Chapter Text
When Martin woke, he woke soft and comfortable and warm. An arm was slung around his middle, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Jon, his face still slack in sleep. The sight of it still managed to take Martin’s breath away.
He drank it all in, every detail. The way Jon’s hair was mussed against the pillow, the grey streaks a stark contrast against the black. The way his mouth was slightly parted, his even, deep breaths just barely audible. The slight dip in his nose. The way his dark eyelashes twitched in sleep.
Martin thought he was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“What?” Jon grumbled, suddenly.
Martin’s grin widened when Jon opened an eye and looked at him. “What?” he parroted back.
“You’re staring,” Jon said pointedly, his voice rough with sleep.
“I’m allowed,” Martin said, tucking himself closer to him, settling his chin on Jon’s sternum.
Though Jon rolled his eyes, his arm wound further around Martin and kept him close.
“You’re beautiful,” Martin told him, grinning when he saw a distinct flush on Jon’s cheeks.
“I am not,” Jon mumbled, face flushed dark.
Martin leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek, reveling in the way Jon sighed lightly and his eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “Have I ever told you,” Martin said softly, looking down at him with what he was sure was an utterly besotted expression, “that I love your nose?” He punctuated this with a kiss to the bridge of Jon’s nose. “Or your eyes?” he murmured, leaning down and gently pressing kisses to Jon’s eyelids when he closed them, breathing out shakily. “Even your forehead, though it’s a little big—”
“Hey!” Jon exclaimed, his eyes shooting open, his face the picture of offense.
Martin grinned, managing to peck a kiss to Jon’s forehead before Jon managed to squirm away. Jon huffed, trying and failing to hide away his smile when he narrowed his eyes at him. “The vanity, ” Jon said. “Is that all then?”
“Oh, but I’m sure I’ve already told you,” Martin said, primly, wrapping his arms around Jon’s middle. Their noses nearly brushed. Jon looked back at him, the look in his lovely brown eyes very soft.
“Tell me again,” he murmured.
Martin’s smile softened into something smaller, as he looked at him. “I love you,” he said, watching Jon’s eyes crinkle at the corners like they always did when he smiled.
“I love you too,” Jon said, his voice practically a whisper, with how gently he delivered the words.
And for a moment, they just looked at each other, each of them devoted to cataloguing every perfect moment, every note of the other’s voice, every freckle and wrinkle and line.
It was strange, staying in the estate after that. Sasha and Tim left fairly soon after that night, when the world turned right again. Tim especially had wanted to leave the estate before the Eye decided to tighten its hold again. They took up residence in the village with some of the money Elias—or Jonah, rather—had stashed away. Basira and Daisy left soon after, now that Daisy was no longer called to guard the perimeter.
It was bittersweet, saying goodbye to them. They planned to go further than Tim and Sasha, but Martin understood why. The estate had tied them all together, but where he had been there for just half a year, the others had been there for far longer. He could understand the urge to finally get away.
Still, he was grateful for the invitation Daisy extended to him and Jon before they went, with a wink and a wicked, “don’t be a stranger,” that had Basira scoffing in disbelief and giving her a light shove.
Melanie dropped in and out, but less so, once she’d gathered up the courage to knock on Georgie’s door again.
When Martin asked her about it, an uncharacteristic flush crossed her face, and she started stuttering with a soppy smile crossing over her face, so Martin supposed, all in all, it had gone rather well.
It hadn’t taken him long to realize, though, that things wouldn’t be all easy. He remembered the first time it had happened was the morning after their eventful day, after some very long hours spent blissfully sleeping the past horrors away. He and Jon had sleepily made it to the kitchen and Martin started to make tea, when Jon mentioned something about going to wake Melanie through a yawn, drifting out of the kitchen. Martin spent the next few minutes finishing the tea, but gradually, couldn’t help but realize that, other than the noises he himself was making, it was so very quiet. And then, he realized, it felt almost a little too cold, and even though he could see the golden strands of the Web around him, some primal fear that wasn’t quite his abruptly took over, settling deep under his skin.
