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grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks · 8 months ago

Text

A quick little Scottish Safehouse fic for you. Check it out on AO3, or read below. Reblogs, replies, etc are always extremely appreciated.

They didn’t talk about it, at the safehouse. They talked about everything but – the weather, the dishes, the neighbors’ cows. They talked about Daisy, but only to comment about her decor, or her taste in books and music made evident by the small collection of vinyl and battered paperbacks scattered across the house. They didn’t talk about what she might be doing now. They didn’t speculate about whether Basira had made good on her promise yet.

Jon didn’t ask Martin about anything he’d said in the Lonely, though the words I really loved you, you know burned a constant hum in the back of his mind. Martin didn’t ask about any of the things he’d Seen. He wouldn’t know what to ask, even if he wanted to. Was it real? Do you love me? He wasn’t sure he needed to ask. What does it mean? Where do we go from here? That was closer to the mark, but terrifying. Everything felt so fragile at the moment. He didn’t want to push. It was easier, safer, to keep things light. Was the tea in Daisy’s cupboards still good? Had Jon seen that grey heron in the stream outside the window? Should they stop by the library the next time they went into town for groceries?

They barely spoke at all when they went to bed. The nerve-wracking reality of sharing a bed, just inches apart, overpowered any instinct to chat. So they said nothing, falling asleep to the sound of the other’s breathing until it was time for one or both of them to be woken by a nightmare.

***

The first night, it was Martin. He tossed and turned in his sleep, badly enough to shake Jon from his own bad dreams, so Jon could hear the second he woke with a hitched, choked breath.

“It’s alright,” he whispered. “You’re alright, it was just a dream.”

“Jon?”

“I’m here.”

Jon reached across and slipped his hand into Martin’s, and Martin squeezed it like a lifeline. They didn’t say anything else, after that, but when they finally fell asleep nearly an hour later, their hands were still clasped together.

***

In the morning, they talked about the crossword.

“How do you spell obstinate?” Martin asked across the breakfast table.

“O-B-S-T-I-N-A-T-E.”

“Hmm. Too many letters, then.”

“What’s the clue?”

“Stubborn, 8 letters.” Martin told him. “First two letters are O and B.”

“What about ‘obdurate?’”

Martin pencilled it in. “It fits.” He frowned down at the puzzle with a contemplative hum. “And if that’s an R, then that means I was right about 4 down from the beginning��” He filled in a few more clues, then looked up from the puzzle and scoffed. “Obdurate,” he repeated, incredulous. “Who uses the word obdurate?”

***

Jon was woken after midnight by Martin’s harsh, shuddering breaths – crying or on the verge of tears; Jon couldn’t tell. He reached out, and Martin breathed out a shaky sigh.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I was on the beach again,” Martin whispered. “I was alone.”

“You’re not alone anymore.”

“I know.” Another sigh as he struggled to calm his breathing. “I know.”

***

The next day, they talked about the laundry.

“We forgot to buy detergent,” Jon informed him after spending the morning inspecting Daisy’s laundry room and its ancient washer-dryer.

“Daisy didn’t leave any behind?”

“You can look for yourself if you want, but I didn’t see any.”

“I trust you.”

Jon settled on the couch and spread the throw blanket across his lap. “How much did you pack? Do you think we can put off doing laundry until after we go to the shops?”

“Sure,” Martin told him, though in truth he hadn’t packed much. “We’ll be fine.”

***

When Jon woke, he didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. He lay on his back, letting his tears slide down his cheeks in total silence, certain that he hadn’t woken Martin. But when he finally had to breathe – the tell-tale hiccuping inhale of someone who had just been crying – Martin rolled over to face him.

“Jon?”

“It’s nothing. Just a bad dream,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

Martin watched him. Jon’s chest rose and fell unsteadily, and in the light of the nearly-full moon outside their window, Martin could see the tear tracks glisten, incriminating, on his face.

Jon finally turned to face him, and they lay face to face for a long, silent moment. A strand of long, grey-streaked hair had fallen into Jon’s face with the movement, and Martin reached out to tuck it behind his ear.

“Oh, Jon…”

He let his hand linger, cupping his jaw, then moved it an inch to brush aside the tears from Jon’s cheeks. His hand was warm, and Jon’s skin was cold, and Jon turned his face to press into that point of warm, gentle contact.

Jon waited for Martin to pull his hand away. Martin waited for Jon to turn away again. Neither of them moved.

Finally, Jon closed the space between them to tuck his face into the crook of Martin’s neck. Martin held his breath for a moment before bringing his arms up to pull Jon even closer.

They woke up that morning entwined in each other’s arms, but they didn’t talk about it.

***

“We’re almost out of eggs.”

“Already?”

“It’s probably my fault,” Martin admitted. “I used a lot of them for my omelet yesterday.”

“Well, we needed to go shopping anyway.”

Martin hmm’ ed thoughtfully. “There was something else we needed. Wasn’t there?”

“There was,” Jon agreed. “God, what was it?”

“We should start writing these things down.”

***

That night, Jon had another nightmare. Martin could hear him trying to stifle his crying once again, and reached out.

Jon froze at the contact, caught like a deer in the headlights. Then he turned to press himself against Martin’s chest and let himself be held.

“Nightmare?” Martin asked, and Jon nodded.

“I couldn’t look away,” he murmured. “I tried to, but– I just stood there and watched.”

Martin pressed Jon to him. “It’s alright,” he said, though it wasn’t exactly true. Then he whispered, “I’m here,” which was.

***

The next day, they went into town for groceries. They chatted a bit on the walk there.

“God, breathe that air,” Martin exclaimed, sucking in a good lungful for himself.

“I’m breathing it…” Jon said. “Is there… something I’m supposed to notice?”

“It’s fresh!” Martin told him. “It’s good, country air! I don’t miss London right now, I’ll tell you that.”

“No.” Jon glanced at Martin, bundled in his worn peacoat against the highland chill. “I can’t say I miss London either.”

They chatted more in the grocery store.

“Where are you going?”

“I just want to look at the tea selection…”

“We already have so much back at the house.”

“I’m just looking!”

And more, on the walk back.

“Ooh, look there! Is that a falcon? Or a hawk?”

“A hawk.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, it’s a Eurasian sparrowhawk.”

“Know-it-all.”

“Yes, Martin, that’s sort of the idea.”

And more, when they got back to the safehouse.

“Geez,” Martin said as they walked through the front door, “it’s getting a bit nippy, isn’t it? Should we have a fire tonight?”

“Yes, that’s probably–”

Martin dropped the tote bag he was holding with an abrupt clunk.

“Laundry detergent!”

Jon didn’t have to ask what he meant; he just swore under his breath.

“Damnit!”

“We forgot laundry detergent.”

“Look, Martin, you finish putting the groceries away and I’ll run back to the shop.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to. It’s a long way–”

“I want to.”

“Alright.” Jon bit his lip around the urge to smile. “If you’re sure.”

***

It was Martin’s turn for a nightmare that night. It was too much to ask, it seemed, that just once they both sleep soundly.

He was crying. Quietly, but not so quietly that it didn’t stand out starkly against the silence of the house. He had his back to Jon, and Jon watched his shoulders shake for a single hesitant moment before he wrapped his arms around Martin’s waist.

“Was it the same dream?” he asked in a barely-there whisper, and Martin shook his head.

“You were there this time,” he said. “In the Lonely. But you… you hated me. You didn’t say it, but I could tell– I knew– you wanted me to go.”

“I’m sorry.”

Martin sniffled. “It was just a dream,” he said, as much to himself as to Jon.

“I… I don’t want you to go.”

“I know. You don’t have to… It was just a dream,” Martin repeated.

They let the silence hang in the air for a time, Jon holding Martin in a wordless embrace, Martin letting the tears come without trying to fight them this time. Jon broke the silence to murmur,

“I was prepared to stay.”

“What?”

“When I went into the Lonely, I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull you out – I didn’t know if I’d be able to pull myself out. I just knew…” he took a steadying breath, and pressed his ear to Martin’s back to hear the quiet beating of his heart. “I’d rather be there with you than leave you there alone.”

“Oh.”

Martin took Jon’s hand in his, pressing it to his chest like a talisman, like it could ward off the Lonely. Maybe it could.

“Thanks, Jon. I…” Another sentence he couldn’t finish. “Thank you.”

Jon turned his head and pressed a kiss to the back of Martin’s neck. In that moment, it felt natural. It felt simple. It felt right.

