#*glances at jonmartin*

[magnusthepuppet]

god. gay people just really can’t run away together properly, can they?

[softichill]

Jonmartin kissie

[whim-prone-pirate]

i fear that everyone's jonklock character designs all have at least one identical jonmartin character design counterpart somewhere in the world. is this due to them being ninety percent the same characters? probably. but this does need to be discussed. if both are on my dash i need to be able to tell at first glance which pod i need to be in the mindset for to appreciate it properly.

[brettanomycroft]

The final part(s) of my first kiss 5+1 written for Jonmartin Week 2024! Here's a preview:

If he were Orpheus, Jon reasons with only the faintest edge of hysteria, then Martin would have been turned into salt enough times by now to fill the whole of the Lonely’s endless ocean. He doesn’t need to look anywhere other than Martin, not with the Eye calling them back, so he won't. 

Jon had expected Martin might fade away into the Lonely at least once, but had been positive he would return. He’d been less confident after Martin’s second disappearance. So when Martin reemerges from the fog and Sees Jon, when the edges of his shape firm up as if a smearing of grease had been wiped from a lens and his eyes had begin to lose their seaglass haze and take on the golden flecks Jon remembers, Jon cannot but grab onto him and hold tight. 

People talk about letting opportunities “slip through their fingers,” but Martin had literally turned into mist and slipped through Jon’s fingers, and he’s not inclined to let that happen again. With each glance over his shoulder he squeezes Martin's hand to reassure the both of them that they are here and real. Though Martin is silent, his grip around Jon’s fingers tightens incrementally. Jon’s hand aches. The pain is grounding, exquisite.

They do not emerge from the Lonely in the same place they entered.

Read the rest here :)

[grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks]

There were a lot of instances, really, that could be considered their "first kiss." A look at some moments that might, depending on your perspective, count as Jon and Martin's first kiss. For the Jonmartin week day 1 prompt "First Kiss" - Updates one chapter a day, every day of Jonmartin Week.

For day 8 of @jonmartinweek, here's chapter 8 of my "first kiss" fic! Enjoy some post-Lonely content, and Jon and Martin's first kiss (or their ninth, depending on how you count it)!

They ended up in Martin’s apartment, after everything.

They didn’t have a lot of other options. Jon had been functionally homeless ever since the coma, and he wasn’t eager to return to the archives. So Jon let himself be led by the Eye to Martin’s doorstep, and Martin let himself be led by Jon.

Martin didn’t say anything, and Jon didn’t press. He just held firmly onto Martin’s hand to reassure himself that he hadn’t disappeared again.

He dropped his hand when they finally arrived, and the pair stood in the foyer, awkward and uncertain. Martin looked numb and entirely lost, and Jon knew he would need to take charge of the situation, but he was at a loss for what to do. The only suggestion he could think to make was a weak,

“Tea?”

Martin nodded, and Jon shuffled into the kitchen to make it. He couldn’t keep from glancing behind him as he worked, to where Martin still stood in the entryway, staring blankly into space. He didn’t move until the kettle began to whistle. Then he startled, and snapped all at once out of whatever trance he’d been lost in.

“Oh, here,” he murmured, coming into the kitchen and raising his hands to help, “Let me…”

“I’ve got it,” Jon said softly. He poured the hot water into two mugs and stirred in the sugar while Martin watched him with an open, aching look of want. There was something oddly wounded in his expression, too. He stared at Jon’s hands, bobbing the teabags in the water, like he wanted to touch them but knew, somehow, that they would burn him.

“Here,” Jon said when he had discarded the tea bags and added the milk. Martin accepted it with a mumbled, 

“Thanks.” Their fingers brushed as he handed over the mug, and Jon flinched against the cold of Martin’s hand.

“You’re freezing.”

“Sorry,” Martin mumbled, and Jon hated it – hated the blankness in his voice, hated the instinctual way he took on blame, as though everything about him was something that required an apology, the same way he had in the Lonely.

“No, it’s– You should really change, though. Your clothes are soaked.”

“You should, too,” Martin said, because Jon’s own clothes were still damp through from all that damned fog.

“I– I don’t have any spare clothes.”

“I could lend you some,” Martin said. He set down his mug. “Come on. This is too hot to drink right now, anyway.”

He led Jon to his bedroom and picked out some clothes for him – a pair of grey joggers and an old tee shirt with the words Magnus Institute Library Team Building Retreat 2013 printed on the front.

“I’ll just be a second,” Jon said before excusing himself to the bathroom to change.

The clothes were several sizes too big. It took quite a bit of cinching the drawstring waist before the joggers would stay up, and the shirt hung awkwardly off his thin frame, exposing his clavicle and most of his shoulder. It was not the most flattering outfit he had ever worn, but it was warm and dry, and smelled pleasantly of laundry soap.

When he stepped out into the hallway, Martin was already there, changed into a dry pair of jeans and a thick sweater. He glanced at Jon in his ill-fitting borrowed clothes, and for the first time in a very long time, Jon caught him smiling.

“I know, I know,” he muttered. “I look ridiculous.”

“No, you– you look nice.”

Jon opened his mouth. It seemed important to say something to that, though he was at a loss for quite what. Before he could make up his mind, his phone began to buzz in his pocket.

“Basira,” he told Martin when he checked the screen. “I should take this.”

He wandered into the living room while he spoke to her. She updated him on the state of Daisy, the Hunters, and the police, and Jon let her know that they’d gone back to Martin’s apartment.

“How is he?” 

“He’s… alive,” Jon said, because it was too early to say if he was fine, or safe, or unharmed. But once he’d said it, the truth of his words finally sank in. A disbelieving laugh escaped him as he repeated, suddenly giddy, “He’s alive, Basira!”

They both agreed that he and Martin should leave London as quickly as possible, and she told him that Daisy had a safehouse where they could lay low for a time.

“What’s Martin’s address? I’ll swing by and give you the key.”

“I can text it to you in a second…”

“No. No text conversations, no paper trails,” Basira said. It was hard to make out exactly what she said next, given their shaky phone connection, but it sounded a whole lot like she muttered, “...can’t believe we never caught you.”

When Jon hung up, Martin was hovering in the doorway between the corridor and the living room, and he was crying.

“Martin!”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I-I’m sorry I worried you. I’m sorry for all of it.” His voice was soft and shattered, and Jon remembered his own voice, too excited to consider volume. He’s alive, Basira! Martin would have to have heard it. 

“Martin,” Jon said again, more warmly this time. He closed the distance between them and pulled Martin close until their foreheads were resting against each other. “You don’t need to apologize.” Martin was solid beneath his touch, but the memory of how evanescent he’d been, just an hour before, loomed in his mind. “Just stay with me,” he whispered, and Martin flashed him a weak smile.

“Always.”

Their faces were so close Jon could feel the warmth of Martin’s breath sigh across his cheeks.

Jon paused a moment, savoring the closeness, the solid, certain weight of Martin against him. Then he tilted his head up to close the last remaining space between them and pressed his lips to Martin’s.

Martin responded immediately, reaching up to clutch at Jon’s back, pulling him closer, kissing him back with a desperation Jon was only too willing to match. When Jon licked into his mouth, he let out a high, keening, hungry noise that made Jon shiver. He wanted quite badly to make Martin make that noise again.

Nipping gently at Martin’s bottom lip did the trick, he learned to his delight. Letting the hand that wasn’t gripping Martin’s hair drift down to his waist and slip under his shirt provoked a higher, more surprised noise that Jon liked almost as much. He would have gladly spent the whole night cataloguing the sounds, but he felt something wet roll across his cheek, and he realized with a jolt that Martin was crying.

He pulled away instantly and began to apologize. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he stammered. “Is– is this too soon?”

Martin shook his head. “No,” he whispered, “it’s a year too late.”

Jon’s heart sank. He should have known, he should have realized he’d missed his chance. Martin caught his expression, and his eyes widened.

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean–” He scrubbed at his wet cheeks and let out a quiet laugh. “How am I still mucking this up?” he whispered to himself. Jon just watched him, wide-eyed. “I meant,” he said finally, leaning down to press one more chaste kiss to Jon’s lips, “that we have a lot of lost time to make up for.”

And Jon wasn’t going to argue with that.

[red-archivist]

JonMartin Week 2023: Day 1 - Scars

🔔🔔🔔

it's @jonmartinweek week!

have a few things lined up for this year that I’m excited to share- the first is for the prompt ‘scars’ and is pure uncut angst, not my usual style but sometimes you get an idea so mean you gotta get it out of your system

enjoy!

also on ao3

~~

Jon only noticed the scar in the hotel room.

They had awoken Somewhere Else, battered, bloody and bruised, and decided to not fight until they had had a hot shower and a good night’s sleep.

(Martin had suggested it, anger boiling under his words.

Jon had agreed, his own recriminations tripping on his tongue.)

It was a pleasant surprise to find that Premier Inns existed throughout the multiverse, and that the few pounds they had were still considered legal tender.

They had slumped into the room and Martin made a beeline for the bathroom.

Jon dumped his bag and coat on the ground and immediately began stripping out of his dirty clothes. Layers of dirt and debris flaked off of him as he shed his shirt. Dried blood made the material stiff and uncooperative.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine what the poor woman at the front desk thought of the pair of them. They must have been a sight to behold.

It was an odd feeling, not knowing what she thought- not knowing much of anything. He would have to reacquaint himself with finding things out the old-fashioned way. The idea of it was both relieving and daunting. There was an empty ache in his mind that he was trying very hard not to acknowledge.

He shook his head and whipped his shirt off.

There was a large mirror mounted above a slim writing desk at the foot of the bed but Jon avoided his reflection. It was a habit he had built up ever since he had come out of his coma. He had no interest in seeing himself.

He bent down to shuck off his socks but as he stood back up, something in the mirrored figure caught his eye and he couldn’t help but glance at it.

He looked as bedraggled as he felt, covered head to toe in dirt and bruises, a filthy, mad-eyed ghoul staining the beige carpet.

He was used to all that. What had drawn his attention was fresh, clean, and stood out in stark contrast to the worn skin surrounding it.

There was a new scar on his chest.

Just to the left of his sternum and about four inches long. It had the shiny, pale look of a recently healed injury. Something already treated and moving along the road to permanence.

Jon stepped closer to his reflection and carefully ran a finger down it. There was no pain, only a dull sensation of touch. It was a familiar feeling.

He knew where it had come from, of course. He was just surprised it had healed so quickly.

(He imagined stitches made of spider’s silk.)

The scar wasn’t straight, but crooked and clumsy.

(Martin’s hands had shook.)

Another constant reminder of the mistakes he had made.

(As if he could ever forget how it felt.)

He slowly mapped the shape of it with his fingertips and lost himself in memories of its creation.

He may have stood there for hours, but the sound of a flushing toilet snapped him back to the present. Martin made his way quickly out of the bathroom.

