Chapter Text
The man in the fog wasn’t sure where he was. He wasn’t quite sure who he was, either. He had a name, he was fairly certain of that – he could feel it in the back of his mind, on the tip of his tongue, but any time he tried to focus on it, it slipped away.
Someone was shouting in the distance. They sounded upset. He tried to make out the words they were shouting (or was it just one word, repeated over and over again?) but he could hardly hear them over the howling of the wind.
It was windy, wherever he was. And cold – he was numb from head to foot, and when he glanced at his hands, he saw that they were turning a sickly shade of blue. As he looked at them, they started to fade from view, growing more and more transparent until he could see straight through them, could see his feet and the rocky shore of the pebble beach and the fog snaking between his ankles.
That was… bad. Wasn’t it? It seemed like the sort of thing he ought to have been worried about, but it was hard to feel much of anything in this place. The more he faded, the less he cared, the less he worried, the less he felt. It was nice, really. That wasn’t true, though – to be nice, it would need to be something. What it was was not bad. His memories of the time before the fog were all a blur, but he was fairly certain not bad was a marked improvement.
The voice was getting closer. He could finally make out what it was saying.
“Martin! Martin!”
Martin. Was that his name? It certainly sounded familiar.
The fog was so thick that Martin didn’t see the person until they were just feet away. They stopped when they saw him, and their eyes locked onto his.
“Martin!” they repeated, softer this time.
“Jon?”
He wasn’t certain of his own name, but he knew Jon. He would have known Jon anywhere. There was something about Jon that was important, he knew that, but every time he tried to pin down what it was, the memory escaped him. Jon was… powerful? Was that it?
He didn’t look powerful. He looked small, and frightened, and exhausted. He didn’t take his eyes off Martin as he spoke.
“I– I’m here,” he said. “I came for you.”
“Why?”
“I thought you might be lost.”
“Are you real?”
“Yes! Yes, I-I am. Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”
“No,” Martin said. “No, I don’t think so.”
Martin barely heard the words coming out of his mouth. They didn’t matter, really. Nothing did, in this place. Jon seemed to hear them, though. His face fell, and oh, Martin was upsetting him, Martin was ruining everything, just like he always did…
Jon’s words were growing fainter. When Martin glanced down at his hands, he found that they were gone.
“Obviously he’s done something.” He could still hear Jon’s voice, distantly. “Peter’s done something to mess with your–”
He blinked, and Jon was gone. He was alone once again.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there. Time had no meaning in that place. The only thing that really existed was the sound of the waves lapping against the shore, and the cold.
It was so very cold.
Jon was back. How long had Jon been back? He was speaking to him again, but the words slipped through his brain like water through a sieve, leaving nothing behind but the vague memory of having been spoken.
“Listen, I know you think you want to be here, I know you think it’s safer, and well– well, maybe it is. But we need you. I need you.”
“No, you don’t,” Martin found himself saying. “Not really. Everyone’s alone, but we all survive.”
“I don’t just want to survive!”
Jon was upset again. Martin had said the wrong thing, as usual.
“I’m sorry.”
He turned away, turned toward the endless expanse of fog that beckoned him home, but Jon set a hand on his cheek.
“Martin,” he said, voice strained and shaky. “Martin, look at me.”
Martin turned back to look. He took in all the component parts of Jon: dark eyes and salt-and-pepper hair and a face scattered with worm scars. He looked the way he always did, if a bit worse for wear.
But when he spoke again, his words were thrumming with Compulsion.
“Look at me, and tell me what you see.”
And Martin… Saw. He the strain and hope and worry in Jon’s eyes, saw the tension in his limbs as he reached out to anchor Martin to reality, saw the crease between his eyebrows that always appeared when he saw something he cared about in trouble – a friend or a houseplant or a bakeoff contestant who was putting too much sugar in their creme pat.
Martin Saw something that he very much wanted to call love.
