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Chapter Text

“The most important thing is that you have fun.”

“Dad.”

“It’s the first date. Expectations are low. You’re just enjoying yourself.”

“Dad.”

“And it’s a film! A film is a marvelous first date, Phil. You’re just enjoying a narrative together.”

“Dad!” Phil interjected, throwing her hands up in the air. That was the universal gesture, Martin recognized, for please stop you’re so embarrassing how am I from you. “I don’t even know if I – if I like her that way!”

Jon was undeterred. Martin, for his part, was staying well out of it for now. He noticed the intense, anxious gleam in Jon’s eyes and he wasn’t going to throw his hat into the ring. “In that case, you’re just having a good time with a friend. You can always, er, re-assess afterwards. See how you feel.”

“But what if I don’t know how I feel?”

“Just see if you’re happy about it, Phil. Hm? That’s – mark what I’ve said before. The most important thing is that you’re happy, spending time with her.”

“I am, I just don’t know it’s as if … “ Phil sighed and blew a piece of her hair out of her face. Martin thought it was funny how her hair had stayed approximately the same length, even as she sprouted upwards. It’d gotten a little frizzier when she entered her teenage years (granted, she wasn’t far into them, only fourteen), and often couldn’t be constrained entirely. “You know. My girlfriend.”

“There is no pressure to throw around the term that early. I’ve heard that’s not really the style these days, either. You spend time with people, you ‘hang out’, you know, you’re ‘talking’ with someone, and then maybe you discuss what you are. There’s plenty of time there.”

“Oh my god,” Phil muttered under her breath, staring down at the floor between them. “I’m leaving. I’ve got to go. I’m going to die.”

“You look really nice, Phil!” Martin decided to interject, sliding up behind Jon.

And she did! Neither Jon nor Martin really understood what the style was these days, but Phil looked nice nevertheless. She had on jeans and a superhero emblem t-shirt with an open flannel on overtop. Purple and black checks. If Phil wouldn’t dissolve into a pile of embarrassment at the very thought, Martin thought he’d like to get a flannel with that pattern on, as well.

Unfortunately, gone were the days when Phil wanted to match with him. Where had the ten-year-old girl gone, the one who dearly wanted to get her ears pierced but was so scared of the piercing gun? The one who had only agreed to do so after Martin had offered to get his done with her?

(Jon had also offered, though he’d had his ears done ages before. The holes had long since closed up.)

And they’d gotten them done together, with Martin giving her hand a squeeze. Phil had jumped and shrieked (more out of surprise than anything), but she hadn’t cried.

They still sort of matched on that, even now, but Phil didn’t seem to notice. They were both wearing the black studs in their ears today. “Thanks, Martin,” Phil sighed, reaching behind her and tightening her ponytail. Somewhere along the line, it’d become in to tie one’s ponytail with a bandanna. Martin didn’t know.

From behind her purple-rimmed glasses, Martin could see that she’d put on a bit of makeup. Well, eyeliner. On the top lid. It was a little clumsily done, but nevertheless present along with a bit of lip gloss. He could see the phone sticking out of Jon’s pocket and knew the man was fighting down the urge to ask for –

“Bring her around when you two come back,” Jon suggested. “I want to take photos.”

Or not fighting down the urge at all, apparently.

That got Phil’s head placed right in her hands. “Oh my god.”

“It’s a momentous occasion.”

“You said I didn’t have to date anyone in my entire life. Uncle Gerry doesn’t.”

“You don’t. That being said, if you do, I’d like to note it with a picture.”

Phil let out a strangled noise in the back of her throat and cast a beseeching look at Martin. Martin put his hands on the back of Jon’s shoulders. “Just a photo, Phil,” he chirped cheerfully. “We’ll be subtle about it. We won’t make a big deal of it.” Her eyebrows furrowed behind her glasses. Traitor. “What are you two seeing?”

Nervously, Phil reached up and hooked her finger around her necklace locket. Martin had seen what was in there only once, when Phil came up to him and asked him tentatively how to clean it. Yeah, yeah, the sappy father side of him had sort of wanted it to be the three of them all together, but he had to admit that the photos of the Marquess and the Duke were adorable.

“Just the scary movie again,” Phil muttered. Martin was pretty sure that made it the fourth or fifth time. “Charlie’s not seen it yet.”

Phil’s hyperfixations (Martin was pretty sure the term was alright to say aloud, now, there’d been a few months there where Phil would ‘die of embarrassment’ if they breathed it in her presence) had changed over the years. Finding Nemo had lasted until her ninth birthday, abouts, before shifting to … Martin thought it might’ve been the Greek pantheon. Or maybe the Greek pantheon came after, and it was mushrooms that came before. Hard to remember.

Echoes still persisted, though. Phil’s chosen career path was still up in the air, but (the last Martin had heard), the general options were: marine biologist, veterinarian, or filmmaker (specializing in animal documentaries). Phil swore up and down that it had nothing to do with Finding Nemo, and even grew slightly huffy when Jon or Martin implied as such.

Recently, though, Phil had been into creature features – the shlocky ones, in Martin’s opinion. The one at the cinema now was a blatant Jaws parody.

“Oh, yeah?” Martin suggested with a smile. “That sounds like a great idea.”

“Charlie chose it. She knows that I like it.” She was still fidgeting with her necklace, nervous. “I told her it wasn’t all that bad. The special effects aren’t that good, so, y’know. And the blood looks practically radioactive.”