He had changed into something relatively cleaner, and his hair was damp from showering. A miniature hotel toothbrush dangled from his hand. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Bathroom’s free-”

Martin froze in the doorway. His eyes landed on the scar immediately.

There was a moment of loaded silence. Martin’s gaze burned against his skin. The tension felt heavy on his shoulders.

“Another one for the collection, I suppose,” Jon chuckled weakly.

It was a shitty joke.

He didn’t know why he said it. His timing was dreadful and he knew Martin didn’t always share his sense of humour.

He expected it to go down like a lead balloon.

What he didn’t expect was for Martin to turn grey and run back into the bathroom. Jon heard violent vomiting and immediately sprinted after him.

Martin was hunched over the toilet, spewing his guts out. Jon fell to his knees beside him, babbling nonsense, but when he tried to rub his back, Martin shoved him off.

“Don’t touch me!” He choked.

Jon flinched.

“Martin...”

“D-Don’t- Don’t!” His face was wet with tears and spit, “S-Stay away from me...”

He held an arm out to keep Jon at a distance.

“Stay away...” He moaned weakly.

Jon fought for words, but they slipped from his grasp. Martin was shaking from head-to-toe, pale as death.

Jon fell back on his heels, useless. He watched Martin cough and hack up water. Even when he was done, he just lay his forehead against the rim of the bowl and wheezed. His eyes were bloodshot and haunted. Jon risked laying a hand on his arm and Martin let out a low keen of pain.

Lost, Jon retreated, backing out of the bathroom altogether.

He stood in the centre of the room, staring at nothing. He absently ran a finger up and down the scar.

Ought to have know better.

Numbly, he thought that it made sense. Of course, Martin wouldn’t want to see the evidence of what he had done. Of what Jon had made him do. Of course, he was disgusted at the sight; a permanent reminder of how they had betrayed each other.

It was completely understandable, reasonable even. There was no need for Jon to feel devasted or rejected. He shoved his impending heartbreak down under a blanket of that numb logic and hunted for a clean shirt to cover himself up.

When Martin eventually re-emerged, Jon didn’t look at him as he swept past into the bathroom. The air was acrid with the smell of vomit and artificial flowers. Martin must have used a spray to try and mask the stench.

Jon brushed his teeth mechanically and washed himself in the sink. He couldn’t have taken more than five minutes but by the time he got out, Martin was already in bed. The lights had been turned off and he lay facing away, the duvet curled around him.

Jon weighed his options.

When the receptionist had asked if they wanted a single or a double, his brain defaulted to the first option. Now he wasn’t sure if Martin would tolerate sharing the bed with him.

He could call down for a cot, or squeeze himself into the stiff armchair in the corner. Both options would prompt questions, a discussion, and, all too likely, an argument.

They had promised to save their domestics for the morning.

With a shuddering sigh, Jon crept onto the empty side of the bed. He did his best to keep his distance as he lay down.

Jon shut his eyes tightly.

(In the morning, he will beat his fist against his chest as he screams and sobs. The texture of the scar will send a jolt down his arm each time.)

He turned onto his side, facing out into the dark room.

(In a week, Martin will confess to being afraid to touch him. He is terrified of hurting him again.)

The cold gap at his back felt a thousand miles wide.

(In some far-flung future, he will force Martin’s hand against the scar. He will make him feel the heart that still beats beneath it.)

Jon resigned himself to a bad night’s sleep.

[pitchblackkoi]

20 Questions for 20 Writers

okay so my dear friend @localdisasterisk tagged me in this. i do not interact w many writers on this platform and therefore will not be tagging anyone. i am aware that is not entirely the point of this exercise. however if u look into ur heart and believe in yourself u can decide without being tagged to do this. anyway thanks risk this is gonna be a mess.

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

16 apparently. that is. a lot more than I thought it was if i am being so real w u all.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

85,705. this being bc a majority of my stuff is fairly short oneshots. but is also more than i thought. i rly don't delete stuff off of this account.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

well currently its persona 5. because i have a curse. i did not think i wld be here still a year and a half later but life surprises u at times i suppose.

i've also written for critical role, tma, and some other podcasts. there's a couple of technically original works on there that's mechanisms oc based.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

at the expense of the death of a bachelor, which is unsurprising. tma is still fairly popular and its a jonmartin arranged marriage au. i get emails abt it a lot.

this is the road to ruin (and it started at the end), which is the sequel to the previous fic so. still not surprising.

forever is composed of nows, which is still tma, still jonmartin but this time an au kidfic. if u had told me in high school i wld have a somewhat popular kidfic i wld have laughed at u but the wheels of time do strange things to us.

nothing you say can stop me going home, which is honestly kind of a shock. its post-canon shadowgast and i have not read it since i published it. i don't consider it to be that good and if memory serves i wrote it very quickly but i suppose it is more accessible than my other shadowgast oneshot as this one is not 30k.

don't you know that the kids aren't alright which is a wolf 359 jacoffel fic. which let me tell u. not a popular ship so there's not as much fic compared to, say, kepcobi. i actually reread it recently after i did a w359 relisten and. it sure is Origins Of A Fic Writer.

5. Do you respond to comments?

i try to? i definitely do for more recent works but older stuff tends to fall to the wayside. if u leave comments on my tma fics, thank u so much. i see them. i appreciate them. i don't know when i will reply.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

oh fuck i am not an angst writer. uh. and in the end i'd do it all again maybe? a cursory glance tells me it ends with people crying. but knowing myself it's not particularly angsty. i am, again, not much of an angst writer.

actually wait. remembered the ending of my most recent work. trust the way we're made ends like that bc i was being mean to akira. and akechi tbh. and needed to set up for the one meant to come after that which. will straight up have an angsty ending actually so look forward to that i suppose. but yeah that one’s also not that angsty just. again kinda mean.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

oh probably the most difficult thing to read is time. its shadowgast childhood friends goodness. it gets dark but to me, that just means the ending is lighter with the ending they get.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

not unless people r posting my shit in their gcs to make fun of privately. in which case more power to u ig that shits none of my business.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

no. there’s a couple reasons for this. one is that i haven’t before, not even shit that’s just for me as practice. i don’t feel particularly comfortable doing it, especially to post. and for two i’m on the ace spectrum and haven’t ever rly felt the need. maybe i will someday, and if i do i will surely get advice from saturn as he is the writer i’m closest to who has both experience and Opinions on smut. but i don’t foresee it happening any time soon tbh.

10. Do you write crossovers?

i don’t! i used to dabble in that sort of thing with friends, just coming up w dumb little crossover aus for fun. sometimes i even still do it as more of a thought experiment for how characters from different properties wld interact. but i don’t ever have much of a plot in mind when i do this so i don’t see myself writing crossovers really. but who knows! never say never.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that i know of

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

nope! no one’s ever asked. i’m pretty small time.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

no! i’ve had lovely betas and people who let me bounce ideas off of them but i’ve never properly cowritten anything w anyone. i almost did once but the project got abandoned pretty quickly.

14. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

i feel like i’m being asked to pick a favorite child. stucky is kinda the old faithful i feel like. idk what the girlies were on in 2014 but they proceeded to crank out shit that makes me STILL cry. i feel like shuake shld also get a shout out for both being the current fave and also having some truly insane tied together by fate shit going on. time will tell how much they stick w me but i have a feeling.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

i have a lot of abandoned wips in my gdocs but by far the one i think abt the most is the shadowgast the night circus au. it had a lot of potential. i wish i had the motivation to write it. but cr2 has been over for years now and its a true miracle the 30k one i did publish got finished. my little shoutout to it is the fact that the title comes from a quote from that book.

16. What are your writing strengths?

my dialogue and general voice. i think i’m very good at characterization and can capture voice well. most disagreements i have when i’m the editing process involve me having to explain i worded something like that on purpose bc that’s how a character wld think.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

oh description. 100%. i’m so bad at describing shit it truly feels like pulling teeth. i’m the kind of person who thinks in terms of words and am bad at imagining images and it makes it hard. i’ve also been told i cld be better at grammar.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

i mean two things on this right? i was in the stucky trenches back in the day and bitches LOVED to put just random russian in the middle of their fics. i know a lot abt how i think u can do this badly. especially if u put the words u translated in an entirely different alphabet than the rest of the fic. if u do this i (and most other readers) cannot even get an idea of what that’s supposed to sound like.

the other thing is that i have done this. like in cr2 canon sometimes in the most difficult thing to read is time caleb will say things in zemnian (german). i did my best to put the meaning of whatever word i used into the story. when i did put a full sentence in german in there i got it translated by someone who speaks the language. i even put an exact translation in the authors note. i was careful abt this and have not gotten a complaint abt it from any readers so i assume people didnt have complaints.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

depends entirely on what u mean by wrote for. if u mean and then published then it’s marvel. these r no longer on my ao3 but im sure if u went digging u cld find them. they’re reader insert fics and they aren’t very good. this has nothing to do w the fact that they’re reader inserts and everything to do w the fact that i wrote them in high school.

if u mean just wrote well. i wrote a rise of the guardians fic starring jack frost and a friend of mine as a joke in middle school. this is all i will say on this subject.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

again asking me to pick a favorite child but just. way more literal this time.

probably the most difficult thing to read is time. again. i keep mentioning it and it is bc it’s the longest thing i’ve ever written and took 2 1/2 real years of my life to get finished. if u like shadowgast pls give it a read. i did put my actual heart and soul into that one.

if u had to have me pick a second it wld probably be this will be the day. i had a lot of fun and learned a lot writing it. had never written a fight scene before doing that and realized when i was already writing i had sort of written myself into a corner where i HAD to write fight scenes. bc it’s a rwby au. for persona 5. both series that u know. have combat. give it a read if u like p5. u don’t actually have to know anything abt rwby for that one i explain anything u wld need to know.

[bifrostarchivist]

i have truly been left a broken shell of a man. i can’t see fanart of jonmartin hugging anymore without flinching because i just automatically expect to see a knife in martin’s hand or in jon’s chest

[simpsforsims]

time travel fic where s1 jon sees s5 martin and immediately falls for him. meanwhile s1 martin is losing it in the background because what’s this??? s5 jon accepting love and care and admitting he needs other people?

it’s just s1 jmart being two halves of a whole idiot while s5 jmart tries to play matchmaker but messing it up

[duinoelegies]

i think it’s deeply unfair that sasha didn’t get to become a ghost, cause she would have made an excellent tech-based spirit. making an entity attack alerts app for her friends. airdropping callout posts for not-sasha to everyone’s phones. sending elias a computer virus with a display message “i placed a malware on a forum for ayn rand simps and guess what? i control you now, eyeball freak”. poltergeist extraordinaire

[nebulous-frog]

Schrodinger’s Roommate

Relationships: JonMartin

Summary: Jon brings home a new roommate.

