Chapter Text
“Can’t really sneak up on people anymore, huh.”
Jon stops a few feet behind Tim, his feet sinking into the soft earth. It feels odd to remember that only yesterday it was raining, the grass still slick and muddy from the downpour. Already it feels like another life. Another him.
“I guess this means you succeeded?” Tim looks up at him from where he sits on the ground, his eyes skating along the edges of the skin draped over Jon’s shoulders like a blanket. “Is that it?”
“Yes,” Jon says quietly, pulling his skin tighter around him.
“And Martin?”
“Paying the cab fare.” Jon lets his gaze wander over the rows and rows of marble and stone. It’s peaceful. “Did you hear me coming?”
Tim turns away again, facing back towards the grave in front of him. “Nah, I smelled you. You stink of salt.”
Jon takes another step forward and sinks to the ground beside Tim. The wet grass tickles the bottom of his skin and it’s like waking up with the sun in his eyes. Sensation bright and overwhelming after so much empty nothing.
“She’s not in there, you know,” Tim says, gesturing at the grave. “Her remains disappeared mysteriously. She’s technically still a missing person’s case, but her folks wanted the closure. I think they knew she wasn’t coming back.”
Tim spreads his hand over the mounded dirt, ruffling his fingers against the fuzzy green fertilizer that hasn’t yet had time to settle in. “Just another funeral for an empty box.”
“I would have been there.” The words tumble out of Jon’s mouth haphazardly, leaving a low ache in his chest behind. “If I… if I could have been, I would have been there.”
“Jon,” Tim fixes him with a low stare, “do you think I’m blaming you for being kept trapped and locked up by an abusive, murdering asshole?”
Jon pulls the edges of his skin up until they cover the bottom half of his face and cowers slightly behind them. He knows the answer Tim wants to hear, but at the same time, he isn’t sure whether it’s true. He’s more monster now than he was before.
“Christ.” Tim runs a hand through his hair, leaving dirt and fertilizer behind. “I’d prefer that not be such a difficult question to answer.”
Jon swallows, staring at the cold, lifeless stone, unable to look at Tim. He feels vaguely sick. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.” Tim’s eyes flick over Sasha’s grave as if he simultaneously can’t bear to look and can’t stand to look away. “None of the things you’ve done that matter can be fixed with an apology, and the ones that can be are more my fault than yours. So we don’t have to waste our time.”
Jon threads his fingers into the grass and tugs at it gently. “Thank you for helping,” he murmurs, soft.
Tim purses his lips, the words bitter as he says, “Yeah, well. We all deserve better than the shit hand we’ve been dealt.”
“There you are!” Jon looks up to see Martin approaching, breathing a bit heavily as he steps carefully around clumps of weeds and patches of muddy ground. “What are you doing sitting down in a graveyard? I couldn’t see you over all the headstones.”
“Come join us.” Jon waves him over with a subdued smile, then plucks a blade of grass from the ground. He runs his fingers along the smooth, sharp edge, enjoying the way it pulls at his skin. “It’s nice down here.”
“I’d prefer not to ride back in wet trousers, thanks,” Martin says, crossing his arms, despite the small almost bittersweet smile on his face.
“Having a problem with getting wet sounds like it’ll be an issue,” Tim says, a hint of his old humor creeping into his tone. “Considering you have a seal for a boyfriend.”
Martin splutters, the beginnings of arguments forming and dying on his lips. It's adorable.
“Not boyfriend,” Jon corrects, serenely. “Husband. I gave him my skin.”
Jon can see the moment that color explodes across Martin’s cheeks like an inkblot. It jumps up into his hairline and disappears down under the collar of his shirt, and Martin’s eyes go wide and dizzy staring at him.
“H-husband? I— I didn’t think that, I didn’t—” Martin’s red face turns white as a sheet as he goes from embarrassed to panicked. “Wait but your mum—Jon, I asked for her skin and she, she gave it to me, and—”
“Oooh,” Tim trills, mockingly, nudging at Jon’s knee with his foot. “Sounds like you’ve got competition.”
“But I gave it back!” Martin squeaks, desperately, hands fluttering as he tries to explain.
Jon covers his mouth with a hand, trying valiantly to hold in the laughter that sneaks out from his nose and the corners of his lips. He pushes himself to standing, rushing to get a hand on Martin’s arm before the poor man faints from panic. “Martin, Martin, I’m just kidding. You’re not married to anyone. It takes more than just holding a selkie’s skin. It’s… it’s bigger than that.”
