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loth-creatures · 4 years

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Archivist Troubles

It was up to Martin to do most of the shopping. While Jon was still learning to control his power and his...appetite, they’d decided it was best that he avoid people more often than not. Jon didn’t mind, at least not after the first few days, during which he refused to leave Martin’s side. Once he was confident enough that Martin wasn’t going to slip back into the Lonely though, he realized that the bustle of the market was indeed both tempting to the Eye, and overwhelming to him. Jon might not have been on Martin’s level of Alone, but he also hadn’t interacted with more than one or two people at a time in quite a while. And few of those interactions had actually been amiable.

At any rate, Jon was content to record statements and even read some novels while Martin went out for tea, or paper towels, or whatever else they’d run out of. He would get his sunshine and fresh air whether he wanted it or not when Martin returned, insisting they take another walk through the countryside. As lovely as these were, Jon was only fit for so many. They’d discovered early on that his preferred romantic pastime was snuggling on the couch.

The last week, however, had been relentlessly clouded and raining. This was initially no problem to a pair of Londoners. If anything, Jon was happier to have more time to do ‘work’ which would soon melt into yet more hearth-side napping in Martin’s arms.

But then the fog had rolled in. As the landscape grew muted and chilled, Martin grew quiet. Distant. Whether it really was the Lonely calling to him, or just the memory pulled from ordinary mist, it was having an effect. And Jon was worried into not letting Martin out of his sight again. Martin didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t hesitate when Jon insisted on accompanying him into town. It was clear that the fog wasn’t going to recede anytime soon, and they’d already put off getting real dinner for three days. The last of the preservables worth making a full meal out of had been this morning’s breakfast.

Jon immediately regretted his comment that apple-sauce and stale pretzels weren’t fit for dinner when they stepped outside. Since the fog had rolled in, neither of them had set foot outdoors at all, and Jon had forgotten just how cold the outside world could be. He must have gasped because Martin turned with a small spark of amusement in his lately expressionless eyes.

“Jon, maybe you should grab a coat?”

“Oh. Ah, yes.” Jon had gotten very used to sweaters and sweatpants being the only acceptable forms of clothing. How his past-self had insisted on pants or skirts that required belts and shirts that required ties was beyond him now. He grabbed his coat as well as one of Martin’s knitted scarves and they set out down the road hand in hand. The air was damp as well as chill, and it wasn’t long before Jon began to shiver. He tried to hide it. He was pretty sure it really wasn’t all that cold out, and he’d just grown spoiled. Martin definitely wasn’t shivering. In fact, as Jon looked at him, it seemed he was very still, despite the fact that he was walking. His steps seemed to lag, his pace was slower than usual. Being considerably shorter, Jon was usually taking two steps to Martin’s one to keep up. But now it was as if Martin was moving in slow motion.

“Martin? Are you still with me?” Jon squeezed his hand urgently.

“Oh! J-Jon?” All at once he seemed to jolt back onto the normal pace of reality, solidifying.

“I’m here,” Jon said.

“Oh, I, heh, sort of forgot you were there.”

They picked up the pace, linking arms for more solid contact. Jon wedged himself into Martin’s side as best he could without impeding his gate. The chill seemed to seep right through his clothing and cling to his skin. He was beyond relieved when they made it to the little market, and to see that it wasn't very crowded. The Beholding peeked through his eyes, but he’d recorded a statement before leaving so it was bearable. What was not bearable was the fact that his nose was starting to run.

////

Martin hurried to grab everything they could possibly need for the next couple weeks. He had absolutely no intention of running out of supplies again while the Lonely had plans to camp on their doorstep. He stamped down the little worm of fear that danced in his gut. If Jon hadn’t been there...He shuddered. There was another reason to hurry, though. He hadn’t failed to notice that Jon was not enjoying the cold. It was impossible not to notice, as Jon was hovering so closely that Martin kept bumping into him with the slightest movement. It was really rather adorable, or at least it would have been if Martin hadn’t started to feel concerned. They’d been outside for maybe twenty minutes and Jon was already sniffling. And if it had only been slightly chilly before, the temperature was rapidly dropping as evening fell. Martin decided to grab some extra tissues and cold medicine. Just in case.

