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Haply I May Remember: a TMA fanfic

Written for @jonmartinweek 2025, Day 9: Free//AU Day. A side story to And If Thou Wilt, Forget, but you don't have to read that to read this one. Also on AO3 and my personal website.

Martin shut the door behind Tim and stood perfectly still, staring at it, for just a moment. He felt rather as though someone had taken him to a carnival, spun him around twelve times, then let him loose and told him to have fun—disorientated, dizzy, like he was about to throw up, and with absolutely no idea where to start. It had been a shitty few months, frankly, and he had no idea where he stood with anybody. He’d been pushing Tim away because it was easier than dealing with what was bothering him, ignoring Melanie because it was better than accepting she was Sasha’s replacement, and forgetting Basira because she just sat there reading and ignoring all of them anyway. Jon—

Well, Jon had been nowhere, on the run or busy or…or wherever he had been for the last week or so. But right now he was in Martin’s flat and Martin was going to have to deal with that.

He took a deep breath and turned around. Jon stood a couple of feet away, huddled on himself and looking—honestly about as miserable as Martin had been feeling these last few weeks. He was too thin, although that might have just been the oversized boiler suit he was wearing, and his face looked almost sunken in. He was compulsively pulling at the sleeve of the boiler suit, tugging the bunched fabric back down over his hand, the one that had been wrapped in a bandage just—had it only been two weeks previously?—again and again.

The kettle whistled from the other room, and Jon flinched at the sound, and Martin reoriented. This he could do.

“Come on,” he said, as gently as he could. “Tea’s in the kitchen.”

Jon followed him, looking around as he did. Martin’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, and he did what he usually did when embarrassed—he babbled. “It’s not much, I know. I, uh, I kind of moved after the whole thing with Prentiss? I-I mean, I could have stayed there, probably should have, honestly. But I just, I couldn’t face it, you know? There wasn’t any real difference in the rent, moving up here, so once my lease was up I made the switch. Haven’t really bothered decorating or anything. No point, really.”

He took the kettle off the stove, pulled two mugs out of his cupboard, and reached for the tea bags, then paused. The fancy tin of looseleaf tea Tim had given him the previous day sat on the counter, unopened so far. It was far nicer than anything Martin usually bought for himself, so he’d told himself he would need to save it for special occasions. Well…this felt like a pretty special occasion. He grabbed the little glass teapot with the built in strainer that had been a gift who knew how many Christmases ago, and that he’d never used, and measured out the tea, then poured in the water.

“We’ll let that steep for a bit,” he said to Jon, feeling a little foolish but not knowing what else to say. “Um, do you want…something to eat while we wait? I’ve got…n-not a lot, actually. I really need to go shopping, but, um, there’s—I could make toast.”

Jon shook his head. He reached for one of the two chairs, hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure he’d be allowed to sit. Martin’s cheeks flamed again. “Oh! Um, yeah, s-sorry, I—go ahead and have a seat. This won’t be long.”

Christ, it was early. Martin slept like shit these days, between the stress of the statements and the worry about Jon, so he’d kind of got used to keeping odd hours. Still, for Tim to turn up at his door at—he glanced at the small analog clock he’d bought after the incident with Prentiss—twenty minutes past three in the morning was unexpected, and for him to then present him with an obviously sick and traumatized Jonathan Sims was just surreal. He was burning with questions and he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to any of them.

He busied himself preparing the tea, fussing over it a bit more than was strictly necessary, then set a cup down in front of Jon. “Here. Drink up. You look like you could use it.”

“Thank you, Martin.” Jon’s voice was hoarse and raw, as if he hadn’t had much opportunity to use it in a while, or maybe as if he’d been doing a lot of screaming. He reached out with shaking hands and wrapped them around the mug like it was the only thing holding him anchored to the earth.

Martin felt his cheeks turn pink, and he mumbled what he hoped was acknowledgment of the thanks before settling down and picking up his own mug. For several long moments, they sat there with their mugs, not talking. Martin let the steam curl into his nose, then took the tiniest of sips. Okay, that was really good quality, it was good of Tim to give it to him. One hell of an apology. He wasn’t even sure what they’d actually been fighting about, come to think of it. Yeah, he was mad at Tim for leaving, but…

Finally, more for something to say than anything else, he asked, “How’s, um, how’s your hand?”

“B-better.” Jon didn’t sound particularly certain, but he set the mug down and turned his right hand over, palm up. Martin’s heart stuttered at the sight of the mottled pink ridges of flesh that outlined the healing scar.

Without thinking about it, Martin reached over and took his hand, lightly tracing the outline. “This isn’t…Jesus, I thought at first you put it down on the stove or something, but this looks like…a hand print? What did you do, shake hands with a flaming mannequin?”

Jon made a sound that might have been a laugh and might have been a choked sob and might have just been a huff of air. “Something like that, actually.”

“How?” Martin looked up at Jon, unable to conceal his concern. “When? You were…what happened?”

