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In the end, it's Melanie who tells Martin Jon's been kidnapped. Catches him in the break room, irritated and banging around the mugs, and she drops it into a sentence like it's something casual to be communicated. Oh yeah, Jon's back. Guess he's been kidnapped or something, and something sharp presses into Martin's chest, something like urgency. He's pushed his way out of his chair and halfway towards the door in a blind sort of franticness before Melanie catches him by the arm. "He's fine, you know," she says. "He looks… I mean, he doesn't look good, but he…"
"A month, " says Martin, feeling sick. "A month, he's been gone, and we… we didn't…"
"We didn't know, " Melanie says annoyedly, but there's a tiny pinprick of guilt in her voice, too. "He… he wasn't here before. You know that."
Right, Martin thinks, because you're probably the person he talked to most before he disappeared, and then he immediately feels guilty. Jon's been kidnapped, and he's… he's just… "Where is he?" he says, softer this time. (The bite's still in his voice, a little bit. He isn't sure who to be furious at, but it's hard not to be under the circumstances.) "Has… has he left?"
"Uh… no, I don't think so," says Melanie. "He… he said he was going to go lie down."
Martin knows, immediately, where he is, and he tries not to wince at it; he remembers sleeping there every night, scared out of his mind on that little cot, he doesn't know how Jon stands it. "I'm going to go check on him," he says. "I… he shouldn't… I'm going to go check."
Melanie lets go of his arm. "I think Elias knew," she says darkly. "Jon said it and he didn't even bat an eye. He knew, and he didn't tell us."
Something twists in Martin, something that he pushes aside—doesn't matter, not yet, all that matters right now is making sure Jon is all right. He nods a little, at Melanie, and then he pushes out of the break room and down towards the office. Tim is out for the day (not surprising), and Basira is reading at her desk; she doesn't look up when Martin comes through. Martin goes to the storage room where the cot is, where he knows it still is, and raps his knuckles quietly on the door frame before opening the door.
Jon jumps, when Martin enters, in a way that instantly makes Martin shrink back with guilt. He's huddled on the cot, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and he looks awful. Thinner, hair shaggier than when Martin saw him last. He looks exhausted, leaning towards the wall like he needs it to hold him up, and his arms are wrapped around himself in a protective sort of way. "... Martin?" he says, voice thin, and Martin honestly can't tell if he's happy to see him or not.
"... Hi," Martin says, honestly not sure what to say. (What do you say in a situation like this?) He chews at his lower lip, reaching for what to say— Are you all right doesn't seem appropriate, when Jon is so clearly not, but it's what he comes up with, his voice shaking a little when he asks it.
Jon laughs, bitter, and uncoils his arms from around himself, relaxing a little. "Honestly? Honestly, not really, Martin. I… it's been…" He lifts a hand to press against his forehead; his sleeves fall down and Martin winces, immediately, at the red marks on his wrist, where he must've been restrained. "It's… it's, uh, really good to see you, Martin," he adds, softly.
Martin presses a hand to his mouth, just for a minute; he's torn, he doesn't want Jon to see him upset, not when he's… "Melanie… told me," he tries. "What you… and I didn't… Jon, I'm so sorry. We had no idea, I… I swear, if we'd known, we would've…"
Jon sits up a little straighter, something flashing in his eyes. "Hey… hey, no, Martin, it's… i-it wasn't your fault, it's all right, it's… t-there was no way to find me, and I hadn't really been… around before then, and it…" He breaks off his words, clutching a little harder at the blanket. "... Elias didn't deem it worth telling anyone," he adds, with a wry laugh.
Martin takes a few steps closer, trying his damndest not to fall apart (at the fact that Jon looks like this, that Jon's been gone a month, that Jon is somehow trying to comfort him when he's…). "You aren't… d-did they hurt you?" he asks, uncertain who they even are.