He couldn’t help but think how very alone he seemed. Would Jon ever come back? What if Jon wasn’t even real, and Barn— Martin was still in—
What if...
He didn’t know how long he spiraled in that panic. Only knew the tea had gone cold when Melanie and Jon found him, huddled in the corner, struggling to breathe.
Jon didn’t leave him alone much, after that. Though part of Martin wanted to give him a good shake and beg him to stop coddling him, the other part of him couldn’t help but be ridiculously grateful. The touch of Jon’s palm to his or the small of his back, or Jon’s arms wrapped around him, paired with the warm tones of his voice always seemed the best way to ward off the chill.
“Maybe you two should get out of here,” Melanie said to him, a few days later, over tea (that he was sure to have made, though Melanie had been very begrudging about the decision).
“Yeah,” Martin agreed after a moment, rubbing at his eyes. His Lonely dreams hadn’t exactly stopped, and now, seemed to persist even when Jon was beside him. “Maybe.”
“No, I mean, especially you, Martin. When’s the last time you’ve been to town?”
Martin looked down at his tea. “I haven’t yet,” he murmured.
“What was that?”
“I haven’t yet,” he sighed, looking up at her. “Alright?”
“Why not?” she asked, frowning. “It’s way nicer than it used to be, now that people are finally beginning to believe the world is normal again.”
Martin sighed again, absently stirring his tea. “I’ll have to go to the hospital eventually,” he said quietly. “See what happened to her.”
“Oh,” Melanie said, after a moment.
“We already had a plot paid off and everything. Because of how bad she got, so she’s probably...” he trailed off, mouth twisting. “I just haven’t found it in myself to go,” he said.
“Makes sense.” Melanie breathed out roughly. Studying his face, she added, “really though. You and Jon should get out of here eventually. Go somewhere. I don’t think it’s good to linger here long.”
Martin thought on all the memory tied up in this house, how he’d linger on parts of the estate now and his memory would take him back more than a century. Sometimes, his eyes would catch on the phonograph in the library or that empty space on the wall where Jonah’s portrait had once taken up space, and he’d be taken over by such an ancient sense of sorrow.
“No,” he said softly, “probably not.”
“So what’s keeping you?” Melanie asked, after a beat. “You haven’t even made plans.”
Martin looked up at her, opening his mouth to answer, but found when he did, the words that came to his throat were warm, buzzing with purpose. “I’m waiting for someone,” he found himself saying. Melanie blinked at him, and Martin blinked back. “They’ll be here in a few days,” he added.
Melanie stared at him for a beat longer, and then barked a laugh at his expression.
“Sorry,” Martin murmured, fighting a grin of his own. The little insights the Web liked to drop on him had become far more frequent after Barnabas. A few times, he had gotten a little kick out of parroting Jon’s words at him a moment before he’d say them. The subsequent annoyed silent treatment didn’t really last long.
“You’re a side show attraction,” Melanie told him, grinning.
“I’m sensing great irritation in your future,” Martin deadpanned. He then kicked her shin under the table.
Melanie gave a little cry of mild outrage, glaring at him and reaching down to rub her shin. “You little shit,” she grumbled.
He grinned at her and took another sip of his tea.
The next day was a day of funerals. They took what remained of Barnabas’ body from Jonah's office. They buried him under a tree, just outside the outskirts of the estate. Barnabas had liked to read under it, Martin knew. When the weather was nice.
He wasn’t sure which part of him started crying—the part of him that was Martin Blackwood or the distant part of him that was Barnabas Bennett. But when Jon’s arms wound around him and held him, he just let himself feel it, burying his face in the curve of Jon’s neck and shoulder. All that deep sorrow and also, strangely, the feeling that finally, finally, Barnabas had a proper ending.
He’d thought he wasn’t going to cry for his mother. He looked down at her gravestone later that day, thinking only that he was grateful he’d had the foresight to buy the plot, to settle the arrangements before she’d even been in the ground.
She would have hated him for it, he knew, if she’d been at all herself near the end.