Jon took a slow, deep breath, his eyes fixed on his hand. “I was…looking into a statement. A, a woman named Jude Perry who…I thought she might have something useful. She didn’t, not really, but she…offered me a trade. Another name in exchange for a handshake.”

“Did she put on iron gloves and heat them up first?”

“No—no, she’s part of, um, the Cult of the Lightless Flame. You remember Agnes Montague, she—Jude knew her.” Jon hesitated, still staring at his hand. “How—how much do you know about what’s going on? Has Tim told you anything?”

“No, but it’s not for lack of trying,” Martin replied immediately. “He was going to tell me a whole bunch of stuff after we found Leitner’s body, after Daisy was done interrogating us, but I wasn’t up to hearing it then and I just…I kept putting him off. It felt like I wasn’t allowed to know before you did, you know?”

“Oh, God.” Jon’s voice came out as a low, choked gasp. Martin was about to apologize for…whatever he’d done…when Jon pressed his free hand to his lips and closed his eyes. “I—I didn’t—I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Do what? Oh.” Martin suddenly recognized the slight prickle of static he’d come to associate with Tim right before he got all growly and forceful. “It’s okay, Jon, I would have told you anyway.”

“It’s not. I shouldn’t…it’s not fair to take that choice away from you.” Jon swallowed hard. “And I shouldn’t have…I shouldn’t have done that. Not after…i-it’s been too long since I had a statement and—”

“Okay. Okay.” Martin tried to keep his voice calm and gentle, the way Tim did when he talked Martin down from a spiral, but he was uncomfortably aware that he wasn’t that good at it. He made a decent peacemaker, but he wasn’t…he didn’t have whatever Tim had. Still, he gave it his best effort. “It’s okay, Jon. Just breathe, okay? You—you need some rest.”

“No. No, I can’t—I can’t go there, not now, I—” Jon visibly trembled, then took several shaky breaths. “I’m…sorry. You didn’t…ask for this.”

“Jon. I want to help you. Tell me what to do,” Martin begged. “I am literally asking, okay? What do you want? A bed, a meal, a change of—um, I don’t know that my clothes will fit you, but—” He stopped and swallowed, then tried again. “Come on. First thing that pops into your head. What do you need from me?”

“A hug?” Jon asked with a small, almost crazed laugh. He shook his head almost immediately. “No. No, that’s overstepping, I’m sorry—”

In that moment, Martin realized he was still cradling Jon’s hand in both of his, and Jon hadn’t pulled away. Okay, maybe…maybe Jon just desperately needed contact. Maybe he was so desperate he would take anything. Martin could handle that. It might break him completely, but he could hold it together if that was what Jon needed.

“It’s not overstepping, Jon,” he said softly. “We’re not at work, we’re—it’s okay.”

He got up from his seat, carefully, trying not to break the connection they already had, and scooted around his small table to the chair next to Jon’s. Slowly, hesitantly, he slid one arm around Jon’s shoulders and squeezed lightly.

Jon…melted. There was no other word for it. The stiff way he’d been sitting shattered like the crust on a crème brûlée and he crumpled, leaning into Martin’s shoulder and coiling in on himself. The hand came up again, hesitantly, like it had at the door��like he wanted to reach out and touch Martin, but didn’t think he would be permitted to—and then withdrew into his chest. He made that soft, almost broken noise again.

It was too much for Martin, who made his own soft noise of pain and sympathy and pulled Jon fully into his arms, off of his chair and onto his lap, secure against his chest. God, he was so thin, it was like hugging a bag of twigs. A bag of twigs that was on fire, he amended; he could feel the heat radiating off Jon’s body even through the cotton of the shirt he’d thrown on when Tim called and the scratchy fabric of Jon’s clearly borrowed outfit. Did Jon always run hot, or was he running a fever? Shit, did Martin have any paracetamol in his medicine cabinet? He was prone to migraines, so he usually had something, but it was likely to be aspirin more than paracetamol since it didn’t work as well for him…

Jon curled up tightly against him, his fingers curling into Martin’s shirt and clinging as he buried his face in his shoulder. Martin felt something hot and wet begin to soak into his shirt and realized, with a slight amount of panic, that Jon was crying.

“Shh. Shh. I’ve got you. I’m here.” Martin rocked back and forth slightly. He started to run his fingers through Jon’s hair, but stopped when he encountered the knots and snarls—he didn’t want to hurt him—and instead settled for stroking it gently. “I’m here, Jon. It’s—it’s going to be okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Under any other circumstances, this would absolutely have been sending him into a panic, or else he’d have wondered if he was hallucinating. He’d dreamed about having Jon in his arms probably a thousand times in the last year, if he was being honest with himself, in a variety of circumstances and often with exaggeratedly dramatic, soppy overtones to the whole thing. Jon clinging to him in his kitchen at four in the morning while sobbing like a lost child was too absurd for his imagination to come up with, and too far from his admittedly wild fantasies to be a dream come true, which meant it had to be real. It also wasn’t about him. Martin kept holding on to Jon as securely as he could and murmuring what he hoped was comforting and suspected was nonsense.