Though laden with baggage, they made an effort to get back as quickly as possible. As soon as the groceries were organized and dinner started, Jon stoked the fire and burrowed into the couch covers. Martin checked over the food again and went to settle beside him, digging in the blankets to find his hands.

“Geez, Jon, remind me to knit you some gloves.” He started to rub and kiss some warmth back into them.

“Remind me, to never ever go outside again, especially once it starts snowing.”

Martin chuckled. “But it’ll be beautiful in the snow.”

“Hmm. Write me a poem about it then.”

“Oh alright, Mr. Jonathan Who-Needs-Fresh-Air Sims,” Martin laughed. “I’m going to check on dinner.”

////

Jon felt better after being warmed from the inside out with a bowl of hot chowder. Martin had dozed off beside him on the couch, and though Jon was loath to disturb him, he was about to drop his empty bowl. Reluctantly Jon stood to take the dishes to the sink, ignoring the dull ache in his head. He was suddenly so very tired, and he must have thumped a little too heavily into Martin upon returning, for he opened his eyes and yawned.

“Ready to turn in, Love?” Martin asked gently.

“I just got c-comfortable,” Jon mumbled, suddenly aware of the slight scratching in his throat. Martin didn’t miss the catch in his voice.

“Are you alright?”

“Perfectly.”

Martin gave him a dubious look, but stood and said matter-of-factly, “Well you can’t spend all night on the couch, Jon, you’ll ruin your back.”

Jon didn’t move. “As if it isn’t already ruined.”

Martin huffed in exasperation. Even though Jon had turned out to be wonderfully sweet when allowed to unwind in a safe environment...He still managed to be stubborn as all hell. In an effortless motion, Martin scooped Jon into his arms.

“Wha--Mahtin!”

“Oh hush, Jon. We’re going to bed, and you’re getting a proper rest, so I don’t have to listen to you complain in the morning.”

“When have I ever complained?!”

“Not with words, love, but you are twice as grumpy when your back’s acting up.”

“Hmph.”

His temper evaporated the moment Martin curled around him in bed, and after hushed ‘I love yous,’ they immediately fell asleep.

////

Jon was always the first one awake. Years of being the first arrival at the Institute every single morning meant that Martin usually woke to a still steaming mug of tea on the nightstand and the sounds of Jon making breakfast drifting under the door. Once Martin had trained him out of microwave shortcuts, he made perfectly drinkable tea. And though it took him a few tries to get the hang of it again after years of rushed ‘cooking’ and take-out, Jon revealed that he did indeed retain the cooking skills he’d learned from helping his grandmother as a child.

Because of this, Martin was surprised to wake up to a silent cabin and a warm mass still pressed against him, though rolled into a separate layer of covers.

“Jon?”

Martin nudged him. He scrunched away, making a noise of protest that turned into a sniffle.

“Oh, bother. Jon? Jon, please get up and let me look at you?”

When he could tell that Jon was making an effort to get himself up, he began helping to dig him out of the covers.

“There you are.”

“M--ahem--Martin? What time is it?”

“Long past when you usually wake up. How do you feel? And don’t say ‘fine.’”

Jon glared at him half-heartedly with one dark eye while rubbing the other with his palm.

“Well. Not great. Throat hurts, head hurts. Oh, pass me a tissue please.”

When he was done blowing his nose, Martin gently cupped his face, sweeping the greying hair aside and feeling for fever.

“Jon, you’re burning.”

“Hmm.”

“Dammit, that was fast! I thought you’d picked up a cold yesterday, but didn’t think it’d spiral out of control so fast.”

“It’s probably because I’ve left the Institute. Heh, probably only going to get worse from here then.”

Jon slowly slumped back onto his side, letting out a shuddering breath. He did not look good.

“Will a statement help?”

“Maybe. There aren’t any left though. Have--ahem-- to wait for Basira’s next delivery.”

“O-okay. Well, we’ve got some medicine in the cabinet. I’ll make you some tea--always helps--and some soup, a cold cloth, if you think that might make your head feel better?”

“Mmm.”

“Jon?”

“Y-yes, thank you, Martin. Just come back to bed when you’ve got all that?”

“Of course. You know I‘ll take care of you, right, Jon?” Martin leaned down to kiss his scarred cheek.

“I know, Martin. You always have.”

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