“Are you doing anything after?” Jon leapt in again.

“We might go get some pizza.” Phil shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe.”

“Okay. Just – you know. Nine, please? Or at least call if you think it’ll end up later than that. And, obviously, if you want to come back and just have dinner with us, Charlotte is more than –” The look on Phil’s face was one of abject terror. “Or maybe not, alright. Just call when you’re heading back.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Phil’s gaze shifted to look out the window. Martin could see some of the nervousness in her gaze, there. Her eyes were a bit wide.

Jon stepped forward a little closer. Excepting the cats, Jon was officially the shortest member of the household by a few centimeters. It made it all the more striking, the way Jon’s presence practically demanded attention. Or maybe that was just Martin’s belief. He put a hand on her shoulder and she didn’t shrug it off. “Whatever happens,” Jon murmured to her intently, “It’s going to be alright, Phil. It’s Charlotte. You’ve known her since you were small. She’s not going to experience a total personality change and start demanding things from you that you’re not sure of. She’s your friend.”

Martin was grateful that Phil seemed to take Jon’s words to heart instead of shrugging him off. “I – yeah,” she muttered, the anxiety on her face still stuck there. “Yeah, she is. Of course she is.”

“And even if you find that you’re not interested in her romantically … then you’ve just watched a film you like with a friend you like. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I know that. But clearly she …” Phil looked down at her shoes. “She asked me, so you know, clearly she …” She shuffled her feet. One of the laces were untied.

“Not necessarily the case, but even so. She’s your friend. If it turns out that her feelings are unrequited, then she’ll understand that.”

(In a rational world, Martin hoped that would be the case. God. If it wasn’t – Charlotte had been over at their flat more than a hundred times over the years. He simply couldn’t imagine how badly Phil’s life would turn upside down if this blew up.)

“Maybe.” Phil seemed unconvinced.

“And if anything, remember,” Jon told her, a smile spreading across his face. “I’ve always told you. People are less confident than they appear. Nobody’s gotten a rulebook in this sort of thing. Charlotte isn’t some dating expert, either. You’re both fumbling in the dark, a bit. That’s alright.”

“Don’t say fumbling in the dark,” Phil tried to squeak out, and Jon made a noise in the back of his throat. “I just – um. Yeah. I guess. Thanks, Dad.”

“You’re going to be fine. I have no doubts. Give me a hug before you go?”

Phil didn’t pull away as Jon stepped forward to give her a tight squeeze. Phil shot Martin a look that wasn’t unlike the few times they had to put Marquess or Duke in the shower. Her arms remained at her sides. Jon stepped away after a second, keeping his hands on her shoulders. “Right, well. Have fun, won’t you? And tell her we said hi.”

“Yeah, yeah, I will.” Phil stepped away. Martin put a hand on her shoulder, next, and Phil looked up at him with a gaze of please let this end.

“D’you want to sneak some snacks into the cinema?”

Her eyes lit up.

A few moments later, and Phil was heading out the door with a slightly bulging bag. Martin and Jon watched from a distance as she descended down the stairs and up the pavement. The cinema wasn’t too far, just past the library. Actually relatively new. Martin was surprised – towns like this didn’t really get new buildings. Already, he’d heard rumblings from the geriatrics about how urban their town was getting.

Christ.

As he watched Phil disappear around the corner, Martin felt himself filled with … something. It wasn’t an entirely new emotion. He’d felt it a few times before, and it always hit him hard. He’d felt it when Phil had started her growth spurt. He’d felt it when Phil had requested that Jon stop reading to her before bed. He’d felt it when Phil had started talking about new trends that he just didn’t understand. He’d felt it (on a particularly embarrassing night) when Phil had gotten her first period. He felt it at the beginning of every new school year. He felt it when Phil talked about her future. He felt it when Phil switched from Mr. Martin to simply Martin.

Parenthood had been … odd. Martin had genuinely not expected to feel like Phil’s parent, ever. Which was fine. Phil had a parent, he was just the bloke that married her dad. Even calling himself a stepfather felt like a stretch sometimes.

The first jabs of it had come during times of crisis – when Phil had a nightmare, or when Phil cried over something that happened at school, or when people were rude to Phil in Martin’s general vicinity (god help those poor souls). A sort of protective aura had enveloped him, then, because Phil was a child and Martin had slightly more world experience and he thought that had been that.

Then there had been sleepovers where Martin had found himself missing Phil’s presence at the dinner table (not that Gerry was bad company, but he couldn’t make Gerry laugh by sticking straws in his mouth like a walrus). And little moments out and about, where he saw things he thought Phil might like (mostly evident during her mushroom phase).

And then someone had off-handedly referred to them as Phil’s two dads. The dam had broke and Martin had started to cry.

Someone thought he was a dad. He was Phil’s dad.

God, it was a nice place to be.

His mother had died a few years ago, now. There had been grief. Loads of grief. Martin had mourned her passing and mourned that she’d never let him see her, even at the end, and he had mourned everything she represented. Surprisingly, beneath the grief, there had been an undercurrent of … despair?

He had found (with the help of his psychiatrist, maybe) that he had not given up hope with her. That he had harbored some idea, borderline fantasy, that she would one day have a miraculous recovery and come rushing into their lives, being the grandparent that Phil didn’t have. It happened, sometimes, didn’t it? Mothers being generally terrible to their children, only to be half-decent to the next generation?

