Chapter Text
The road seems to stretch on endlessly.
Martin stares out of the window, watches as the grey buildings of London make way for the grey sky of the countryside, barely seeing any of it.
His eyes are tired, but he doesn’t sleep, doesn’t dare. The fog might be waiting in his dreams.
His skin feels cold and clammy, his chest tight. He knows the car must be warm, sees the numbers on the display proclaiming 24°C, but he doesn’t feel it.
He doesn’t feel much of anything at all.
Jon keeps shooting him looks. They’re worried looks, full of frowns and deep with concern, and Martin tries to smile back, tries to produce any sign of reassurance, but he doesn’t think it works well. Jon looks like he wants to say something, probably wants to ask him how he’s doing, if he’s alright, but he doesn’t. Martin is glad for it. He wouldn’t know what to say, anyway.
They barely spoke at all after Jon guided him out of the Lonely, or maybe Jon had talked and Martin had simply been too numb and far away to register it. He vaguely remembers them stopping by at Jon's place to pack some things, then at Martin's flat, Jon asking if he needed anything in particular, and Martin had just shaken his head, stood in his living room, quiet and motionless while Jon shuffled around next door, grabbing whatever clothes he found.
He remembers Jon talking to Basira on the phone, a few words of summary recounted back to Martin: Get away from the Institute, Scotland, Daisy's Safehouse, avoid public transport, don't draw any attention, don't leave taces.
The car is hired. Martin thought they'd split the driving, but he hadn't protested when Jon got in on the driver's side hours ago, and he hasn't found it in himself to offer to take over since.
He feels empty. Martin thought that feeling would vanish once he left the Forsaken, but he'd been wrong, so wrong. It has gotten worse, in a way. It had felt right, there, that cold numbness, it had been comforting. It hadn't been like this, cloying, painful, like a hole eating him up from the inside out.
It's quiet in the car, nothing but the sound of the engine in the background, the wind rushing past their windows. Martin does his best not to hear the sound of waves hiding in there somewhere. He almost wishes they'd talk, fill that stretching, pressing silence somehow, but he doesn't know what words he'd even have to offer.
"I'm going to stop to refuel", Jon says eventually, setting the indicator to leave the main road.
Martin doesn't say anything.
Jon parks the car, loosens his seat belt.
"I'll be right back", he says. "Don't go anywhere."
Funny. As if Martin's limbs wouldn't be too numb to move right now, anyway.
"Martin?" Jon says, looking at him, apparently waiting for some kind of confirmation.
Martin nods.
"Okay", he manages, and Jon gives him a tight smile, squeezing his arm for a second before he leaves, his touch like a searing brand on Martin's cold skin.
Jon gets out of the car, and Martin concentrates on counting his breaths until he returns.
~oOo~
It's late when they reach the cabin.
The headlights illuminate stone walls, dark silhouettes of trees looming in the background. Gravel crunches under the tires, darkness falling all around them as Jon turns the car off.
They grab the few bags they brought, Jon fumbling with the keys.
The cabin is small but comfortable. Martin isn't sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. There's a room that must take up more than half the space of the entire building, combining a kitchen and living room, a soft carpet on the floor, an old couch with a small coffee table beside it, paintings of the Scottish landscape in charmingly mismatched frames decorating the walls.
"Are you hungry?" Jon says, lifting the bag with groceries he picked up at the petrol station along the way and dropping it on the kitchen counter. "You haven't really eaten all day-"
Martin shakes his head and Jon frowns.
"Are you sure? Maybe you should-"
"No, I-" Martin's voice sounds distant to his own ears. "I can't."
He should be hungry, he knows he should be. His stomach is empty, empty like the rest of him, and maybe it's not good for him to keep it that way, but even the thought of eating makes his stomach clench and twist in discomfort.
Jon looks at him with that deep frown on his face, and for a moment Martin is scared Jon won't take no for an answer, but then he sighs, nodding.