Jon flinches a little, looks down at his feet. "No, n-not… not really. I… not, um…" He laughs a little again, a hollow sound. "I'm just so tired. "
Martin stops, a few feet away; he thinks about touching Jon, some sign of comfort, a hand on his shoulder or—but no, that wouldn't be—he can't do that, not when Jon's just been kidnapped, it's probably the last thing he wants, to be abruptly touched. He does what he can do, instead; he says, "Jon, d-do you have anywhere… er, there's a… there's a reason you're staying here, isn't there? Wh-what about your friend you were staying with, could you go back there?"
Jon immediately, vehemently shakes his head. "I-I can't go back. Not if, n-not after… th-they came there before, they found me there, and if I go back… I-I told Georgie I'd leave. I can't bring her into this. I can't. If they came back…"
"Okay," says Martin. "Okay, that's…" He crouches a little, feeling awkward as he does it, but he can't shake this feeling of—of looming over Jon. "Y-you can't stay here, Jon. This cot is horrible, i-it's… it's not a place for recovery, it's…"
"I'm going to find a place," Jon says softly. "I just… I need to sleep. First."
"You shouldn't stay here, though," says Martin, "not after… you need a bed, a real bed, Jon. I…" He stops, halfway considers for a second. Starts again, because what else is he going to do? "C-come stay with me."
Jon looks up, shocked, but he doesn't immediately protest, so Martin continues: "Sleep on a real bed, recover, j-just until you're… I mean, my bed isn't great, but it's better than a cot, especially after…" He stops. He doesn't know what to say. "Just… you deserve something better than that, right now," he tries.
Jon shakes his head, just a little. "Martin, I can't. I… i-if they came for me again, then you would…"
"I don't care," Martin says, firmer this time. (If Jon doesn't want to come back with him, fine, but he won't let that be the reason.)
"Martin, i-if anything were to happen, i-if you got caught in the crosshairs, I'd…"
"Really, Jon, I don't care. I'm not going to let them take you again, so you can put that thought out of your mind." Martin adjusts his position—it's uncomfortable, squatting like this, but making sure Jon feels safe is more important. (If it's even helping at all.) "You said you didn't want to put your friend in danger because she's out of this, right? Well—I'm in this. Pretty far into it, at this point, there's no getting out of it. So it doesn't matter. Okay?"
Jon worries at the edge of the blanket with his overlong nails. "... I… wouldn't want to impose…"
"You're not, Jon. I'm offering." Jon's still quiet. Martin shifts back into a standing position, because it really is uncomfortable, going slow; he adds, "It's the least I can do. Please."
Jon's hands are shaking. Martin can see it, now, and it's hard to watch; he's pushed a lot of fury back, just watching Jon now, still without any idea what's happened. "A—all right," Jon says quietly, finally, and his voice is thick, like he might cry. "Okay. Thank you. Thank you, Martin." And Martin feels a flood of relief at this, that Jon might be, at least, somewhat safe in his flat.
---
They take a cab home. The Tube seems like it would be a lot. Jon really is exhausted, huddled up in an old coat despite the warm weather, leaning against the window in the back of the car. Martin shows him the bath and the bedroom, when they get home, says, "Let me know if you need anything," and leaves him alone. It feels like the right thing to do.
Martin stays in the living room. The anger begins to rise to the surface, then, coming out in bursts of nervous pacing and muttering (quietly, of course; he's had lots of practice with that, with Mum). He's furious at whoever took Jon (he isn't sure who, but he has a sneaking suspicion it's connected to the Unknowing), more furious at Elias for not telling them. He's going to say something this time, he thinks—march up there and give Elias a piece of his mind, or, or draft a furious email—and Martin has to stop there because it's all starting to sound ridiculous. He's going to say something now? He didn't say something when they found out Sasha died, when Elias told them that they were all trapped, but he's going to say something now? It sounds ridiculous, it does, and what would saying something do? Jon's back now, more or less safe, and there's nothing he can do now—no charging, triumphant rescues, nothing like that, all he can do is offer Jon his bathroom, somewhere safe to sleep. Shouting at Elias won't do a thing.
(Martin wants to do something. He should've said something for Sasha, and he thinks he'll regret that forever, but if he couldn't then… well, he wants to have the courage to say something for Jon. But he doesn't. For some horrible reason, he can't.)