It had been a bit of a breakthrough, realizing his mum had been … not great. It’d been a group effort, that. Psychiatry had helped. Jon growing hot with rage at some of Martin’s childhood memories had helped. What had helped most, though, and entirely unintentionally – was Phil.

He loved Phil. Regardless of how Phil felt about Martin’s presence, Martin loved her as completely and as devotedly as he could love anyone. He found that there was very little he wouldn’t do for her, and any arguments upset him just as much as they upset her. More to the point, he felt protective – physically as well as emotionally. When he saw Phil upset, when he saw Phil make a mistake, Martin wanted to rush in and make everything okay. Make her happy again.

Which, great, cool. That was great. Except … Martin had never witnessed that same behavior in his mother, even before her health started to decline. Some questions had been asked. And – yeah. He’d come to the conclusion that she could have been better, and chose not to be.

Rather than curse her name, though, Martin had just hoped that she had changed. Wouldn’t it be nice for Phil to have a grandparent? It was possible, wasn’t it? And if she had changed, really, truly …

Not that it mattered, now. She was gone and thus was Martin’s hope for that matter. It was okay, in the end. They were doing okay. He had a kid who was doing okay, too.

He’d never brought it up to Phil (bit odd, telling a girl hey, I didn’t think I’d ever feel like your parent, I thought I’d just feel like your dad’s husband), but he had discussed it with Jon at length. Jon had admitted that he hadn’t expected Martin to fill the parental role either. Not out of doubt for Martin’s abilities, but because … well. He hadn’t wanted to force that sort of thing. Phil liked him and was comfortable around him, and that was all Jon had needed. Martin could be help, but Martin didn’t have to parent.

But how pleased Jon had been when Martin filled that role anyway. When Jon had comforted Martin while he was crying, he had been unable to wipe the smile off his face.

He wasn’t crying now. He wasn’t crying now. He wasn’t crying now. He wasn’t crying now. Martin tried to imagine a steel wall in front of his face sliding down, because he wasn’t going to cry over his stepdaughter going on a date. He just wasn’t. He wasn’t going to imagine the inevitable day when she moved out. He wasn’t going to imagine – oh god, what if she got married someday. Oh god.

Martin looked over at Jon and saw that Jon wasn’t winning the battle. He had tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. One trickled down his face slowly.

“Are you crying?” Martin successfully kept his voice steady. “Look at you, you sap. One date and you’re a mess.”

“Shut it, you.” Jon raised his sleeve and brushed it against his eye. “It’s just. Is she too young? She’s fourteen. I didn’t go on my first date until I was nineteen.”

“And I didn’t go on my first date until I was 29. They’re going to a film, not moving in together.”

“I know, I know. I just.” Jon let out another strangled sigh in the back of his throat. A few more tears fell. He was starting to sound raspy. “Just want to stop time, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” He leaned down and gave Jon a kiss at the corner of his lips. Jon smiled at him for the measure, and that look – Jon smiling through his tears, Jon being comforted by Martin’s presence – that look always shoved right through any walls Martin managed to pull up.

Which meant that he had to get out of the room now, because he was going to start crying. And they couldn’t both be crying. Where would they be then?

Martin turned on his heel. “Here, let me get you – “ Fuck! Fuck. His voice cracked. “Some tissues.”

He managed to get one step forward before he heard Jon exclaim. “Martin Blackwood, you bloody hypocrite!”

Two arms were thrown around his neck from behind as Jon stopped him from retreating. “It’s the T!” Martin said desperately, but he could really hear the tears in his voice, now. “It’s just the T, leave me alone!”

“You’ve been on it two years, you can’t use that excuse anymore!” Jon was laughing at his backfired attempt. Small mercies, Jon supposed. When Martin turned around, he felt one tear dislodge from his eye and travel down his cheek. Guess there was no hiding it.

The smile didn’t move from Jon’s face, though it grew a little sadder.

Martin stooped his shoulders to press his face into his neck. Jon did the same to him. Both of their arms wrapped around one another, and – for a little while – they just let the tears flow against one another’s skin, just squeezed one another tightly.

Legally speaking, he was still Martin Blackwood. They hadn’t traded last names during the ceremony. The reasoning wasn’t precisely romantic.

Jon hadn’t wanted to change his last name from Phil’s – for sentimental reasons, mostly, though he didn’t want to receive any questions about how they related to one another either. (Which was a bit mad. Other than the height … well, Martin couldn’t see anything on Phil’s face that wasn’t from Jon.)

Martin had been more than willing to become Martin Sims, for his part, but … er.

He’d been trying to get a job. Although he’d moved in with Jon at that point and rent was practically a lark, there was still the care centre to think about. Jon had come up with a plan that was maybe not strictly lawful good, but definitely no worse than neutral.

He had gone to the council and advocated that it really was rather mad to only have the librarian on staff. It was a big library. He needed the help. An assistant, if anything, just to keep things in a row – especially, Jon added with a thoughtful eye, with all the new programs and visitors he’d attracted to the library. Really, he couldn’t keep on doing this alone for much longer.

The council had eventually relented, because (and everyone knew it), Jon had done a damn good job. They said they’d put up a post. No need, Jon had said. He had the perfect man in mind. He’d been doing volunteer work for years, a quite dependable and hardworking young chap by the name of Martin Blackwood.