“I see…” he murmured, while Jon watched him with those eyes, those lovely, tired, frightened eyes. “I see you, Jon. I see you.”
“Martin,” Jon breathed, and the fog had cleared enough for Martin to hear the relief in his voice. Martin collapsed forward, a wave of emotion crashing into him all at once, and Jon caught him in his arms and held him firmly.
“I… I was on my own,” Martin sobbed. “I was all on my own.”
“Not anymore,” Jon said, loosening his grip on Martin’s shoulders and pulling back to look at him. His eyes roved over Martin’s face, and whatever he saw, he must have found it reassuring, because the beginnings of a smile flickered at the corners of his lips.
“Come on. Let’s go home.”
Home. Martin wasn’t sure he had a home anymore, but he let Jon take him by the hand and lead him away from that cold, windswept beach, and he didn’t ask where they were going. He would have followed Jon anywhere. He would walk through the gates of Hell, he thought, if it meant he never had to let go of Jon’s hand.
The fog around them began to lift, bit by bit, and the pebble beach beneath their feet was slowly replaced with concrete. The wind died down, and the sound of waves gave way, eventually, to the sounds of London streets – running engines, and shouting tourists, and seagulls fighting each other for discarded chips.
Martin hardly noticed the changes. He was lost in thought.
The thing was, Jon didn’t love him. He knew that. That was one of the fundamental truths on which Martin’s world rested. It was something that Peter Lukas reminded him of often – never directly, he was just barely too subtle for that, but constantly, through reference and implication and unabashedly feigned sympathy. That moment was a lighthouse, guiding him back to the Lonely any time he strayed too far: He had told Jon he loved him, and Jon had run away.
Jon wasn’t running now.
He gripped Martin’s hand like a lifeline as they walked, and glanced back constantly to make sure that Martin was still there, that he hadn’t disappeared into the fog again.
Martin didn’t realize where they were going until they reached the building. It made sense, really. The apartment was, after all, the closest thing either of them had to a home.
They kept their hands linked as they walked through the empty hallways. When they reached the doorway, Jon began patting his pockets with his free hand.
“Hmm.” He turned to Martin. “You, erm. You don’t happen to have your key on you…?”
Martin shook his head.
“Not to worry,” Jon muttered softly, fishing a bobby pin out of his pocket. He looked down at their joined hands for a long moment, flicking his eyes between them and the doorknob as though weighing his options, before he reluctantly disentangled his hand from Martin’s.
He knelt beside the door and started working on the lock while Martin kept watch for the neighbors. After a few minutes, Jon let out a quiet Aha! of victory, and the door swung open.
The apartment looked different than he remembered it. There was a layer of dust on the floor, the tables, the windowsills, and the dim blue light coming in through the windows gave a melancholy air to the empty, silent rooms. Jon began flicking on lights in an attempt to dispel the gloom, but they only served to make the shadows more stark.
Martin trailed his fingertips over one of the windowsills, tracing thin lines in the dust. When he turned, he saw Jon watching him with an anxious expression.
Jon cleared his throat. “How– Are you– I mean, how are you–?” Before he could formulate a coherent question, his phone began to ring. He pulled it out of his pocket and frowned at the screen.
“One second,” he murmured. “It’s Basira.”
Jon wandered into the kitchen while he spoke with Basira, and Martin couldn’t help but be grateful. Jon’s gaze had been kind but intense, and Martin couldn’t handle the scrutiny. He couldn’t handle much of anything at the moment.
He drifted through the apartment, dazed and numb. On the windowsill closest to the bookshelf he found the remains of his philodendrons. He’d cared for them assiduously, once. He’d monitored their leaves for any brown spots, bought plant food from the greenhouse down the street, spritzed their leaves with water when the humidity was low. He’d pruned them and fed them and named them after characters from his favorite books. Merry, he remembered, was the one in the green pot with sunflowers painted on the side, and Pippin was the one with more pink on its leaves.