Jon sleeps for over fifteen hours, all afternoon and into the night. Martin sleeps on the couch. (He goes into the room to get the extra blanket and a change of clothes, and for a moment, he worries he'll wake Jon, but he must be quiet enough. Jon doesn't wake; he makes a strained sound in his sleep and turns over, curling in protectively on himself, but he doesn't wake up. Martin wants to go over there, kneel by the bed and hold Jon's hand, climb into bed and hold Jon and make sure he isn't hurt again. He doesn't. He doesn't have that with Jon, and now isn't the time, he can't scare Jon, make him uncomfortable, he has to leave Jon alone.) Jon's still asleep when Martin wakes hours later, tangled in his blanket on the couch, restless and on alert. He stares at the front door, tensing like he expects someone to come in (someone coming back for Jon), but nothing does. The apartment stays quiet.
Martin gets up to make tea. It's still early, still dark outside, but he can't go back to sleep, he can't relax. He puts on the kettle and sits at the table, opens a packet of biscuits to munch on absently. Something to do. Something to do besides sit and think.
The door creaks, abruptly, and Martin's head shoots up to see Jon, leaving the bedroom, looking dwarfed in one of Martin's rumpled jumpers. He looks at Martin with a tired sort of tentativeness and says, "Hi," softly.
"Hi, Jon," says Martin, his own voice too soft. "How… how did you sleep?"
Jon rubs at his throat, an absent sort of motion, and pads across the floor to the table. "I… well, actually. Very well. Best… best sleep I've had in a month."
Martin's heart breaks a little, and he pretends it doesn't. Jon motions to the empty chair beside him and says, "Do you mind if I…"
"No, no, of course not," says Martin quickly. "... D'you want some tea?"
A funny look passes over Jon's face as he sits and he says, "Yes. Yes, I… tea sounds amazing, Martin."
Martin gets up to get out another mug, to get out the milk and sugar. "I can make you something to eat, too," he says, and immediately feels horrible for not suggesting it earlier. (He doesn't want to speculate about when Jon's last eaten.) " Christ, why didn't I… I'm so sorry, Jon, you must be starving. I should've…"
"Don't, Martin, it's… I-I'm fine," says Jon. "Honestly, I… I-I can eat in a little bit, I'm not really hungry."
Martin bites his lower lip too hard and grimaces at the sudden burst of pain. "Okay," he murmurs. "Just… let me know when you're ready."
"I will," says Jon.
There's silence for a few moments aside from Martin puttering around the tiny kitchen. It feels strangely domestic in a way that Martin isn't used to; he hasn't lived with anyone since Mum. He and Jon have shared meals before—they did it often, before Jon went on the run because they'd thought he was a murderer—and Martin's made him tea a dozen times, but it's never like… this. Quiet and natural, like they've done it a dozen times. Jon's staring down at the table, tracing a pattern cut into the top with an absent finger; he's shivering, in his chair, and Martin makes a mental note to turn on the heat. And then the kettle goes off, a sharp sound in the silent room, and Jon's jumping, jolting nearly out of his chair with huge, panicked eyes.
"Sorry, sorry!" Martin says in a rush, reaching to yank the kettle off the eye. "Sorry—I-I forgot it was there."
"I-i-it's all right," Jon says. He's tensed against the table, his palms pressed to the top, like he's waiting for a bomb to go off, but he looks at Martin and he says, "Just a… little on edge, b-but really, it's fine."
Martin's chest aches as he fixes the tea. All of him aches, a guilt he can't really put his finger on—he didn't notice Jon was gone, he couldn't go after him, and now he can't even get to the kettle quick enough to keep from scaring Jon out of his wits. He doesn't say anything, though, besides another murmured, "Sorry," as he passes Jon the mug, and sits back down beside him.
Jon holds onto the mug with both hands, like he expects to be pulled away, inhales a bit before taking a drink. "I've… missed your tea, Martin," he says quietly, stiltedly, like it's difficult to say. "All this time."
Martin blinks in genuine surprise at that—all this time, and he's wondered before if Jon was just tolerating the daily cups. "You're joking," he says with disbelief.