(When Jon had eventually brought his name up in front of the council, they had been married for three weeks. Hence why they’d decided not to change their names. Might throw up some suspicion, that.)

The council, far removed from anything nearing Jon’s personal life, had agreed. And Martin had been given a paid position at the library, which he still had.

Some spouses weren’t good at working together, some for valid reasons. Martin couldn’t relate. Guess he just loved Jon too much. Must suck to be everyone else.

That was, Martin couldn’t imagine not showing up to work with Jon every morning. They’d gotten into a comfortable rhythm with it together. While they didn’t work side by side some days (or even most, depending on where Jon’s attention needed to be), they nevertheless sat down to eat lunch together and walked home every day.

(And he had, to the utter thrill of teenaged Martin, successfully completed his boyhood fantasy of snogging a man silly in his office. Dreams really did come true.)

Phil occasionally came to the library in the evenings, though usually not often. Gerry had volunteered himself for babysitting service in the afternoons back when she’d been too young to stay at home alone. Gerry often volunteered himself for loads of things that he really didn’t have to do. God, it was one of the silliest rows all three of them had had, arguing about Gerry doing too much around the flat during his active chemotherapy treatments.

Still, it always meant a lot to Jon when she showed her face. Phil did not wear the Librarian-In-Training pin Jon had made for her once … though Martin knew she kept it pinned up in her room, somewhere. He felt the same about his Melon-Smashing World Champion trophy that Jon had gotten him after his mastectomy.

At home, Martin squeezed Jon a little tighter. They cried for a bit. Not long. They hugged each other for a little longer until their eyes were dry, until they were just swaying with one another in the living room.

“This is nonsense,” Jon muttered thickly, drawing his sleeve across his face as he pulled away. “Blubbering over this. She said it herself. Not even sure if she’s interested in Charlotte that way. Even if she is. It’s one date.”

“Yeah. Yeah, still.” It gave Martin an idea, though. He reached for Jon’s hand. “Look, she’ll be gone a few hours.” Phil never pushed the boundaries of her curfew (she wasn’t rebellious, really, just independent – like a certain other someone in the room). “Why don’t we have a date night of our own, hm? Watch a film, get dinner.”

Not like that was exactly rare, and it had even grown more common these days. Gerry had moved out and Phil, though mostly home, had her own life. There was something still special about turning off the lights and curling up on the sofa together, watching a film. Martin had spent nearly every night of the past five years curled up against Jon (in nearly every sleeping position imaginable, though well-spaced-apart in the summer). The butterflies still fluttered in his stomach, along with the warm comfort of someone he loved.

Wasn’t a bad way to be.

Jon looked down at their intertwined hands, as if puzzled by them. “I’m sorry, Martin,” he apologized with aching sincerity, “But I just don’t see you that way.”

And then he relaxed into a shit-eating grin.

Martin yanked their intertwined hands forward, causing Jon to lurch into his chest. Jon started to laugh. “You’re a little tit, you know that,” Martin chided him warmly. He brought one hand up to press Jon’s head against his shoulder. There was less to run his fingers through, now. About a year ago, Jon had chopped all of his hair off and kept a relatively short cut. He had adamantly proclaimed that it was much less to be dealing with and he was never going to grow it out again.

Martin would’ve applauded any hair decision, but he was privately quite pleased. The short cut really highlighted the silver, especially now that it was slowly overtaking the black. “What I put up with from you!” Martin added. Jon leaned up to kiss him on the cheek, just on the cusp of the tidy little beard Martin had grown. In a similar fashion, Jon had been clean-shaven for the past year. Meanwhile, Martin had experimented with a variety of facial hair types, overjoyed that the testosterone was encouraging its growth. The lumberjack beard hadn’t done it for him, but this was alright. Blond and nearly transparent, but noticeable.

Jon couldn’t stop laughing on his shoulder, like he’d told the funniest joke he’d ever heard. Martin kept on his fake annoyed tone, but inwardly …

Jon was so perfect when he laughed. Martin fell in love again.

Eventually, Jon detached himself and reached for Martin’s hand. Their wedding rings tapped together. “Alright, alright,” he agreed, “You pick the place. Before we have the evening to ourselves, I do want to call Gerry. This seems like the sort of thing he ought to know.”

***

“D’you think that’ll – “

“Yeah, hang on, I just want to give it a go.” Phil was laid horizontally across the armchair, her legs and arms dangling off either side. Martin could hear the determined clicking of the video game controller buttons from his spot on the sofa, leaning against the arm. “There. That’s done it.”

“Ooh. Nice, nice. Yeah, that’s done it.”

Martin wasn’t Phil’s designated puzzle game co-op buddy, but they played often enough on lazy afternoons and weekends. He liked it. He’d played video games a fair bit growing up and while he’d fallen out of it in adulthood (other than replaying old favorites over and over, most of which he’d showed to Phil and Jon already), he had fallen back into it lately.

Phil played them more. She’d never fully gotten back into reading. Martin optimistically liked to think that she’d just grown away from it like some kids did; he certainly didn’t read much as a child. Realistically (and her therapist had told him as much) … the Incident probably factored into it.

The Incident still echoed in their lives more than Martin would like. When Gerry had moved in, he hated to admit that he had made a sigh of relief. Obviously they’d welcome him in regardless, but … there was something reassuring about having an expert on hand, even if they hadn’t had any issues in years.