“Alright?” Jon asked him, his voice soft and cautious as he looked over at him. His thumb brushed gently over the back of Martin’s hand where he held it, a steady, grounding motion.
Martin swallowed and nodded, but didn’t draw his eyes away from the inscription. “Yeah,” he answered hoarsely. But something in his breath hitched, catching in his throat. He blinked, his face screwing up for a moment.
“Martin?” Jon asked, his voice so very soft.
“I always told myself I hated her,” he whispered, his voice trembling.
“But?” Jon prompted, after a moment, when the rest got stuck in Martin’s throat.
Martin took a trembling breath and admitted, voice thick, “I think I just thought that would have been easier.”
When he turned into Jon this time, only a few tears fell. This also felt like a kind of ending, one he’d always expected, and he supposed, in a way, that made it worse. He rested his chin on Jon’s shoulder as his arms wrapped around him tight, breathing in the scent of him, mingled with the brisk Spring wind, and watched the leaves dance in the trees at the edges of the graveyard.
“Have you ever wanted to go to Scotland?” Jon asked, abruptly, when they were sprawled over each other on the couch in the library, reading.
Though, Martin supposed, Jon had been under the pretense of reading, and likely hadn’t actually been for a while now. Martin had noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that though Jon was looking down at the book resting on Martin’s legs where they were sprawled over Jon’s lap, he had failed to turn a page in the last 10 minutes.
“Scotland?” Martin said, when he blinked at Jon and realized he was still waiting for an answer. “I...I’ve never really thought about it. Never had much money to go anywhere far.”
Jon nodded and looked away, cheeks flushing. Martin squinted up at him, a smile playing on his face. “Why...?” he asked, raising a brow at him.
Jon shrugged, a smile twitching over his face. “Nothing.”
Martin narrowed his eyes at him. “Not nothing—”
“No?” Jon asked, pseudo-innocently, looking down at him.
“Jon,” Martin admonished, laughing. “ Why do you ask, love.”
Jon shrugged, smiling absently. “I was just wondering if you’d like to go,” Jon said, his cheeks flushing a little again. “With me,” he added, as if that wasn’t utterly obvious. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?!” Martin echoed, amused. “Jesus, Jon.”
“I just think a change of scenery might be nice!”
“Oh, been talking to Melanie, have you?” he asked.
“Maybe,” Jon said, raising his brows at him. “I would have thought you’d be pleased by that.”
“What, that you’re no longer squabbling like children? Congrats, you’re an adult now.”
“Martin,” Jon said, a bit more seriously, looking at him with a bit of concern.
Martin sighed, looking away. “I know,” he sighed.
“It would be good,” Jon said.
“I know.”
“And we deserve it.”
“I know. ”
“Then, what—”
“I’m scared.” Martin blurted out. “Alright?”
He watched the surprise on Jon’s face morph into something softer. “Why?” he asked gently.
Martin sighed, looking down at his book, watching as the words went a little blurry. “I just...sometimes it’s hard for me to believe this is...real? Like...like if I’m out there for too long, it’ll all dissolve away and then you’ll be—then I’ll be—” he cut off, his throat closing around the word. Alone. More quietly, he admitted, “so many of Barnabas’ memories are tied up here, and...he’d hide in them, in the Lonely. Bury himself in them trying not to forget and I know—“ he scoffed a little at himself, but it came out choked. “I know it sounds like a self-fulfilling prophecy, if I’m scared to go out, but I just can’t help but think...what if I leave, and then this isn’t—and you’re not...?”
He knew it was irrational. He knew it. But even the idea was so terrifying he thought he’d be content never stepping outside again.
Jon set his book aside, leaning closer to cup Martin’s cheek with his hand. “Martin,” he said softly, meeting Martin’s eyes intently. “I know how hard it is to accept, that something has actually gone...right. I’m not used to it either,” he said, leaning closer, pressing their foreheads together. “But I’m here. I’ll always be here. I promise. In fact, you’ll have a hard time getting me to ever leave,” he said, smiling when Martin gave a weak huff of a laugh. “It’s you and I. Together, alright? I’ll hold your hand all the way to Scotland if you want, if it helps.”
