#does tim canonically like have touch aversion or something?

[tiny-chubby-bird]

jesus christ dick just give your little brother a hug

[fluentmoviequoter]

Decibels

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!wife!reader

Summary: During a city-wide crime spree, you push Tim away to deal with your trauma responses on your own. Tim proves to you that he can be a strength for you, not a weakness.

Warnings: r has ptsd from an unspecified past event (noise aversion and brief touch aversion), Tim is a softie for his wife, Kojo is safe, fluff and comfort!

Word Count: 2.6k+ words

A/N: Inspired by 7x12 but the only spoiler is a very vague one and becomes canon-divergent! Not yet proofread.

Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

The food on the stovetop sizzles, the clock in the living room ticks, and the water runs as the dishwasher enters its rinse cycle. Yet, you don’t hear any of it. Taking deep breaths, you grip the edge of the countertop until your fingertips turn white. Your internal voice is too loud, your mind is racing, and if you let go, your hands will start shaking again.

“Good mor-“ Tim stops speaking when he sees you. He sighs, not because of you, but for you. Walking to your side, he wraps his hands around your wrists kindly. “How bad?” he whispers.

You can’t answer, so you nod. It’s bad. In moments like this, part of you wonders what life would be like if you’d walked away from Tim when you had the chance. You love him, you always will, but he puts himself aside to care for you. He stays awake during your sleepless nights, holds you when plagued by nightmares, and slows down to calm you when everything feels like it’s spinning out of control. If you’d left, maybe he’d be with someone who could care for him in return. You try, and every day isn’t like this, but as your heart pounds in your tightening chest, every doubt you have rises from a whisper to a yell.

“Breathe with me,” Tim encourages. “You’re here, in our kitchen. You’re okay.”

“I… I need,” you begin. You’re unsure what to say next. You should leave? I love you more than I can ever express for this?

“Anything,” Tim whispers, removing his hands from your skin. “Touch?”

You nod again, and Tim pulls you against his chest, grounding you with his heavy hug and a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Thank you,” you say against him. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t ever apologize,” he replies – as he always does. “It’ll get better. When’s your next appointment?”

“Today. I’ve got some new exercises, I just… couldn’t remember, I guess.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Tim reminds you, directing your face toward his. “And you’re not alone.”

“And when your husband responds like that,” your therapist says, “what’s your response?”

“That I don’t deserve it,” you admit, looking at your hands in your lap. “I wonder how different his life would be if I left. How much better.”

“Then why don’t you leave?”

You look up then, shocked at the idea. Your therapist sends you a small smile. When you say it here, it seems like a ridiculous thought. Tim is the love of your life, your forever, your best half. You wouldn’t leave him, not for something as manageable as PTSD. Especially considering how well he understands it and you.

“Have you identified any new triggers since our last meeting?” she asks.

“The usual,” you answer, shrugging. “Loud noises, people walking up to me quickly… things that shouldn’t make me panic.”

“Hey.”

“Right,” you correct. “There’s no right or wrong in what bothers me, just a past that I can deal with and overcome.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I want to believe that I can overcome this, but my husband had to talk me down this morning over grease popping. Days like today make me wonder if I can be fixed.”

“You can. But not if you don’t believe it.”

“I tried drawing,” you offer.

“And? Did it ground you?”

“Not as well as making out with my husband,” you murmur, drawing a surprised laugh from your therapist.

“Timothy!” Angela calls. “Friday night, you and the missus are coming to my house for dinner!”

“Was there a question in there?” Tim asks, lifting his hands.

“No.”

“Good talk,” he says, nodding once.

“How is she?”

“My wife? She’s fine.”

“Bradford!” Wade yells. “We’ve got a problem.”

Someone unmutes the television in the bullpen then. A local news station is broadcasting about a police officer’s worst nightmare: a series of Purge-like riots making its way through the city.

“What happened?” Tim asks, closing Wade’s office door behind him.

“Social media intern made a stupid joke on the internet, and now it’s a free-for-all,” Wade grumbles. “Her access has been revoked and she’s in holding.”

“Good for her,” Tim mutters. “What have we got so far?”

“Looting, mostly, but the sun’s going down. As soon as that happens…”

“The darkness makes them bolder,” Tim concludes. “What do you want us to do?”

Tim’s radio crackles before a dispatcher announces, “Shots fired, multiple shooters.”

He adds an intersection, and Tim’s brows pinch. It’s an area he’s familiar with, one he sees and drives through often.

“I have to go,” Tim says.

“What?” Wade exclaims. “We’ve got a purge on our hands, you’re shift ain’t over yet!”

“It is now!” Tim yells over his shoulder as he rushes through the bullpen.

“Sergeant Bradford!”

Tim doesn’t turn back. He walks through the station, out the door, and jogs to his truck. His phone rings as he drives, the dial tone filling the cab as he hits the steering wheel repeatedly, begging you to answer.