But it wasn’t like they were unhappy. Some years back, both Jon and Martin had found themselves unable to answer a little girl’s question about why she was the only one who had to talk to the nice therapy man. Slightly bewildered, they had walked out of their first psychiatrist appointments with an antidepressant prescription, an anti-anxiety prescription, and a psychologist referral. And – yeah, okay, that probably helped things. Apparently some things weren’t normal. The prescription waxed, waned, and changed over the years.

Probably helped their relationship, too. Martin learned the value of I statements. Who studied that stuff. Mad. Also helped him with the whole step-parenting business, back when every row made him feel like he was getting caught between his stepchild and his husband.

Said stepchild was trying to strain her head off the side of the arm to pick up a pretzel stick with just her teeth while a cutscene played. Martin was very proud. They were playing Portal 2. Martin had played the first one back in the day, missed the second one, and wouldn’t have had anyone to play the co-op version anyway.

There was something Martin had wanted to bring up.

He’d fallen asleep embarrassingly early last night. Jon must have nudged him to bed, because he had woken up there, but he certainly hadn’t heard Phil come home. According to Jon this morning, Phil got home at 8:48 PM and had said it was fine in a tired monotone before going to her room with a box of cereal in tow.

“Soooo … “ Martin trailed off, hearing the snap of a pretzel stick. “How’d it go last night?”

“Martin.” Weird! Weird how Phil managed to nail the exact exasperated tone of her father.

“Hey, I’m just curious! Want to know if I ought to be meeting this Charlotte girl.” The cutscene ended and Martin started to move his little robot pal aimlessly. “Want to make sure she has decent parents. Want to make sure she’s not a bad influence.”

“Uh-huh.” Sarcastic. “Uh, it was fine. We watched the film. We got pizza after. We talked.”

“You sound thrilled.” And therein lie Martin’s true concern. “Did something happen, Phil?”

There was a long pause. “...No?” She gave an exasperated huff. “No, and I kind of wanted it to.”

“How do you mean?”

“You know. I wanted it to happen.”

Martin shot a few useless portals. “It?”

“Like, yup, I’ve definitely got feelings for her or no, I definitely don’t.” Phil shrugged her shoulders. Her words were mostly muffled by the pretzel stick in her mouth. “Shoot an, uh, orange one here. And, like, it didn’t. She’s still Charlotte. My best friend, or whatever, but I don’t know if I want to date her.”

“Yeah. I feel that.” Martin had learned some of the lingo. Kids these days were feeling everything. They felt that, they didn’t felt that, things weren’t their vibe. “And she still seems sure?”

Phil went silent for a bit, and then gave another oddly familiar exasperated huff. “I’m not gonna tell Dad. Because he’ll, like, die. But she did kiss me, so yeah, Martin, pretty sure.”

“Oh my g-” Martin’s voice had gone higher in surprise.

“On the cheek,” Phil warned. “On the cheek. So.”

God. Martin blinked on the sofa. He tried to think back to her age, but that had been around the time of his mother’s stroke. Little else had filled his life. Had he even had a crush back then? He tried to rack his brain.

While he thought, Phil shot a few portals at a surface and they began to explore a level. A full minute passed in silence before Phil asked, nearly shy: “Can I ask you something?”

Sometimes it was easier to ask him things, Martin knew. Jon was … a good dad. Above and beyond, a good dad. He was also a good husband, and the love of Martin’s life, and et cetera et cetera.

He also had a tendency to … unintentionally overrun. Assume all burdens as his own. It was one of those things that The Incident had affected – or, at the very least, exaggerated. All the little clues they’d all missed together. Jon seemed intent to make sure he’d never miss anything ever again.

Jon knew he was like that, and he did catch himself. Most times. Martin knew how hard it could be to catch yourself spiraling.

He had a hard time catching himself, too. Not on the same things, but still.

“Yeah, sure,” Martin chirped. “What’s up?”

“So when did you … “ Phil paused and crunched another piece of the pretzel stick. “Like, know. With Dad.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t get mushy.”

“It’s kind of a mushy thing.”

“Don’t get extra mushy.”

Don’t get mushy AF, Martin internally corrected, but – as casual as Phil was around him – they were not at AF territory yet.

He remembered, of course. He remembered seeing Jon asleep on the sofa of his old flat. Jon had fretted over having him move in. It’s where you grew up, Martin, I don’t want to ask you to leave it. I want you to come to that decision on your own.

Which was weird, because … it hadn’t hurt, leaving it. It felt like seeing the sun after staying indoors all day. Jon seemed comparatively well content with his past, but Martin thought of who he’d been, how scared he’d been, how overlooked, overworked, overstressed … and yeah. He was happy to leave it behind.

But even before he moved in with Jon, before the Incident, just before things had really gone to hell … there’d been a single dad on his sofa getting a fitful night’s sleep, worrying about his daughter at her first sleepover. And the potential serial killer coming around to skin them all.

God. How funny that particular bit had been. He wondered how long it would be until Phil Googled Gerry and learned about the murder charge.

“Yeah, I remember,” Martin considered. “It’s kind of … not the usual story, Phil. I don’t know how comparable it is.”

“Still.”

“We were best friends before.”

“Charlotte’s my best friend.”