Martin felt his face flush. “Jon.”
“I’m serious!” Jon said, and, as if to punctuate this, he took Martin’s hand in his. “Really,” he said softly, “I will spend every minute of the rest of my life showing you that you’re not alone, if you need me to.”
Martin swallowed around the lump in his throat, blinking when his vision went a little blurry. He squeezed Jon’s hand. “Okay.” Then, as if to cement this fact for himself, he let his eyes roam over Jon’s face, and murmured, “you’re here.”
“I’m here,” Jon echoed, softly. He leaned in, pressing a feather light kiss to the corner of Martin’s mouth. “And you are not alone,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to Martin’s cheek before drawing back.
Jon still hadn’t gotten into the habit of schooling his expression, and Martin hoped he never would. Because he could see every hint of Jon’s love for him in the softness around his eyes, the gentle hint of a smile at his mouth, the way he looked at Martin like he would be content never looking away.
They’d just returned to their books when someone used the knocker on the front doors, the sound echoing through the hall.
Jon frowned, putting his book in his lap. “Tim and Sasha weren’t planning on visiting yet, were they?” he asked Martin.
Martin frowned, about to confirm that, no, they weren’t, when he froze and realized exactly who was at the door. “No!” he said to Jon, when it looked like he was about to get up to go answer it. Jon stilled, his brow furrowing in confusion, watching as Martin shot up. “I’ll get it.”
Jon’s frown intensified. “You—?”
“I’ll get it,” Martin repeated, trying for a smile but finding it may have looked a little too wide.
Jon stared at him as if he’d grown two heads.
“Just,” Martin said, edging his way to the library doors, “sit.” Jon’s expression did not once change as he slipped out the doors.
Martin hurried to the entrance, palms sweating. He took a moment to steady himself, looking at the door, taking a few deep breaths, before he took the handle and opened it.
Annabelle Cane smiled at him, with her dark red lips, eyes twinkling. She was dressed imperiously, as she always seemed to be, in what was practically a gown, black and billowing in the Spring winds, a long brimmed hat tilted on her head. “Hello, Martin,” she said. Her eyes flicked to look behind him. “Hello, to you as well,” she said, and Martin cursed inwardly, glancing back at Jon to see him staring, wide-eyed. When Jon glanced at him, Martin widened his eyes and mouthed “ be polite.”
When he looked back at Annabelle, her smile had widened, as if she’d caught the whole thing. “I hope this isn’t a bad time?”
Martin heard Jon’s intake of breath and hurriedly said, “not at all.” And then, on instinct, he asked, “tea?”
She smiled at him.
Tea was...incredibly awkward, though Annabelle didn’t seem to be affected by it at all. Martin tried to make strained small talk, adding little opportunities for Jon to jump in, but he never did. Jon just watched Annabelle warily like at any moment she was likely to spring across the table at them.
Once he ran out of tea to serve, and debated whether or not he should leave Jon alone with Annabelle to make more, Annabelle spoke, cutting through his frantic train of thought. “I’m afraid I’ll have to go soon—“
Jon shot up. “I can walk you out,” he said, as if he’d been waiting for the moment all day, and Martin fought a sigh.
“Actually,” Annabelle said, “I was hoping to speak with Martin a moment.”
There was a tense staring match between them, in which, really, it only seemed tense on Jon’s part. Annabelle merely looked back impassively.
“Jon,” Martin said, drawing his gaze. “It’s okay. We’ll just be a minute.”
The line of Jon’s jaw tightened, as he looked between them, brow furrowed.
“Jon,” Martin said softly, placating.
Jon stared back at him for a moment, visibly conflicted, but finally he shut his eyes briefly and said, pointedly, “I’ll just be in the next room,” looking at Martin, giving Annabelle a brief glance before turning away.
Martin blew out a shaky breath when Jon closed the door, thankful he hadn’t said anything too harsh. Thankful he hadn’t said anything that might inadvertently offend the Web, because they’d learned the hard way how badly that could go.