At last, the tears seemed to subside. Jon took a deep, shuddering breath and slumped against Martin. His grip on his shirt loosened, but otherwise he made no effort to pull away.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I…I think I’ve been needing that for a long time.”

“Well, any time you want a hug, I’m happy to give you one,” Martin said without thinking, and then wanted to rip his own tongue out and strangle himself with it. “O-or, um, sorry, sorry, you meant the crying, right?”

“I wouldn’t have been able to cry if you hadn’t been holding me,” Jon admitted, and oh, God, he was leaning right against Martin’s heart, he could definitely hear the way it was suddenly racing. “I’m…I’m glad Tim brought me here.”

“I am, too,” Martin admitted. “I’ve been worried about you.” Honesty compelled him to add, “I missed you.”

Jon tensed, just a little. “How long has it been?”

“N-no, it’s okay, it’s only been like a week,” Martin said hastily. “You were in last Wednesday, but—I mean, we haven’t had much of a chance to…talk since before, um, the thing with Leitner.”

“It’s Saturday,” Jon murmured. “Tim said he’d see you Monday…”

Martin looked down at the top of Jon’s head. “It’s Friday, actually. Barely at that. I think Tim was telling me to take the day off and…well, look after you. You’re in no shape to go back to the Institute, you need…rest and food and a shower. Not necessarily in that order.”

“I need you.” For the first time since he’d stepped through Martin’s door, Jon looked up into Martin’s eyes, and his own were…well, they were haunted and blown out and wet with tears both shed and unshed, but they were also pleading and sincere. “I…I didn’t realize…Georgie said I needed anchors, she kept asking me if I’d talked to you in particular, and…as usual, she knows me better than I know myself. She was right. I need someone to keep me grounded, and that’s you. That’s always been you.” He closed his eyes and leaned against Martin again. “I missed you more than you know while I was on the run. More than even I knew. I even told Georgie about you before I knew I was going to be able to come back to the Institute. I’m glad you’re here.”

He was burning up. Martin tried to school his emotions. Either Jon was hallucinating and saying things he didn’t mean because he was delirious, or he was so feverish his filters had burned away. Either way, he couldn’t take advantage of that right now, no matter how badly he wanted to. Instead, he only said, “I’m glad I’m here, too. I think you need to lie down for now, though.”

“Don’t leave me.” Jon’s hands tightened in Martin’s shirt again.

“I won’t,” Martin promised, and the vow felt heavier than it should have…like maybe he wasn’t just talking about right then. Well, actually, he wasn’t. He would never leave Jon, not if he could help it. “I’ve got you, Jon. As long as you want me.”

“Forever.” The word slipped from Jon’s lips like it had caught hold of the tails of an exhale, like maybe Jon hadn’t meant to actually say it out loud, and the way he tensed said he was maybe thinking about either taking it back or praying Martin hadn’t heard.

Martin nodded. “If that’s what you need. For right now, though, come on. I’ve, um, I’ve got a spare sleep shirt you can borrow that’s probably more comfortable than this thing, and I’ll sit with you while you get some rest.”

“I’ll—I’ll try,” Jon said slowly. “Sleep isn’t always restful for me these days, and…I’m afraid of what I’ll see.”

“Well. I’ll be here whatever you see.” Martin eased to his feet and helped Jon to stand. “We should…probably talk, I guess, but it can wait until you’re rested.”

“Yes,” Jon agreed. He looked up again at Martin and—for the first time in what felt like months, the first time Martin could actually remember since he’d confessed about lying on his CV—he smiled, a real, genuine smile. “Thank you.”

Martin found some paracetamol and managed to coax Jon into taking it before he changed into the sleep shirt that was large on Martin and hung on Jon’s scrawny frame like a circus tent. The idea of his bed sent him into a mental panic spiral, so instead, he led Jon into the living room, sat on his battered, overstuffed couch, and got Jon to settle against him.

“Get some rest,” he said again. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

Jon sighed and nestled into the crook of Martin’s arm, resting his head on his chest, and closed his eyes. He murmured something almost too soft to hear, and then, surprisingly, his breathing evened out and he was asleep.

Martin expected he, himself, would be wide awake and probably tense for the next however long it was. To his surprise, however, he relaxed almost instantly, shifted his arm to keep Jon more secure, and closed his own eyes.

His last thought as he drifted off was that what Jon had said before falling asleep sounded an awful lot like I love you. Since Jon was asleep and wouldn’t know, he felt safe in knowing he wouldn’t be embarrassed if he was wrong, at least for now.

“I love you, too,” he whispered.

And with that, and the warmth and weight of Jon’s head on his shoulder, he fell into deep slumber.

#day 9: free day #type: fanfic #event year: 2025

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