Martin sighed. The sound was warm, and gentle, and content, and it felt so loud against the silence of the room.

They didn’t talk about it.

***

The next day, they did laundry.

The washer seemed up to the task, but the dryer, which Jon had been dubious of since the moment he set eyes on it, gave out halfway through the first spin cycle. In the end, they had to hang it up to dry.

They worked as a team, Jon handing Martin clothes and pegs and Martin hanging them on the laundry line that stood in the yard behind the safehouse.

They chatted while they worked.

“I’ve never seen you wear this in my life,” Martin remarked as he hung up one of Jon’s old tee shirts from uni.

“Yes, well, I was in a bit of a hurry when I packed…”

Martin read the text printed in too-small serif across the front of the shirt, and his face split into a grin.

“Wait, am-dram? You did am-dram in uni?”

“Very briefly.”

“This explains so much about you.”

“Shut up, Martin,” Jon muttered without any real venom.

“Well, let’s hear something! You must have a bit of Shakespeare memorized.”

He did, but he wasn’t going to say as much while Martin was mocking him.

“I’m not a performing monkey.”

“Oh, come on, just one quick monologue! Just a little, ‘But soft, what light through yonder window breaks…’”

“It is the east, and Juliet is the sun,” Jon finished rotely and without intonation. “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou her maid art far more fair than she – and that’s as much as you’ll get out of me.”

Jon bent over to grab more laundry and did his best to hide his face.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

Martin grinned. “Very.”

“Well… that’s good,” he said stiffly. “I’m glad.”

Martin looked at Jon – desperately embarrassed, surrounded by sodden tee shirts, windswept silver-black hair gleaming in the late September sun – and felt more fond than he ever had of anyone in his life.

“I love you.”

The words slipped out before he realized what he was saying. Jon’s head swung around to stare.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t– I mean– I know it’s–”

“You do?” Jon’s words were quiet and utterly serious.

Martin gave an anxious little nod. “Yeah.” His voice came out smaller than he expected. “I do. I really, really do.”

Jon let the pair of trousers he was holding fall to the ground as he surged forward to kiss him.

***

Another nightmare. Another round of whispered reassurances.

“It’s alright, you’re alright, I’m here.”

When the shock wore off and they were able to shake the residual dread from their respective bad dreams, they turned to face each other on the mattress. The light from the barely-waning moon painted everything in shades of dusky silver.

For a long time, they didn’t speak; they simply studied each other’s faces. Eventually, Jon brought his forehead up to rest against Martin’s.

“I love you.”

Martin swallowed. He still wasn’t used to hearing it. Jon wasn’t used to saying it.

“I love you, too.”

Their lips met in one soft, slow kiss, and then they pulled away just enough to gaze at each other as they fell back into sleep.

#one last self rb

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grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks · 8 months ago

Text

A quick little Scottish Safehouse fic for you. Check it out on AO3, or read below. Reblogs, replies, etc are always extremely appreciated.

***

The first night, it was Martin. He tossed and turned in his sleep, badly enough to shake Jon from his own bad dreams, so Jon could hear the second he woke with a hitched, choked breath.

“It’s alright,” he whispered. “You’re alright, it was just a dream.”

“Jon?”

“I’m here.”

***

In the morning, they talked about the crossword.

“How do you spell obstinate?” Martin asked across the breakfast table.

“O-B-S-T-I-N-A-T-E.”

“Hmm. Too many letters, then.”

“What’s the clue?”

“Stubborn, 8 letters.” Martin told him. “First two letters are O and B.”

“What about ‘obdurate?’”

Martin pencilled it in. “It fits.” He frowned down at the puzzle with a contemplative hum. “And if that’s an R, then that means I was right about 4 down from the beginning…” He filled in a few more clues, then looked up from the puzzle and scoffed. “Obdurate,” he repeated, incredulous. “Who uses the word obdurate?”

***

Jon was woken after midnight by Martin’s harsh, shuddering breaths – crying or on the verge of tears; Jon couldn’t tell. He reached out, and Martin breathed out a shaky sigh.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I was on the beach again,” Martin whispered. “I was alone.”

“You’re not alone anymore.”

“I know.” Another sigh as he struggled to calm his breathing. “I know.”

***

The next day, they talked about the laundry.

“We forgot to buy detergent,” Jon informed him after spending the morning inspecting Daisy’s laundry room and its ancient washer-dryer.

“Daisy didn’t leave any behind?”

“You can look for yourself if you want, but I didn’t see any.”

“I trust you.”

Jon settled on the couch and spread the throw blanket across his lap. “How much did you pack? Do you think we can put off doing laundry until after we go to the shops?”

“Sure,” Martin told him, though in truth he hadn’t packed much. “We’ll be fine.”

***

“Jon?”

“It’s nothing. Just a bad dream,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

Martin watched him. Jon’s chest rose and fell unsteadily, and in the light of the nearly-full moon outside their window, Martin could see the tear tracks glisten, incriminating, on his face.

“Oh, Jon…”

Jon waited for Martin to pull his hand away. Martin waited for Jon to turn away again. Neither of them moved.

Finally, Jon closed the space between them to tuck his face into the crook of Martin’s neck. Martin held his breath for a moment before bringing his arms up to pull Jon even closer.

They woke up that morning entwined in each other’s arms, but they didn’t talk about it.

***

“We’re almost out of eggs.”

“Already?”

“It’s probably my fault,” Martin admitted. “I used a lot of them for my omelet yesterday.”

“Well, we needed to go shopping anyway.”

Martin hmm’ ed thoughtfully. “There was something else we needed. Wasn’t there?”

“There was,” Jon agreed. “God, what was it?”

“We should start writing these things down.”

***

That night, Jon had another nightmare. Martin could hear him trying to stifle his crying once again, and reached out.

Jon froze at the contact, caught like a deer in the headlights. Then he turned to press himself against Martin’s chest and let himself be held.

“Nightmare?” Martin asked, and Jon nodded.

“I couldn’t look away,” he murmured. “I tried to, but– I just stood there and watched.”

Martin pressed Jon to him. “It’s alright,” he said, though it wasn’t exactly true. Then he whispered, “I’m here,” which was.

***

The next day, they went into town for groceries. They chatted a bit on the walk there.

“God, breathe that air,” Martin exclaimed, sucking in a good lungful for himself.

“I’m breathing it…” Jon said. “Is there… something I’m supposed to notice?”

“It’s fresh!” Martin told him. “It’s good, country air! I don’t miss London right now, I’ll tell you that.”

“No.” Jon glanced at Martin, bundled in his worn peacoat against the highland chill. “I can’t say I miss London either.”

They chatted more in the grocery store.

“Where are you going?”

“I just want to look at the tea selection…”

“We already have so much back at the house.”

“I’m just looking!”

And more, on the walk back.

“Ooh, look there! Is that a falcon? Or a hawk?”

“A hawk.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, it’s a Eurasian sparrowhawk.”

“Know-it-all.”

“Yes, Martin, that’s sort of the idea.”

And more, when they got back to the safehouse.

“Geez,” Martin said as they walked through the front door, “it’s getting a bit nippy, isn’t it? Should we have a fire tonight?”

“Yes, that’s probably–”

Martin dropped the tote bag he was holding with an abrupt clunk.

“Laundry detergent!”

Jon didn’t have to ask what he meant; he just swore under his breath.

“Damnit!”

“We forgot laundry detergent.”

“Look, Martin, you finish putting the groceries away and I’ll run back to the shop.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to. It’s a long way–”

“I want to.”

“Alright.” Jon bit his lip around the urge to smile. “If you’re sure.”

***

It was Martin’s turn for a nightmare that night. It was too much to ask, it seemed, that just once they both sleep soundly.

“Was it the same dream?” he asked in a barely-there whisper, and Martin shook his head.

“You were there this time,” he said. “In the Lonely. But you… you hated me. You didn’t say it, but I could tell– I knew– you wanted me to go.”

“I’m sorry.”

Martin sniffled. “It was just a dream,” he said, as much to himself as to Jon.

“I… I don’t want you to go.”

“I know. You don’t have to… It was just a dream,” Martin repeated.

They let the silence hang in the air for a time, Jon holding Martin in a wordless embrace, Martin letting the tears come without trying to fight them this time. Jon broke the silence to murmur,

“I was prepared to stay.”

“What?”

“Oh.”

Martin took Jon’s hand in his, pressing it to his chest like a talisman, like it could ward off the Lonely. Maybe it could.