Bruises begin blooming on your legs as you use your shoulders to press your earbuds farther into your ears. The music isn’t helping anyway; you can only hear the gunshots: the ones outside, and those in your memories. You are surrounded by danger, and sure you won’t make it out alive. You couldn’t help anyone even if you wanted to. You couldn’t even save yourself that cruel inner voice you’ve become all too familiar with taunts. With your hands wrapped around your calves, digging into your skin and muscles, you don’t bother to wipe your panicked tears.

“-over,” somebody says.

They sound like they are underwater, and you try to listen to the music in your ears rather than your fears and memories.

“Come back,” they demand.

“What?” Tim snaps, keeping his eyes and attention forward as he answers his phone.

“You do not get to run out of this station during an all-hands night,” Wade says. “That level of disobedience is not acceptable and you of all people should know that!”

“Lieutenant, my wife is my priority tonight. If you want to write me up for that, go ahead.”

Tim ends the call and sets his silenced phone aside. He shifts to sit beside you, leaving you plenty of room. His reminders to breathe and assurances that you’ll be okay don't reach you. Tim watches you battle with something he can’t see, watches you lose a fight he can’t jump into, and it hurts him.

When a firework echoes directly overhead, raining down onto the roof, you jerk backward, drawing blood when your nails scrape down your shins.

“Whoa,” Tim exclaims softly, lurching forward to pull your hands away from your skin.

You recoil from his touch, looking up at him with wide, teary eyes. He raises his hand and apologizes, but when your arms begin shaking, he wants nothing more than to wrap you in his arms and keep you close until you are yourself again.

“I’m sorry,” Tim repeats when you pull one of your earbuds out.

“It hurts,” you whisper.

Another firework sounds, and you flinch.

“Touch?” he asks.

You shake your head and apologize, so Tim smiles, letting you know it’s okay to set boundaries now.

“What do you need?” he offers.

“I need… I need you to go,” you answer softly.

Tim’s face drops and your heart seems to follow it. His expression goes from loving and concerned to devastated as soon as you say go. You don’t mean it; you want him, but you’re scared that you will never get better if you let him close now. Then, someday, he’ll do what you’ve been too scared to suggest and make his own decision to learn what life is like without you.

“Okay,” Tim murmurs, his voice cracking as he pushes himself up.

Kojo barks in his bed, and someone screams outside. The world is falling around him, but Tim only cares about you at this moment. If you push him away, his life will be over.

“Tim,” you whisper, looking up at him.

A chainsaw revs, and you press your hands to your ears. Tim says something you can’t hear before he turns and walks out the door. Your tears begin anew, and though watching Tim leave hurts, the pain is a welcomed distraction from the fear holding you hostage.

“LAPD, put your hands up!” Tim yells.

The masked man lunges toward Tim, but Tim doesn’t move.

“Do it,” Tim dares darkly. “Give me a reason.”

Although the man is inebriated, Tim’s tone is clear enough that he lowers the chainsaw and raises his hands. Tim moves one hand to his radio and switches it back on before alerting dispatch of his arrest.

“Notify Sergeant Grey that I’m back on duty,” he requests.

“Go home, Tim,” Grey replies nearly immediately.

“No longer an option,” Tim answers. “Where do you want me?”

“The one place you need to be.”

Kojo licks the tears from your face, and suddenly, reality crashes down on you. Your prolonged moment of panic is over, evidenced by your adrenaline level lowering as your heart rate slows. Before you can remember that you’ve potentially ruined your marriage, you are reminded of the mayhem happening outside.

You stand and walk to the window, and your eyes widen when you see people running down the road with blazing sticks, guns, and fireworks in their hands.

“Kennel, Kojo,” you command.

When he’s safe in your bedroom, you slide your phone into your pocket and open the gun safe you and Tim share. You’ll defend your house, and later, you’ll fight to keep the family within it together.

Glancing out the front window again, you see a crowd gathering around Tim’s shop. Two men jump onto the hood and begin kicking the windshield as others throw bottles at the body, scratch the paint, and hold torches to the wheels. You call Lieutenant Gray first, and he promises to send a few units to your house.

“Thank you,” you say.

“Of course,” he replies. “Now call Tim.”

“I- yes, sir.”

You don’t hesitate to end the call and dial Tim’s number. He picks up nearly immediately but doesn’t speak.

“Are you okay?” you inquire.

“I’m fine,” he answers flatly.

“Your shop isn’t.” Tim inhales, angered by the fact that there are crazed criminals so close to your home. “Tim,” you whisper. “Please come back.”

“I’m coming in the back door,” he says before the line beeps.

You turn toward him, softening at the sight of his scraped cheekbone and dusty uniform. He’d been in his patrol blues when he came home earlier, but you’d been too anxious and distracted to realize how handsome he looked.