It was hard to tell them apart, now. The leaves of both were shrivelled and brown, and when Martin reached out to touch one, the leaf crumbled between his fingertips. He felt tears prick the corners of his eyes.
Stupid. After everything he’d been through, all of the people he had lost, here he was crying over plants. It was ridiculous. But the fact remained that they had relied on him, and he had let them die.
Jon wandered back into the living room, still on the phone, and Martin let himself get distracted listening to his half of the conversation.
“…What about the hunters? Were they-? …And Daisy?” There was a long pause. Then Jon murmured, “I’m sorry.” Another pause, then he said, “R-right. Yes. We’re at Martin’s apartment. I can text you the address… Thank you.”
“Basira’s on her way,” Jon explained when he hung up the phone. Martin just nodded. He turned away and tried to discreetly wipe the tears from his eyes, but he didn’t think he hid his sadness well.
“Martin,” Jon said gently, so gently, as though a sudden noise might make Martin shatter like glass, “How are you feeling?”
How was he feeling? The only thing Martin could think to say in response was, “Cold.”
“Right. Of course,” Jon whispered, half to himself. He grabbed the blanket from the couch and threw it over Martin’s shoulders, then steered him into a seat at the kitchen table. “I’ll put the kettle on,” he said, fiddling with the blankets one last time before he did to make sure they were still firmly wrapped around him. He worked quickly, diligently, but there was a clear and present anxiety behind all of his movements.
When the water was on the stove to boil, Jon took a seat at the table as well, pulling his chair around to be closer to Martin.
He set a hand on Martin’s, and flinched at the cold. “Oh,” he said, voice soft and surprised and mournful, “your hand.”
He wrapped Martin’s hand in both of his own and began gently massaging warmth back into it. Jon stared down at their hands as he worked, his face wrought with grave, single-minded focus, and Martin stared at Jon.
He looked tired. The dark circles under his eyes had gotten darker, and there was an odd tension in his posture, as though if he allowed himself to relax for even a moment, he’d pass out. Had he looked like this, the last time they’d spoken? He didn’t know. He hadn’t really seen Jon then; there had been too much fog in his head.
The blood began to flow back into Martin’s hand, and with it, he started to regain feeling. Jon’s hands, he found, were calloused and bony and rough with scar tissue, but still unfailingly gentle.
They sat like that for a long while before Jon broke the silence.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured suddenly, as though responding to something Martin had said, or perhaps his own train of thought. “I thought…”
Whatever Jon was going to say was interrupted when the kettle started whistling. Jon let go of Martin’s hand and stood up to prepare the tea, leaving Martin’s skin tingling in all the places he had touched it.
For a few minutes, the kitchen was filled with the familiar, reassuring sounds of water being poured, and boxes of tea being rummaged through, and spoon clanging against mug. When was the last time Martin had made tea? When was the last time someone had made tea for him?
Jon pressed the mug into Martin’s hand. “Here,” he murmured, “I think I remembered how you like it.”
It was too hot to drink, and with the state Martin’s hands were in – still so cold and so stiff – it was too hot even to hold, so he whispered his thanks and set it down on the table.
Beside him, Jon fidgeted nervously. “There’s something I ought to tell you,” he said. “And I know this isn’t a great time; I’m sure you’re not in the best headspace to hear this, after everything that’s happened, but, well… Well, it might change how you feel about– about me, and a-about our next steps. So I think it’s only right I tell you now.”
He took a deep, steadying breath. “I love you. I-I have for… quite awhile now, really, and I should have told you before, but I was scared, and… A-Anyway, I know you don’t feel the same way about me, anymore, and I‘ll do my best to move past these feelings and be the kind of friend that you need right now, but if you’d rather we go our separate ways, I’d… I’d understand. I just… I thought you deserved to hear it said.”