Word Count: 748

Written for @jonmartinweek Day 3: Roommates

Link to AO3   Fics Masterlist

“You have to be on your best behavior, now, Madame,” Jon whispered seriously. “I’ll do what I can, but you’re the one that has to properly sell it. Martin is rather indifferent to cats, somehow, so he’ll take a bit of convincing but it should be manageable.”

A soft mrrp sounded from Jon’s bulging jacket.

“Hmm, exactly, yes. Keep up the good work and this will all go quite well.”

Careful not to disturb the illustrious Madame in his arms, Jon fumbled for his keys and unlocked the door to his and Martin’s flat.

“Darling? Are you here?” he called as he walked in. He shut the door behind him quickly and kicked off his shoes.

“In the kitchen!” Martin called back. “You’re just in time, actually, food’s nearly done.”

“Perfect, thank you!” Jon replied. He rubbed Madame’s head in apology for the yelling, then hurried towards the bathroom. “I’ll be right there.”

Once in the bathroom, Jon opened his jacket and gently removed Madame, setting her on the ground.

“Alright, you stay right here while I talk to him. He’ll be a bit fussy at first, but I’m sure we can win him over.” Jon brushed his knuckles over the gray and white kitten’s ears. “Try not to get in any trouble in the meantime.”

He left the bathroom and swiftly shut the door before Madame could dart out.

“What are you doing?” Martin asked, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

Jon’s eyes widened. “Uh- I’m- well, I’m- here?”

Martin blinked once, slowly like his brain needed extra processing time to complete the one involuntary action.

“Uh-huh,” Martin eventually replied. “And you closed the bathroom door because…?”

“You don’t want to go in there.” Hurrying to explain, Jon was grasping at straws. “Bad… bad gas.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Jon. You’re a terrible liar. What’s going on?”

Jon slumped and stared at the ground. “Promise you’ll hear me out?” he mumbled.

“Um. So that was a concerning question, but yes? Don’t I always?”

Jon shrugged and allowed himself a quick glance up at Martin. Martin’s expression was bewildered, but also amused. Jon took this to be a good sign.

“Alright. I’ve- uh. I’ve found us a roommate?” Great start, Jonathan, exactly what you two reclusive introverts want, he thought to himself, mentally slapping his own forehead.

Martin blinked slowly again. “... and why would we need that?”

“She needs a good home? And we can provide that.” Jon twisted his ace ring anxiously. He’d really wanted more time to prepare for this conversation.

Just then, a loud meowwwww rang out from the bathroom. Martin’s eyes widened.

“Jon. Is there a cat in our flat right now?”

Jon hesitated, now fiddling with his ace ring so much he accidentally dropped it. As he bent to pick it up, he replied, “I’m rather a fan of Schrodinger’s theory, in this instance, where, well, we can’t exactly be sure there is, we can’t see one ourselves, but there very well could be, which means there both is and is not at the same time. It’s very interesting, actually-”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Martin muttered exasperatedly. He reached behind Jon and opened the door to the bathroom, then immediately gasped.

“What, what is it, is she okay?” Jon asked instinctively, whipping around to see.

“Jon, she’s beautiful!” Martin gushed. Crouching down, he extended his hand for her to sniff. When she approached, Martin grinned and affected a babyish voice. “Hello! And who might you be, precious little one?”

Jon scoffed. “Come on, Martin, she’s not a child. She’s dignified.”

Martin glanced back up at Jon unimpressed. “How badly do you want to keep her?”

A gasp. “You wouldn’t send her back to the streets just because I stood up for her?”

Martin laughed. “You’re the one that’s dubbed me ‘pettiest of bastards’, love, you tell me what I’d do.”

Jon’s eyes widened. “Right, of course, talk to her as you like.” After a moment of Martin cooing at the kitten, Jon piped up again. “I was thinking we could call her Madame.”

“Just Madame?” Martin asked. “I mean, it’s alright, but she’s more than just a title. What if her full name was Madame Margaret?”

“A wonderful name,” Jon agreed quickly, nodding his head. Anything to let her stay, Jon thought.

“Then welcome to your new home, Madame Margaret,” Martin said, scooping her up in one arm. She chirped at him and he smiled again. “I hope you’re ready to contribute to the rent.”

[bluejayblueskies]

For the Touches Ask Game, if you can, a little Jonmartin with Touching/9?

Thank you so much, I love your writing!!! 😭💕

touches prompt list

9 - holding hands across the table

i did a season two lunch dinner date fic! cw for mentions of paranoia/stalking and murder (in typical s2 fashion)

.

They’ve been having lunch together for two months when Martin asks, with enough stuttering that it takes Jon a moment to process his words, if Jon would like to get dinner with him.

Jon hesitates only briefly before agreeing. Between finding out about Martin’s CV and the newly delivered CCTV footage, he’s almost entirely convinced that Martin did not, in fact, murder Gertrude Robinson and that his various attempts to make sure Jon eats and sleeps and drinks tea are simply a result of Martin being… well. Being nice, he supposes. If overbearingly so.

Why Martin feels the need to coddle Jon, he doesn’t quite know. But if he’s being honest with himself, he’s… not complaining. His frequent skipping of meals often isn’t an intentional thing, born instead of his tendency to get so wrapped up in his work that hours fly by without him noticing, and while sometimes he’s irritated when his flow is interrupted by Martin’s cheery greeting, more often than not it’s… a relief. To step out of the Archives, away from the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, and pretend like he isn’t working alongside a murderer.

Maybe a murderer. He… he doesn’t know. According to the CCTV footage, Tim and Sasha and Martin and Elias all have alibis. But he still can’t shake the feeling that he gets, sitting in his office or walking down the corridors or reading through statements, that something isn’t right.

That there’s something in the Archives that’s not supposed to be there.

So, it’s… nice to get outside. And as much as Tim may joke about it—or… used to joke about it, at least—Jon does, in fact, try to eat three square meals a day if he can remember to do so. Try being the operative word. He’s been… caught up in work lately, and often he glances at the clock to see that it’s well past ten and he’s accidentally skipped dinner entirely. He hadn’t thought Martin had noticed, given that the man doesn’t live in the Archives anymore and typically leaves promptly at five along with Tim and Sasha, but evidently, he was wrong.

As Jon sits across the table from Martin at the small café they’ve chosen for lunch, he has the fleeting thought that Martin’s been sneaking back and watching him work and that’s how he knows that Jon has been missing dinner. He lets himself feel it, takes a deep breath, and pushes it away with considerable effort. No, that’s not… he trusts Martin. He does. Or he… he wants to. He’s trying.

“Jon?”

“Hm?” Jon blinks up at Martin, who’s clearly waiting for a response. “Sorry, I-I didn’t catch that.”

Martin’s cheeks are dusted a rosy red. He fiddles nervously with the black ring on his finger—a bit thicker in width than Jon’s, the metal smooth and bright where it reflects the sunlight. “Is—is this Friday okay? At—at seven? I-I can, um, meet you at the Institute. U-Unless you’d like to meet there! That’s, er. That’s fine with me too.”

“The Institute is fine,” Jon says, picking at his sandwich with a frown. The bread is damp and squishes under his fingers. “Perhaps we can go somewhere a bit less… soggy.”

“R-Right, yeah. I, um. I was actually thinking… you know that new bistro o-over in Clapham? M-Maybe not, it’s, er. It’s new. But I-I heard it has good South Asian food, which, um. I know you like.”

Martin’s face is fully crimson by this point. Maybe we should sit inside next time, Jon thinks. Or at least in the shade. The sun is rather intense. Martin picks up his mug of tea and takes a long sip, staring resolutely down at the table once he’s done. Jon waits, but it appears that Martin is done rambling, so he says, “Yes, that sounds fine.” Then, because it’s polite (and not untrue): “I am… looking forward to it.”

“O-Oh? Oh!” Martin looks at him, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Y-Yeah, um. M-Me too.”

We should definitely sit inside next time, Jon thinks as the back of his neck grows warm, the tips of his ears surely darkening. Good lord.

He doesn’t think the heat is responsible for the way Martin’s smile makes something in his stomach flutter. He decides to blame that on the atrocious sandwich because… well. It’s as convenient an excuse as any.

Because Martin is just looking out for Jon’s wellbeing. This is no different than him bringing mugs of tea when Jon is recording statements or accompanying him to A&E to get stitches after Michael or inviting him to lunch in the first place. This is not, he tells his ridiculous, over-zealous, butterfly-filled stomach, a date.

Because it’s not. Martin is simply a coworker—an employee—and a friend. Who he trusts. Maybe. Probably. And thinks about sometimes when he’s unoccupied. His hands, mostly, which look very soft and very capable. His smiles as well, each one like a gift meant just for Jon. The way he carries the heavier boxes that Jon can’t quite manage and can reach the top shelves to retrieve statements without even having to clamber up onto the bottom ones.

All completely normal thoughts to be having about a friend

So, when Jon wears the soft maroon button-down on Friday that he’s been told brings out his eyes and takes care to arrange his hair into something other than the haphazard braid he’s been managing lately and digs a bottle of peach nail varnish out of the bottom of his drawer the night before to coat his fingernails with, it’s just because he feels like it. Not because this is a date. Because it’s not a date. It’s just dinner. With Martin.

Who shows up to the Institute at quarter to seven wearing a nicer jumper than usual—cable-knit and mustard yellow, looking incredibly soft to the touch—and with small black studs decorating the lobes of his ears. He smiles widely when he sees Jon, also standing outside earlier than agreed upon, and Jon almost turns around to see if someone’s behind him. But there isn’t. That smile, unfettered and full of joy—it’s… it’s for him.

Surely, Martin is just… happy to see him leaving the office while it’s still light out for once. He’s certainly chided Jon enough times for his habit of falling asleep at his desk. (Which he’s been trying to do less lately, if only because it would be easy for someone to sneak up on him while he’s unconscious and slip a knife into his back or poison his tea or shoot him three times in the chest or—)

“R-Ready to head out?” Martin says, abruptly halting Jon’s train of thought. He tries not to look like he’d just been theorizing about his own inevitable demise as he mumbles his assent and follows Martin away from the Institute and into the still-bustling streets of London.

And if he presses close to Martin’s side while they walk, well. It’s just because every brush of unfamiliar contact against him feels overwhelming, enough so to make him flinch away. And if he takes Martin’s hand for a small period of time, well. It’s just because the crowd has thickened and he doesn’t want them to get separated. And if he feels particularly warm in his jacket when Martin laughs awkwardly at his own joke and rubs at the back of his neck, well. That’s just from exertion. It is quite a far walk to the restaurant.