“He’s very fond of you,” Annabelle observed mildly, her gaze drawing away from the door and to him, eyes twinkling.
Martin swallowed, trying to carefully parse out an answer.
Annabelle must have seen the mild panic on his face, because she quirked a perfect brow at him. “Relax,” she murmured, and, admittedly, the smile on her face was a small, friendly thing. “I didn’t come here to scare you. I came here to...thank you I suppose.”
Martin stared at her, taken aback. “You— thank me?” he asked, incredulously. He looked down at the table, then at his hands, then back up at her. “Why?”
“Because,” she said softly, “many of us thought the Eye was beyond saving. And you’ve proven otherwise.”
“And you were among them?” Martin asked slowly, parsing it out himself.
“I was...undecided,” she settled on, her eyes bright when they looked at him. “What Jonah Magnus did was not something easily forgivable. And yet.”
Martin frowned. “I didn’t forgive him,” he said.
She tilted her head, studying him for a moment. Her eyes drifted to the door Jon had left through, lingering there, before looking back. “But something tempered Barnabas’ anger.”
Martin swallowed dryly. “Yes.”
Her smile quirked. “Something in the shape of an Archivist?”
Martin studied her face carefully before responding, but he found no tricks there, no traps to fall into. “Yes,” he said. “Is that what the Web...expected?”
It was her turn to take her time considering this, settling back in the dining chair. “It’s not something many of us would have bet on,” she admitted, eventually. “But perhaps that’s why it worked.” She paused for a moment, then said, “there is a great simplicity in fear. And there is a great simplicity in love. And the two do not coexist well.” He stared at her, taken aback by what almost sounded like warmth in her voice.
He blinked up at her, when she stood, as if to actually take her leave, and he found himself blurting out, “what—what did the Web really want?”
She looked at him, her brow furrowing. “Want?” she echoed. “The Web—the Mother doesn’t want anything but the desires of her children.”
“And when those desires conflict?” Martin asked, after a moment running this through his mind.
Annabelle smiled. “They often find ways of resolving themselves,” she said, “as you’ve seen.”
“But,” Martin couldn’t help but ask, even though voicing it made his throat close up, “I know you say the Mother doesn’t...want, but if the Stranger had succeeded in killing Jon...?”
She shrugged. “Then the world would have changed. But since it would have been through the Web that the Stranger gained power, it would be the Mother in control, make no mistake.” Annabelle paused and said, with complete conviction, “the Mother does not orchestrate outcomes in which she loses.”
Martin stared at her, a bit horrified. “So...what, we would have been fine, while the rest of the world suffered?”
“Yes,” Annabelle answered simply. “That is not to say,” she continued, when she saw Martin’s face, “that that would have been a world most of us would have been keen on. I speak for the majority when I say we much prefer the world as it is. But in the Mother’s eyes...a world in which we are all whole is synonymous to a world in which we are all happy.”
“That’s...” Martin searched for a suitable word and, pathetically, settled on, “sad.”
She shrugged. “It’s more love than some of us have felt,” she said simply, brutally.
Martin stared at the table between them, processing. He looked up, when Annabelle moved around the table toward him. “You have great potential,” she said to him. “Great potential for the sight that not all of us are gifted. The Eye is fond of you, after all. A few of us,” she said slowly, pointedly, “are not far. If you were interested in nursing that potential.”
Martin looked up at her, mouth opening to respond, when he felt the familiar feeling of being watched. He snapped his mouth shut, shutting his eyes for a moment. Oh Jon.
Annabelle raised a brow as she glanced back at the door, and any hope that she wouldn’t notice flew out the window. “He worries for you,” she murmured.
“I’m sorry,” Martin rushed to tell her, “He means well—”
She raised a hand, cutting him off. “I understand,” she said. Her smile then was a wry thing. “I imagine the answer is no, then?”
Martin opened his mouth to respond, and found himself saying, “we’re actually going to Scotland tomorrow.”
She blinked at him. “Scotland,” she echoed, quirking a brow,
Martin nodded, and then blurted nervously, “might see some good cows,” and immediately wanted the ground to swallow him whole.