“Thanks, Jon. I…” Another sentence he couldn’t finish. “Thank you.”

Jon turned his head and pressed a kiss to the back of Martin’s neck. In that moment, it felt natural. It felt simple. It felt right.

Martin sighed. The sound was warm, and gentle, and content, and it felt so loud against the silence of the room.

They didn’t talk about it.

***

The next day, they did laundry.

They worked as a team, Jon handing Martin clothes and pegs and Martin hanging them on the laundry line that stood in the yard behind the safehouse.

They chatted while they worked.

“I’ve never seen you wear this in my life,” Martin remarked as he hung up one of Jon’s old tee shirts from uni.

“Yes, well, I was in a bit of a hurry when I packed…”

Martin read the text printed in too-small serif across the front of the shirt, and his face split into a grin.

“Wait, am-dram? You did am-dram in uni?”

“Very briefly.”

“This explains so much about you.”

“Shut up, Martin,” Jon muttered without any real venom.

“Well, let’s hear something! You must have a bit of Shakespeare memorized.”

He did, but he wasn’t going to say as much while Martin was mocking him.

“I’m not a performing monkey.”

“Oh, come on, just one quick monologue! Just a little, ‘But soft, what light through yonder window breaks…’”

Jon bent over to grab more laundry and did his best to hide his face.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

Martin grinned. “Very.”

“Well… that’s good,” he said stiffly. “I’m glad.”

“I love you.”

The words slipped out before he realized what he was saying. Jon’s head swung around to stare.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t– I mean– I know it’s–”

“You do?” Jon’s words were quiet and utterly serious.

Martin gave an anxious little nod. “Yeah.” His voice came out smaller than he expected. “I do. I really, really do.”

Jon let the pair of trousers he was holding fall to the ground as he surged forward to kiss him.

***

Another nightmare. Another round of whispered reassurances.

“It’s alright, you’re alright, I’m here.”

For a long time, they didn’t speak; they simply studied each other’s faces. Eventually, Jon brought his forehead up to rest against Martin’s.

“I love you.”

Martin swallowed. He still wasn’t used to hearing it. Jon wasn’t used to saying it.

“I love you, too.”

Their lips met in one soft, slow kiss, and then they pulled away just enough to gaze at each other as they fell back into sleep.

#self rb

50 notes · View notes

grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks · 8 months ago

Text

A quick little Scottish Safehouse fic for you. Check it out on AO3, or read below. Reblogs, replies, etc are always extremely appreciated.

***

The first night, it was Martin. He tossed and turned in his sleep, badly enough to shake Jon from his own bad dreams, so Jon could hear the second he woke with a hitched, choked breath.

“It’s alright,” he whispered. “You’re alright, it was just a dream.”

“Jon?”

“I’m here.”

***

In the morning, they talked about the crossword.

“How do you spell obstinate?” Martin asked across the breakfast table.

“O-B-S-T-I-N-A-T-E.”

“Hmm. Too many letters, then.”

“What’s the clue?”

“Stubborn, 8 letters.” Martin told him. “First two letters are O and B.”

“What about ‘obdurate?’”

***

Jon was woken after midnight by Martin’s harsh, shuddering breaths – crying or on the verge of tears; Jon couldn’t tell. He reached out, and Martin breathed out a shaky sigh.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I was on the beach again,” Martin whispered. “I was alone.”

“You’re not alone anymore.”

“I know.” Another sigh as he struggled to calm his breathing. “I know.”

***

The next day, they talked about the laundry.

“We forgot to buy detergent,” Jon informed him after spending the morning inspecting Daisy’s laundry room and its ancient washer-dryer.

“Daisy didn’t leave any behind?”

“You can look for yourself if you want, but I didn’t see any.”

“I trust you.”

Jon settled on the couch and spread the throw blanket across his lap. “How much did you pack? Do you think we can put off doing laundry until after we go to the shops?”

“Sure,” Martin told him, though in truth he hadn’t packed much. “We’ll be fine.”

***

“Jon?”

“It’s nothing. Just a bad dream,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

Martin watched him. Jon’s chest rose and fell unsteadily, and in the light of the nearly-full moon outside their window, Martin could see the tear tracks glisten, incriminating, on his face.

“Oh, Jon…”

Jon waited for Martin to pull his hand away. Martin waited for Jon to turn away again. Neither of them moved.

Finally, Jon closed the space between them to tuck his face into the crook of Martin’s neck. Martin held his breath for a moment before bringing his arms up to pull Jon even closer.

They woke up that morning entwined in each other’s arms, but they didn’t talk about it.

***

“We’re almost out of eggs.”

“Already?”

“It’s probably my fault,” Martin admitted. “I used a lot of them for my omelet yesterday.”

“Well, we needed to go shopping anyway.”

Martin hmm’ ed thoughtfully. “There was something else we needed. Wasn’t there?”

“There was,” Jon agreed. “God, what was it?”

“We should start writing these things down.”

***

That night, Jon had another nightmare. Martin could hear him trying to stifle his crying once again, and reached out.

Jon froze at the contact, caught like a deer in the headlights. Then he turned to press himself against Martin’s chest and let himself be held.

“Nightmare?” Martin asked, and Jon nodded.

“I couldn’t look away,” he murmured. “I tried to, but– I just stood there and watched.”

Martin pressed Jon to him. “It’s alright,” he said, though it wasn’t exactly true. Then he whispered, “I’m here,” which was.

***

The next day, they went into town for groceries. They chatted a bit on the walk there.

“God, breathe that air,” Martin exclaimed, sucking in a good lungful for himself.

“I’m breathing it…” Jon said. “Is there… something I’m supposed to notice?”

“It’s fresh!” Martin told him. “It’s good, country air! I don’t miss London right now, I’ll tell you that.”

“No.” Jon glanced at Martin, bundled in his worn peacoat against the highland chill. “I can’t say I miss London either.”

They chatted more in the grocery store.

“Where are you going?”

“I just want to look at the tea selection…”

“We already have so much back at the house.”

“I’m just looking!”

And more, on the walk back.

“Ooh, look there! Is that a falcon? Or a hawk?”

“A hawk.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, it’s a Eurasian sparrowhawk.”

“Know-it-all.”

“Yes, Martin, that’s sort of the idea.”

And more, when they got back to the safehouse.

“Geez,” Martin said as they walked through the front door, “it’s getting a bit nippy, isn’t it? Should we have a fire tonight?”

“Yes, that’s probably–”

Martin dropped the tote bag he was holding with an abrupt clunk.

“Laundry detergent!”

Jon didn’t have to ask what he meant; he just swore under his breath.

“Damnit!”

“We forgot laundry detergent.”

“Look, Martin, you finish putting the groceries away and I’ll run back to the shop.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to. It’s a long way–”

“I want to.”

“Alright.” Jon bit his lip around the urge to smile. “If you’re sure.”

***

It was Martin’s turn for a nightmare that night. It was too much to ask, it seemed, that just once they both sleep soundly.

“Was it the same dream?” he asked in a barely-there whisper, and Martin shook his head.

“You were there this time,” he said. “In the Lonely. But you… you hated me. You didn’t say it, but I could tell– I knew– you wanted me to go.”

“I’m sorry.”

Martin sniffled. “It was just a dream,” he said, as much to himself as to Jon.

“I… I don’t want you to go.”

“I know. You don’t have to… It was just a dream,” Martin repeated.

They let the silence hang in the air for a time, Jon holding Martin in a wordless embrace, Martin letting the tears come without trying to fight them this time. Jon broke the silence to murmur,

“I was prepared to stay.”

“What?”

“Oh.”

Martin took Jon’s hand in his, pressing it to his chest like a talisman, like it could ward off the Lonely. Maybe it could.

“Thanks, Jon. I…” Another sentence he couldn’t finish. “Thank you.”

Jon turned his head and pressed a kiss to the back of Martin’s neck. In that moment, it felt natural. It felt simple. It felt right.

Martin sighed. The sound was warm, and gentle, and content, and it felt so loud against the silence of the room.

They didn’t talk about it.

***

The next day, they did laundry.

They worked as a team, Jon handing Martin clothes and pegs and Martin hanging them on the laundry line that stood in the yard behind the safehouse.

They chatted while they worked.

“I’ve never seen you wear this in my life,” Martin remarked as he hung up one of Jon’s old tee shirts from uni.

“Yes, well, I was in a bit of a hurry when I packed…”

Martin read the text printed in too-small serif across the front of the shirt, and his face split into a grin.

“Wait, am-dram? You did am-dram in uni?”