The bistro is lovely. Jon typically doesn’t go for places like this—tucked between two nondescript buildings with a glass front that reveals soft, intimate lighting within and flowers planted in boxes outside—but once they’re inside and seated at their table, it’s… oddly charming. Jon shrugs out of his jacket, and even though it’s the same shirt he’s been wearing all day, Martin compliments him on it with a flush. The change from frigid winter air to the warmth of the bistro brings heat to Jon’s face as well, and he rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves to just below his elbows. Martin makes a choking sound, but when Jon looks up with a frown, he has his glass of water pressed to his lips.

“Sorry,” Martin says once he’s placed the glass back on the table. “Just, um. Uh. Tickle in my throat. A-Allergies, you know.”

Martin’s face pinches in what looks like a repressed wince, and Jon tries to be reassuring. After all, Martin is taking time out of his schedule to be here with Jon, and Jon doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. His grandmother taught him proper manners, and besides, he is… rather glad to be here.

His commiseration about his own experiences with seasonal allergies turns into a mini-lecture on the species of pollen-producing plants in their area. He only realizes he’s doing it when the waiter comes by with a cheery smile and asks if they’re ready to order.

Jon’s mouth snaps shut mid-sentence. He has not even opened his menu.

“I. Um.” Jon is about to ask for more time—which he strongly dislikes doing, as he’s had the waiting staff forget more than once about his table and he’s had to go through the mortifying ordeal of hailing them down like a-a bloody taxi—when Martin tilts his own menu toward Jon and points to an item in the middle of the page.

“They have chicken karahi and naan. I, er. I heard it’s good if you’re… interested.”

Jon blinks at the menu in surprise. “That… sounds great, actually. Er, medium spice, please.”

Martin orders his own squash curry, and the waiter takes their menus when he departs, leaving the spot in front of Jon oddly empty. Jon taps his fingers on the newly barren tabletop a few times, trying and failing to remember where he’d left off in his lecture. Ultimately, he gives up, deciding that Martin isn’t going to be interested in hearing about all of that and he’s already said enough on the subject.

Then, Martin says, “So, you were saying—about the pollen?” and something in Jon’s chest squeezes, an emotion he doesn’t know the name of. Relief, maybe, as Martin’s words manage to spark his memory and he picks up his train of thought again easily enough. Yes, that’s… that’s probably it.

The first few times they’d gone to lunch, Jon had made an effort to stop himself from rambling, as he was prone to do any time someone gave him the opportunity. He’d engrossed himself in his sandwiches and rice bowls and mediocre Chinese takeaway in order to keep from launching into an explanation of the origins of said folding takeaway containers or the documentary he’d watched recently about the Zhou dynasty. And the first few lunches had been… awkward. It wasn’t because Jon thought Martin was a murderer—he doesn’t think he’d have agreed to go for lunch if he truly believed that Martin might harm him. It was just… how things like this went when Jon was involved. He knows he struggles with casual conversation, and he’s never understood the purpose or execution of ‘small talk.’ He would be perfectly content to eat and exist in silence, except all too often he feels expected to provide some sort of conversation or entertainment, upon which point the silence becomes horribly oppressive and stress-inducing.

But he also knows that talking too much can be just as bad as not talking enough. His grandmother had always told him so. So he suffered through the awkward silences for the first few days, and Martin had let him, clearly assuming that if Jon wasn’t speaking, he shouldn’t either.

Then, around their fourth or fifth lunch together, Martin had begun to ask him questions. They were casual, genuine, and so clearly targeted at Jon’s interests that Jon was convinced that Martin was somehow following him home or searching through his computer history or—or something. On their eighth lunch together, Martin asked Jon about the newest exhibit at the museum—it had been about sharks, if Jon remembers correctly—and Jon couldn’t help asking how Martin knew that he’d gone to see it. He hadn’t explicitly asked if Martin had been following him, but he’s sure the sentiment was clear in his eyes.

The tips of Martin’s cheeks had grown red, and he’d said that Jon had mentioned a few days prior that he was planning on going. All traces of fear and paranoia had left Jon’s mind then, replaced by surprise and, beneath it, something warm and bubbly. Martin had remembered.

Their conversations had gotten a lot easier after that.

Despite how Martin seems to enjoy Jon’s long-winded tangents, he… does still make an effort not to hold a completely one-sided conversation. So, a few minutes into the continuation of his pollen discussion, he finds a natural stopping point and says, “So, er. You… like being outside?”

Not the most… articulated question Jon has ever asked. But Martin doesn’t seem to mind. His fingers curl around the bottom of his water glass, his palms smudging the condensation. “Yeah, w-when I can find the time, I suppose. I-I try to go for walks around my neighborhood if I can, if it’s not too dark by the time I get home, and there’s this park in—”

Martin cuts off with a small cough. He lifts his glass and takes a long sip, while Jon sits and drums his fingers against the table and tries not to bounce his leg too noticeably. “Sorry,” Martin says as soon as the glass leaves his lips, giving Jon an apologetic smile that somehow seems… artificial. Like it’s been plastered atop another, heavier expression. “S-Something in my throat again.” He hesitates, then continues, “There’s a park in Devon that I-I like, whenever I’m in that area.”

Devon’s quite a trip away, Jon thinks but doesn’t say. Why do you go to Devon? he doesn’t say. Is that where you go on Saturdays? he doesn’t say, because—well. It’s rather embarrassing, among other things, to admit to the fact that you’ve gone through your employee’s desk calendar because you thought he might have shot an old woman three times in the chest and had plans to do the same to you. Particularly when you are having dinner with said employee.

Ugh. Probably best not to think about the fact that he is technically Martin’s boss when he’s sitting three feet away from him at a candlelit table on what, to an outside observer, might look startlingly similar to a date.

But it’s not a date. Because Martin didn’t say it was a date, and he’s just trying to care for Jon, in that… over-the-top way that he does. Jon tries to muster up some irritation at the reminder that he’s likely being coddled, just for habit’s sake, but comes up empty.

He hasn’t been truly irritated with Martin in quite some time. He… doesn’t really know when that changed. When Martin became a source of comfort, rather than of annoyance.

“Jon?” Martin says. Right. Martin is still sitting across from him.

“Right,” Jon says, trying to sound like he hasn’t been drifting off in a hundred different directions. “That sounds… nice.”

Martin’s lips curl up into a small smile. “Yeah. I-It is. It, um. It makes the trip worth it, to be able to sit on one of the benches and just… write poetry.”

Jon has read some of Martin’s poetry, though Martin doesn’t know that. Jon doesn’t like poetry. Jon liked Martin’s poetry. These are, apparently, two truths that can and do coexist.

Jon does not mean to say, “Could I hear one?” But it appears that he is weary enough and relaxed enough and distracted enough that his verbal filter has small, critical holes in it. Damn.

Martin sputters. “U-Um, well, I-I suppose… I could, I-I do have a few, er. M-Memorized, if you—you really…” He trails off uncertainly. “You’re. Um. You’re sure?”

Well. Nothing to do but lean into it, Jon supposes. “I wouldn’t have asked if I weren’t sure, Martin,” he says, a bit snippier than he intends. The tips of his ears are hot, and he is deeply thankful that the dimness of the bistro hides the way they’re surely darkening.

“R-Right.” Martin clears his throat, looks down at the table. “I-I suppose I’ll just… do a short one?”

He proceeds to recite, in quiet, surprisingly stutterless lines, one of the poems that Jon already knows from the notebooks he’d left behind in the Archives. It’s… his favorite, if he were forced to pick one. But there is something different—something more—about hearing Martin speak the words aloud rather than simply reading them on a page. Martin pauses in places Jon hadn’t thought to pause, lingers on words he hadn’t thought to linger on, and adds a softness to the ends of lines and phrases that Jon finds himself enraptured by.

Logically, he knows that it’s not good poetry. He’d begrudgingly taken a poetry class during uni, had hated every minute of it, and had donated all of his books to charity shops the moment he wasn’t in need of them anymore. He’s read Dickens and Poe and Whitman—all the works that are considered great representations of their art form.

Martin’s poetry is nothing like theirs. His lines don’t follow the same rhythms; his words are clumsier, his images less profound. But still, even though Jon knows that it is technically not good poetry, he… he likes it.

He tries not to analyze that feeling too closely.

“So, um. Yeah,” Martin says after he finishes, rubbing his thumb over his ring. “I-It’s not really… great work, heh, you know, s-sorry.”

Jon is not the comforting sort. He’s been told that he’s too sharp at the edges, skin too full of spines and thorns. So he surprises himself, and probably his grandmother from beyond the grave, when he reaches across the table and takes Martin’s hand in his. It’s soft and big, the pads of Martin’s fingers lightly calloused from a past history of manual labor, and Jon thinks just for a moment how small his own hands look in Martin’s. He surprises himself even more when he says, honestly, “I enjoyed it, Martin.”

Martin blinks at him, eyes wide and owlish. His hand is rigid in Jon’s, like he’s afraid that if he moves, he’ll frighten Jon away like a skittish cat. “O-Oh.” It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but Jon thinks Martin might be blushing. “Well. T-Thanks.”

Jon nods once stiffly. He does not retract his hand. At first, it’s because he doesn’t think to do so, too wrapped up in the feeling of his skin against Martin’s. Then, it’s because it’s been long enough that doing so would be more awkward than keeping his hand there. He asks Martin about the inspiration behind the poem, for want of another conversation topic, and Martin talks about the trip he took to the countryside once and how it stuck with him, and Jon’s hand remains atop Martin’s. Martin takes a drink from his glass, and Jon takes a drink from his, but both of them use their free hands, as if in unspoken agreement that this is just how things are now. Jon’s hand is resting atop Martin’s and it will be until he has just cause to move it and that is just the way of the universe. Nothing to be done about it.

Their food comes, and looking extremely regretful about the fact, Martin extracts his hand from underneath Jon’s and reaches for his fork. They don’t mention the loss, and it’s quiet for a period of time while Jon eats his chicken karahi and Martin eats his squash curry and Jon tries not to openly moan at how good the food is.

Something must show on his face, because Martin smiles warmly at him and says, “Well? Was that Yelp reviewer correct when they said that the chicken karahi is ‘literally the best food they’ve ever eaten in their entire life’?”

Jon swallows a bite of admittedly very good chicken. “Well. I don’t know that I would quite go to that extreme, but it is rather enjoyable.” Reminds me of the way my grandmother used to make it, he doesn’t say. That feels like a date conversation, and this isn’t a date.

(It feels very much like a date.)

(It isn’t a date.)

“Good,” Martin says. Then, he smiles, wide and unabashed and like a ray of sunlight, and Jon quickly buries himself in his food again so he doesn’t say something foolish like I really like it when you smile at me like that or Is this a date? or I would very much like this to be a date.

They finish eating, and the waiter takes away their plates with the promise of bringing the check soon. Jon’s hands rest on the table, index finger fiddling with the edge of the cloth placemat in front of him. He’s in the middle of trying to convince himself that yes, it would be ridiculous to take Martin’s hand again, you should definitely not do that on this very much not-a-date, when Martin reaches out and takes Jon’s hand in his. Properly takes it, pressing their palms together and slotting his fingers easily between Jon’s and knocking their rings together as he squeezes gently.

