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One would think that between Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood, it would be Jon who had trouble sleeping. After all, the man had constant bags under his eyes that only got worse the longer Martin had known him, borne from pushing himself past the point of exhaustion with work, worry, and caffeine. But despite all this, once he got into bed, Jon was out like a light. The trick was getting him there in the first place. Even the nightmares that Martin knew plagued him nightly didn't wake him, for better or for worse.
So no, Jon slept just fine, especially since they arrived at the safehouse, where there was less to do (though the worry was still there. It always was). It was Martin who was left awake and staring at the back of Jon's head, lit ever so slightly by the sliver of moonlight that peered through the cracks in the blinds. He listened to Jon's steady breaths, and sighed softly to himself, as if even the slightest noise would disturb him.
Insomnia wasn't new to Martin. Even before all this—before Lukas, Prentiss, the Institute, everything—Martin was no stranger to sleepless nights. All the issues that he forced to the back of his mind during the day came crashing forward the moment the lights went out. Even when he didn't have anything specific to worry about (a rare occurrence!), he could still work himself into a panic over simply not being able to sleep.
His earliest memories of this phenomenon were vague recollections from before his mum got sick, before his dad left them. He wasn't sure how it started, but there was a period of time in his childhood where he just… couldn't get to sleep. He would scream and cry for his parents until they came to calm him down, and when sleep finally took him, he more than once woke up to discover that he had wet the bed (Martin didn't remember how old he was at that point, but he was certainly old enough to be very embarrassed by this).
One night, Martin's dad had decided that he had had enough of this. He plucked his wailing son from his bed, flung him over his shoulders, carried him downstairs kicking and screaming, put him down, and slapped him across the face. It was the first and only time either of his parents had actually raised a hand against him (although it was clear his mum had wanted to, especially in her later years). Maybe his father had said something, maybe he hadn't. All Martin could remember was the hand, the stinging of his cheek, and his mother's stunned silence throughout. No one brought it up the next day, but his mum had called him in sick to school, not wanting anyone to see him with a red mark the size and shape of an adult man's hand on his face.
Martin learned to cry quietly after that.
A skill that he suddenly realized he was currently using. Probably had been for some time, if the stinging eyes, stuffy nose, and cooling tracks of tears down his face were any indication. As Martin sat up and began to wipe his face, he heard the sounds of Jon shifting next to him. Martin stilled as he waited for any indication that his boyfriend was awake. After a moment of nothing at all, he turned to look at Jon. He was still fast asleep, though now Martin could better see his face. Martin had never seen Jon so at peace before they came to live in the safehouse together. Back in the archives, when Jon had fallen asleep at his desk, he had never gotten rid of that seemingly permanent furrough in his brow. Even in sleep, it seemed, he couldn’t let go of his constant frustration and fear. Now, though, his brow had softened and he seemed to actually be at rest. Martin knew it was a cliche observation, but Jon genuinely seemed younger when he slept, here.
A part of Martin longed to reach out and shake Jon awake, to demand comfort, or at least someone to be with him while his mind spiraled though anxieties and old memories. He knew he couldn’t, though. It would be selfish of him to disturb the peace he saw in the uncharacteristic softness of Jon’s face, in the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
Martin had never gotten used to sleeping in a bed with another person. He had never had any long-term boyfriends before, and the few times he’d stay the night with someone, he’d never quite been comfortable with it. He could never quite tell if the person lying next to him was awake or asleep, and for some reason that bothered him. Also, he usually tended to toss and turn before getting to sleep, but his fear of waking his bedmate left him frozen in place, unable to move from what quickly became an uncomfortable position. And God forbid he was a cuddler. Not that Martin minded a good cuddle now and again. In fact, he could probably use a lot more of it in his life. But when he was trying to sleep, circling arms that usually brought warmth and safety became a vice grip of oppressive heat and pressure, leaving him a tense and sweaty mess.
Heat wasn’t the problem now, though. The presence of Jon at his side and the thick quilt atop them did nothing to warm the bone-deep chill that Martin had become accustomed to settling over him since his time in the Lonely.
It's almost funny, thought Martin, that sleeping with someone feels so much lonelier than sleeping alone. He supposed it made sense, though. After all, what better reminder of your loneliness than to have the person you love be right there but unable to actually share the moment with you? Jon was so close to him—close enough to touch, to kiss, to wrap his arms around—and yet the scant few inches of bed between them felt like a gulf spanning miles, or an impenetrable wall. Martin felt as if they were worlds apart, which they were, in a way—Jon was in a world of dreams, while Martin was stuck in the waking world.
Martin reached for his phone to check the time. 4:37. Great, he thought, I’ve been lying here for hours and I haven’t gotten any closer to sleep. If anything, he felt more awake than he had when he first laid down. He decided that if lying there motionless wasn’t doing anything, he should get up and make himself some tea. That usually helped (at least, he told himself it did). So, he carefully extricated himself from the bed and padded down the hall to the kitchen, wincing at each creak of the floorboards, which seemed far louder than they ever did during the day. (When he lived with his mum, he had memorized the creak of every stair and floorboard and made sure to avoid them when he was up late. She was a light sleeper.)
Once he got to the kitchen, he flicked on the lights and began to go through the familiar motions of making tea. At this point, the ritual of it was likely as calming as the beverage itself, if not more so. He grabbed a clean mug from the cupboard and filled it with water from the tap. Unfortunately, Daisy didn't seem to have any kettle to speak of, and he and Jon had only been able to make a food run so far, so he'd been reduced to heating his tea in the microwave. Like a barbarian. After placing the mug in, he gently shut the oven door and set the timer for two minutes.