“Yeah,” he relented. “I guess so.” God, he wasn’t any good at this sort of thing. “It was like things made sense, right? Like, a part of my brain had been on its own little stealth mission, steadily falling in love with your Dad. And then, one night, everything clicked. Why I felt the way I did. How your dad … y’know. Made me feel. And I knew I was in love.”

“Nnh,” Phil groaned, and Martin knew that didn’t help. He went on.

“It was funny, actually. Just a moment of oh, so this is what everyone’s going on about, all the time. Cool.” Martin looked over his shoulder and added with a grin, “But I’m pretty sure I love your Dad more than anyone’s ever loved anyone in the history of forever, so maybe it’s not the same for everyone.”

Phil let out another groan and let her head dangle freely off the arm of the chair, completely limp for a moment.

Hey! You asked, Martin wanted to add, but he refrained. “Me being, like, 30 at the time also makes a difference, Phil, y’know?”

“I know,” came the response from over the arm of the chair. “I just don’t even know if I like girls. Or. Am a girl?”

Martin scoffed, and he hoped it didn’t come off patronizing. “Well, yeah, Phil, you’re fourteen and those can be tough. Some people are sure early on, some people aren’t. Jon didn’t know he wasn’t a girl until he was having you. I didn’t know I was a guy until my late twenties. Jon found out he liked girls in uni, I always knew that I didn’t.”

The groan was starting to turn into a whine. Her robot pal onscreen was entirely still. Martin’s was running about in circles as he fidgeted with the controller.

“It’s not an exam, Phil, okay? They’re all just terms people use to describe themselves. You can use them, you don’t have to. It’s just a matter of … trying to be happy. Or, if you don’t know what’ll make you happy, trying to stop doing things that make you unhappy.” Martin paused. He wasn’t good at these sort of things, really. Jon was the eloquent man between them. For as much as he was teased for being the poet in the family, Jon had a way with words. “Okay, you get zero seconds to think about it. Did you have fun on your date?”

Phil actually took one second to think about it, but Martin didn’t fault her. “… Yeah?”

“Were you happy when she kissed your cheek?”

That actually took a few seconds. “I don’t know, Martin. I think I was just surprised. I don’t know if I felt anything.” A pause. “I liked when she held my hand, though? During the movie. The, uh. I guess they might’ve been scary parts. That was cool. I liked that she – it sounds stupid.”

“All of this is gonna sound stupid.”

“I liked that she thought I could … make her feel better. Or keep her safe. I dunno.” Phil languidly picked up the controller again, and Martin got the feeling that this brief tender conversation was rapidly coming to an end. “I know you don’t have the answers. I just wish it wasn’t so complicated.”

“Man. You and me both, Phil. But you can always talk to Uncle Gerry about this, too, if you think that’d help.”

“Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. The more I think about it, the murkier it gets.”

Spoken like a true Sims, Martin supposed. “I feel that. Just, y’know. Classic disclaimer that no matter what you figure out, no matter who you like or who you are – “

“Martin,” Phil started to beg from her spot. This was not a new talk.

“If you want us to call you a different name, different pronouns, whatever – “

“Martin, I’m going to push you off this ledge. I will. I’ll push you.”

“As long as everyone’s safe and you’ve got good communication – “

Phil’s little robot pal was rapidly running headlong into Martin’s own in an attempt to knock him over the ledge into certain death.

“Then obviously that’s good with us, because we’re your parents, and we just looove you so much!”

Ah, there it was. Martin’s robot pal discombobulated into parts on the floor. That was alright. Martin was pretty sure he’d won that battle. He grinned as Phil made low noises of emotional pain. Just in time, he heard the key turn in the front door.

There he was!

Jon entered with a bag thrown over one shoulder; there’d been some miscellaneous errands to run earlier in the day. Martin’s head popped up like a golden retriever.

At least he wasn’t the most desperate one in the household. Marquess scurried out from places unknown and trotted over, primordial pouch swinging from side to side. She chirruped affectionately at Jon.

Her counterpart and littermate, Duke, was still asleep in the little cat bed that suction-cupped to the window. Martin had often fretted about its stability. Duke was a bit chunky, despite all attempts otherwise, and Martin often had … faintly amusing visions of the bed falling mid-cat nap. He didn’t stir, utterly blissed out in the warm afternoon sunlight.

On the surface level, they’d gotten the cats for Phil. They would hopefully live a bit longer than the fish they’d had. Deeply, though? They were Jon’s cats. Always had been. At best, Marquess thought Martin as a threat to her status as Jon’s wife and thought Phil an acceptable annoyance. Duke knew he could trick Jon into a second breakfast if he howled pitifully enough.

Martin genuinely loved them both. He’d taught Duke to come to the sound of his own name and Marquess fetched hair ties.

“Hey, love,” Martin greeted, pausing the game.

Phil raised her head up the side of the chair just enough to give Jon a wave.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Jon addressed the cat directly, scooping her up in his arms and giving her a tight squeeze. The rank of the flat appropriately given, Jon walked further into the flat and gave Phil’s hair a ruffle (another slight groan for his efforts) and gave Martin a kiss on the cheek. “Hi.”

“Everything good in town?”