“Um,” Jon says eloquently. He should very much not ask if this is a date. “What are you doing?”

Nope, that’s worse. That’s definitely worse.

“Oh!” Martin lets go of Jon’s hand immediately, and Jon does not try to chase Martin’s hand as it retracts, thank you very much. He’s more dignified than that. “S-Sorry, I thought… I, um. Never mind. I-I shouldn’t have… sorry. Again.”

“It’s fine,” Jon finds himself saying. Then, in an effort to do damage control: “I… didn’t mind.”

“You… didn’t?” Martin seems confused, which is understandable. If Georgie were here, she’d tell him that he’s giving, quote, ‘mixed signals.’ He’d never quite understood what counts as ‘mixed signals,’ and he doesn’t know that he ever will.

“I did not,” Jon confirms. “I just… I suppose I…”

He should not ask if this is a date. He really, really shouldn’t.

“Is this a-a date?”

It appears he’s found another one of the holes in his verbal filter. Lovely.

Martin’s eyes grow impossibly wider. He makes a series of sputtering sounds as Jon waits and tries not to bounce a hole through the floor with the heel of his foot. “You—you didn’t…” Martin seems to have a miniature internal debate with himself, his face cycling through a dozen different expressions over the next few seconds. Finally, he sighs and says, eyes fixated on the table between them, “I had… intended it to be. Though I suppose if—if you didn’t know it was a date, that. Um. Kind of defeats the purpose.”

“Does it?” Jon’s mouth says without his permission.

“I-I mean… you can’t really have a one-sided date,” Martin says with an awkward laugh. The waiter is nowhere to be seen, which Jon is grateful for and disheartened by in equal measure. This situation would certainly be easier with a convenient escape.

“I… suppose.” Jon worries at the edge of the placemat, pulling on a loose thread. “Though, it’s… if this were a date—or, I suppose, if I-I’d known it was meant to be a date—I… wouldn’t have acted much differently.” He pulls harder at the thread, feeling a bit bad for the way the fabric bunches around it. “I… would not have been… that is to say, I would have liked it if… rather, to say that I didn’t think about it would be, er… well, incorrect.”

Martin stares at him, clearly unable to make sense of Jon’s admittedly disjointed, half-finished sentences. Jon sighs and says, under his breath, “I am not opposed to considering tonight a date.”

Martin’s cheeks are red enough now that Jon can see the flush, even in the dim light. “U-Um. What?”

“I am not opposed,” Jon repeats, louder, “to considering tonight a date.” Lord, that’s mortifying to say out loud. How do people do this? To emphasize his point, he sticks his hand out, palm-up on the table. It’s stiff and awkward and he probably looks like a cat with its hackles raised. He focuses on the cable knit of Martin’s jumper so he doesn’t have to see whatever amused or mocking or disappointed expression is on Martin’s face as he realizes just how bad Jon is at all of this.

Martin is quiet for a moment. Then, just as Jon is about to pull his hand away and flee for the exit, he feels a touch against his palm. Martin’s hand settles tentatively atop his—not weaving their fingers together, not even properly holding it, just… pressing together, palm to palm. Jon can feel Martin’s heartbeat faintly against the tips of his fingers where they press against the inside of Martin’s wrist. “Okay,” Martin says softly, like Jon has just given him a precious gift. “Then it’s a date.”

It’s a date. Jon’s skin has absolutely no reason to prickle at those words, nor does his stomach have any reason to squeeze and sprout butterflies. He nods, a bit brusquely, and opens his mouth to say something—god knows what—when the waiter appears next to their table, somehow having both comically bad and impossibly good timing.

Martin pays, despite Jon’s insistence that he can cover his own share, and then they’re back out in the cool night air, making their way toward the tube station. The first few minutes are quiet. There’s a tension between them that feels more anticipatory than awkward. Their hands brush once, twice. Then, on the third time, Martin hooks his fingers around Jon’s and clasps his hand in his, and Jon lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

They hold hands all the way to the tube station, up until they have to part ways to take separate lines. Jon runs through all the things that he thinks he’s supposed to say in a situation like this—I had fun tonight or We should do this again sometime or… something—but ends up saying instead, “How long have you…?”

He trails off, squeezing Martin’s hand a few times thoughtlessly, like a warm, bony stress ball. Martin seems to infer the rest of his question, however, because he squeezes Jon’s hand in return and says, “It’s… new for me too, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jon nods and squeezes Martin’s hand again. He thinks that’s going to become quite a habit if they keep this up. “Right.”

Martin hesitates, before letting his grip on Jon’s hand loosen slightly. “We… we don’t have to do this again if you don’t want to. I-I know things are complicated right now, and I…” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “I want to do this again, for… for what it’s worth. But I get it. If you don’t, that is. For—for any reason.”

“I do,” Jon says, surprising himself with his conviction. “I-I don’t… you’re right. Things are… complicated.” That’s certainly a word for it. “But I… I trust you, Martin. O-Or… I want to trust you.” He takes a deep breath. “I am making the decision to trust you.” It’s hard and it’s terrifying and there’s an animal instinct deep within Jon that’s telling him not to expose his vulnerable side, but… somehow, despite all of that, Martin makes him feel… well. Not safe, but as close to safe as he can get right now. Which is an accomplishment in its own right.

Martin exhales slowly and gives Jon a small, hesitant smile. “Thank you. I-I know that’s difficult, and I…” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand, just once. “I-I’m happy.”

And Jon finds that he means it when he says softly, “I’m happy too.”

Martin gets on his train, and Jon gets on his. And despite the ever-present itching beneath his skin and the persistent belief that something isn’t right and the knowledge that he is likely a hunted man, from the moment he lets go of Martin’s hand to the moment he closes his eyes and curls onto his side in bed, that happiness remains.

[voiceless-terror]

My TMA Fluff Fics

 For @themagnuswriters latest challenge, I decided to go through my eighty-some fics on ao3 and find only the purest-grade, quality fluff I could find. No angst here! A grab bag of pairings but mostly jonmartin. 

Day in the Sun | Rating: G | Words: 1.1k | Pairing: Archive Polycule

“Speaking of your men,” Melanie sat up and whipped off her sunglasses, squinting intensely at the shoreline. “What exactly are they trying to do? Drown him?”

The Archives Gang has a Beach Holiday. That's it, that's the fic.

Hurry, I’m Behind You! | Rating: T | Words: 2.6k | Pairing: Gen

Jon and Melanie help with Daisy's hunger in an unconventional way.

Alternatively titled 'The Gang Plays Hide and Seek!'

Truth or Dare | Rating: T | Words: 1.6k | Pairing: Jon/Martin

Jon chooses truth. Martin chooses dare. These choices have their consequences.

The team goes to a bar after work and discoveries are made by all.

My Dearest | Rating: G | Words: 1.1k | Pairing: Jon/Martin

“Pass me the towel, dear?”

“Ah y-yes, of course.”

Martin has a million pet names for Jon. Jon attempts to reciprocate.

What a Lovely Way to Burn | Rating: G | Words: 1.6k | Pairing: Jon/Tim

Jon's next words were muffled against Tim’s chest. “You always do that. You always warm me up.”

“Why Jon,” Tim's voice took on an unbearable, teasing tone as his smile grew. “Are you saying I’m so hot I made you sick?”

Jon comes in to work sick and Tim takes care of his boyfriend.

The Weight of Love | Rating: G | Words: 1.6k | Pairing: Jon/Martin

Jon is a restless sleeper. Martin attempts to adjust.

The Best Things Come in Threes | Rating: T | Words: 2.3k | Pairing: Jon/Gerry/Martin

In which Martin and Gerry help Jon acquire a cat, among other things.

Trial and Error | Rating: G | Words: 1.3k | Pairing: Jon/Martin/Tim

And if Martin sleeps like the dead, Jon does the opposite. It’s not that he’s woken up at all, no, but he’s constantly rolling around, climbing on top of them at strange and uncomfortable angles. Tim wouldn’t mind the clinging so much if he didn’t change position every fifteen minutes with a jab of his pointy elbows.

In which Martin and Jon sleepover and Tim struggles.

Of Deadlines and Drama | Rating: T | Words: 2.5 k | Pairing: Jon/Tim

Jon's expenses are overdue. Tim hatches a plan to help him out.

Afterwards | Rating: G | Words: 1.2k | Pairing: Jon/Martin

If Martin had realized how difficult this was going to be, he would’ve left Jon at home. They’d already left ‘at the wrong time, Martin, everyone goes on a Saturday, it’ll be so crowded’ and parked in a ‘terrible spot, Martin, right by the carts, we’ll be lucky if we don’t get a dent in the car.’

Martin and Jon go grocery shopping.

Full of Surprises | Rating: G | Words: 907 | Pairing: Jon/Martin

“Oh, look at this little man-” It’s not quite baby-talk, too serious and too Jonathan Sims to ever be described that way, but it’s a strange enough tone and it sort of does something to Martin in the vein of indigestion and heart palpitations. Here’s his stuffy boss, crouching in a dirty alleyway, petting a dirty cat, and whispering sweet nothings as if it were his own.

In which Jon pets a cat and Martin gets a crush.

A Little Kiss | Rating: G | Words: 1.8k | Pairing: Jon/Martin

Tim watches the two of them; Martin keeps looking up at Jon throughout it all like he’s the only one in the room and god, his crush is so evident and yet Jon is oblivious, smiling at him like he’s not on the receiving end of some of the most loaded glances of all time.

A game of truth or dare reveals some truths.

And Many Happy Returns | Rating: G | Words: 5.7k | Pairing: Gen, Pre Jon/Martin

It’s not every day you turn eight. It’s a nice number, very even and divisible. Much better than boring old seven. When Jon turns eight, he’s going to get fifteen extra minutes added to his curfew, and he’ll be able to walk to the corner store all by himself. He’s already walked there several times, but it’ll be nice to have permission. That’s the real treat.

In which it's Martin's birthday, and Jon plans a little celebration.

a continuation of Inseparable, where Jon and Martin meet as children.

[bibliocratic]

clear the area jonmartin, post-MAG200 content warnings in the tags

They earn their ending. A happy-ever-after beyond the gaze of any eyes.

Jon endures his abdication. This world has no Archivists, has need of none, the thankless crown of Knowing finally unburdened from his shoulders. The blood washes off Martin’s hands with soap and scrubbing and scalding water. They live.

The end. In conclusion. Fin.

-

Jon’s new scar, the packaging of his skin split ragged from collarbone to sternum, fades like sun-caught paint. A maw of red pursing to a gummy primrose pink, settling into a rough cartography of white.