“I’m sorry,” you begin. “I didn’t… There’s a lot going on, and we don’t have time for this, I know. I can explain it all later, but the short version is I don’t want you to leave, ever. Yet I get these urges to push you away, so you don’t have to deal with all my broken pieces.”

“You are not broken,” Tim insists, his voice stern as he steps toward you.

“Tim-“

“You went through something traumatic, and you carry the scars from that. It affects you, and it always will. It may not be this bad forever, but it will still be there. It didn’t break you. It didn’t mold you, it doesn’t define you.”

Shaking your head, you argue, “If it’s my trauma, it’s not fair you have to deal with it. And it’s always like this. Something’s a few decibels too high and I lose myself.”

“Then let me find you!” Tim exclaims, pressing his fingers against his chest.

“If I left,” you begin again, slower, steadier as you fight tears. “Then you could have someone who will give you a real relationship. A two-way street where you don’t just give and give and only receive the worst parts of me.”

Tim’s jaw tenses as he looks up. His jawline begs to be kissed, and if the world was different, if life was fair, you’d ignore the chaos outside and worship him.

“Broken pieces,” Tim mutters.

He walks toward you, his steps measured and heavy. When he reaches you, he takes your face in his hands and presses his chest against yours. Your eyes find his, your chin tilts toward his lips, and your breath catches as he inhales.

“I don’t have to deal with your broken pieces,” he explains. “Your sharp edges heal me. They cut away the parts of me I can’t carry any more. Every time you let me close enough to love you, you reveal something. I am only who I am, I am only worthy of this because you taught me that my rough edges fit with you.”

A tear rolls over your cheek before Tim wipes it away. You lift your hands to hold his wrists as you lean forward and kiss him. He’s right, your broken edges fit together perfectly as if you were made for one another. What you lack, he gives freely; what you offer, he accepts with nothing but love. You may never feel whole on your own because you’re not. Here, in Tim Bradford’s arms, you are enough, you are loved, you are not your broken pieces but the beautiful mosaic they make when viewed all together.

“I love you,” Tim says against your lips.

“I love you,” you reply. “So much.”

Tim sighs, pressing his forehead to yours as his hands travel to your waist.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. “Thank you.”

“You can thank me later; I’ve got to go get sledgehammer guy off my shop before he finds the next Tonya Harding.”

“Be careful,” you say.

“Always. Have to get home to my better half,” Tim says, winking over his shoulder as he turns.

It’s just after midnight when Tim returns home. He lets Kojo out the back door, then sits beside you on the couch. Pushing your pajama pants up gently, he surveys the bandage on your leg.

“Everyone okay?” you ask, leaning against his side.

“All safe and bearing improved arrest records,” he answers. “You?”

“Much better now,” you assure him. “Thank you again. For helping, for coming back, and for the romantic speech.”

“Yeah, don’t get used to that, I only have one per decade, so you’re going to be waiting a while for the next one.”

“I’d wait forever,” you whisper.

Tim smiles, slides his hand behind your ear to hold your neck, and kisses you. Kojo returns before you shift into Tim’s lap and plop down between you. Your family is safe, together, and happy. What started as a night straight from a nightmare turned out alright, you think.

Bonus:

“What?” Tim asks. “You want me to thank you for not fining me for something that wasn’t my fault? I couldn’t have stopped seven men from destroying my shop.”

“I’m pretty sure you posed that exact hypothetical when I was rookie and claimed you could,” Lucy interjects.

“I could also write you up for your defiance of direct orders and leaving before end of shift,” Wade adds. “But it’s not me you should be thanking, it’s your wife.”

“How much did she tell you?” Tim asks, lifting his brows.

Wade smiles, crossing his arms as he leans back in his chair. “Me? Not much. But Luna… And you know that husbands and wives talk.”

“Do you?” Lucy asks Tim. “Actually talk to your wife, carry a conversation?”

“Chen,” Wade warns. “They don’t want to adopt you.”

“Speaking of my wife,” Tim murmurs. “Bye.”

“See you Friday!” Wade calls.

“Why’d Tim leave for his wife?” Lucy asks.

“Don’t you have something to do?”

“Now you sound like him.”

[bluejayblueskies]

an ill-fitting definition

rating: M words: 4.3k relationships: jongeorgie, jontim, jonmartin, background wtgfs additional tags: canon compliant, pre-canon, scottish safehouse period, canon asexual character, fluff, kissing, implied sexual content, rumors and misconceptions

written for weeks two/three of @archivalpride for the prompts identity and doubt!

cw for misconceptions about asexuality, assumptions made about somebody’s sexuality, rumors and outing somebody without their knowledge, non-explicit/implied sexual content, mention of canonical character death, mention of canonical stalking and paranoia, gossip (including of the sexual nature), food, very mild blood, mild internalized acephobia

ao3 link in source

.