"Alright", he says. "We'll try tomorrow."
"Okay", Martin agrees quietly.
Jon nods again, face thoughtful, serious.
"It's late", he says, "Why don't you go and change, I'll take care of this."
He points to the groceries on the couter that are waiting to be unpacked, giving Martin a careful smile.
"I-" Martin feels cold, so terribly cold. "I'd rather not, I-" He fidgets, tugging on a hangnail. It burns, and Martin welcomes the pain of it. "I don't think I should- uhm. B-Be alone", he manages, voice small, and Jon swallows hard.
"Yes, of course", he says right away. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking. Just-" He nods over to the couch. "Sit down for a moment, alright? I'll put some things in the fridge, the rest can wait until tomorrow."
Martin wants to say that it's fine, that he'll help, that Jon doesn't have to tip toe around him like this, that Jon can just ignore him and take all the time he needs to get things done, that he doesn't want to be a burden.
He doesn't say any of those things. He just drops down on the couch like a puppet with its strings cut, waits, watches Jon shuffling around in the kitchen.
"Martin?"
Martin startles, blinks. His eyes focus on Jon standing right in front of him, leaning down with a questioning smile on his lips. When he throws a glance at the kitchen, everything is tidied away. Martin doesn't know when he zoned out, doesn't really care.
"Do you need anything?" Jon says, such a simple question, impossible to answer.
Martin shakes his head.
"No", he says, because everything else would be too much to think about. "I'm just really tired."
"Of course", Jon agrees softly, helping to pull him to his unsteady feet. "Let's get you to bed, hm?"
There's only one bedroom in Daisy's cabin.
Martin doesn't resist when Jon guides him inside, gently nudges him to sit on the edge of the mattress. He doesn't even comment when Jon crouches down to unlace Martin's shoes, he just watches, looks at Jon on his knees in front of him like that, can't find it in himself to stop him even if it doesn't feel right.
There's that lumpy sofa in the living room that Jon is likely planning to sleep on, and the old Martin would never have let that stand, would have offered to take the uncomfortable option himself before Jon could even think of doing so, would have argued- but that was before. Now, even the thought of protesting feels exhausting, and if Jon were to retreat to the other room, he'd finally get to be alone for a bit and-
Martin flinches.
It's not the prospect of loneliness that scares him. It's that something about getting to be alone sound good, comfortable, that a part of him wants that, even if the rest of him recoils at the thought.
"Stay with me?" Martin says quietly, his voice small yet still too loud in the darkness.
Jon looks at him, eyes wide as he nods.
"Yes", Jon says, softly, so softly. And he looks relieved, like he'd hoped Martin would ask because he hadn't dared to himself, and it soothes some of that churning shame inside him that says Jon shouldn't need to take care of him like this, that they'd both be better off alone.
Alone.
Jon shuffles into the bed beside him, the mattress dipping just barely under his light weight, and they lie there in silence, only the sound of their breathing between them.
Martin reaches out, carefully inching forward, searching, searching, until his finger just so brushes against Jon's hand under the blanket, and it's not much, but Jon's skin is warm, and it's alive, and real, and Martin has been cold and alone for so long.
He doesn't move, just lets the tip of his finger rest against Jon's, and it's okay, he's okay like this, for now.
Until Jon sighs shakily, and his hand vanishes, leaving Martin only a second to panic before it returns, Jon's warm hand settling on top of his, Jon's fingers slotting easily into the empty spaces between Martin's own.
There are so many empty spaces inside him now. Imagining Jon there to fill them is both shameful bliss and wretched pain.
Jon's hand tightens around his ever so slightly, then lies still.
Tears sting in his eyes. Martin squeezes them shut, pressing his face into the pillow and taking an unsteady breath.
Jon's hand is an unmoving weight keeping him tethered to the ground, still so warm as his pillow grows wet with silent, freezing tears.
They don't speak.
When sleep finally claims him, Jon's touch is the last thing he feels.