The first few months are hard. Brimstone flare-up silences and ice-pick shouting, open-handed forgiveness and closed-fist weeping. They drain themselves to husks with anger and worry and grief until there is enough space for better things to grow there in their stead. Jon’s nightmares were a nightly stormfront to bear, sweated sheets and dawn fanfares of panic and dread, but he is learning now, with the space for his ribs to expand, that it is ok for them to breathe here.

Jon digs up the garden with a rusty trowel until it is a bumpy canvas of mulch and soil, dirt tucked under his fingernails and decorated with smudges up to his elbows. He hums while he irons their shirts in front of the television, thoughtless and senseless with tune.

Martin has tried to, but the sound goes down the wrong way.

-

Martin is happy.

-

It isn’t the sight as such, that might sit as a film over his vision to tinge his waking sepia. The reddest thing they own is a terracotta plant plot brimming with raggedy thyme that lives a precarious cliff-top existence on the kitchen windowsill. He observes Jon’s face in all its variations, even pained – when he snags splinters in his fingers, when he stubs his toe on the stone front step and swears damnation – and his response is sympathy tempered by admonishment.

It’s not the sensation, not really, that might tremble on his skin. Martin’s palms tend to dryness inside their homely bubble of creaky central heating, hemmed in by boisterous coastal winds. He handles bread knives and butter knives and steak knives and carving knives without the muscle memory of other blades, and he thinks he might be getting pretty handy with his oven experimentation.

It’s the sound. It wakes him, the noise lingering like the echo of a slap.

The slick punch of metal into muscle. A tooth-bared, tense-jawed gasp.

Resurfacing to shocked consciousness, he would be seized by a frenzy, to know, to check. His scattering hand scrabbling for the lamp with such force he hit it off the nightstand to roll in a giddy clatter, throwing off the covers to rapidly pollute both of them with the outside air. Jon would be rocked from sleep, groggy, panicked, and Martin’s words would not come, a train of thought trying to race full steam where no one had laid tracks, so it would be just the two of them, exhausted and upset and amping the other up in misery.

Now, upon his rousing, Martin knows not to turn on the light. He does not check. The aftermath of punch-gasp curls in his ear, and he inhale-exhale-inhales with the ferocity of mantra, and clamps the threatened tears in the clench of his teeth.

He does not wake Jon.

-

“How did you sleep?”

“Oh, you know me. Like a log.”

-

He is happy. He is. Why wouldn’t he be?

--

Jon rumbles like a rusty mechanism with snoring whenever he drops off on his back, and he mumbles accusatory when Martin coaxes him to his side. Martin finds black hairs on his pillowcase, in the shower plug. Jon is a vista of experience since the Eye left him, who gets hungry and tired and grumpy and drunk and silly and fed-up and giggly. Jon searches him out with the surety of magnets, and loves him, loves him, loves him. He seals kisses to Martin’s new landscape of extensive scars. Their disagreements, when they surface, are as meaningful and lasting as stones skipped on water.

Martin wanted this. He wants this. The rhythms of domesticity fading to foam on an untroubled shore.

He is out of practise with happiness, that’s all. It doesn’t come to him like breathing. He needs to till the earth of it, shelter its seeds from a thousand circling crows until it bears harvest.

He just has to try harder.

-

Night-time.

An episode or two of something simple, Jon nodding off like a capsizing ship before the credits. Encouraging him up in grousing, unwilling increments, rubbing out the nettle sting of pins and needles up his own arm. Check the locks, the light switches. Brush teeth. Pyjamas. Put his phone to charge, read until Jon succumbs to sleep. Click the light off, pushing Jon onto his side so his mouth doesn’t dry. Jon squirming around like a fastidious octopus until he has at least half his limbs hooked over Martin.

The dark creating shadow play. In the absence, Martin colouring in the gaps with lurid shades of disaster.

A creak – the rattle of a door downstairs, an intruder unfastening the back door, transferring their weight upon the staircase. A unfamiliar scent – the recollection of smoke-stench in his nostrils, the acrid promise of gas, the ferrous pungency of blood. The rain will flood their house to drown them. The wind will blow their roof in. Jon hooks his leg around Martin, the skin void of hair where Daisy’s mouth had almost torn it off, and all he can envision is the ways this could be destroyed as he watches.

Bundle Jon close. Ignore the rain, the itch at the bottom of his stomach, the queasy roil of his fear. Drift into unkind sleep populated with its garden of earthly terrors.

-

Martin is… not happy. Not exactly. And that’s fine. It’s fine.

-

Jon is happy.

-

Jon, rubbing at the compression lines around his hips, the accusatory splay of the top button refusing to budge closed:

“I can’t fit into my jeans.”

Martin enfolds him from behind, planting his palms over the slight paunch of Jon’s stomach, filled out through sensible eating and small indulgences and a hunger that will never be ravenous but has restored its human qualities.

“Hmm. It’s a good look on you. Healthier.”

“Or it’s middle age.”

“Or it’s eating things that aren’t tea and meal-deal sandwiches.”

“Or other people’s terror.”

“Oh yes, you’re right, I completely forgot about your subsistence diet of eldritch and unbidden horrors in a luscious wholegrain wrap, forgive me.”

Jon laughs at that. The sound has not yet lost its novelty for either of them.

He shifts, turns, his arms a buoy around Martin’s stomach.

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Must be all the clean air,” Martin quips. “All that healthy living.”

-

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

When his heart has wound down from the pace of its gallop, he extricates himself from Jon’s grip. It is a laborious task to find the places where they’ve joined in the night and pull them apart, like separating fabric snagged on rosebushes.

He gets some water from the cold tap in the kitchen. Sits heavily on the sofa, the room cossetted by the gloom.

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

His hands shake.

He doesn’t go back to bed.

-

He isn’t happy, but he could grow to be. He could. He could. He just isn’t trying hard enough.

-

Some days, he feels like he’s waiting for the ice to give under them.

Check the passers-by as they walk. Anyone familiar, any teeth filed too sharp, anything animal or blood-shot, any eyes that glance too deep.

Check the oven. The gas knobs are angled to off but a leak is not impossible in a house this old, their alarm might malfunction, they might fall asleep and some spark from a plug socket could catch and incite a conflagration.  

Check the window latches. The opening wide enough for a body to squirm through, the claws of a Hunter marring the sill. Wriggling infestations that invade through the letter box, the keyhole, the gap under the door where the wind can whistle through.

Check. Check. Check.

-

Jon is happy. Jon has a job, work friends, a hundred small luxuries that he has struggled to earn. Jon is happy, so why can’t he be? He went through so much less, the blood washed off easily with soap, what the fuck does he have to cry over –

-

Martin has always crafted his masks from scrap, tongue out in concentration, piecing things together in low light, a make-do-and-mend of his own devising. His early efforts, the paper mâché and glue easily cracked before he learned to shore up his constructions. He has a small collection garnered over years.

The quiet-voiced, muffled-stepped, muted-smiled creation of a Good Son.

The zipped-mouth, no-refusals-no-complaints-yes-of-course-how-high earnestness of the Good Employee, the desperation sanded off the edges so no one could see.

The I’ll-get-the-first-round friendliness, the open-handed, open-hearted, too-naïve Good Colleague.

This new mask forms in increments, in the same way a rising mound of dirt marks the extent of a grave being dug.

He doesn’t mean to. It’s just he’s better at not talking about things. He always has been. And it is an ugly, easy comfort, to slip back into bad habits.

And Jon is happy.

All the things Martin does not wish to permit the light to touch he compresses inside like shaken soda. The rot in him deepens structural, the places where he papers over moulds and fungal speckles with the distraction of their new life. His smile parades simple, contented, cheeky, teasing, and there is a meticulous artistry in each. He sketches interest, paints joy, manufactures irritation out of the clay of nothingness that he allows himself to feel instead of the overwhelming rush of everything else.

I love you, his mouth murmurs, laughs, sighs, groans, and that at least is always true.

The mask of a Good Partner slips on tailor-made.

-

They find their nine-to-fives. Jon’s job is uneventful, boring, and nowhere near an Archive. He works in a registry office for the council, filing and organising and he’s cheerfully lied on his CV in order to get it. He gets the bus and texts Martin grumpy faces and GIFs summarising his mood when he gets suck in the commute or some idiot parks in a bus lane, he has a couple of colleagues he likes and a greater number that he tolerates, he gets a hot chocolate from this universe’s overpriced multinational chain on his lunch hour. When he gets home, he complains with delight at the mundanity of his dissatisfactions, regales Martin with tales of meagre drama.

Martin gets a cleaning job at a school. It is monotonous, dull and safe. Martin loses track of the time easily, quagmired in his musings. The children are wary of him and his visible scarring but it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. The teachers are friendly enough, as well as the other cleaning staff, but he does not make friends. They’ll have to move anyway, if anything finds them here, if the Fears emerge again.

Martin tries not to feel like he’s waiting.

-

He wants to have a good night’s sleep.

-

“I’ll have breakfast at the school, don’t worry.”

“There were some leftovers from the canteen, so I’m kind of full.”

“It was one of the teacher’s birthdays, you know, Denise? Heh, might have had a bit too much cake. I’ll pop this in the fridge for later though, it’ll keep till tomorrow.”

“I’m just not that hungry tonight, Jon.”

-

He feels sharper when he doesn’t eat. It is uncomfortable, a scratched-out, hollowing sensation, but things focus more. He can control nothing else but this, and it feels good, to have this mastery over himself when so much is beyond him.

He drops down notches on his belt and tells Jon it’s all the walking he’s doing.

-

The world continues to happen to them. He goes to the cinema with Jon and picks at popcorn and encourages Jon’s outraged opinion. He meets Jon’s mildly interesting work friends and plays nice and excels at small talk, and he drinks half a cider that he nurses over the evening because it’s making his head fuggy. His body communicates its sharpness to him and he gains grim satisfaction from ignoring it. He goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep and goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep.

Martin does his best at living, and his mask doesn’t slip.

-

“You seem tired,” Jon pries his words out carefully, picking them out of his teeth as one would scraps. “Is… is everything ok?”

“Yeah, sure it is. Why?”

“…  you seem a bit down today. Recently. Is anything… is there anything you want to talk about?”

“I’ve just been working too hard. Been a while since I had to do double-shifts, heh, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“If you’re sure?”

Jon shifts to a different position where he’s sat on the sofa, his legs tucking up under him. Martin endures his questioning gaze with practise.

“Yeah, I’m all good.”

Martin delivers a hand-crafted smile that’s gilded heavily with guilelessness and reassurance. He watches as Jon believes him and hates himself.

-

“You know… You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you can – you know you can talk to me, Martin?”

Martin’s eyes focus on Jon’s chest at the point where a knife once sunk in, and doesn’t reply.

-

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

Jon has twisted over onto his back again, rattling like a chain-smoker’s cough with his snoring. They were quiet that evening, tangled up in their own thoughts, but there is none of that distance in sleep. During the night, Jon’s wormed himself out of the covers with a single-minded determination, his restless legs squashing the duvet to the bottom of the bed on his side, encouraging Martin’s to follow suit.