“Mm.” Jon moved out from behind the sofa to sit on it, resting his back against Martin’s curled-up knees. He brought his own knees close to his chest. Marquess started to purr in his arms. Martin slid his arm around Jon’s stomach, holding him close, and – honestly? While it would be uncomfortable for his back, he could fall asleep like that, he really could. “Got everyone’s prescriptions, decided to pop by the library to give it a sweep outside. That damned tree,” he sighed, “Every autumn. It’s a constant battle.”

Tilting his head to the side, Jon quickly scanned over the television screen. When he and Phil had first started playing together, Martin had genuinely thought that Jon had no idea what video games were or how to play them. He made far too many use thunderbolt or hit it with your sword jokes when he and Phil were doing their puzzle games, for one thing.

Except now, he’d spent many lazy afternoons and weekends with Jon curled up on this very sofa while Jon played his … Martin was hesitant to call them RPGs, because the G did imply there was a game in there, somewhere. Maybe there was, beyond walls of text, frankly time-consuming inventory management, and encyclopedic lore.

Jon enjoyed them. And Martin did like cuddling up behind him, either lightly napping or trying to follow along. If he did pipe up and ask what the hell was going on, listening to Jon explain was much better than the game itself. Jon sometimes tried to remake his husband in character creation, and hell, did he wish he could see himself the way Jon saw him.

… And he had to admit Jon was pretty good at video games, anyway.

“Have to use the cube to break that pipe, there. It’s got the moon juice.”

“It’s not called the moon juice,” Phil sighed from her spot.

“I can call it white goo if you’d prefer. Martin darling, use the cube to break that pipe and make the white goo come out.”

For his part, Martin giggled. He giggled a bit more when Phil exclaimed, as if she’d been shoved, “DAD!”

He wished he could reassure Phil more. Saying everything would all work out might’ve been helpful from time to time, but – well, he understood the futility of hearing that at his age, because it hadn’t worked out for a long while, at least for him.

It was just little moments like these, with his husband securely tucked in one arm, a cat purring to his side, his stepdaughter’s romantic troubles temporarily forgotten – dear friends scattered across in town, one just two roads over with a pretty cool pet rabbit – a job that he loved, hobbies that he felt happy with, a relatively stable mental health – and the horrors of before long forgotten, so that its furthest reach was an echo of what it once had been – that Martin knew it had all worked out. And he was so, so happy.

Martin must have drifted off in his thoughts, because Jon had shifted against him. He reached one singular burn-covered finger upwards and poked Martin in the cheek.

“Mm?” Martin muttered. Jon was looking at him upside down, the top of his head pressed against Martin’s side. He had shuffled down on the sofa until he was on his back.

… Ugh. Those big bright eyes, looking at him like that. There was really something, Martin considered, to Jon just having two eyes right on his face. Covered in eyes? Made of eyes? That was just being greedy. He’d be happy with the two. He would’ve settled for three. “Could you make dinner tonight?” Jon asked him, absent-mindedly stroking the Marquess’ fur.

“Oh, yeah,” Martin chirped back, shaking his head to dispel his thoughts. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

***

It was late at night. Martin knew they ought to go to bed. No reason for them not to, and yet, this happened to them at least once a week. He didn’t know a non-mushy AF way to explain it, other than if he went to sleep now, he’d have to stop talking to Jon for a bit. And he didn’t want that.

They were sat at the kitchen table. The clock on the oven read near midnight. Phil had gone to bed at least an hour ago (at least, her bedroom door was shut and the light was off). Jon and Martin were eating vanilla ice cream out of thick plastic bowls with spoons.

“Mm. And you reassured her that we’d be alright with any changes in her gender identity, too?” Jon pressed. Martin was pretty sure that he already clarified that, but he was willing to do it again.

“Yes, yes, Jon, I did give the full boiler plate speech at the end.” His spoon scraped against the bottom of the bowl. “Think she might talk to Gerry. Get the aromantic angle. The arongle,” he quipped.

“Good, good. Maybe that’ll help.” Jon took a deep breath and hung his head. “She’s going to be alright, I know. I just – “ He rose it, giving a pitiful smile at Martin. “Worry. You know.”

“Worrier.” Reaching over the table, Martin brushed a spot of ice cream off Jon’s cheek with his thumb. “She’s a good kid. You’ve done a good job.”

“We’ve –”

“You, Mr. Jonathan Sims, did a very good job. I only mimic you. WWJD.”

Jon rolled his eyes at him, but Martin could tell when he’d flustered his husband a bit. He finished the rest of his ice cream. “Suppose I’m glad that this is all we’re dealing with, hm? Could be worse.”

Martin wasn’t sure if he was referencing The Incident or, like, teen pregnancy.

They didn’t talk about The Incident much. Sometimes, usually in the safe darkness of their bedroom or in the brightly lit therapeutic office. They didn’t try to bring it up unprompted to Phil, and Phil rarely ever brought up that time herself.

Which was fine. Martin got the feeling that it came up more often to her therapist – and if it didn’t, maybe that was a good thing.

“Yeah. And I didn’t want to tell her this, but I’m sure it’ll work out for her. Charlotte’ll understand no matter which way it lands.” Martin paused. “I mean, god, I hope she will. Maybe that’s giving her too much credit. She’s fourteen, too.”

Jon gave an emphatic nod. Martin slid his ice cream bowl into his hands and moved them both to the sink. While he began rinsing them off, he felt Jon slide up behind him and stick both his hands into the pockets of Martin’s sweatpants. Jon’s cheek rested just between his shoulderblades. “She’s growing up too fast, Martin,” Jon complained softly against Martin’s back. “Make it stop.”

