Chapter Text
I’m going to tell him today, Martin decided. I’m going to tell him I love him. He’d had this exact thought every day for almost a month. Every time he was so sure he was finally going to say it, then he bailed at the last minute, telling Jon some bullshit about work or tea or going somewhere for lunch. Simply put, Martin was a coward.
Sometimes, though… Sometimes he had this vague feeling that maybe Jon didn’t need to be told. That Jon already knew. That maybe, just maybe, he was telling Martin back. Brief moments of affection were allowed to linger, once-rare “thank you”s were now given with a hand on Martin’s arm or a warm smile, and every now and then his touch had an odd weight to it, like it was trying to convey something Martin didn’t quite understand.
Martin wanted to tell him anyway. He’d always been something of a romantic.
If only he could actually go through with it.
The only consolation was that he hadn’t made anything awkward or uncomfortable (for once). As time passed and their not-date (definitely not a date) came ever closer, everything got easier. That was the only way Martin could describe it. The new tactility between them was never discussed, just accepted as ‘how we are now’ -- a fact which Martin wasn’t going to complain about any time soon.
Still, it wasn’t quite enough, a fact which made Martin miserable then guilty in cycles.
Right now, though, Martin felt neither of those things; what he did feel was incredibly stressed. He’d tried on all the shirts in his wardrobe (twice) and none of them looked quite right, his hair refused to be anything except a mess, and two minutes ago Jon had sent him a cryptic text that made his heart thump in his chest.
Jon :) [11:03]
Do you trust me, Martin?
[11:03] Me
??
Jon :) [11:04]
Do you?
[11:04] Me
yeah of course
why?
Jon :) [11:05]
Good. I'll meet you there.
[11:05] Me
i thought we were going to get the train together
?
i mean its fine if you want to meet there i guess
will you be waiting outside orrrr
[11:16] Me
jon?
[11:34] Me
jon are you okay? youre being weird again :P
Jon :) [11:34]
I'm fine. See you soon.
What the fuck was he meant to say to that?
The lack of communication was typical Jon -- after all, why say something when you could just… not do that? -- but this time it unwillingly brought to mind a few of the statements he’d heard Jon read, with abductions and replacements and…
No. It was fine. Jon was just being weird. He hadn’t had his identity stolen by some kind of creepy monster. That was ridiculous. (Shit, when had this become his life?)
Martin sat on his bed and sighed. He just needed to relax, because there was absolutely nothing wrong. More than that, he needed to actually get dressed because his train was in a few hours and he wasn’t even close to ready. But what to wear? Nothing looked good enough for Jon their not-date the concert. Already regretting his choice, Martin pulled out his phone again and called Tim.
Tim picked up in two rings. “Hey, you alright? You don’t usually call me.”
“I might be having a small emergency?” Martin said.
“Wh--”
“No worms or anything!” Martin reassured him. “It’s, um… I… So you’re my most fashionable friend.”
“Martin. Please tell me you didn’t call ‘not knowing what to wear on your date’ an emergency.”
“I- No- It’s not a date.” Martin could hear the frustratingly petulant note in his voice.
Tim snorted. “Whatever you say.”
“Are you going to just laugh at me, or are you going to help me?”
“Ugh, fine,” Tim replied, though there was no real irritation in it. “What about that purple shirt you got a while ago? Y’know, the one Jon complimented you on.”
“Mmm, maybe, but I tried it on and it looked too, I don’t know… purple?”
“Put on the shirt, Martin. I can promise you it’s not too purple.”
“Are you sure?”
“Martin.”
“Fine, I’ll put on the shirt!” Martin huffed. “I, um. Thank you. For the help.”
“No worries. Have fun on your date, yeah?”
“Not a --” Martin started, but Tim had already hung up.
He just smiled at his phone and put on the shirt. (Tim was right, it did look good on him.) He’d painted his nails last night so after another quick brush of his hair, there was nothing to do except pace his flat, watching the clock tick closer and closer to the time he had to leave.
The journey was easy; the first half was Martin’s normal commute, then from there he got the tube over to Nambucca, where the Mechanisms would be performing. Still, he would have preferred Jon to be making the trip with him. He settled for listening to his Mechanisms playlist instead (not that that was a bad option).
Jon was nowhere to be seen when Martin got to Nambucca. He sent a short text asking what time Jon was planning to get there, but there was no answer. The anxiety started to build as Martin queued to enter. Where was he? By the time he got inside (third row, not bad), the anxiety switched to frustration. If Jon didn’t want to come, he should’ve just told Martin rather than standing him up like this. Martin voiced this thought in another text to Jon (still no answer, because of course not, Jon was being a dick) and resolved to just enjoy the show.
This worked for about five minutes. Martin didn’t pay much attention to Reesha, the warmup act, though the parts he did listen to were really good. He was too busy worrying about Jon and getting annoyed about Jon and generally thinking about Jon.
The thing Martin didn’t understand was, why bother saying yes in the first place if he wasn’t going to show up? Jon never had trouble turning down invitations to places, so that clearly wasn’t the issue.