“Very briefly.”

“This explains so much about you.”

“Shut up, Martin,” Jon muttered without any real venom.

“Well, let’s hear something! You must have a bit of Shakespeare memorized.”

He did, but he wasn’t going to say as much while Martin was mocking him.

“I’m not a performing monkey.”

“Oh, come on, just one quick monologue! Just a little, ‘But soft, what light through yonder window breaks…’”

Jon bent over to grab more laundry and did his best to hide his face.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

Martin grinned. “Very.”

“Well… that’s good,” he said stiffly. “I’m glad.”

“I love you.”

The words slipped out before he realized what he was saying. Jon’s head swung around to stare.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t– I mean– I know it’s–”

“You do?” Jon’s words were quiet and utterly serious.

Martin gave an anxious little nod. “Yeah.” His voice came out smaller than he expected. “I do. I really, really do.”

Jon let the pair of trousers he was holding fall to the ground as he surged forward to kiss him.

***

Another nightmare. Another round of whispered reassurances.

“It’s alright, you’re alright, I’m here.”

For a long time, they didn’t speak; they simply studied each other’s faces. Eventually, Jon brought his forehead up to rest against Martin’s.

“I love you.”

Martin swallowed. He still wasn’t used to hearing it. Jon wasn’t used to saying it.

“I love you, too.”

Their lips met in one soft, slow kiss, and then they pulled away just enough to gaze at each other as they fell back into sleep.

#self rb

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grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks · 8 months ago

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A quick little Scottish Safehouse fic for you. Check it out on AO3, or read below. Reblogs, replies, etc are always extremely appreciated.

***

The first night, it was Martin. He tossed and turned in his sleep, badly enough to shake Jon from his own bad dreams, so Jon could hear the second he woke with a hitched, choked breath.

“It’s alright,” he whispered. “You’re alright, it was just a dream.”

“Jon?”

“I’m here.”

***

In the morning, they talked about the crossword.

“How do you spell obstinate?” Martin asked across the breakfast table.

“O-B-S-T-I-N-A-T-E.”

“Hmm. Too many letters, then.”

“What’s the clue?”

“Stubborn, 8 letters.” Martin told him. “First two letters are O and B.”

“What about ‘obdurate?’”

***

Jon was woken after midnight by Martin’s harsh, shuddering breaths – crying or on the verge of tears; Jon couldn’t tell. He reached out, and Martin breathed out a shaky sigh.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I was on the beach again,” Martin whispered. “I was alone.”

“You’re not alone anymore.”

“I know.” Another sigh as he struggled to calm his breathing. “I know.”

***

The next day, they talked about the laundry.

“We forgot to buy detergent,” Jon informed him after spending the morning inspecting Daisy’s laundry room and its ancient washer-dryer.

“Daisy didn’t leave any behind?”

“You can look for yourself if you want, but I didn’t see any.”

“I trust you.”

Jon settled on the couch and spread the throw blanket across his lap. “How much did you pack? Do you think we can put off doing laundry until after we go to the shops?”

“Sure,” Martin told him, though in truth he hadn’t packed much. “We’ll be fine.”

***

“Jon?”

“It’s nothing. Just a bad dream,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

Martin watched him. Jon’s chest rose and fell unsteadily, and in the light of the nearly-full moon outside their window, Martin could see the tear tracks glisten, incriminating, on his face.

“Oh, Jon…”

Jon waited for Martin to pull his hand away. Martin waited for Jon to turn away again. Neither of them moved.

Finally, Jon closed the space between them to tuck his face into the crook of Martin’s neck. Martin held his breath for a moment before bringing his arms up to pull Jon even closer.

They woke up that morning entwined in each other’s arms, but they didn’t talk about it.

***

“We’re almost out of eggs.”

“Already?”

“It’s probably my fault,” Martin admitted. “I used a lot of them for my omelet yesterday.”

“Well, we needed to go shopping anyway.”

Martin hmm’ ed thoughtfully. “There was something else we needed. Wasn’t there?”

“There was,” Jon agreed. “God, what was it?”

“We should start writing these things down.”

***

That night, Jon had another nightmare. Martin could hear him trying to stifle his crying once again, and reached out.

Jon froze at the contact, caught like a deer in the headlights. Then he turned to press himself against Martin’s chest and let himself be held.

“Nightmare?” Martin asked, and Jon nodded.

“I couldn’t look away,” he murmured. “I tried to, but– I just stood there and watched.”

Martin pressed Jon to him. “It’s alright,” he said, though it wasn’t exactly true. Then he whispered, “I’m here,” which was.

***

The next day, they went into town for groceries. They chatted a bit on the walk there.

“God, breathe that air,” Martin exclaimed, sucking in a good lungful for himself.

“I’m breathing it…” Jon said. “Is there… something I’m supposed to notice?”

“It’s fresh!” Martin told him. “It’s good, country air! I don’t miss London right now, I’ll tell you that.”

“No.” Jon glanced at Martin, bundled in his worn peacoat against the highland chill. “I can’t say I miss London either.”

They chatted more in the grocery store.

“Where are you going?”

“I just want to look at the tea selection…”

“We already have so much back at the house.”

“I’m just looking!”

And more, on the walk back.

“Ooh, look there! Is that a falcon? Or a hawk?”

“A hawk.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, it’s a Eurasian sparrowhawk.”

“Know-it-all.”

“Yes, Martin, that’s sort of the idea.”

And more, when they got back to the safehouse.

“Geez,” Martin said as they walked through the front door, “it’s getting a bit nippy, isn’t it? Should we have a fire tonight?”

“Yes, that’s probably–”

Martin dropped the tote bag he was holding with an abrupt clunk.

“Laundry detergent!”

Jon didn’t have to ask what he meant; he just swore under his breath.

“Damnit!”

“We forgot laundry detergent.”

“Look, Martin, you finish putting the groceries away and I’ll run back to the shop.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to. It’s a long way–”

“I want to.”

“Alright.” Jon bit his lip around the urge to smile. “If you’re sure.”

***

It was Martin’s turn for a nightmare that night. It was too much to ask, it seemed, that just once they both sleep soundly.

“Was it the same dream?” he asked in a barely-there whisper, and Martin shook his head.

“You were there this time,” he said. “In the Lonely. But you… you hated me. You didn’t say it, but I could tell– I knew– you wanted me to go.”

“I’m sorry.”

Martin sniffled. “It was just a dream,” he said, as much to himself as to Jon.

“I… I don’t want you to go.”

“I know. You don’t have to… It was just a dream,” Martin repeated.

They let the silence hang in the air for a time, Jon holding Martin in a wordless embrace, Martin letting the tears come without trying to fight them this time. Jon broke the silence to murmur,

“I was prepared to stay.”

“What?”

“Oh.”

Martin took Jon’s hand in his, pressing it to his chest like a talisman, like it could ward off the Lonely. Maybe it could.

“Thanks, Jon. I…” Another sentence he couldn’t finish. “Thank you.”

Jon turned his head and pressed a kiss to the back of Martin’s neck. In that moment, it felt natural. It felt simple. It felt right.

Martin sighed. The sound was warm, and gentle, and content, and it felt so loud against the silence of the room.

They didn’t talk about it.

***

The next day, they did laundry.

They worked as a team, Jon handing Martin clothes and pegs and Martin hanging them on the laundry line that stood in the yard behind the safehouse.

They chatted while they worked.

“I’ve never seen you wear this in my life,” Martin remarked as he hung up one of Jon’s old tee shirts from uni.

“Yes, well, I was in a bit of a hurry when I packed…”

Martin read the text printed in too-small serif across the front of the shirt, and his face split into a grin.

“Wait, am-dram? You did am-dram in uni?”

“Very briefly.”

“This explains so much about you.”

“Shut up, Martin,” Jon muttered without any real venom.

“Well, let’s hear something! You must have a bit of Shakespeare memorized.”

He did, but he wasn’t going to say as much while Martin was mocking him.

“I’m not a performing monkey.”

“Oh, come on, just one quick monologue! Just a little, ‘But soft, what light through yonder window breaks…’”

Jon bent over to grab more laundry and did his best to hide his face.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

Martin grinned. “Very.”

“Well… that’s good,” he said stiffly. “I’m glad.”

“I love you.”

The words slipped out before he realized what he was saying. Jon’s head swung around to stare.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t– I mean– I know it’s–”

“You do?” Jon’s words were quiet and utterly serious.