He’s shirtless, his top chucked off to pile unceremoniously on the floor. The temperature is ripe with a burgeoning summer heat, and Jon tosses and complains if he’s overwarm, and Martin didn’t think he’d get to feel the drudgery of another lived summer. He’s shirtless, and the room is palled in sweltering dark that softens the vague shapes of the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the knickknacks of the life they’re building together. He’s shirtless, and Martin cannot see where the scar is, the only scar of Jon’s he has ever thought ugly, but he knows it is there. That he put it there. That he could just as easily be waking up alone.

His body pains him to live in it. His stomach tight and bottomed out empty.

He is so so tired.

Martin’s heartbeat does not slow down. His chest constricting, and he swallows, a sharp sound hiccupping in his throat. He stifles it with a forceful sniff but more come as a painful spasming wave, and he has to sit up if any air is to dribble into his lungs.

He should get up. He has to get up, do this in the bathroom, doubled-over the sink, stifling his weakness where it cannot be witnessed. He cannot do this here.

Punch. Gasp.

His burning face is soaked as he bunches up his sleeves against his reddening eyes. A calming exhale drains out shaky, moulds itself into another loud sob. He plants his hands over his mouth, screwing his eyes closed, and this will pass, he’s fine, this will pass…

“Martin?”

I’m sorry to wake you, he thinks to say. It’s nothing, go back to sleep, stop looking at me Jon, I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s nothing, it’s nothing…

His shoulders start to shake.

“Martin?” Jon repeats slowly. And the ice creaks and cracks and Martin gasps and then it breaks, and the force of his damned-up grief is tidal, catastrophic and he sobs into his hands.

“It’s… it’s alright – it’s… it was a nightmare, that’s all, ‘s alright…”

“It’s not!” Martin bubbles out, the words mashed to a wail in his hands. “It’s not, it’s not, it’ll ruin this…”

“Hey.” Jon brings his arm around Martin and he buries his head in the bony crook of his shoulder because he does not want to meet Jon’s eyes. “What do you mean? Martin?”

Jon rubs at his back. Martin’s body betrays him in a hundred ways as it collapses around him. His weeping wrings him out, dry-mouthed and headachy and trembling when he subsides into shivery breaths.

“Talk to me,” Jon says. “Please.”

“You’re so happy,” Martin sniffs out. “I-I want you to be happy, god, o-of course I do. Things are, they’re good, they’re good and we won, s-s-so why does it feel like I’m still holding my breath? I-I go to bed and I’m frightened of every noise, and I wake up and I’m terrified that someone somehow could take this all away, and I can’t sleep, and I-I’m tired, Jon, I’m tired of holding my breath, and it’s all – it’s all so much a-a-a-and I can’t – ”

“Oh, Martin – ”

His words fail him then. Jon holds him up and his arms do not loosen.

“We-we’re going to fix this,” Jon says after a long while. “I promise you, together, we’ll – we’ll talk to someone. You aren’t alone in this. Together, alright, we’ll do this together. We’ve survived – everything else, we can get through this too.”

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” Martin says, too drained to avoid honesty.

“…Maybe not yet,” Jon says after a pause. “That’s OK. I can wait.”

I’m sorry, Martin attempts to say but Jon presses a kiss to his forehead.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Jon says. He strokes Martin’s sweat-soaked hair.

“… Can we talk? Tomorrow? You don’t have to tell me everything, but… I’d like to be there for you, if you want me. If you’ll let me.”

Martin nods because he doesn’t trust his gummed-up throat. Jon takes that as an answer.

Dawn comes in slowly enough but they see it in together.

[misterghostfrog]

[IMAGE ID; a digital drawing of Martin Blackwood carrying Jonathan Sims from The Magnus Archives. Martin is a fat freckled white man with curly ginger hair that is shaved close at the sides. He has a pair of round framed glasses in a bright red, under the glasses he is wearing eyeliner, and a navy eyeshadow. He has black lipstick, two black snakebite piercings under his lip, and a small black nostril piercing. His ear has a large black piercing that cuffs a chain to a small black piercing higher up his ear, and one final black piercing in the middle. He has a black choker, and then a looser chain necklace with an eye ornament on it. He has a studded lather jacket on that is covered in multiple patches and pins, mostly hidden by Jon: of the visible pins there is a trans flag patch on his chest, and on his shoulder is a large dark colored patch that has A-C-A-B on it in white. Under the Jacket is a black shirt that he has partly tucked into his pants, the shirt has a large anarchy symbol drawn on it in red. Under that he is wearing jeans that are significantly ripped as far as we can see. On his right hand he has several black rings, and his nails are painted black. Jon is a skinny Jordanian man with brown eyes and shoulder-length grey-streaked dark brown hair pulled back into a messy ponytail at the base of his neck. He has a beard beginning to grow that appears to be the product of forgetting to shave. He is covered in a series of small round scars that vary in exact size. He is wearing a pair of rectangle-framed glasses, a plain t-shirt, a pair of jeans that are ripped at the knee, and converse. Martin is carrying Jon bridal style in his arms, and is looking away, he is blushing, though his expression is concerned and appears to be speaking. Jon has his arms wrapped around Martins neck, his cheeks are darkened and he is staring at hte ground with an expression somewhere between fear and the face one makes when they’re having to retrace every step they’ve taken to get here. END ID]

Punk Martin but make it Jonmartin.

Also I wrote a lil thing to go along with this under the cut, its only barely edited because it was mostly for fun so be warned its a big ol mess! But its s2 jonmartin nonsense with Martin being very cool and attractive and Jon being seven layers deep in denial (Also I may have written Jon as a touch autistic because its projection hours tonight i’m too sleepy to mask and that goes for writing too babey)

(Mentions of worms, past injuries, and Jon dealing with some internalised ableism and general foolishness)

Jon forgot his cane.

It’s a relatively regular occurrence, for a multitude of reasons. For one thing it’s something of a recent addition to the list of things he needs to keep track of when he leaves the house. Another lovely parting gift from Prentiss, a worm in his left leg that went just quick enough to start burrowing into the bone before it was removed. 

For another, he really has other things to worry about. And if it doesn’t hurt, it shouldn’t matter. Most days he can get by just fine without it- it hurts of course. But not so much he can’t support himself, and really, does he need it otherwise?

Martin and Tim don’t seem to agree, though Sasha has kept respectfully to herself on the whole business. Martin, of course, he trusts. Albeit only recently. But that doesn’t make him right, his priorities are warped. Naturally. He doesn’t see the bigger picture.

(or at least that’s what Jon tells himself)

Which is what leads to this moment, sitting on a bench outside the shop, single grocery bag by his feet. He’d only run out to get a few things, but somewhere between the his flat the the shop his barely visible limp had become more pronounced as his hip began to throb, then he was halfway through the frozens when he realized he wasn’t going to be able to finish the trip. After that he’d barely made it through checkout to the nearest seat before all but collapsing into it.

And now he’s sitting, stuck. An insurmountable walk from home, without his stupid cane. Which, he notes, he wouldn’t need if he’d brought in the first place. Funny how that works.

“Jon?” A familiar voice jolts him out of his thoughts. Jon jolts upright. Martin. 

He knows Martin lives in the area, a side effect of his... investigations. Though he was unaware he used the same shop. He looks up, a greeting or perhaps a question on his lips that dies as soon as he actually lays eyes on Martin.

Martin is wearing a leather jacket. Not just a leather jacket of course, but that’s the first thing Jon can process. He’s wearing a studded leather jacket covered in various patches that advertise various opinions and identities that Jon doesn’t have time to think about. His  jeans are about as much rip as they are Jean, and he’s got piercings- and eyeliner. he’s dressed like he should be riding a motorcycle, not the beat-up red bike he’s got beside him.

“Are you alright?” Martin says, and Jon realizes he’s been staring.

“Are you going to a costume party?” Jon blurts instead of answering. A costume party would make sense, of course. Martin doesn’t dress like this, he dresses like- like-

It occurs to him dimly that he’s never encountered Martin outside of work, at least never in a scenario that would allow him to change out of his work clothes. And some part of him has always assumed that sweaters and khakis were simply how he dressed. It suited him, really. Or Jon had assumed, but then again he assumed anything familiar is suiting.

“Wh- A- no?” Martin answers, looking vaguely offended. Jon flushes.

“I- sorry, I just- I’ve... I didn’t think you seemed the type to dress... like that...?” Jon fumbles, pathetically trying to salvage the conversation. Judging by Martins expression, he’s failing.

Martin opens his mouth to say something, and Jon realizes there’s likely no coming back from this particular mortification. He snatches the bag by his feet and moves to stand. Some excuse already tumbling out when the reason for his sit-down, which had dulled to a shockingly forgettable throb, decides to remind him of his place in the world.

He lets out a cry of pain, and crumples. Only stopped from hitting the ground by a pair of arms that wrap around his chest and under his shoulder. 

“Oh my god, Jon. Are you alright- what- is it your leg? Where’s your cane-” Martin babbles, Gently replacing Jon on his bench as Jon breathes through gritted teeth.

“It’s fine- i’m fine Martin I-” he sighs, studiously avoiding Martins gaze. “My cane is at home.” He tries not to sound chastised as he says the last part- he shouldn’t have to after all. He’s still Martins boss. He shouldn’t be looking away like he’s been caught at something.

“Jon” Martin sounds exasperated, and Jon crosses his arms. Once again, nothing like someone being scolded. He’s not being scolded. He’s an adult. “How long have you been sitting here like this?”

“I...” Jon begins before trailing off, he’s not actually sure. The period between sitting on the bench and the pain dulling enough for him to think through the fog is something is a blur. He is pretty sure someone asked if he was alright at some point. His lack of answer seems to be enough for Martin though.

“Just give me a moment.” He says, stepping away from Jon over to his bike- which has fallen over onto the ground -pulling it upright and over to Jon on the bench. He pushes down the rusted kickstand with a hearty kick- and Jon briefly notes he’s wearing steel-toed boots -and sets the bike gently upright.

“Okay, so! If you sit on the bike I can push it, and you can get home and rest that leg without jostling it too much by trying to walk without your cane.” He says pointedly. Jon makes a face,

“This... this really isn’t necessary Martin- I’m perfectly capable-” He grumbles, waving a hand dismissively. But a glance at Martins expression shuts him up quick. 

“Do you think you can stand?” He asks. Jon pauses, the memory of the white-hot flash of pain still fresh in his mind. He grimaces, shaking his head. Martin hums thoughtfully. “Alright, would you be alright if I picked you up? Just for a moment to get you on the bike” He asks carefully.