It had to be more of a last-minute thing, then. Maybe Jon was sick? Except no, he would’ve just said instead of telling Martin he’d meet him at the show. Maybe--
The subtle dimming of stage lights snapped Martin out of his thoughts; the Mechanisms were here. They stepped up onto the stage in single file, Jonny leading the procession. Martin cheered with the rest of the audience, the sound almost deafening in the crowded room.
Martin had never seen Jonny dressed like this before. (He looked incredible, of course, just different.) He wore a white shirt, the sleeves unbuttoned and pushed up to his elbows. The usual brightly-coloured trousers had been replaced by a skirt, ankle-length at the back but drawn up to mid-thigh at the front, showing off a fake gun strapped to his thigh. The skirt’s lace edges and his fingerless gloves were stained a deep red. Three belts were each angled differently around his waist. Rather than the usual leather boots, Jonny wore a pair of ankle-high heels that Martin secretly thought made his legs look fantastic.
Jonny’s dark hair wasn’t braided this time but drawn up into a messy bun, though he still wore those emerald-lensed goggles pushed up onto his head. His mouth was painted in the same dark red as the stain on his clothing and the familiar lines of black lightning emphasised his amber eyes, gleaming in the stage lights. But what else was that on his skin? Martin couldn’t quite make them out until the lights brightened. They looked almost like--
No.
No fucking way.
Martin knew what Jon’s worm scars looked like. Had studied them from afar, memorising exactly where each was on his face. He counted them sometimes.
But this--
He couldn’t be--
The rest of the band started to ensure their instruments were tuned. As Jonny sat down, feigning boredom, the two of them locked eyes and all Martin could see was Jon looking back at him.
How--
Why--
What?!
Jonny -- Jon -- winked at him. This isn’t happening, Martin thought dimly. This is a dream.
It had to be.
It wasn’t.
Then Jon looked away and broke the spell, leaving Martin reeling. He started bantering with his bandmates and yes, Martin could hear Jon’s voice hidden away in Jonny’s. How had he not noticed that before?
“How is everyone tonight?” The audience cheered again. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. I’m going to assume, good?” Jon said dryly. Martin laughed despite his shock.
“Right, then. One last time.”
It was only then that it really clicked for Martin, that this was their last ever show. It felt bittersweet.
The music started up and Jon launched into Tales to be Told. Martin clapped along as they all did, a huge grin on his face.
Next came the introduction. “Killers and renegades, liars and thieves, welcome! We are the Mechanisms, the crew of the starship Aurora roving through the galaxy having fun, violence, adventure, violence… violence...” Jon said, ticking each one off on his fingers. “Allow me a brief moment of self-indulgence to introduce to you the crew of our mighty starship!”
The crowd cheered for each name, Martin included.
“Drumbot Brian, our pilot!
“Ashes O’Reilly, quartermaster;
“Gunpowder Tim! Our master-at-arms;
“Baron Marius von Raum, ship’s ‘doctor’;
“Raphaella la Cognizi, science officer;
“And Ivy Alexandria, our archivist.” (The word didn’t quite have the same emphasis to it as when Jon used it for himself, Martin noticed. It was like Ivy was an archivist, Jon was The Archivist.)
“And last but the very opposite of least, myself; Jonny D’Ville!” Jon said with a flourish. “Your humble captain.”
“First mate!” they all corrected on cue.
“Really? We’re dying and you can’t give me this? Sometimes I don’t know why I bother,” Jon huffed, and that was so overwhelmingly… Jon that Martin couldn’t keep the fondness out of his smile.
“So mind your manners, sonny Jim, we’ve seen beyond the stars
And if you care to prove it we can show you all the scars
We know the void is screaming mad, no happy endings out there, lad
The book is lying open: there are tales to be told…”
-----
The show was fantastic. Of course it was. It could never have been anything else.
They played a lot of Martin’s favourites, starting with The Bifrost Incident and going on to sing snippets of their other tales. The crowd went wild for each song, to the point where Jon called them out on it (“No, look, we’re in the middle of the story -- oh, never mind…”). Half of them were crying by the end. Martin may or may not have been one of those people.
It was during Hellfire, with Jon’s eyes full of joy and his voice full of passion, that Martin realised he wanted to spend the rest of his life with this man. The thought was a bolt from the blue, so strong that he almost stumbled. One thing at a time, though; Martin still needed to tell Jon he loved him first.
He would, if he ever got the chance at least.
It was three hours since the show had ended. Their book was closed, all their tales had been told, and now was the final time for the fans to talk with the band. Martin had queued with everyone else to talk to Jon, but he’d been busy with some other fans by the time he got to the front. So he bought a t-shirt, got it signed by everyone he could (everyone except Jon, it turned out) and retreated to a slightly quieter corner.
There, Martin waited.
And waited.