“Oh.” Martin stares at Jon, the anxiety slowly bleeding out of his wide eyes.
“I would never trick you like that.” Jon reaches down for Martin’s hand and brings it up to his mouth so he can press a gentle kiss to the back of his knuckles. “When I ask you to marry me, you’ll know.”
“Oh.”
“You’re lucky you aren’t here to see this, Sash, it’s absolutely disgusting.” Jon glances away from the bright red Martin, back at Tim and sees him patting the grave again, shaking his head in defeat. “I can’t believe I’m going to have to share an office with this melodrama.”
“The archives,” Martin says, breathily, pulling his hand quickly out of Jon’s grasp. Martin is still charmingly red in the face, but Jon can see the happiness there at the possibility in their wide open future. “I didn’t even think about what was going to happen to them. Are you— will we all still just work there? As if nothing’s happened?”
“I don’t think Elias was lying when he said we were bound there. I still feel the connection.” Jon pulls his hand inside the comforting circle of his coat and curls it up against his chest. “I’m not free of being the Archivist.”
“But what about the ocean?” Martin pushes.
“I’m still going back.” Jon glances at Martin from the corner of his eye, gauging his reaction. The knowledge that Jon comes from a different world has been a constant, inescapable undercurrent beneath the joy of their victory, but they haven’t dared to discuss it. “I just can’t stay there forever.”
“But—”
“It’s alright.” Jon steps in close to Martin and presses up against his side. He’ll never get over the wonderful warmth of having his skin tight between Martin’s arm and his own. Like a promise that can’t be broken. “You’re here. How could I not come back?”
“Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t run straight to the ocean.” Tim finally pushes himself to standing as well, brushing dirt off the knees of his trousers. “I feel like that’d be my first stop. Not standing around in a graveyard with my coworker who threatened my life a couple times.”
Jon inches his hand down until he finds Martin’s and entagles their fingers. “Soon,” he promises, mostly to himself. He remembers intimately the cold rejection he’d felt when he first washed up on that beach, the severing of his soul and the sea.
“Soon.”
***
The tea that sits in front of them is warm, the honey and lavender mixing with the scent of not just one, but two selkie pelts. Martin sits in a chair to Jon’s right, his leg pushed up against Jon's, his smile soft and beautiful, and Jon can’t contain his own smile. Jon’s skin drapes over both his and Martin’s shoulders, bringing them gently together. Ever since winning back his freedom from Elias, Jon hasn’t quite been able to stop smiling.
Jon shares the loveseat with his mother, her skin draped over both their laps, and he has never felt quite so grounded as he does at this moment—tucked beneath two selkie skins, and curled between two people who love him.
Cordelia is holding a knife made of a thin, black stone—obsidian—and set with a lovely pearl handle. She looks pleased, but her hand slides nervously back and forth up the back of her pelt.
"I got it especially for this," she admits, letting Jon take the knife from her hands and look it over. "It was years ago. I didn’t really think I’d ever get to use it, I was just...hoping. Hoping to someday have the chance to make it up to you."
The shimmer of the handle is lovely against the shiny black blade, and when he presses the edge into the pad of his thumb it slices in easily. Sharp. Sharper than he had expected. Blood trickles down his finger and he hesitates for a moment before lapping at it gently.
"I warned you," Cordelia teases, and Jon shrugs. He never could resist. He draws his tongue over the cut once more as he hands the knife back.
Cordelia brushes a hand over her pelt, gently tracing the back of the neck. It's as unmarked as Jon's, and his heart begins to race as it sinks in that soon, it won't be. Soon, he'll have the Blessing from his mother, the Blessing that is his birth-right.
Skin-blessed as he already is, it is more symbolic than anything else; the approval and love of a mother who walked the same path as him, who welcomes not just him but the man he loves into her family. After all this time, he finally has her—will have a piece of her. Jon sniffles, and he feels her slide her free hand into his. Sees the tears in her eyes.
"See, Cordy? I told you I'd make a terrible witness. All I can do is hear you two blubbering over there. Have you even cut the skin yet?" Emma teases from her chair, the amusement and fondness in her tone warming Jon's heart. He's so glad his mother found her. He's so glad he found Martin.
"It still technically counts as witnessing," Martin says, then half mutters, "well. Sort of." He shrugs and flashes a quick smile at Jon. His hand brushes over the corner of Jon’s pelt hanging over him, and Jon feels that warmth, like a line between them, electric and wonderful and soft.
