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Despite everything, despite the fact that he is still covered in Trevor Hebert’s gore, he is still covered in his own blood, Daisy’s blood, Jon’s , blood, despite everything, Martin is happy to leave the Desolation.
He’d wanted to look back. He’d wanted to look back at Basira, make sure she wasn’t going to do anything stupid as soon as their backs were turned ( she’ll be fine, Jon had assured him, and Martin knew that Jon didn’t have to look into his head to know that he was worried ). Basira would be fine. Martin knew that. She was, as Helen had said, a strong, independent woman, and all that, but in his opinion, Basira could maybe stand to be a little bit more friendly with others.
No. That wasn’t fair of him to think. She’d just… she’d done a lot for them. For them to keep moving.
“Martin?” Jon says his name like it’s the most precious thing in the world. He’ll never get used to that. “What are you thinking about?”
He could Know that. So easily, he could. And you trust him to do that? Yes, I do.
What is he thinking about?
He’s thinking about the weight of Jon, pressed up against his side as the both of them wait for Jon’s leg to heal properly, but even after that happens, Martin hopes he stays at his side instead of leading because God only knows what sort of self-sacrificial bullshit he’ll throw himself into next. He’s thinking about how his chest is still tight from watching Daisy—what used to be Daisy, he corrects, and hates that he was gone for so long that slipping into that frame of mind is so easy —toss Jon around like a ragdoll while he begged Basira to take the shot. He’s thinking about how they had to leave Basira behind and, despite her promises that she would meet them back in London, he’s still worried because if Martin is anything , he’s a caretaker, and to see one of the few people left that he cares about voluntarily walk away from him hurts.
The arm he’s holding around Jon’s middle tightens.
“Martin?” Jon asks again, this time his voice clearly tinged with worry. “Please, love, talk to—”
“I love you,” Martin says with more conviction than he’s ever said anything in his life.
Jon stops walking, and the look in his eyes is alight with the reflection of the burning flames around them, and Desolation be damned, Martin thinks it beautiful. “ Oh ,” he says, as if it’s a grand revelation, and Martin can’t help but kick himself because he didn’t want this to be a grand revelation.
“I’m sorry it took so long, for, for me to say that,” and Martin cups a hand around Jon’s cheek before he can say anything else, any assurances that it’s fine, you were taking your time, I respect that . Jon still tries to, but Martin continues. “I’m sorry. But. I hope you still knew. Ah, lowercase, knew.”
“Of course I did.” Jon says it with such certainty, such a burning in his eyes that comes with no static, that it makes Martin feel foolish for ever assuming otherwise. It makes him feel so known. “But, Martin, you really don’t have to—I-I mean, if you weren’t ready—”
“I think I’m ready. To say that. I think, Jon, I deserve that, and you do too, right now. We—we deserve that, right now.” His arm, again, tightens around Jon’s middle, and Martin brings around the other to wrap the smaller man into his body. The heat of the forges around them simmers and boils, and Martin is sweating, and Martin is covered in so much gore, but Jon is here and Jon is alright and that is enough.
There’s a long moment of silence where Martin doesn’t do anything but focus on the way Jon’s arms settle around him, the way he’s leaning too much into his chest for his leg to be fine just yet, the scent of smoke caught in his hair that is, somehow, growing out again, despite time not being real anymore. They hold onto each other like anchors keeping the other from reeling. It’s—it’s good.
He feels Jon inhale deeply, and Martin thinks that maybe he’s suffocating, but he makes no motion to pull away from the embrace. “You apologize too much,” he mutters into Martin’s collar, something of a laugh in his voice. Martin can’t help but grin.
“Could say the same thing about you.” He pulls back, looking at Jon with such an earnesty that is mirrored in bright green eyes, and Martin presses a kiss to his forehead, creating a small clean circle in his ash-covered skin. “Let’s carry on then?”
Jon nods, and it feels like ages before he finally tears his gaze from Martin’s, settling once again on his side, and they walk.