It’s three weeks and two days after they began dating, when Georgie picks up Jon’s hand where it’s clasped in hers and asks with plain curiosity in her voice, so does the ring, y’know, mean anything?, that Georgie hears the word asexual cross Jon’s lips for the first time.

It’s not a word she’s unfamiliar with; she’s run in enough LGBTQ spaces in her time in uni that she has a good idea of the breadth of identities that are out there. She rubs her thumb across Jon’s ring and thinks, in the voice of the gender and equality training instructor with sharp red heels and a “fun” black dress who’d stood in front of the seminar she’d been mandated to take for one of her courses:

Asexuality. A lack of sexual attraction. An aversion or repulsion to sexual activities.

It had been a small word on a large black-and-white slide, crammed in next to aromanticism and overcrowded by a myriad of other sexual identities discussed at length. It had been… quite a comprehensive training, Georgie thinks as she quits fidgeting with Jon’s ring and instead threads their fingers together. For a moment, she considers asking what he means anyway, but she quickly dismisses the thought. She wants to be supportive, and as Jon looks at her with open, trusting eyes and a faint smile, she decides that she knows enough. She doesn’t want to make it awkward, and with things like these, she’s found that asking Jon to explain his feelings in plain terms can be… well, awkward is certainly a word for it. Best just not to bring it up, she decides.

Still, she feels the need to ask, “Can I kiss you?” because the red no sex sign blinking on and off in her head is frustratingly vague on what, exactly, is contained within that stipulation. When Jon voices his assent, she tips her head up and presses a quick kiss to his chin before kissing him on the lips, wiping the disgruntled look off them.

So yes to kissing, she thinks, tucking that away next to no sex. Yes kissing, no sex. Yes holding hands, she adds as she squeezes Jon’s hand in hers and he smiles at her, warm and soft, that special side of Jon that she only sees on occasion. No pet names, she adds a week later when she tries out sweetheart and Jon’s nose wrinkles with displeasure. No foot rubs, when Jon swats at her and says, between giggles, that he’s awfully ticklish. Yes back rubs. Yes cuddling. No PDA. No touching with wet or sticky hands. Yes brushing hair.

That’s as far as she gets before, one year and two months after she begins dating Jonathan Sims, she stops. After which point she stops keeping track, because, well. There’s really no point anymore, is there?

.

.

.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, burying his head in his hands.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Tim says quickly, holding his hands in the air in a placating gesture. He scoots a few inches away from Jon on the couch for good measure, unsure just how much space Jon needs right now. “It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize—I should apologize. I should have asked first.”

“It’s just—” Jon makes a frustrated noise, and when he takes his hands away his cheeks are dark and he won’t meet Tim’s eyes. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s okay,” Tim repeats, watching with a twisting feeling in his stomach as Jon apparently notices that the button of his trousers is still undone and quickly goes to redo it. His eyes follow the movements of Jon’s hands automatically, and just as automatically, he notes the distinct lack of a tent in the front of Jon’s trousers. The same… cannot be said for his own. Particularly after nearly twenty minutes of kissing, which Tim had very much enjoyed.

Christ, had Jon been uncomfortable with that as well? All in a rush, Tim says, “Was the kissing bad too?” Then, he winces—fuck, that sounded accusatory—and adds, “It- it’s okay if it was, I just- I didn’t know, and I don’t want to do something that makes you uncomfortable, Jon.”

“No, the- the kissing was fine, it’s just...” Jon makes an aborted motion with his hands, like he’s trying and failing to find the words.

“... complicated?” Tim supplies.

Jon nods mutely.

“That’s okay,” Tim says, and he finds that he means it. “We don’t have to do anything more than kissing if you don’t want to.”

“I- I don’t…” Jon worries his bottom lip between his teeth. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, like he’s searching for the right words, the crease in his forehead deepening every moment he fails to find them. Finally, he lets out a long, labored breath, pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, and says, “Yes, that… that might be best.”

Tim studies Jon’s face. It’s pinched and a bit stiff, like Jon would very much like to crawl out of his skin or melt into a puddle and disappear. “You sure?” he feels compelled to ask, placing a hand carefully on Jon’s knee. “You, uh. You seem a bit unsure.”

Jon sits there a moment more, spine straight and rigid, before melting slightly against Tim’s hand, his face slipping into something more relaxed but no less unhappy. “Yes.” He hesitates a moment, then says, a bit stiltedly, “I’m, um. I’m asexual. Since we’re already talking about this, I… I may as well get that out in the open as well.”

Oh. A few pieces slot into place, and Tim says with perhaps a bit more enthusiasm than necessary, “Oh. Why didn’t you tell—?” He cuts himself off and offers Jon a sheepish smile. “Sorry, sorry. That was rude of me. Thank you for telling me.”