Martin gave a sudsy snap of his fingers. “Abracadabra. Fourteen forever.”

“She was eight last week, I swear it, watching Finding Nemo in her blanket fort. And the month before? She was trying to climb over the guard of her crib, shouting Dada, Dada.” Jon slumped more of his weight onto Martin’s back.. His fingers inadvertently tickled the front of Martin’s thighs from inside his pockets. Martin tried not to shimmy. “Sometimes I think about doing it again.”

Oh.

Oh, they hadn’t discussed this before. Martin’s hands paused in his rinsing, feeling his body temperature shoot up about ten degrees. He didn’t answer until the silence became intolerable – but, because he couldn’t form a coherent response, couldn’t force the tape spool of his brain to unwind – Martin made a joke. “Well, you won’t find any loose sperm in my pockets.”

Jon sighed and shifted his hands out of Martin’s pockets, instead just hugging him from behind. “Not seriously, for the record,” he murmured. “Thousand reasons not to. 35 is … possible, but getting up there. Fourteen, would be fifteen year age gap would be hard. Phil’s probably going to live with us for a bit and living with a newborn on top of everything else is difficult. Could adopt, I suppose, but …” Jon shook his head. “It’s just an idle whim, Martin. You can unswallow your tongue.”

Had he felt panicked? Ah. Relief had flooded him. Not because he’d been vehemently against it, but because it had come out of nowhere. Martin really hadn’t considered it before. Phil wasn’t a perfect kid, but as damn close as a kid could get. And on bad days, Martin felt like he was barely treading the waters of parental competency.

“No,” Jon went on, “I think what I’d really like is to do it all over again. Not … I mean, live it all over again.” He gave a squeeze around Martin’s middle. “With you this time, hm? From the beginning. Just having you there from pregnancy on … really would have changed everything.” Jon let out a hm of amusement. “Having you here’s changed everything already.”

Oh. Okay. That was … oh.

Martin turned around in Jon’s arms. Jon was staring up with the same burning intensity that Martin had come to associate with him.

And he knew it should have been obvious. He loved Jon, he knew Jon loved him, they were equal curves that formed the shape of a heart together, he knew all that, and yet – to hear that Jon would’ve wanted him there through all of it, through all of the pregnancy, through all of the infancy raising - that Jon wanted him there for the very beginning ...

Something else. Really was. Martin slid his hands, warm and damp with soap and water, around Jon’s middle. “I wish I could’ve been, too,” he admitted, and he found that he meant it. He didn’t know how it could have worked, the states of their lives at that age, but he thought of rocking a baby to sleep with Jon, feeding a baby with Jon, marveling at a baby’s first steps or words with Jon …

Just for a second, Martin wanted that, more than anything in the world.

But he also thought of what they’d been through together - the sort of man he’d been when he popped his head in the back of that sandwich shop and saw a seven-year-old girl, scrunchie falling out of her hair, shoelace untied on her trainers, reading a book about fish. And that had just been the beginning, hadn’t it?

It was a little naive to say that he wouldn’t change any of his actions, given what he knew now. Hindsight’s 20/20, Martin thought to himself. Knowledge is power. Et cetera.

But looking back on the whole of it …

He couldn’t pry apart the man he was now and what had happened. The latter had inevitably led to the former. For better or for worse, too. Every moment of sheer terror had shaped him – but every longing glance, too. And Martin couldn’t say for certain how his trauma had shaped him, had changed him from that aimless sad man to whoever he was now. That was a better question for a therapist, perhaps.

He was confident of one thing, though. Falling in love hadn’t hurt. Falling in love with Jon had changed him, too – and resolutely, absolutely, positively for the better.

… and, from Jon’s words, he thought Jon might feel the same way.

“You changed everything too, Jon,” Martin finally whispered to him. He brought up one hand to cup Jon’s scarred cheek, thumb tracing along his cheekbone. “The both of you, but … especially you. I know who I am now because you walked into my life.”

“I seem to remember that I was running.” But Jon was leaning into his cheek, removing one arm from around Martin’s middle to gently encircle his wrist. “I digress. Suffice to say, Martin – Mr. Blackwood,” Jon said formally, giving him a small smile. Martin flushed. He usually did, whenever Jon uttered Mr. Blackwood. “You’re the love of my life. A piece of the universe I consider myself eternally fused with, a bond as unbreakable as the one I share with Phil.”

“Jon.” And people called him the romantic of the household – they just didn’t have the privilege of hearing Jon wax poetic. “You’re the love of mine. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do. But hearing it again won’t hurt.”

“I love you, and we’re going to be together for the rest of our lives.”

“I love you, too. And you better promise me that, Martin.”

Jon let go of Martin’s wrist to instead wrap his arms around Martin’s neck, pulling him down into a kiss. Martin was more than willing to oblige – head was already spinning from being lovesick, might as well add oxygen deprivation to the mix. He held Jon close to his chest, so tight that Jon’s feet felt only feather-light on the ground. It was alright. Not the first time they’d kissed in their kitchen as the clock struck midnight, dishes in the sink, daughter sleeping peacefully away in her bedroom, cats already asleep on their bed, the scent of soap and ice cream and toothpaste in the air.

Martin knew it wouldn’t be the last, either.