Once the crowd had finally dissipated, Martin expected Jon to come and find him. Instead, he watched the band leave the room through a side door. Had Jon… forgotten he was there? He couldn’t have--
Martin’s phone buzzed; it was a text from Jon telling him exactly where to find a room behind the stage. Not forgotten after all. He realised Jon had arranged all this to give them some privacy and silently thanked him. Martin didn’t want to keep his love for Jon a secret; he just wanted Jon to be the sole keeper of that knowledge, at least for a while.
Following Jon’s instructions, Martin found a nondescript little room, clearly used for storage considering its location behind the stage. He pushed open the door to see Jon sitting on a table, his legs swinging slightly above the floor.
“I’m going to kill you,” Martin said. “And you’ll deserve it.” He was smiling so hard it hurt.
“Fair enough,” Jon said and hopped down from the table, impossibly agile in those heels.
The room was small enough that Jon was now only two steps away from Martin, still in front of the door. They moved forward in sync, turning the gap into mere inches. “I--” Jon started. Martin never found out what he was going to say as he leant down and kissed him.
Jon tasted like lipstick and warmth. Martin's hands cupped Jon's face, one sliding into his hair. It was impossibly soft. Jon’s arms were flung around his neck; Martin never wanted to leave his embrace. One of them made a low, desperate noise that made Martin’s heart skip.
Martin had never believed in any of the first kiss cliches. Never thought he’d see stars, or fireworks would go off, or birds would start singing. It was a nice idea, but real life just wasn’t like that (a fact proven to him by his first and only other kiss).
And it wasn’t. But here, now, with Jon close against him and his lips pressed tenderly against Martin’s, he couldn’t care less. It was perfect.
When they broke apart, both breathing heavily, neither of them were willing to go far. Martin leaned his forehead against Jon’s and they just smiled at each other for a while.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for two years,” Martin whispered.
“You don’t have to wait any longer,” Jon replied, kissing him again. Somehow, it was even better than the first time, leaving Martin breathless.
“Can we… Can we go back to yours?” he asked.
Jon jerked back, frowning slightly, and Martin felt the stirrings of panic. Oh God, had he fucked this up already?
“Martin,” Jon started, his voice slow and apologetic. “If you’re, ah… I don’t--” He looked away and sighed. “I’m asexual.”
“You’re--” Oh. Martin flushed. “I’m not, I wasn’t-- I didn’t mean that. I, um. I just thought, you know, maybe kissing in a cold, dusty cupboard in the back of a bar isn’t the most private. Or, um. Romantic.”
“R-Right… You realise I won’t--”
“No! Yes. I understand,” Martin stuttered.
Jon looked confused. “But I can’t, I won’t give you--”
“You don’t have to,” Martin told him firmly. His heart broke at the look of pure relief that crossed Jon’s face.
He leant back in, leaving the last few centimetres for Jon to cross as a testament to what Martin just promised him. Their third kiss was full of unspoken ‘thank-you’s that Martin wished Jon didn’t need to say. It was gentle and almost chaste and Martin was so, so happy that they got to do this at all.
“‘S a good look on you, by the way,” Martin murmured against Jon’s mouth. “The whole steampunk thing.”
Jon turned pink under his makeup. “I, um, thank you. Oh, stop, that tickles!”
Martin had started pressing light, feathery kisses along Jon’s jaw and neck. “Sorry,” Martin said. (He wasn’t.)
Jon’s switched from happily flustered to amused as a thought struck him. “Since we can’t get fired, maybe I should show up to work wearing all this.”
They laughed softly together with the same breath. “What about Sasha and Tim?” Martin asked.
“They know already, they have since that show you invited them to,” Jon admitted. “Tim was the one who made me realise how much I love you.”
The words didn’t quite register at first. Martin just stood there in Jon’s arms, completely blown away. “You…”
“Yes. For a while now.”
“I never thought,” Martin started. He fumbled for the words for a couple of seconds before giving up and drawing Jon into a hug. He buried his face into Jon’s shoulder and tried not to cry. Martin lost track of how long the hug lasted for; they were reluctant to separate from their embrace and so neither made the first move to break apart.
When they finally left, it was hand in hand, and it stayed that way for the entire journey back to Jon’s flat.
As they were falling asleep that night, their bodies tangled together, the position entirely natural like they’d been sleeping that way for years, it dawned on Martin that he still hadn’t told Jon he loved him.
He didn’t mind. Jon already knew.
-----
Three days later, Jon had been attacked by the thing posing as Sasha and framed for murder. He’d had to flee his job and his flat, instead choosing to stay with Georgie Barker (whose address wasn’t anywhere in the Institute’s records). He’d been confronted with the fact that maybe he wasn’t quite as human as he thought.
Things had never been worse for Jon.
It was okay, though, because Martin was with him every step of the way.
The year and a half that followed did not go well for the two of them. It was full of pain and misery (and way too much circus bullshit for either of their liking), plus Jon seemed determined to pick up injuries even with Martin there to watch over him.
The book is still open.
The tale is still being told.
But just this once, the lovers don’t die at the end.