Martin gave an anxious little nod. “Yeah.” His voice came out smaller than he expected. “I do. I really, really do.”

Jon let the pair of trousers he was holding fall to the ground as he surged forward to kiss him.

***

Another nightmare. Another round of whispered reassurances.

“It’s alright, you’re alright, I’m here.”

For a long time, they didn’t speak; they simply studied each other’s faces. Eventually, Jon brought his forehead up to rest against Martin’s.

“I love you.”

Martin swallowed. He still wasn’t used to hearing it. Jon wasn’t used to saying it.

“I love you, too.”

Their lips met in one soft, slow kiss, and then they pulled away just enough to gaze at each other as they fell back into sleep.

#tma fanfic #tma fic #jonmartin fic #do not archive #jmart fic #jonmartin fanfic #jonmartin #scottish safehouse period #scottish safehouse fic

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grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks · 8 months ago

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Dude it is SO FUN and EXCITING to see a reoccurring reader. If you've commented a handful of times on an author's work, I guarantee that they recognize you. You can't imagine how many times I've excitedly informed my friends "the person with the funny cat image commented!" "- anon is back!!!!" and the friends've recognized who I was talking about because I talk about my commenters so often LOL. We love you all!!!

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grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks · 9 months ago

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"should we tell authors on ao3 when we have discord conversations about their fics" i don't speak for everyone here but if y'all ever find a group chat discussing my fics you can should must and WILL send me screenshots of the whole damn thing. inflate my ego. gimme

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grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks · 11 months ago

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I am once again posting a oneshot instead of updating my WIPs. Really sorry about that, but I promise I will get to them eventually. In the meantime, enjoy some Somewhere Else/Upton House fluff!

Content Warnings for this work:

memory loss

“I love you.”

It was a rainy Sunday morning, threatening to turn into a rainy Sunday afternoon as they lazed in bed in a cottage very much, though not exactly, like Daisy’s, in a Scotland very much, though not exactly, like their own. Jon lay with his head on Martin’s chest while Martin played absentmindedly with the long, sleep-tangled curls of Jon’s hair. In response to Jon’s admission, he gave a warm, contented hum.

“I know it’s bad form to say that before we’ve had our first date, but–” Jon said with a soft chuckle. The absurdity of their situation always struck him at odd times.

“Jon, we live together,” Martin laughed, before Jon’s words fully hit him. “Wait, what do you mean? Yes, we did. Remember? At– Oh, right.”

“Hmm?” Jon rolled over so that he could see Martin, and so that Martin could see his puzzled frown.

“At Upton House,” he explained in a quiet murmur, voice suddenly soft and mournful. “I always forget you don’t remember.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“Sure.” Martin shifted, pulling Jon slightly closer. When he spoke, he addressed the ceiling, eyes glazing over with memory. “We had a picnic. You made scones.”

Jon laid his head back down as he listened. He could feel as well as hear Matin speaking, like this – the pleasant rumble of breath and vocal chords hummed from Martin’s chest into Jon’s, and he savored the sensation.

“You insisted it wouldn’t be romantic if I helped – which I vehemently disagree with, by the way – so you shooed me out of the kitchen while you baked. Which meant a couple hours wandering aimlessly around Upton House, waiting for Annabelle Cane to pop out and say something cryptic.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was cute,” Martin said. “You always get so focused when you have a plan, and it’s adorable.”

“Hmm.” Jon was fairly sure Martin used the word ‘adorable’ specifically because he knew Jon objected, so he grumbled dutifully at the descriptor. “If you say so.”

“After that, we found a nice spot by the lake and laid down a blanket. It was gorgeous – all water lilies and dragonflies. You should have seen it. Well, I mean, you did see it, but– b-but you know what I–”

“I know what you mean,” Jon said.

“Honestly, I would have written a poem about it if I’d been in the right headspace. But the– y’know, the apocalypse sort of put me off it for a while there.”

Jon traced his finger in fond loops across Martin’s arm. “Do you think you’re in the right headspace now? Now that we’re here?” In their Scotland, Martin had left snatches of poems scribbled on every available scrap of paper in the safehouse, and Jon had noticed, but not mentioned, its absence in their new home.

“I don’t know,” Martin whispered. “I think I just need some more time.”

Jon brought Martin’s hand up to his lips and gave it a quick and hopefully reassuring kiss. “What did we do next?”

“Oh, you know, just ate, really. We had the scones and some sandwiches, and, heh, and a bottle of champagne.” Jon raised his eyebrows, and Martin flushed. “Well, Salesa wasn’t going to miss it! Believe me, he had plenty to spare.”

“So we just ate?” Jon asked. “Well, and drank, I suppose.”

“And talked.”

“What about?”

Martin’s face clouded. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Oh.” It was precisely the sort of thing to awaken that old, disastrous curiosity in Jon, but he had learned, since losing his connection to the eye, to resist temptation, so he said. “Alright. You don’t have to–”

“Sorry, it’s just– we talked a lot about… y’know, the state of things, and it’s– I know it’s stupid, I mean, we’re fine now, but I– I don’t like to think about how I felt back then. Just so completely helpless. The whole world was broken, and we didn’t even know if there was any fixing it, let alone if we could manage it, and you–” His voice broke. He looked at Jon with a terrible sort of sincerity painted across his face. “You’re the only thing that kept me going. You know that, right? I would have fallen apart without you.”

Jon lifted Martin’s hand to his lips again. This time he lingered, pressing a long, purposeful kiss to his knuckle.

“I can’t say that I agree, but–”

Martin gave a wet, startled laugh. “What?”

“Mr. ‘I’ve already packed our bags; I found some tea under the sink?’ You would have made it to London in record time and defeated Jonah yourself. I only slowed you down.”

“I would have gone insane on day one.”

“You–”

This time it was Jon’s turn to be kissed. Martin lifted himself up to press a kiss to the corner of Jon’s mouth. “You were my reason, Jon.” He flushed, just a bit more, before he confessed, “Still are.”

Jon swallowed.

They’d been in an odd place, since coming here. They still hadn’t talked about everything, not really – it was all too fragile and too fresh – and Jon knew that eventually they were going to have to have a long discussion about everything that had happened in the Panopticon. It felt like they’d spent the last few weeks in the eye of a terrible storm, waiting for it to wreck everything they’d built, but this grounded Jon. Martin was his reason, his anchor, and, despite everything, he was still those things for Martin. Whatever happened next, that wouldn’t change. They could handle this.

In the long silence that followed that admission, Jon pressed his ear to Martin’s chest so he could hear the reassuring pumping of his heart.

“Anyway,” Martin said after a moment. “What I’m trying to say is, it was hard, at Upton House. You were the one thing I could count on, and without the Eye, you were… fading.”

Jon took Martin’s hand and laced their fingers together, reassuring him that he was here. They were safe.

“Tell me more about the scones,” he murmured. “What did we have them with?”

Martin’s lips twitched. It wasn’t quite a full smile, but it was on the way to one. “Strawberry jam,” he said. “We couldn’t find any clotted cream, so we had to make do with jam and butter, but it was good. You definitely used too much baking powder, which wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me help, but–”

“Bold words.”

“But they were– they were nice. Really nice.” His voice was wistful, and more than a little sad. Jon squeezed his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Everything?” Jon offered. It was always his instinct.

But Martin sighed, “Not helpful, Jon,” so he tried again.

“I’m sorry I forgot? I’m sorry I ended the world. I’m sorry you had to go through all of that.”

“Okay, in order: you didn’t choose to forget, you didn’t choose to end the world, and I just told you you were the only thing that made going through all that at all bearable.”

“Well,” Jon muttered, not quite willing to give up on his apologies. “I’m also sorry for putting too much baking powder in the scones.”

Martin smiled, still a bit sadly. “That one I can’t forgive.”

They laughed, and for a moment, all was well.

Sunday was the only day they both had off. Martin Blackwood, king of lying on his CV, had put his skills to good use finding them new identities and new jobs, but their options had still been limited, and their schedules left plenty to be desired. Some weeks they hardly saw each other at all, communicating almost exclusively through sticky-note love letters and post-nightmare soothing.

This week was different, though. Jon’s rotating one day off per week, given to him in compensation for working Saturdays, fell on a Friday this week, and he knew that Martin was in the habit of leaving early at the end of the week. (It was a habit that had irritated him to no end as Martin’s manager, but as Martin’s boyfriend, he was grateful for it.) Which, conveniently, gave them the better part of the afternoon for Jon to enact his plan.