Her smile twitched. “Well,” she said, eyes bright, “in that case, I suppose I’ll leave you two to packing.”
“Right,” Martin said, breathlessly, after a moment, trying to hold back a sigh of relief.
At the door, she turned to him again, looking pointedly. She studied his face for a moment, before seeming to understand something, finally meeting his eyes. “I trust you understand how to feed, when you need to?”
“I...uh...”
“Use the Mother’s gift,” she cut in, not unkindly. “The sight, the compulsion. Use it to control, do not let the urges control you, do you understand?”
“I—yes?” Martin squeaked. “I—I think so, I—”
“Good,” she said. And then, more softly, “Your Archivist understands what it’s like. In the beginning. He’ll help you.”
Martin stared at her, and found himself saying, “he prefers Jon.”
Her smile widened, as if they were sharing a private inside joke. “I don’t think he’d like me calling him that,” she said. “Especially not the way you do.”
And with that, before Martin could think of something else to say, she turned and walked away.
He stared after her for a few moments, then winced at the noise of the door banging open as Jon burst into the foyer.
“I’m fine,” he assured Jon.
“What did she want?” Jon asked, taking his hands and looking him over anyway, making sure she hadn’t...
Martin really didn’t know what Jon thought she may have secretly done to him, but he let Jon look him over anyway.
“I think...I think she wanted to say thank you?” he said.
Jon frowned at him. “What?”
“That’s what I said.”
Jon frowned harder, looking out at Annabelle’s retreating figure. “I don’t like that.”
Martin huffed a laugh, and Jon looked a little offended, which made him laugh harder.
Jon spluttered, “Look she’s—”
“I know,” Martin told him softly.
“You just have to be careful,” Jon said, still a little petulantly.
“I know,” Martin murmured, smiling softly at him.
“What?” Jon asked, after a moment. “Do I have something on my—“
Martin leaned in and kissed him, gently, soft and lingering. Jon returned the kiss easily, that tension leaving his shoulders, but when they pulled away, he did grumble, “don’t think we’re done talking about this.”
Martin huffed a laugh, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. He loved the brief flush that never failed to appear in Jon’s cheeks when he did. “Fine. But for now ,” he murmured, “we have to pack, don’t we?”
Jon blinked at him. “What—really?”
“Yes,” Martin answered softly, watching as Jon’s smile widened. His hand settled in Jon’s as they made their way to their bedroom. “Do you have a place to stay in mind?”
“Oh—Daisy offered her cabin, since she’s not using it.”
“Daisy? Um, what was she using it for?”
“Look, I did ask, and she says any bloodstains have long been scrubbed away—”
“I’m sorry?!”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Martin.”
“Very romantic idea you’ve had here, Jon—”
“Look, it’s right smack in the middle of the countryside, and Daisy says the cows come right up to the windows.”
Martin went quiet, for a moment completely enamored by that image.
Quietly, triumphantly, Jon said, “I knew that’d be the selling point.”
“Oh, piss off.”
“I’ve missed my calling as a realtor—”
“Shut up, Jon,” Martin laughed.
Jon did end up holding his hand all the way to Scotland, though Martin told him over and over he didn’t actually have to. But it was...nice, he had to admit. Grounding. Kept him so close to Jon that they often bumped shoulders and it was an easy thing for Jon to bring his hand to his lap when Martin rested his head on Jon’s shoulder on the train. Every stroke of Jon’s thumb against the back of his hand, purposeful, gentle motions, seemed to say I love you. I’m here. We’re here.
Martin had stopped trying to insist he didn’t need hand-holding very quickly.
The cabin was lovely, and Martin maintained it was because of the cows.
It wasn’t really about the cows, of course, but Martin couldn’t let himself be a bleeding romantic all the time.
Though...maybe just for a little while. They deserved it, after all.
Perhaps the best thing about Scotland was that it was real. As real as Jon’s hand in his, the warmth of it, the comforting weight.
The Lonely didn’t bother him once.