Jon hesitates, looking between Martin and the bike. And weighs his options. After several seconds he nods. Martin smiles, and Jon feels something in his chest flutter. Anxiety at his decision most likely. Or perhaps nerves in relation to sitting on a bike, he’s never ridden one- of course Martin will be doing all the work but surely there’s some sort of balance required isn’t there? Really he shouldn’t be riding a bike like this-

Those thoughts are all swept away at the feeling of large warm hands gently scooping him off the bench. He instinctively throws his arms around Martins neck for support as he’s lifted into the air. 

He can feel Martins chest warm against his side as Martin holds him close, one hand on his shoulder and the other supporting his legs. He’s being cradled by his subordinate, carefully as so not to jostle his leg. And all he can think about is how warm Martin is. He’s large and soft despite all the sharper accessories and he smells a bit like leather and tea on top of whatever soap he uses. Probably something that Jon wouldn’t be able to name with a gun to his head. And Jon can see the freckles on Martins cheeks and neck close enough to count if he wanted to even as he looks away, saying something Jon can’t quite parse because he’s too busy reeling from the realization he’d be happy to sit in Martins arms like this for the rest of his life.

His face goes hot and he forces himself to look down at the ground. The pain is clearly messing with his head, or perhaps the sleep deprivation. Or perhaps he’s still riding the high from that moment of realization that Martin isn’t trying to kill him, that he can trust him. 

Either way he’s not thinking straight, which is why he’s dissapointed instead of relieved when Martin gently places him on the bike with the exact amount of care he took in picking him up. Which shouldn’t make him feel so oddly jittery but it does.

The ride is quiet, aside from awkward instructions from Jon on where to turn as Martin guides them carefully along the sidewalk. They miss a turn once because Jons too preoccupied with the feeling of Martins arm bumping against his shoulder as he guides the bike.

And then they’re at Jons flat, and Jon once again feels that misplaced disappointment. He wonders if perhaps Martin will carry him up to his flat, and his face burns again as the silliness of the thought hits him.

Martin does very, very briefly lift him to help him off the bike when he stumbles. But his leg has recovered enough that he can make it up to his flat without assistance, or so he tells Martin. Who looks unconvinced.

“Let me at least walk with you, yea? That way I know for sure you got home safe.” He insists, and Jon forced himself to be displeased with the situation.

It ends up being a good thing Martin came along though, a partway up the steps the railing is no longer enough to support Jon, and he ends up half-carried the rest of the way. Martins arm under his shoulder, his own loops around Martins back, gripping the jacket for support. He can feel his head drifting at the contact- Martin is just so damned warm and safe and Martin it’s impossible not to get distacted.

He forces himself to think about something else, anything else. The jacket- he can feel the leather under his fingertips and it’s as good distraction as any.

It’s a nice jacket, really. Clearly well-worn. And it does suit Martin, in an odd sort-of way.

Jon winces internally, remembering the conversation from earlier. He hadn’t meant to come off so... well. It doesn’t matter. Except that it does, even though it doesn’t, but it does.

Once they reach Jons door, he pushes off of Martin to lean on the wall while he fumbles for his keys. Martin lingers as he does so, twiddling his thumbs awkwardly in the silence.

Jon finds his keys and sighs in relief as the door swings open.

He nearly wanders inside and shuts the door before remembering basic human etiquette. He pauses in the doorway, turning to Martin. Who smiles awkwardly.

“Thank you.” He says stiffly, still leaning heavily on the doorframe. “That was... very kind. Of you.” Martin shakes his head.

“It’s nothing, really. Couldn’t exactly just leave you there, could I?” 

Jon shifts awkwardly, wincing at the brief weight on his leg. He’s right of course, morally at least. If not logically.

“I... I suppose not.” He says, hesitating before adding “I’m sorry.”

“Look, Jon. I already said it’s fine-”

“No-” Jon grimaces “not for that. I- I meant... for what I said. About your clothes. They don’t... I just- I didn’t expect it, and I may have come off as... rude.” He mutters

“Oh.” Martin says flatly, Jons sure he’d forgotten about that until just now, and he wishes he could have kept it that way.

“they do suit you, though.” He says, after an awkward pause. “Your clothes, I mean. It looks- you look nice.” he finishes as genuinely as he can- he does mean it. Of course, he just doesn’t know how to make it sound like he does.

“Oh” Martin says again, brightening slightly, his cheeks going blotchy red in a blush. “I- er- thank you...? I suppose?”

“Yes. Well. Your welcome, I suppose.” There’s another awkward pause, Martin isn’t quite smiling at Jon, but there’s something soft in his expression Jon can’t quite parse. “ Have a good day, Martin.” He says finally, after a long pause. Martins cheeks redden again.

“Oh- yeah, er. You too Jon- and take care of yourself. Alright?”

Jon nods, and Martin smiles. And Jon thinks he’d like to see Martin smile a bit more.

He waves as Martin heads down the stairs, he can hear Martin humming as he goes.

[dickwheelie]

i dunno how loose the prompts can be but 👉👈something with jonmartin and martin having tattoos would be fun?

martin tattoos!! I loved this prompt, thank u Moss :)

_____________

"I'm thinking of getting another one," Martin said pensively, spearing a forkful of salad.

Jon glanced up at him from across the kitchen table. "Another . . . ?"

"Another tattoo," Martin said.

"Ahh."

Martin pointed down at his forearm. "There's an empty spot here that's been bothering me. I've got the Keats quote on my wrist, but nothing on the opposite side. It feels unbalanced."

Jon would never say it aloud, but he'd never quite understood Martin's need to cover every available inch of himself with permanent illustrations. Still, he couldn't complain; it had been a privilege and a joy to see Martin's skin transform into colorful, intricate designs over the course of the past few years, ever since they'd arrived in this Other Place. It had started with orchids on his left shoulder, and then a labyrinthine maze on his upper back, and then a quote from a poet Jon could no longer remember the name of along the side of his ribcage, and after that Jon had lost track. For a while, Martin had gotten tattoos almost at a fever pitch, as though trying to race himself to some finish line, which Jon supposed must be the entirety of the upper half of his body being turned into a sketchbook. He'd settled down a bit, now; he hadn't gotten a new tattoo in months. But Jon supposed that was about to change.

"What are you planning on putting there?" Jon asked, gesturing at the blank spot on Martin's arm, which was bordered by a black-and-white illustration of a lighthouse, its beam cutting through a night sky.

"I'm not sure yet," Martin said. "I've finished up with all the fears, by now." That had been one of Martin's major projects; he'd wanted to get a representation of every fear they'd faced and defied somewhere on his body. Jon, once again, didn't pretend to understand his reasoning, but he'd supported him nonetheless, and the day Martin had finally gotten the Lonely tattoo done, they'd celebrated together. "Any suggestions?" Martin asked him.

Jon chewed his dinner thoughtfully. He couldn't think of anything clever, so he said jokingly, "You should get my name tattooed on you. I know we promised we'd stay together, but if anything will make sure that'll happen, it's that."

Martin didn't laugh, which wasn't entirely surprising; Jon knew his and Martin's senses of humor didn't always click. What was surprising was the look he gave Jon, which was part confusion and part amusement.

"What?" Jon said with his mouth full.

"Jon," Martin said slowly, "I do have your name tattooed on me."

Jon's eyes went wide. "What?"

Now Martin did laugh. "It was one of the first ones I got done! I can't believe you didn't notice--"

"Wh--I--You were getting so many of them, in the beginning, I couldn't keep track!" Jon dropped his fork. "Stop laughing!"

Martin wiped a tear from his eye. "I can't, Jon, you're hilarious--"

"You should have told me, I can't be expected to--This is just the sort of thing you should've told me about, Martin!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd mind!"

"Of course I'd mind!" Jon didn't know what to think. They weren't the sort of couple that got tattoos of one another's names. Or were they? "Where . . . where is it?" He almost dreaded to ask.

Martin, having composed himself a bit, set about unbuttoning his shirt.

"I don't like where this is going," Jon intoned.

"Relax," Martin said, "it's not what you think."

"Really? Because it seems like it's exactly what I think. Which is that my boyfriend got my name tattooed on his chest without telling me."

"Oh, right. I guess it is what you think, then." Martin had finished unbuttoning the top half of his shirt, and moved the fabric aside to reveal the upper left side of his chest, which was covered in numerous colorful designs. Jon squinted, but couldn't make out anything specific, so he got up and moved to stand next to Martin, leaning down to inspect his chest.

"It's just here," Martin said, pointing, and indeed it was. In a little empty pocket of skin, just above Martin's heart, was Jon's full name, printed in tiny, neat script that Jon recognized as his own. The design was tasteful, and minimalist, the letters raised just enough to be noticeable if one ran their finger across it. By now the words had faded into Martin's skin, nestled there between his freckles, and they looked right at home.

Jon was quiet for perhaps a moment too long, because Martin said, "You're not really angry, are you? I really didn't think you'd care one way or the other. You were always so casual about the other ones."

"No," Jon said at last, "I'm not really angry. It's . . ." He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. "It's just . . . that's my name."

Martin smiled up at him. "It is."

"On your skin."

"Mm-hm."

"Forever."

"Or until we have a horrible break-up and I have to laser it off," Martin said, and Jon shot him a look. "Kidding." He leaned up and kissed Jon's cheek. "I didn't get this as a promise not to leave you. I'm never doing that, tattoo or no."

Jon smiled behind his hand. "So why did you get it, then?" he asked, pulling up his chair to sit.

"You know how you used to call me your reason?" Martin said. "It's sort of like that. It's a way to remind myself that I've got you. No matter what happens, you'll be with me. We're sticking together." He patted the name on his chest. "That's why."

"Ah," Jon said, his voice thick. "Makes sense."

Martin gave his hand a squeeze. "I'm not getting it removed."

"I know that," Jon said, and Martin grinned. As he started to button his shirt back up, Jon said, "You still are, you know."

Martin glanced up distractedly. "Still what?"

"My reason," Jon murmured, and Martin's hands stilled on the last button. "You said I used to call you that. Which, yes, I suppose I don't say it as much anymore. But it's still true. Always has been."

Martin stared at him for a moment, and then leaned suddenly forward, taking hold of the sides of Jon's face and kissing him within an inch of his life. "You romantic little shit," he said when they pulled apart, and Jon laughed, holding onto Martin's shoulders as he peppered Jon's face with more kisses.

"I'm not the romantic one," Jon said. "Who has whose name tattooed on whose chest now?"

"Alright," Martin conceded, "we'll call it even."

There was a moment of tired, pleasant silence.

"Wait," Jon said, remembering, "we still haven't decided about your new tattoo."

"Oh, right, that," Martin said. He waved a dismissive hand. "I'll just get another Keats quote. Or maybe Oscar Wilde. Change it up a bit." He glanced sidelong at Jon. "Or maybe I'll get the words His Reason done in a certain someone's handwriting--"

"Not on your life," Jon deadpanned, but he couldn't help the smile that spread across his face when Martin laughed.