By the time Martin returned from work, he had cleaned the kitchen thoroughly, scrubbing it free of dirty dishes or any incriminating flour stains. The only remaining evidence of Jon’s machinations was the overstuffed grocery bag sitting by the door.

When Martin opened the door, Jon stepped up to greet him.

“Hi, love,” Martin murmured, kissing Jon first on the cheek, and then on the lips – a habit they’d developed from two parts love and one part indecisiveness.

“How was work?”

“Ugh,” Martin groaned. “I’m just glad it’s the weekend.” He set down his messenger bag at the kitchen table and began massaging his shoulder.

“Are you too tired to go out? I was thinking maybe we could take a walk.”

“That sounds nice,” Martin said. “Just give me a minute to change out of these bloody shoes.”

Martin shot him an odd look when he picked up the grocery bag.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Jon lied. “Just some things for the walk.”

Martin’s face betrayed precisely how much he believed that, but he didn’t argue.

It was a beautiful day. They seemed to have arrived in this new world only a few days after their own had ended, and a balmy September had given way to a chill and pleasant October. The air was crisp and cool, scented with heather and rich, fertile earth.

“How was your day off?” Martin asked him.

“Not very eventful,” he reported. “Naomi did try to get me to come into the office – I know this will shock you, but they’re short-staffed again today – but I declined. This has been on the schedule for more than a week now.”

Martin shook his head fondly. “Jonathan Sims taking an actual day off. Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Jon brushed him off. “But it’s hard to be a workaholic when the work is this dull.”

“As opposed to the archives, which were so very thrilling.” Jon opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Martin specified, “Before the Horrors started. Obviously things did pick up a bit eventually,” he said, in a bit of an understatement, “But you were working weekends when we were basically still just filing things.”

“Well, yes, but the mystery! There’s no mystery at this job!”

“Look on the bright side,” Martin said. “Maybe your new boss will turn out to be possessed, too.”

“Maybe...” Jon sighed.

They reached a fork in the path. Martin, out of habit, started down the left fork, the one they always took, but Jon tugged his hand toward the right.

“Are you sure? I thought the hills played havoc on your legs.”

“I can manage.”

And he could. He wasn’t going to make a habit of it – the worms had done a number on his calves in a way he’d never quite recovered from, and he didn’t enjoy walking on an incline – but just this once wouldn’t do any harm.

“At least let me take the bag–”

“I’ll be fine.”

And he was. A bit out of breath, by the time they reached the spot, but fine.

The spot in question was a little patch of grass on the lee side of the hill, sheltered from the wind but not yet cast into shadow. The earth spread out below them in a sharp tangle of heather and thistle and wildflower before rising again, and again, a series of rolling hills that seemed to go on forever.

Jon grabbed the blanket he’d stuffed into the bag and spread it out on the soft grass.

“It’s not exactly Upton House, but–”

“It’s beautiful.” Martin stared at him, amusement battling with wonder on his face.

Jon gestured to the blanket, and they both sat down. It was a bit chilly on the hillside, even without the wind, but Jon had prepared for that eventuality. He’d packed a second blanket, this one a bit less ratty, and he pulled it around both their shoulders.

Martin’s expression kept shifting – pleased one moment, uncomfortable the next. Jon knew he had a hard time being on the receiving end of, well, anything – attention, affection, assistance. He could hardly let Jon make him soup when he was ill, so it wasn’t exactly surprising that surprise romantic gestures caught him off-balance. Jon must have learned that firsthand at Upton House, but the memory was gone. Still, he had said that it was nice, that first time around, so Jon plowed on. He reached into the bag again and pulled out a bottle and a pair of plastic cups.

“You actually bought champagne?” Martin’s face was a battleground again, but this time amusement won.

“Well, it is a special occasion,” Jon said, removing the foil and setting to work twisting the metal cage around the cork. “It’s our first date.”

“Second,” Martin corrected.

“Second for you, maybe.”

“I mean, you were there! It’s not like I went on that date on my own!”

“Fine,” Jon said with a faux-irritation that couldn’t have been even the slightest bit convincing. “Second. Still a special occasion, though.”

He popped the cork, and a stream of bubbles fizzed out over the neck of the bottle and down his wrist. He always hated that, both for the waste and for the way it left his hand sticky and wet, but today he couldn’t find it in himself to mind. He poured them both a glass and raised his own in a toast.

“To second chances.”

They both drank to that.

“Now for the main event,” he said, reaching into the bag one last time and pulling out a series of tupperware containers, plus plates, knives, and a jar of strawberry jam.

Martin’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “You didn’t.”

“I had to,” Jon said, grabbing himself a scone. “I take this seriously. And my baking ability has been impugned, if memory serves.”

Martin shook his head. “Petty, petty man,” he muttered with a fond laugh.

“I managed to get some clotted cream this time, so this is already an improvement.”

He sliced his scone in half and spread on a thick smear of jam and a dollop of cream.

It was delicious, in his perfectly impartial opinion. Martin should never have doubted him.

He watched as Martin took a bite.

“What do you think? Too much baking powder again?”

Martin wiped a smear of jam from the corner of his mouth. “The baking powder is good,” he said, and Jon had the feeling that there was a ‘but’ attached to that statement.

“But…?”

Martin bit his lip. “But you may have overmixed them just a bit.”

“Slander!”

“Just a bit!” Martin threw up his hands defensively. “I’m just saying, if you’d let me help…”

Jon sighed.

“I don’t know why you’re always fighting me on this!”

“Martin, you've seen me in the kitchen. It’s–”

“Adorable,” Martin finished for him, and Jon pretended he hadn’t heard.

“Intense,” he said instead. “I don’t know why you think adding another person to the mix will make things less frantic.”

“Because that other person happens to be your boyfriend who, a) loves you very much, and b) is a very good baker!” Martin picked up another scone before muttering, not quite under his breath, “And knows how to measure dry ingredients correctly…”

“Slander,” Jon muttered again. “Unfounded, unprovoked–”

And then, just as petulantly but a great deal more honest:

“I love you, too.”

#self reblog

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grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks · 11 months ago

Text

I am once again posting a oneshot instead of updating my WIPs. Really sorry about that, but I promise I will get to them eventually. In the meantime, enjoy some Somewhere Else/Upton House fluff!

Content Warnings for this work:

memory loss

“I love you.”

“I know it’s bad form to say that before we’ve had our first date, but–” Jon said with a soft chuckle. The absurdity of their situation always struck him at odd times.

“Jon, we live together,” Martin laughed, before Jon’s words fully hit him. “Wait, what do you mean? Yes, we did. Remember? At– Oh, right.”

“Hmm?” Jon rolled over so that he could see Martin, and so that Martin could see his puzzled frown.

“At Upton House,” he explained in a quiet murmur, voice suddenly soft and mournful. “I always forget you don’t remember.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“Sure.” Martin shifted, pulling Jon slightly closer. When he spoke, he addressed the ceiling, eyes glazing over with memory. “We had a picnic. You made scones.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was cute,” Martin said. “You always get so focused when you have a plan, and it’s adorable.”

“Hmm.” Jon was fairly sure Martin used the word ‘adorable’ specifically because he knew Jon objected, so he grumbled dutifully at the descriptor. “If you say so.”

“I know what you mean,” Jon said.

“Honestly, I would have written a poem about it if I’d been in the right headspace. But the– y’know, the apocalypse sort of put me off it for a while there.”

“I don’t know,” Martin whispered. “I think I just need some more time.”

Jon brought Martin’s hand up to his lips and gave it a quick and hopefully reassuring kiss. “What did we do next?”

“So we just ate?” Jon asked. “Well, and drank, I suppose.”

“And talked.”

“What about?”

Martin’s face clouded. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Jon lifted Martin’s hand to his lips again. This time he lingered, pressing a long, purposeful kiss to his knuckle.

“I can’t say that I agree, but–”

Martin gave a wet, startled laugh. “What?”

“Mr. ‘I’ve already packed our bags; I found some tea under the sink?’ You would have made it to London in record time and defeated Jonah yourself. I only slowed you down.”

“I would have gone insane on day one.”

“You–”

Jon swallowed.

In the long silence that followed that admission, Jon pressed his ear to Martin’s chest so he could hear the reassuring pumping of his heart.

“Anyway,” Martin said after a moment. “What I’m trying to say is, it was hard, at Upton House. You were the one thing I could count on, and without the Eye, you were… fading.”

Jon took Martin’s hand and laced their fingers together, reassuring him that he was here. They were safe.