Martin’s breath caught in his throat. The foundation on which his world rested shattered into pieces, and he was left with only one thing to anchor himself.
Jon loved him.
“Jon…” he whispered, and Jon turned away.
“You don’t have to say anything…”
“Jon,” he repeated, more insistently. He cupped a hand around Jon’s cheek and turned him back to face him. Jon’s eyes widened, hope and uncertainty fighting in his expression. “I love you, too.”
Jon’s mouth fell open. For several long moments, his lips moved silently, as though struggling for words, before he finally asked, “Can I kiss you?”
Oh. Martin drew back, letting his hand fall from Jon’s cheek. He wanted to, he did, but… “I don’t think I can,” he said, shaking his head. “After everything, after the Lonely… I think it would be too much, too fast.” He was still half-numb, and the other half of him was on fire with a thousand sensations that he’d all but forgotten how to feel over the past few months, and he didn’t want to kiss Jon when there was still so much fog clinging to them both. The first time he kissed Jon, he wanted to really feel it.
“I understand,” Jon said, eyes brimming over with care and concern and love. “Would– W-Would a hug be alright?”
Martin nodded, because a hug was more than alright, and Jon wrapped his arms around him. Martin pressed him close to his chest, squeezing tight, as though he could press Jon into his rib cage and keep him next to his heart forever, and Jon clung to him just as fiercely.
“I love you,” Martin whispered. It was hard not to think of the last time they had done this, and everything that had happened after, but this time Jon tightened his grip and whispered back,
“I love you, too. God, Martin, I–” Whatever else he was going to say was lost as he buried his face in Martin’s neck, and Martin pulled him closer.
After a moment, he pulled back. “What did you mean, before?” Martin asked, the thought that had been gnawing at him finally coming to the surface. “Why did you say ‘I know you don’t feel the same way?’”
Jon chewed nervously on his lip. “In the Lonely, you said… you said, ‘I really loved you, you know.’ Past tense.”
“Oh, Jon…” Martin murmured. He didn’t remember saying it, he didn’t remember much of anything that had happened in the Lonely, but he didn’t doubt Jon’s memory. “I love you. Present tense, future tense… Any tense you want.”
Jon brushed away the tears in his eyes. “Present perfect?” he suggested with a watery laugh.
“I have loved you,” Martin said, casting his mind back to primary school grammar lessons, “for a very long time. And that isn’t going to change.”
Jon grabbed Martin’s hand and squeezed it, pressing more warmth into his cold skin. After a moment, he lifted it towards his lips, then paused, looking at Martin for permission.
“May I?”
“You may,” Martin whispered, breathless.
Jon brought Martin’s hand up to his lips and gently kissed the back of his palm. The kiss was brief and chaste but reverent, and it sent a thrill up Martin’s spine. Jon hesitated, then lifted his hand again and pressed a kiss to each of Martin’s knuckles in turn. Then he set Martin’s hand down on the table and gave it a quick, awkward pat.
I love you, Martin thought, and then it struck him all at once that he could say that. He had said it, and Jon had said it back, and he could say it again any time he wanted.
He didn’t, though. Instead, he grabbed Jon’s hand and raised it halfway to his lips.
“May I?”
Jon smiled. “You may.”
Martin repeated what Jon had done – one kiss to the back of his hand, then one to each of his knuckles – and Jon shivered at the contact. When he was done, they simply stared at each other, too giddy and besotted to think of anything to say. Martin felt almost drunk with the feeling, and judging by the expression on Jon’s face – awestruck and adoring and still a bit nervous – it seemed that he was feeling much the same.
He reached out and laid a hand on Martin’s forearm, turning it over and grazing his fingers lightly over the inside of his wrist.
“May I?” he asked again.
“You may.”
This time Jon lingered, taking his time, kissing Martin’s pulse point as though it were something truly precious, and Martin let his fingers reach out and tangle in Jon’s hair.