It's fascinating, the differences and similarities between his and his mother's pelts. Each mark and scar highlight their diverging paths in life, and Jon could spend hours studying them, learning each and every detail. He tries to remember his grandmother's pelt, tries to recognize her own patterns in the ones dotting his mother’s skin.
The scars though, he knows are not the same. Where his grandmother’s pelt was cut with bites and scratches from a lifetime of battles, his mother’s was burnt and branded by human iron. Where his grandmother’s skin bore the wear and tear of young selkie teeth, marks left by bored and foolish pups, Cordelia’s had none.
"Are you ready?" Cordelia asks, softly, fiddling with the knife. Jon swallows against the swirl of thoughts, staring again for a moment at the untouched pelt.
"Yes," he says, grounded right here, right now, by the soft breathing of Emma, the real weight and warmth of Martin touching him, and the scent of seabrine and lavender.
With bated breath, Jon and Martin both watch Cordelia take the knife and slide it into the top layer of her pelt. The skin doesn't bleed per se, not properly while it's like this. His mother's bitten back hiss of pain reveals more, though, than blood ever would.
Jon's heard that the pain, the actual sharing, is supposed to represent the pain of giving up a piece of yourself. But alongside that, it shows what it means to be part of something bigger. Part of a path built by generations and generations of selkies, shared from parent to child, spouse to spouse, a bond of skin and flesh and sea.
Cordelia doesn't take much, just a small piece. Her hands shake slightly as she holds out the knife towards Jon, the flesh balanced just on the edge of it. Jon takes the skin, careful not to cut himself again, and slides it into his mouth.
It really isn't any different than the other times he's been fed selkie meat. He was too young to remember receiving his true blessing from his grandmother. But with his mother’s eyes trained on him, watching as he chooses to take in this piece of her, It feels far more significant. She smiles and covers his hand with her own, her other brushing the hair from his face so that she can lean in and press a kiss to his forehead.
Jon closes his eyes and swallows, leaning into his mother's arms, and something in him finally feels right, settled in a way he hadn't even noticed was unsettled before. Everything clicking into place, like each moment spent here is a step forward into his future.
"I'm… I’m sorry," he murmurs, trying to blink away the happy tears. When it doesn't work, he pulls back so he can wipe them away with the sleeve of his sweater. It once belonged to Martin, but by now it might as well be Jon’s.
"My boy, my lighthouse, look at me." Jon glances up to meet Cordelia’s eyes and she presses her forehead into his, nuzzling their noses together. "You don't have to apologise to me for daring to feel." She pulls him close, into those warm, safe arms again, and Jon relaxes.
"Thank you for accepting this blessing from me, moonbeam," Cordelia whispers into his ear, and Jon can hear the smile and relief in her voice. "I'm just sorry that it took so long. That I couldn't have given it to you the first time."
"I understand," Jon says, and he does. He remembers what she’s been through as if it was his own life. A gift from Elias he will never truly be rid of. He knows the pain his mother carried with her as she stumbled free of the Institute. He wouldn’t have been able to raise a child either. Life at sea is not always forgiving, but Jon's path is somewhere between the sea and land now. This kind of forgiveness is easier in the inbetween, in shared stories and lessons hard earned. In love and company and home.
He and Martin stay for a while after that, wrapped up in listening to stories of trips and friendships and a happy home. Jon watches his mother and Martin talk, and lets himself imagine suppers with the four of them. Beach trips, where he and his mother are free to be themselves, and share that part of themselves with their spouses. It’d felt impossibly far away for so long, but now it's all so close. Within his reach.
"So what are your plans?" His mother asks, when Martin is off getting more tea for the four of them. Jon shrugs, but smiles all the same.
He and Martin have started on the vague outline of plans, a nebulous future that they can choose for themselves. They've already spoken about a trip to Scotland. Somewhere along the coast.
First, though, they're going to Bournemouth. It’s where his mother used to swim, back before she was taken. He’d spent a lot of time around there as a pup himself, among the waves and sand.
"We have a small trip planned," he answers, hand curled comfortably around his mug. "It'll be my...my first time back to the sea in a long while. I'm—ah—I might be a little nervous. I wanted it to be somewhere special."
"Understandable." Cordelia nods.
"I remember when Cordy 'n I took our first trip,” Emma pipes in, a half grin on her face. “She was shaking, leaning on me as she led us to the sea. The pure joy I heard in her as soon as she splashed into that water, I don't think I'll ever forget it."