“Tell me more about the scones,” he murmured. “What did we have them with?”

“Bold words.”

“But they were– they were nice. Really nice.” His voice was wistful, and more than a little sad. Jon squeezed his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Everything?” Jon offered. It was always his instinct.

But Martin sighed, “Not helpful, Jon,” so he tried again.

“I’m sorry I forgot? I’m sorry I ended the world. I’m sorry you had to go through all of that.”

“Okay, in order: you didn’t choose to forget, you didn’t choose to end the world, and I just told you you were the only thing that made going through all that at all bearable.”

“Well,” Jon muttered, not quite willing to give up on his apologies. “I’m also sorry for putting too much baking powder in the scones.”

Martin smiled, still a bit sadly. “That one I can’t forgive.”

They laughed, and for a moment, all was well.

When Martin opened the door, Jon stepped up to greet him.

“Hi, love,” Martin murmured, kissing Jon first on the cheek, and then on the lips – a habit they’d developed from two parts love and one part indecisiveness.

“How was work?”

“Ugh,” Martin groaned. “I’m just glad it’s the weekend.” He set down his messenger bag at the kitchen table and began massaging his shoulder.

“Are you too tired to go out? I was thinking maybe we could take a walk.”

“That sounds nice,” Martin said. “Just give me a minute to change out of these bloody shoes.”

Martin shot him an odd look when he picked up the grocery bag.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Jon lied. “Just some things for the walk.”

Martin’s face betrayed precisely how much he believed that, but he didn’t argue.

“How was your day off?” Martin asked him.

Martin shook his head fondly. “Jonathan Sims taking an actual day off. Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Jon brushed him off. “But it’s hard to be a workaholic when the work is this dull.”

“Well, yes, but the mystery! There’s no mystery at this job!”

“Look on the bright side,” Martin said. “Maybe your new boss will turn out to be possessed, too.”

“Maybe...” Jon sighed.

They reached a fork in the path. Martin, out of habit, started down the left fork, the one they always took, but Jon tugged his hand toward the right.

“Are you sure? I thought the hills played havoc on your legs.”

“I can manage.”

“At least let me take the bag–”

“I’ll be fine.”

And he was. A bit out of breath, by the time they reached the spot, but fine.

Jon grabbed the blanket he’d stuffed into the bag and spread it out on the soft grass.

“It’s not exactly Upton House, but–”

“It’s beautiful.” Martin stared at him, amusement battling with wonder on his face.

“You actually bought champagne?” Martin’s face was a battleground again, but this time amusement won.

“Well, it is a special occasion,” Jon said, removing the foil and setting to work twisting the metal cage around the cork. “It’s our first date.”

“Second,” Martin corrected.

“Second for you, maybe.”

“I mean, you were there! It’s not like I went on that date on my own!”

“Fine,” Jon said with a faux-irritation that couldn’t have been even the slightest bit convincing. “Second. Still a special occasion, though.”

“To second chances.”

They both drank to that.

“Now for the main event,” he said, reaching into the bag one last time and pulling out a series of tupperware containers, plus plates, knives, and a jar of strawberry jam.

Martin’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “You didn’t.”

“I had to,” Jon said, grabbing himself a scone. “I take this seriously. And my baking ability has been impugned, if memory serves.”

Martin shook his head. “Petty, petty man,” he muttered with a fond laugh.

“I managed to get some clotted cream this time, so this is already an improvement.”

He sliced his scone in half and spread on a thick smear of jam and a dollop of cream.

It was delicious, in his perfectly impartial opinion. Martin should never have doubted him.

He watched as Martin took a bite.

“What do you think? Too much baking powder again?”

Martin wiped a smear of jam from the corner of his mouth. “The baking powder is good,” he said, and Jon had the feeling that there was a ‘but’ attached to that statement.

“But…?”

Martin bit his lip. “But you may have overmixed them just a bit.”

“Slander!”

“Just a bit!” Martin threw up his hands defensively. “I’m just saying, if you’d let me help…”

Jon sighed.

“I don’t know why you’re always fighting me on this!”

“Martin, you've seen me in the kitchen. It’s–”

“Adorable,” Martin finished for him, and Jon pretended he hadn’t heard.

“Intense,” he said instead. “I don’t know why you think adding another person to the mix will make things less frantic.”

“Slander,” Jon muttered again. “Unfounded, unprovoked–”

And then, just as petulantly but a great deal more honest:

“I love you, too.”

#self reblog

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grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks · 11 months ago

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I am once again posting a oneshot instead of updating my WIPs. Really sorry about that, but I promise I will get to them eventually. In the meantime, enjoy some Somewhere Else/Upton House fluff!

Content Warnings for this work:

memory loss

“I love you.”

“I know it’s bad form to say that before we’ve had our first date, but–” Jon said with a soft chuckle. The absurdity of their situation always struck him at odd times.

“Jon, we live together,” Martin laughed, before Jon’s words fully hit him. “Wait, what do you mean? Yes, we did. Remember? At– Oh, right.”

“Hmm?” Jon rolled over so that he could see Martin, and so that Martin could see his puzzled frown.

“At Upton House,” he explained in a quiet murmur, voice suddenly soft and mournful. “I always forget you don’t remember.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“Sure.” Martin shifted, pulling Jon slightly closer. When he spoke, he addressed the ceiling, eyes glazing over with memory. “We had a picnic. You made scones.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was cute,” Martin said. “You always get so focused when you have a plan, and it’s adorable.”

“Hmm.” Jon was fairly sure Martin used the word ‘adorable’ specifically because he knew Jon objected, so he grumbled dutifully at the descriptor. “If you say so.”

“I know what you mean,” Jon said.

“Honestly, I would have written a poem about it if I’d been in the right headspace. But the– y’know, the apocalypse sort of put me off it for a while there.”

“I don’t know,” Martin whispered. “I think I just need some more time.”

Jon brought Martin’s hand up to his lips and gave it a quick and hopefully reassuring kiss. “What did we do next?”

“So we just ate?” Jon asked. “Well, and drank, I suppose.”

“And talked.”

“What about?”

Martin’s face clouded. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Jon lifted Martin’s hand to his lips again. This time he lingered, pressing a long, purposeful kiss to his knuckle.

“I can’t say that I agree, but–”

Martin gave a wet, startled laugh. “What?”

“Mr. ‘I’ve already packed our bags; I found some tea under the sink?’ You would have made it to London in record time and defeated Jonah yourself. I only slowed you down.”

“I would have gone insane on day one.”

“You–”

Jon swallowed.

In the long silence that followed that admission, Jon pressed his ear to Martin’s chest so he could hear the reassuring pumping of his heart.

“Anyway,” Martin said after a moment. “What I’m trying to say is, it was hard, at Upton House. You were the one thing I could count on, and without the Eye, you were… fading.”

Jon took Martin’s hand and laced their fingers together, reassuring him that he was here. They were safe.

“Tell me more about the scones,” he murmured. “What did we have them with?”

“Bold words.”

“But they were– they were nice. Really nice.” His voice was wistful, and more than a little sad. Jon squeezed his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Everything?” Jon offered. It was always his instinct.

But Martin sighed, “Not helpful, Jon,” so he tried again.

“I’m sorry I forgot? I’m sorry I ended the world. I’m sorry you had to go through all of that.”

“Okay, in order: you didn’t choose to forget, you didn’t choose to end the world, and I just told you you were the only thing that made going through all that at all bearable.”

“Well,” Jon muttered, not quite willing to give up on his apologies. “I’m also sorry for putting too much baking powder in the scones.”

Martin smiled, still a bit sadly. “That one I can’t forgive.”

They laughed, and for a moment, all was well.

When Martin opened the door, Jon stepped up to greet him.

“Hi, love,” Martin murmured, kissing Jon first on the cheek, and then on the lips – a habit they’d developed from two parts love and one part indecisiveness.

“How was work?”

“Ugh,” Martin groaned. “I’m just glad it’s the weekend.” He set down his messenger bag at the kitchen table and began massaging his shoulder.

“Are you too tired to go out? I was thinking maybe we could take a walk.”

“That sounds nice,” Martin said. “Just give me a minute to change out of these bloody shoes.”

Martin shot him an odd look when he picked up the grocery bag.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Jon lied. “Just some things for the walk.”

Martin’s face betrayed precisely how much he believed that, but he didn’t argue.

“How was your day off?” Martin asked him.

Martin shook his head fondly. “Jonathan Sims taking an actual day off. Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Jon brushed him off. “But it’s hard to be a workaholic when the work is this dull.”