After that, Jon brushed his fingers against Martin’s cheek.
“May I?”
“You may.”
Jon kissed him on the cheek, quickly but with feeling, and when Jon drew back Martin could still feel the warmth of his lips burning against his skin.
It went on – Martin’s forehead, his nose, the corner of his jaw, just below his ear.
“May I?”
“You may.”
Martin responded in kind, reaching out to graze careful fingers over Jon’s temple, the center of his palm, the scar on his throat left by Daisy’s knife, what felt like a very long time ago.
“May I?”
“You may.”
They moved cautiously, hesitantly, as they explored every bit of exposed skin on each other’s bodies. Each kiss seemed to drive away more of the chill and the fog, warming Martin from within more effectively than the cup of tea that was currently growing cold, untouched, on the table beside him ever could have.
Eventually, he raised his fingers to Jon’s lips.
“May I?”
Jon studied his face. “Are you sure?”
Martin just nodded, too nervous to speak. Jon nodded as well, and leaned forward, lips parting, tilting his face up to meet Martin’s as Martin leaned down to kiss him.
Their lips had barely brushed when there was a knock at the door. They both jumped.
“That’ll be Basira,” Jon said, reluctantly pulling away. Martin stood up with him and followed him to the door.
Basira eyed them both carefully when she stepped inside, sizing them up. If she noticed the anxious way Martin hovered beside Jon, she said nothing. If she noticed the way Jon’s hand drifted out unconsciously to rest on Martin’s arm, she likewise didn’t comment on it.
She didn’t comment on the way they clung to each, as though one or both of them might disappear if even a foot of space opened up between them, or the way they pressed their chairs together when the three of them sat down at the kitchen table to discuss their next moves, or the fact that their hands were interlinked under the table. She focused on the task at hand.
“Daisy has safehouses all over the country,” she told them. “She hasn’t told me where all of them are, but I think this one should still be stocked.” She passed an envelope to Jon, who opened it and glanced inside. Over his shoulder, Martin could see an address and instructions written out in Daisy’s scrawling handwriting.
“Scotland?” Jon asked, glancing at the address.
“I doubt the cops will follow you there. I can’t say for certain, though, so don’t get sloppy. How much cash do you have on you?”
“£20, maybe?” Jon said hesitantly.
“£300,” Martin said, prompting strange looks from Jon and Basira. “Peter gave me spending money sometimes,” he explained.
“Right,” Basira said. “That should cover you for the trip. Once you reach the safehouse, there’ll be more cash in the safe — the combination’s in the envelope. Whatever you do, don’t use your credit cards.”
“I know,” Jon replied, a bit tetchily. “I do have some experience being wanted for murder.”
Martin could almost have sworn he saw Basira roll her eyes before she said, “The cops will be on their way here soon. How fast can you pack?”
The answer, it turned out, was very fast. There wasn’t much that Martin needed to take. He grabbed shampoo and a toothbrush from the bathroom before heading over to his closet and shoving some clothes in a bag.
The door to the bedroom creaked open, and when he turned, Jon was stood there, framed by the dim orange light of the hallway.
“Almost ready?” he asked.
Martin zipped his bag closed, and slung it over his shoulder. “Ready.”
He slipped his hand back into Jon’s as they walked back through the living room. They lingered on the doorstep, turning to take one last look around.
“I’m going to miss this place,” Jon murmured.
“Me, too.”
There were so many memories attached to the tiny flat. It was a place they’d laughed and argued and made each other tea, the place where Martin had mourned and Jon had recovered from about a hundred different injuries, a place that had felt safe in spite of everything.
It had been their home.
Still, Jon was clutching the envelope Basira had given them in one hand and Martin’s hand in the other, and there was a train leaving in half an hour that would take them to Manchester, and they could board a train from there that would take them to Inverness, and from there they could catch a bus to a small, out-of-the-way village where a safehouse was waiting for them.
It was time to find a new home.