“We’re dating,” Jon says bluntly. “It was going to come up eventually.”

“Still.” Tim shrugs, then reaches for Jon’s hand and holds it tightly in his. “Thanks.” He hesitates only a moment before leaning forward and pressing a quick kiss to Jon’s nose. Jon makes a disgruntled noise, which Tim thinks is adorable. Then, because it feels appropriate, he says, “Y’know, Danny… Danny was asexual. Aromantic too, actually. We had a big talk about it a few years ago where he sort of… laid it all out for me.” No sex, no romance, no thank you, had been the overall gist of it. Tim makes a new box for Jon and fills it in with the words no sex, yes romance, it’s complicated.

“Oh,” Jon says quietly, with that same sort of sadness in his eyes that he gets every time Tim mentions Danny, something much gentler than pity and significantly less cloying. If Tim notices the faint discomfort that accompanies it, something that whispers that isn’t my definition of asexuality, we’re not the same, you don’t understand if one were to listen closely enough, he doesn’t let on.

Tim does, however, notice the discomfort in Jon’s eyes—now mixed with anger—when two years, six months, and seven days later, he accuses Tim of murder. But by then, their days of hand-holding and nose-kissing are far, far behind them.

.

.

.

“Maybe he just needs to get laid,” Melanie says with a groan, lying on Georgie’s couch and staring at the ceiling. The Admiral is curled up on her lap, purring contentedly. She scratches absentmindedly under his chin.

“What, Jon?” Georgie appears in Melanie’s field of vision, wielding a damp wooden spoon and frowning.

“No. No.” Melanie shakes her head emphatically. “Martin. He’s been all… sulky lately. I think he’s still upset that Jon came to me instead of him for help, but I don’t know why he has to be all… touchy about it.”

“Ah. Well, you know, he is a bit hung up on Jon. At least, according to you.”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem,” Melanie says grumpily. “Besides, didn’t you say that Jon went on about Martin, like, all the time? Sounds like he’s got it bad as well. Maybe they could just… y’know.”

“Melanie.”

“What?” Melanie tries to shoot Georgie a glare, but it’s obstructed by the back of the couch. “I’m on my last nerve, Georgie!”

“I know, honey. But Jon’s really not… well, he’s not very open about these sorts of things. Getting him to talk about his feelings was like pulling teeth when we were together.”

“It still baffles me that you used to date.”

“He’s very sweet when you get to know him!” There’s a pause, a few clatters from the kitchen. “Besides, even if he and Martin got around to talking, Jon… well, he doesn’t.”

Melanie frowns. “Doesn’t what?”

“Have sex.”

“Really?” Melanie sits up, disturbing the Admiral, who lets out an irritated mrpp before adjusting himself accordingly and curling back up on her lap. “So when you were together…?”

Georgie shakes her head. “Nope. Never.”

“Huh.” Melanie thinks for a moment. “Is he like… religious or something?”

Georgie chuckles. “Jon? No, not at all. He’s asexual.”

“Isn’t that like… that thing that sponges are? Where they self-reproduce?”

“Seriously?”

Melanie scowls at the incredulous look Georgie’s giving her. “What? I’m not being a- a dick, I’ve just never heard of it before.”

“You were a YouTuber. Your job was to be internet famous.”

“Okay, now you’re just making fun of me.”

Georgie shoots Melanie a grin. “Sorry. Basically, it means that Jon doesn’t do sex. Like… at all. He just… doesn’t.”

“Huh,” Melanie says again.

“Yeah.” Georgie turns back to the stove. “Now, come here. Tell me if there’s too much salt?”

“Sorry Admiral,” Melanie whispers as she deposits him onto the floor and crosses the room to wrap her arms around Georgie’s waist from behind and take the bite of sauce on the spoon Georgie holds out for her. “Mm, tastes great. As always.”

And in the back of her mind, Melanie adds another line to the section labeled Jonathan Sims and writes, with careful handwriting, he doesn’t.

.

.

.

Although… according to Georgie, Jon doesn’t.

Martin pauses the tape and rubs his hands over his eyes. His cheeks are burning red, and he takes a few minutes to just breathe.

Doesn’t what? Doesn’t date? Doesn’t kiss? Doesn’t—

Martin stops that train of thought before it goes any further, the flush on his face growing in intensity. It’s none of my business, he tells himself as he ejects the tape and turns it over in his hands a few times before sliding it back into the small box it had come from.

He still can’t help but think about it. He thinks about it before the Unknowing, when Jon hesitates just a moment before wrapping him in a tight hug and whispering, I… I’ll be back, Martin. Then we can talk. He thinks about it when Jon’s in his coma, when Martin sits at his bedside and loses himself in daydreams and what-ifs. He thinks about it when Jon’s hand is clasped in his and he’s leading Martin out of cloying white fog and sea-salt air, his shirt speckled with bits of dark liquid that Martin tries to pretend isn’t blood. He thinks about it on the way to the safehouse, Jon leaning against his side, Martin’s hand clasped firmly in his.