Emma sounds so in love, still so utterly charmed by the memory, even years later. Jon looks to his mother, who, for a moment, only seems to have eyes for her wife.
"It didn't fix everything," Cordelia admits. "Only time can do that. But it was like being washed clean, the first layer of dirt and pain rinsing away, being replaced by salt and sea and song. The ocean welcomed me home, like I'd never been taken. I know it will for you too."
Jon is crying again, little sobs that barely fill his throat. When his skin had first been taken, it had felt like the only home he’d ever known had rejected him, cold and distant and cruel. If what his mother says is true, perhaps eventually he can feel alright again. Maybe even better, now that he has Martin by his side.
"Tea!" Martin says cheerfully as he returns with the platter of tea and biscuits. His smile is like sunlight. Jon smiles right back, and everything feels right in that glowing, golden afternoon.
***
The trip to Bournemouth is strange. For all his wanderings, it's the closest place he’s ever had to home, but now, after so long away, he almost doesn’t recognize it. He stares out the window of the cab at the glint of the ocean on the horizon and it looks cold and unfamiliar. Distant in a way it’s never been before. He’d thought it would feel right to return to the sea here, but instead he’s filled with a sudden dread.
What if it doesn’t want him back?
Martin’s hand lands on his, pressing down into the soft leather seat beneath them. Jon leans his forehead against the cool glass window and closes his eyes. Whatever happens, he won’t be alone. It’s still odd, having someone beside him that he truly wants to be there.
Jon's hand is still intertwined with Martin's as they walk down the rocky path toward the beach. In a bag slung over his shoulder—the same bag that carried his mother's pelt—Jon carries his own skin. His other hand is shoved deep inside the bag, running his fingers over and over the soft velvet of his own fur. In Martin’s other hand, he carries an old-fashioned wicker picnic basket given to them by Cordelia.
On the way over, they had picked up sushi. Jon had hemmed and hawed, struggling to choose between the wide variety of fish. It had all smelled so tempting. In the end, Martin had simply smiled and bought a variety of interesting ones he thought Jon would like best.
It's approaching evening now, and the beach is quieting down. The sun is setting, slow and steady, and Jon takes a moment to breathe in the world around them. It feels right, standing here, strangely dreamlike and perfect. For a moment, Martin's face is full of quiet awe, and he pulls Jon's hand up for a kiss, before dragging him down to the beach with the excitement of a child.
They settle the blanket in a more secluded area near the waterline, far from any other people, and begin laying out their dinner on it. Jon is just digging his coat out of his bag when he hears the splash of waves and Martin's bright laugh. He looks up to see Martin, his toes in the water, digging them into the wet sand.
"Come on Jon!" Martin calls, and Jon drapes his pelt securely over his shoulders. The walk to the ocean feels like miles, and Jon is suddenly, irrationally struck for a moment by the fear that it won't feel right, that the sea might not want its stolen child back. Maybe Elias was right. Maybe he doesn’t belong anywhere anymore.
Jon breathes in deep, gathering his courage like a talisman, and takes the first steps forward. When he reaches the water's edge, however, he freezes. The cold water brushes over his toes and he cannot make himself take that plunge. He shakes with the effort, and tears begin to well in his eyes.
This should be easy. This is home, his home. He's free. So why can't he just make himself take that one last step?
"Jon?" Martin's concerned tone pulls him out, and he looks up, wild-eyed. Martin comes toward him as the tide pulls away. "Are…are you ready?"
Jon shakes his head, leaning into Martin's safe arms as he's engulfed in a hug. "That’s okay, Jon. You don't have to be ready right away. We can wait as long as you need."
Jon knows this, logically. He does. It's just impossible to escape the doubt Elias had ingrained in him. He feels pathetic, a terrified creature afraid of his own home.
"I still want to,” Jon says quickly, before he can doubt himself. “But let's just—can we just walk a bit first?"
Martin nods, pulling out of the hug and looping his arm through Jon's. He lets Jon lead, once or twice letting go to dip his feet in the sea. Once, Jon almost goes with him, but even Martin’s soft smile isn’t enough to melt the panic filling his throat. It’s agonizing, being so close and yet unable to cross the precipice. Jon can hear the call of the sea. He just wishes he could answer.
"Are you hungry? I know I could eat," Martin says, after a while. Jon stares across the water again, then nods, turning his back to the sea.
