Jon speaks slowly. “I wanted to go to the club in London, actually, but I always got scared.” He chuckles, a little ruefully. “Seems kind of silly now.”
Martin’s face breaks into a crooked smile, despite himself. He barely restrains himself from scooting closer. He doesn’t want to crowd Jon, although he isn’t as worried about that as he used to be.
“Do you know what about it interests you? What, ah, what kinds of things you might like to experience?” He asks, his voice bright. He can’t help it. He’s just excited.
Jon blinks out of his reverie, stammers and blushes. “Yes. Um. Submission, I think? At least for now. Going off what we were talking about earlier.”
Martin nods, seeing another layer to Jon’s insistence about making him tea. “Yeah. I can see that. So like a service submission thing? You bring me tea as part of a scene?”
Jon’s mouth is parted slightly, his eyes wide and soft. He nods breathlessly. “...Yes.” He nods more fervently. “Yes. I would like that. Very much, I think.”
An image of Jon appears in Martin’s mind unbidden. Jon kneeling at his feet, body relaxed and eyes closed, mind wrapped in the haze of submission. He had never pinned Jon as the submissive type before, when he had allowed himself to think about it. If anything he would have guessed that Jon would have liked to exact control in the bedroom as much as he tried to in the Archive--until he overheard Melanie and Basira’s conversation and guiltily tried to block any such imaginings from his mind.
Jon is a different man now than he was when he had first become Head Archivist. Gone is his presence that could fill an entire room--his voice precise, clipped, and ever so sure. Jon only speaks softly now, like he is afraid of disturbing their peace. He has accumulated both physical and mental scars that at times press so heavily around him that Jon can’t leave their shared bed. They spend those days together, Martin never straying far from Jon’s side. Even on his best days, Jon has an air of frailty that makes Martin want to wrap him up in a blanket and hold him, afraid that a strong breeze might sweep him away.
Martin is different now, too. They had changed together.
The image of Jon submitting to him, for him, allowing himself to be protected by him, just for a short while…
Martin clears his throat. “Good. Me too.”