“Well, yes, but the mystery! There’s no mystery at this job!”

“Look on the bright side,” Martin said. “Maybe your new boss will turn out to be possessed, too.”

“Maybe...” Jon sighed.

They reached a fork in the path. Martin, out of habit, started down the left fork, the one they always took, but Jon tugged his hand toward the right.

“Are you sure? I thought the hills played havoc on your legs.”

“I can manage.”

“At least let me take the bag–”

“I’ll be fine.”

And he was. A bit out of breath, by the time they reached the spot, but fine.

Jon grabbed the blanket he’d stuffed into the bag and spread it out on the soft grass.

“It’s not exactly Upton House, but–”

“It’s beautiful.” Martin stared at him, amusement battling with wonder on his face.

“You actually bought champagne?” Martin’s face was a battleground again, but this time amusement won.

“Well, it is a special occasion,” Jon said, removing the foil and setting to work twisting the metal cage around the cork. “It’s our first date.”

“Second,” Martin corrected.

“Second for you, maybe.”

“I mean, you were there! It’s not like I went on that date on my own!”

“Fine,” Jon said with a faux-irritation that couldn’t have been even the slightest bit convincing. “Second. Still a special occasion, though.”

“To second chances.”

They both drank to that.

“Now for the main event,” he said, reaching into the bag one last time and pulling out a series of tupperware containers, plus plates, knives, and a jar of strawberry jam.

Martin’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “You didn’t.”

“I had to,” Jon said, grabbing himself a scone. “I take this seriously. And my baking ability has been impugned, if memory serves.”

Martin shook his head. “Petty, petty man,” he muttered with a fond laugh.

“I managed to get some clotted cream this time, so this is already an improvement.”

He sliced his scone in half and spread on a thick smear of jam and a dollop of cream.

It was delicious, in his perfectly impartial opinion. Martin should never have doubted him.

He watched as Martin took a bite.

“What do you think? Too much baking powder again?”

Martin wiped a smear of jam from the corner of his mouth. “The baking powder is good,” he said, and Jon had the feeling that there was a ‘but’ attached to that statement.

“But…?”

Martin bit his lip. “But you may have overmixed them just a bit.”

“Slander!”

“Just a bit!” Martin threw up his hands defensively. “I’m just saying, if you’d let me help…”

Jon sighed.

“I don’t know why you’re always fighting me on this!”

“Martin, you've seen me in the kitchen. It’s–”

“Adorable,” Martin finished for him, and Jon pretended he hadn’t heard.

“Intense,” he said instead. “I don’t know why you think adding another person to the mix will make things less frantic.”

“Slander,” Jon muttered again. “Unfounded, unprovoked–”

And then, just as petulantly but a great deal more honest:

“I love you, too.”

#tma fanfic #tma fic #jonmartin fic #jmart fic #jonmartin fanfic #do not archive #jonmartin #upton house fic #sort of #post canon #jonmartin fluff #jmart fluff

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grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks · 11 months ago

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“Is it okay if I draw fanart of your fanfic?👉🏼👈🏼”

My brother in Christ we shall have a spring wedding

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grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks · 1 year ago

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Had to sketch this after reading the fanfiction Come, my dear, and be a part of my home by @grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks

I liked this scene a lot, Great British Bake Off and Jon wearing Martin’s sweater <3

#!!!!#this is BEAUTIFUL thank you so much #obsessed with this lighting #the flickering of the tv the charcoal-y vibes of the background #incredible #i’m honored

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grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks · 1 year ago

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"I live a lonely life without you. And I may be troubled, but I'm gracious in defeat."( in dreams - ben howard)

fanart inspired by the fic "buried my love in a shallow grave" by iamcringebutiamfree on AO3 / @grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks

set right after Jon made it out of the buried. I love it so much🍊💙

#aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!#this is SO GOOD !!!#i have no words #this is incredible thank you so much #OBSESSED with this jon #also the lighting is so serene and lovely it brings such a beautiful vibe #full disclosure i am EXTREMELY sick as i write this so idk how coherent these tags are #and i’m certain i’m not communicating how just like. honored i am #but this is the best i can do right now #aaaaah !!!

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grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks · 1 year ago

Note

Yo, what are your pronouns?

Any/all!

#thanks for aksing #i should really update my bio

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grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks · 1 year ago

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20 questions for fic writers

[EDIT: sorry if you got a notification that you were tagged in this post even though I didn't tag you. Tumblr's being weird about this one.]

Tagged by @cirrus-grey - thank you! (Also, sorry this took me like three months to do, executive dysfunction is a hell of a thing)

1. How many works do you have on Ao3?

2. What’s your total Ao3 word count?

197,768

3. What fandoms do you write for?

The only fandom I've written for as an adult has been the Magnus Archives (and I actually have a lot of thoughts on why tma was sort of a perfect storm for getting me back into creating and consuming fanfic, but I'll spare you for now). There are a couple other fandoms I wrote for when I was in middle school back in the fanfic(.)net days, but some things are better left in the past.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Say You Love Me (Learn to Lie)

I'll take "A Flagrant Misuse of Beholding Powers" for 200

stay with me, hold my hand

Come, my dear, and be a part of my home

please, hurry, leave me, I can't breathe (please don't say you love me)

5. Do you respond to comments?

Sometimes. I really want to get more consistent about it, but my executive dysfunction makes it hard. My big problem now is that it feels weird to go back and respond to comments I got months ago, but it also feels rude to respond to more recent comments without ever responding to those older ones, so I'm feeling kind of stuck. One day, though, my ADHD will be properly medicated and I will get back to responding to every comment I get.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Angst is one of those things that I love to read but don't always think to write, so pretty much all of my fics have happy endings atm. The only ones that can really be said to have angsty endings are the pre-Unknowing and safehouse fics where the knowledge of what will happen next in canon makes any ending automatically bittersweet. With that in mind, let's go with Hold My Hand When My Courage Fails, because I DO think a pre-Unknowing kiss makes season 4 angstier.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Like I said, I write almost entirely happy endings, so it's hard to narrow this one down. I'm gonna go with Say You Love Me (Learn to Lie) because I threw in the completely unnecessary (but still necessary to me) detail that Sasha survives the Prentiss incident at the end of that one.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

No! I've been very lucky on that front.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I haven't, though I might someday. As an ace person (somewhere in the sex-nuetral/sex-averse realm) I don't feel super confident in my ability to write good smut. It's really intimidating, but I'd love to try some day.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Not really? The only thing I've written that could be crossover is my fic where Jonathan Sims competes on Jeopardy!, but I'm not really sure that counts.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I know of.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

My AO3 history should make it clear I'm pretty fond of Jonmartin, but I'm also a big Griddlehark (tlt) fan.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I've started a tma fic that's essentially a Marple AU (with Gertrude as the Miss Marple surrogate) that plays with the idea of sleuth-as-Beholding-avatar, but it's very tricky to blend all the plot threads I want to include together into one cohesive mystery, so I don't know if it will ever get finished.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I'll be honest, I don't think I'm a very good judge of my own writing, especially my strengths. It's not that I think I'm a bad writer necessarily, but I really struggle to pinpoint any one thing that I do well - especially because for every aspect of my writing I like, I can point to five writers in the same fandom who do that much better. Right now I'm just glad I'm getting stuff written at all.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I worry that my characterizations tend to be pretty thin. I also struggle in juggling more than a few characters at a time, and sometimes I will omit characters who logically should be in a fic just because I can't think of anything for them to do.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I don't have anything against it. I could see people running into problems if they write dialogue in a language they themselves don't speak (relying on Google translate, for instance) but in general I don't see anything wrong with it.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

The Uglies series by Scott Westerfield, back when I was in middle school.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

Don't make me choose!

I might have to go with Say You Love Me (Learn to Lie) because that was the most fun I've ever had writing and publishing a fic - the response to that one was really great, and since that was one of the only times I actually managed a consistent release schedule, it felt really nice having that to look forward to every Tuesday.

But SYLM(LTL) was my answer for like half of these questions, so I'll also throw out Cut My Hair and Changed My Face (I'm Learning How to Forget That Place). I did a pretty terrible job of tagging that one and it didn't get a lot of hits, but it's one of my favorites. I love s4 Jmart angst, I love Jon & Daisy's s4 friendship, and I frankly can't believe it took me so long to write a fic combining the two.

#thanks for tagging me! sorry i took forever to respond #fanfiction #my fic

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