They sit on the towel, and Jon can smell the sea still clinging to Martin. He intertwines their legs, and pulls Martin down for a kiss. His lips taste like salt, at once familiar and entirely new. There's something so beautiful about Martin, something like seawater in how it slips through Jon’s fingers and cannot be grasped. He's a pearl among humans, one Jon is lucky to have found.
Their supper is perfect, a simple, happy affair. They drape Jon's skin over their laps, warm against the growing cold of the evening air. They take turns feeding each other, soft teasing and softer kisses punctuating each moment. Jon finds he likes the raw fish best, although some of the spicy ones are fascinating on his palate. He can't have too many of those, but Martin swears that it takes time to develop a tolerance, if Jon wants to. There’s no rush, Martin reminds him, again and again. They have all the time in the world.
"Martin," Jon murmurs, after their remaining food is back in the basket and he and Martin are cuddled close. They are warm, legs tangled beneath his pelt. Martin's arms around him feel safe, far safer than Elias' ever did. His touch is electric but not overwhelming, and Jon loves him for that.
It’s easy, staring out over the ocean while curled close against Martin. Jon thinks perhaps, if he wanted, he could be content like this for the rest of his life. Content with the land, and with love, and to simply be human. After all this time, maybe he’s forgotten how to be a selkie.
“We can go together,” Martin says, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Jon’s head, and in that moment Jon knows he is ready. He pushes himself to standing and pulls Martin up beside him, draping his skin around both their shoulders. The walk is easier this time, with Martin’s hand tight in his, each step more and more confident.
The cold ocean water is wonderful and perfect on his feet, and with each step deeper and deeper in, the anxiety lessens, until the paralyzing fear finally slides away into nothing. The sand is wonderful between his toes, and the way the waves hit his ankles, steady and soft, feels like a song composed just for him. The gentle wind and the cry of the birds above like words to the melody.
Jon stops for a moment to roll the hems of his trousers further up before walking in until he's knee deep, each step one step closer to the beautiful blue depths he's missed like a lost limb.
He's taking in the scent, when he feels Martin lean in to nuzzle at his shoulder.
"So?" Martin asks, rubbing circles on the pelt. Jon shivers, the quiet pleasure lovely and soft. He stares out for a moment, into where the open sky meets the sea, and turns to meet Martin's gaze.
"It's—it's so much." Jon can't fully articulate the joy that swells in his heart like a rising tide. Martin here beside him makes it all the sweeter, warm compared to the chill. It's a perfect balance, and his heart sings.
They spend more time playing in the tide, splashing each other or walking hand in hand, as Jon tells tales of his foolish childhood on these shores. Jon's apprehension lessens the longer they spend in the water, the leftover doubts Elias instilled in him slowly washing away with the tide.
When the sun is low, and the beach is utterly still, things finally feel..right. It's almost time. Almost time to put on his skin and reconnect with his other home, with the moon and tides. There's an ache in his chest though, when he thinks about it, quiet beneath the joy.
"I won't be gone long," Jon says out loud, a promise to both himself and Martin. Martin rubs a finger in steady circles on Jon's inner elbow before he meets Jon’s gaze. His eyes look watery, but his smile is so beautiful and proud.
"I know. I know you will. I trust you." Jon hears the truth in Martin's words, deep and sincere. He trusts Jon, knows he won't lose him to the sea. Martin trusts that his heart is safe in the hands of a wild creature.
"I love you. I love you so much," Jon murmurs, leaning in to press his lips softly against Martin’s.
"Jon," Martin says, pulling back to look Jon in the eyes. "Jon, Jon, Jon." The affection bursting from his words says everything. "God, you're— I love you too."
It takes so much to pull away, to leave that kind of devotion, even for a moment. But the sea calls, each rushing crash of water on earth like Jon’s own heartbeat.
It's Martin who holds his skin as Jon strips down to nothing. Jon reaches out his hands and Martin slides the coat into his arms and pulls him in for one more kiss, one that contains all the promises of the future Jon could ever want.
With one long, final glance at Martin, Jon steps back and wraps his skin around himself. All around, everything is starlight and sea, home and endless love. The change feels as natural as slipping into the water, as easy as breathing.
Jon will be back. He already knows it with a bone deep certainty. Martin is his lighthouse, bright and shining through every stormy day and moonless night. He already feels the call of Martin's love, the path home set just before his feet.
And he knows he will always return.