"I'm not," says Jon—and it's stunningly familiar, that tone of voice. He smiles a little down into the mug. "Haven't had a decent cup since February—Georgie's a coffee drinker."
"The audacity, " Martin snorts, theatrically, some small attempt to keep Jon smiling like that.
"Yes, well—that's what I told her," says Jon, still with that halfway smile. He looks up at Martin abruptly, and something shifts on his face, almost—almost guilt of his own, which makes no sense. He says, "Martin, I've… I've taken your bed, haven't I? You… you should've said something."
"No, I shouldn't have, and I won't," says Martin firmly. "I didn't bring you here to sleep on the couch, Jon, for god's sake. The bed is yours."
"Sleeping on a couch won't kill me, Martin—"
"And it won't kill me either. You're not talking me out of this, Jon."
"A couch would be an improvement over that cot— anything would be. I shouldn't have…" That same look passes over Jon's face: that something resembling guilt. "I should never have made you stay there," he nearly whispers. "For months on that cot, after what you'd…"
"Jon, don't," Martin says, and he reaches out suddenly, to cover Jon's hand where it lays on the table. Jon looks up at that, as if he's startled, and Martin yanks his hand back, but he doesn't bring it too far; he leaves it there, hovering just above Jon's. " Don't ," he says. "I-it was a long time ago, and it was… I didn't mind staying there, I wasn't… you gave me a way out, and I-I appreciated that. I still do, Jon. So don't, please. Don't beat yourself up over that."
"I should've offered you better," says Jon, something like disgust in his tone. "I should've… there are so many things I should've done better."
Well—he isn't wrong, Martin thinks, but—but there's a dozen things they both should've done better, and now isn't the time to discuss them all, so Martin just says, "Don't," again. "Please. You don't have to… it's okay. It is. " And after a moment, Jon nods. He hasn't moved his hand away, but Martin feels odd, leaving his hovering there, so he just pulls it back.
They drink tea in silence for a few minutes. It's a pleasant silence, one that, under different circumstances, Martin might allow himself to hope for every day. It's several long moments before Jon speaks again, his voice rasping and small—he says, "It was the Circus. That took me. T-the one we've been looking for, planning the ritual. They'd… they planned it, they were watching me and they came."
Martin tries not to flinch, tries to ignore what feels like his insides grinding themselves together. Jon keeps talking after a moment; he says, "They… they wanted my skin. For the ritual. They… kept me for that, so they could… skin me. They were waiting for that."
Martin can't stop the words this time, when they push their way out; he says, "Oh, Christ, " like air being pushed out of him, like a sucker punch. He says, "Jon…" and his voice breaks, too, and something inside of him rips when Jon looks back at him, when he looks as if he might cry.
"Um, Martin," he says, and he inclines his head tentatively towards Martin. "Do you mind… um, if I…"
His arms go out to the side a bit, and it's then that Martin realizes what Jon's asking for. He nods, immediately, and opens his arms, and Jon leans forward and into him so quickly that Martin wonders if he was waiting.
Martin folds his arms around Jon gently, tentatively (one hand cupping the back of his head); he wants to cling, wants to hold Jon tight enough that nothing else would be able to take him, but he's afraid to hold on too tight. Jon, though, clings hard, his grip tight, his fingers digging desperately into the back of Martin's shirt. So Martin tightens his grip, and leans his head against Jon's, and lets Jon expel shaky breaths into his shoulder. He rubs tiny circles into Jon's back, murmurs, It's okay, it's okay now, and desperately wills it to be true.
Minutes or hours later—it is impossible to be sure—Jon whispers, "Thank you," into Martin's shirt. He whispers it with a sort of finalty, but he makes no move to pull back. So Martin keeps holding him.
"Jon… I'm so sorry," he says softly. "I'm so sorry. I… i-if I'd known. I swear, I would've come for you if I'd known."
Jon takes another shuddering breath and looks up at him. His eyes are wet. There's something in his expression Martin can't quite place… reassurance, maybe. Or trust. "I know," he says. "Martin, I-I know you would've. I know."
They sit there for a while longer, just like that, holding onto each other at Martin's kitchen table.