He thinks about it a lot, in the confines of the wooden walls that let in the growing chill of the Scottish countryside.

Jon doesn’t.

He knows what Jon does. Jon makes him breakfast most days, eggs and toast and sometimes waffles, which Martin’s always considered a guilty pleasure but that he’s had more times in the past week and a half than he’s had for the past ten years. Jon puts his head on Martin’s shoulder when they sit on the couch and read, flipping through the dusty novels they’d found tucked in cardboard boxes underneath the bed that Jon had wrinkled his nose at but has been slowly making his way through nevertheless. Jon clings to Martin like his life depends on it when they sleep, and Martin will wake in the morning with one arm slung across his chest, a leg between his, and a sizeable portion of hair tickling at his nose.

And, nine days into their stay, Jon smiles at Martin as he shuffles into the kitchen in the morning, stands on his toes, and presses a soft kiss to Martin’s lips.

“Um,” Martin says eloquently, still half-asleep and trying to process what he’s 98% sure is their first kiss. He’d be 100% sure except for the fact that Jon kissed him like it was nothing, like it was easy, like it was something they do every morning.

The smile slips from Jon’s face, and he looks nervous. “I- I’m sorry, I should have asked first—”

“No, no, it’s- it’s okay,” Martin hastens to say, taking one of Jon’s hands in his and squeezing gently. “Just- just surprised, that’s all. I, um. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to kiss me, given that we haven’t…” He gestures absently, his face heating up. Stop talking, Martin. “Yeah,” he finishes lamely.

“Oh,” Jon says with a frown. “I… apologize for giving you that impression. I- I love you, Martin—I have no problems with kissing you.”

Warmth courses through Martin, as it always does when Jon tells him that he loves him. It all feels so unreal sometimes that he’s here, with Jon, away from it all and living in quiet domesticity. “Oh,” he says, face flushed. “A- all right, then. Great!”

“Great,” Jon echoes.

“Just- just thought maybe you didn’t—”

Martin clamps his mouth shut, face heating up more, this time in embarrassment. Shut up, Martin.

Jon raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t… what?”

“Um.” Martin rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “Kiss?”

Jon looks at Martin blankly. “Oh. Well, I- I do.”

“Right, yeah, I- I put that together. When we, um. You know.”

Jon looks amused. “Kissed?”

“Yep, that,” Martin squeaks out.

They look at each other for a moment before dissolving into giggles. Jon presses another kiss to Martin’s lips and finishes making the waffles and kisses Martin again when he hands Jon his tea, and it’s really quite lovely indeed.

So Martin adds Jon kisses to his mental list of Jon does and finds a sole remainder on the list of Jon doesn’t. And it’s fine with him, he decides, if Jon doesn’t want to have sex. He just wants Jon, in whatever way Jon will have him.

Jon doesn’t do sex, he thinks as he kisses Jon goodnight.

So, three days later, when they’re on the couch and they’ve kissed until Martin is red-faced and breathless and Jon pulls back with a pinched expression on his face, Martin assumes—with hot embarrassment coursing through him—that he’s somehow gone too far and strayed into sex territory and made Jon uncomfortable.

Then, Jon says with cheeks dark and eyes focused resolutely on Martin’s chest, “Martin, would… would you like to move to the bedroom?” and Martin’s thoughts grind to a halt.

“Sorry, what?” is all he can think to say.

Jon’s cheeks grow incrementally darker. “I am asking,” he says slowly, like the words are clunky and unwieldy in his mouth, “if you would like to have sexual intercourse. With me, of course, I- I hope that was implied.”

Martin’s aware that his mouth is quite literally hanging open in shock. He closes it quickly before swallowing and saying, “I… yeah, Jon, I- I’d love that, but I thought you—”

He clamps his mouth shut again, a touch too late. Jon’s forehead creases in confusion and he says, “I what?”

Martin hems and haws for a moment before biting the bullet and saying, all in a rush, “I thought you didn’t like sex.”

Jon’s frown deepens. “What? Why?”

And god, Martin doesn’t want to admit that he’s been thinking about office gossip for nearly a year, but he’s dug his grave—he may as well lie in it. He sighs, worries his hands on his lap, and says, “I… may have listened to a tape where Melanie said that Georgie said that you… didn’t.”

Jon looks at Martin blankly for a moment before his expression flattens into something that’s equal parts irritated and resigned. “Ah. Right. That… that makes sense, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Martin says emphatically, placing his hand atop Jon’s and squeezing. “I- I didn’t mean to hear it; I was listening to the statements and it was just there.”

“No, it’s… it’s not your fault.” Jon sighs and rubs a hand across his eyes. “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”

“What?”

Jon makes an aborted, dismissive gesture with his hand. “I’ve… never been good at explaining my own preferences. I never did with Georgie, just… told her I was asexual and left it at that. I suppose she took that to mean that I, er. Didn’t.”

Asexual. Martin has a vague notion of what that means—he’s been in enough online LGBTQ spaces to have encountered the word before, but he’s never really looked into it much himself. If pressed, he thinks he’d also assume it meant that Jon didn’t. Something a bit guilty twists within him at that thought, amplified by his next thought that Georgie shouldn’t have assumed, because, well, that’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it? Still, he feels the need to voice it; he squeezes Jon’s hand again and says, “It’s not your fault that she just- just made assumptions about what you wanted, Jon.”

“Yes, but it’s my fault that I never corrected her.” Jon makes a face. “Or Tim, now that I think about it. I… I suppose I’m just not very good at talking about these things. Particularly because my own preferences are…” Jon’s pained expression deepens. “Christ, I don’t want to say complicated again, but there really is no other word for it.”

That’s not your fault either, Martin wants to say, but he knows Jon will just contradict him again, and he’ll repeat himself, and then they’ll just be talking in circles, and that won’t help anything. It’s frustrating, but it’s the truth. Still, Martin finds the words waiting on his lips when he opens his mouth, so he shuts it again and thinks for a moment, promising himself later. I’ll tell him later. Finally, he says carefully, “Do you… do you want to talk about it? We don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I don’t want to assume.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Well, I don’t want to keep assuming, I suppose, given that I’ve already assumed quite a lot.” Quieter: “Sorry, again.”

“It’s fi—” Jon cuts off, takes a breath. “Th… thank you, Martin.” He hesitates a moment, then says haltingly, “I- I do want to talk about it, but I don’t—” He makes a frustrated noise. “—I don’t know how.”

“Okay,” Martin says after a moment. “You said it’s complicated, yeah?” When Jon nods mutely, he continues, “Would it help if you described how you feel right now? That’s- that’s less complicated, right?”

Jon’s mouth flattens into a thin line. “I… suppose.”

“All right, then.” Martin makes a go-on gesture, then rests his hand atop Jon’s and applies a gentle pressure.

Jon takes a few deep breaths, squints at nothing, makes a few wordless noises, then says bluntly, “I want to have sex with you.”

Martin tries really, really hard not to blush, but he doesn’t think he quite succeeds given how hot his face feels when he says, “Right, okay.” His voice is a bit higher-pitched than normal; he hopes that Jon doesn’t notice. “And, um. Do you always… want to have sex with me? Or just right now.”

Jon grimaces. “That’s where it gets complicated.” He makes an I-don’t-know gesture with his free hand and says, “No? Yes? I don’t know, Martin. I’m told that not wanting sex all the time is- is normal, that- that you have to be in the mood, but apparently I’m just supposed to know when I’ll be in the mood and when I won’t be, and that- that doesn’t really work for me.”

“Are you—” Martin cringes internally, but forces the words out. “—in the mood right now?”

“Well,” Jon grumbles, “not anymore, but I was. And it’s complicated, because even if I am, I- I don’t always want to be touched, but how do you explain that to someone, how- how do you tell someone that it’s mostly no but sometimes yes and there’s a very good chance that I might change my mind halfway through and decide that it’s no after all?”

“I think,” Martin says patiently, “that you just say that.”

Jon gives Martin a look. “Martin.”

“What? It’s true!” Martin gives Jon as reassuring a smile as he can muster. “It made sense to me, at least.”

“Yes, but that’s not—” Jon makes a frustrated noise. “It’s not whether or not it makes sense, it’s whether or not somebody is willing to put up with a sexual partner who doesn’t know whether or not they’re going to want to have sex on any given day, whether they- they’ll be repulsed or interested or want to give but not receive or the other way around or- or something else that I haven’t thought of but that will likely happen because consistency is, apparently, off the cards for me entirely.”

“Hey, hey,” Martin says gently, placing a hand on Jon’s shoulder and rubbing gentle circles with his thumb. “Jon, look at me.” When Jon looks, albeit reluctantly, Martin continues, “I can’t speak for other people, and I- I can’t tell you how to feel, but I can tell you how I feel, and I… I’m willing. No, more than willing—I love you, Jon, all of you, and if this is how you feel, then I love that about you too. Whatever you’re willing to give me, it… it’ll be enough. You’re enough.”

Jon’s cheeks darken and he looks away. After a long moment, he says in a stiff voice, “Well. Thank you, Martin.” Then, a bit softer: “I… I love you too.” He looks at Martin then and offers him a small, weak smile. “It’s… well, it’s still awkward, but it’s not quite as bad—talking about all of this—as I thought it would be.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. Talk to me about it, that is.”

Jon’s smile turns a bit hesitant. “So you would really be okay if I… if I never asked again? To, er. To have sex.”

“Yes,” Martin says, without hesitation.

“Oh,” Jon says quietly. “And- and if I said that I did? Want to? That… that would be okay too? Even if I’d already said that I didn’t?”

“Yep.”

Jon looks down at his hands where they’re twisted tightly in the hem of his jumper, then back up at Martin. “All right.” He hesitates a moment, then says, “And if… if I said that I wanted to have sex… now?”

Ah. It looks like Martin’s not done blushing quite yet. “Yep, that- that’s fine with me,” he squeaks out, then cringes internally. Fine? Really?

Thankfully, Jon doesn’t seem offended; if anything, he seems amused, his mouth quirking up into a small smirk. “All right, then.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to Martin’s lips, soft and chaste and ever-so-slightly lingering before he pulls away. “I, er. I think I’d like to just kiss for a bit, though.” His smile turns teasing. “Foreplay is very important, after all.”

Martin groans and gives Jon a look, his face likely fully tomato-red by now. “Jon.”

“Need to make sure we’re fully in the mood before beginning proceedings—”

“Yes, yes, you’ve made your point,” Martin says, a giggle slipping out around the words. Then, because he’s nothing if not a little mischievous himself, he leans forward and captures Jon’s lips in a kiss, significantly less chaste and a touch more insistent, pressing until Jon is leaned back against the arm of the couch and Martin is hovering over him. Martin disengages from the kiss so he can marvel at the flushed, wide-eyed expression on Jon’s face. “Like that?” he says innocently.

Jon blinks up at him for a few seconds, like he’s not entirely sure how to process everything in front of him, before he smiles, a warm, happy thing that captures Martin’s heart entirely and steals it away. “I do believe that was adequate, yes. Perhaps you should do it again though, just to make sure.”

So Martin does. I love him, he thinks as he kisses Jon on the couch and kisses him again on the bed, kisses him in the spot between his shoulder blades where he always carries tension and in the dip of his clavicle and on the inside of his thigh. And when he’s curled up next to Jon after, he presses another kiss to the crown of Jon’s head and wraps his arms around him and quietly discards his mental lists of does and doesn’t. He’ll start from scratch, he decides, and after a moment’s thought, he comes up with two more lists, upon which it’s surprisingly easy to add item after item after item.

Jon likes to be kissed. Jon likes eggs and toast, but not jam, and likes his tea black and slightly oversteeped. Jon doesn’t like wool because he finds it itchy. Jon doesn’t like white wine, but he likes red, the kinds that are too dry for Martin’s tastes.

Jon likes Martin, and Martin likes him too. So, so much. And even when things change, when Jon finds a white wine he likes at a restaurant they visit and he takes his tea once with honey and enjoys it and he goes through a period where he doesn’t enjoy open-mouthed kisses and Martin adjusts his lists accordingly, that remains.

[picnokinesis]

Does the doctor still hang out with the fam or does she mistrust them since her memory keeps (I assume) resetting to a point before she met them? Does she manage to talk Grace out of calling an ambulance this time and if not how long does she manage to push it back?

So the Doctor still meets the fam on the train, just as she does in canon and in the campervan au. Of course, she doesn’t actually remember meeting them, but she makes notes about them after a while, which she eventually sorts out properly in her notebook once her memory is lasting long enough for her to collect enough information about all of them. Her memory actually resets to just before she meets them, since she hits her head before she gets to their carriage - and she doesn’t even remember the crash, actually, since amnesia patients tend to forget the event that caused their amnesia! The last thing she remembers is jumping onto the train just before the doors closed. 

Regarding trust, this varies - especially when her memory is shorter and before she has her notes, it depends heavily on how each reset ‘starts’. For example, there’s one reset which starts just as Ryan (well-intentioned) grabs her arm - but of course, she’s still touch averse in this au, so it freaks her out and she’s immediately on Alert. But then in a reset after that, Yaz is talking to her and trying to figure out something about Tim Shaw, and she goes ‘oh, I must have just blacked out because I must have a concussion...but I seem to be working with this person so I must have decided she was trustworthy before?’ - not realising of course that she’s been working in 2-3min bursts for the last 15mins rip. However, later, when she’s got more time before her memory resets and she’s got her notebook, she trusts them a bit more because she’s got a bit more information about them, and they help her a lot (so in some sense, she doesn’t have a choice, and some days she really doesn’t like that). She has good days and bad days and it just depends on a lot of things, to be honest.  Ha! Good question about the ambulance. I’m still figuring that one out, because all I know is that she’d react to it even worse than she would in campervan because they wouldn’t be able to calm her down because she’s resetting every two minutes.