While he waited, he busied himself by gathering the rest of the materials—a box of camomile tea, a spoon, and a jar of heather honey from a local beekeeper that he had purchased on a whim when he and Jon had gone to the shop. Martin had never had strong feelings about honey—it was a nice sweetener, but that was about it—but this local honey was starting to give him more of an appreciation for the stuff. It was thicker and more opaque than he was used to, and there was a deep richness and almost earthy flavor behind the sweetness that he never thought he'd enjoy as much as he did. It seemed practically decadent, but he could probably just eat it by the spoonful if no one stopped him. In fact—
The shrill beeping of the microwave shocked him out of his honey-based reverie. As he rushed to open the door and retrieve his mug, Martin mentally cursed himself for not keeping an eye on the timer and stopping it a second before it went off. He placed the teabag in the mug and stirred in the honey, attempting to ground himself with the soft and familiar tink-tink-tink of the teaspoon as it hit the sides of the ceramic mug. Once the honey had fully dissolved, he took the string of the teabag and gently bobbed it up and down (he was pretty sure this did nothing to help the tea steep, but it was nice to imagine that it did).
Martin took a sip of the tea, letting its familiar warmth wash over him, hoping it would chase away the lonely chill that had crept its way into his body. It didn't quite, but it was a start. He clutched the hot mug to his chest as he made his way toward the windows to look out at the stars. Without the light pollution of the city, he could see more of them here than he ever had in London; possibly more than he had ever seen in his life. As he sipped his tea, he considered the cold dark beauty of the vast expanse in front of him. He knew that the common realizations of looking out at space were those of one's own insignificance, but there was something about it that made him feel more solid and real in a way that was hard to articulate—there was a poem in there somewhere, he was sure of it, but he was too tired to reach for the right words. He figured he should at least jot down some ideas for later, so he wouldn't forget them.
As he turned around to go find his notebook, he saw Jon standing in the doorway, blearily looking up at him. Martin froze in place, feeling like nothing so much as a criminal caught in the act. The act of what, he wasn’t sure—there was no law saying he couldn’t drink tea at five in the morning (even if there were, surely Jon of all people wouldn’t prosecute him for it). Still, he couldn’t keep down the guilt as Jon asked:
“How long have you been up?”
“Sorry,” Martin reflexively apologized, “did I wake you?”
"No. I, uh," Jon starts, "I just had to get up to use the restroom."
"Ah," said Martin, eloquently. As if waiting for a cue, the two of them just stood there for a moment on opposite ends of the (admittedly small) kitchen—Jon still in the doorway, Martin still at the window. Martin nervously looked down at his mug. It was nearly empty.
Jon broke the silence. "You weren't in bed when I got up, and I saw the light was on down here, so…" he trailed off.
"Right," said Martin. They fell into another lapse of silence. Martin downed the last of his tea.
"You didn't answer my question." Right, that. Martin had kind of been hoping that Jon would drop it, but of course he didn't.
"Hm?" asked Martin, as if he had somehow forgotten the last thirty seconds.
"How long have you been awake?" Jon repeated.
"Oh, uh." Martin fiddled with his now-empty mug. "I dunno? I guess I never really got to sleep in the first place, heh. I mean, I'm fine, I just—"
"Martin."
"What?"
"Why di– You could have woken me up, you know."
“Well, it’s not like both of us being up could’ve helped anything,” Marin lied, “Besides, I didn’t want to disturb you. You— you look so peaceful when you’re asleep, and I figured you need the rest.”
Jon chuckled. “To be fair, it felt a lot less peaceful than it looked.”
Oh.
Oh, of course.
“The nightmares, right,” said Martin, stupid selfish Martin, “fuck, I didn’t even— should I have woken you? Would that have been better for you? Of course it wasn’t peaceful, what was I even— How didn’t I—”
“Hey, hey. Martin, look at me.” He did. At some point while Martin was talking, Jon had crossed the room and was now standing directly in front of him, looking up into his eyes. He hesitantly raised a hand and let it rest on Martin’s shoulder. “Don’t— don’t worry about it, okay? I mean, you were right, I. I did need the rest. But this isn’t about me right now. You need the rest, too.”
“Jon...”
“Martin.” Jon’s voice was exasperated, tired, and so, so fond. “Can, um. Do you want a hug?”
Martin nodded.
The thing about hugging Jonathan Sims was this:
Jonathan Sims was not made for touches of casual comfort. He wasn’t good at quick brushes of skin or heads leaning on shoulders. He was unused to friendly hugs given in greeting, or in farewell. His bones seemed to jut out at uncomfortable angles and he would often stiffen at the touch. Still, Martin loved any contact he could get, in all its awkward, boney glory, simply because it was Jon.
This, though.
This was different.
When Jon wrapped his arms around Martin and held fast, he seemed to take every ounce of love he held in his body and push it through the space between them. Though Jon was a much smaller man than Martin, the hug felt all-encompassing. Safe. It was as if Martin had been falling apart at the seams, and Jon’s arms were the only thing keeping his pieces together. Martin was a child’s art project made of popsicle sticks, and Jon was a pair of firm and steady hands, keeping him from sliding apart as they waited for the glue to dry.
Martin wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, wrapped up in each other’s love and warmth and safety, but he wasn’t sure he ever wanted it to end. All good things must, though, and Martin eventually pulled away.
“Thanks,” he said, “I think I needed that.”
“I think so too.” Jon smiled at him, all fondness and warmth, but with an undercurrent of concern. “You were shaking.”
“Was I?” asked Martin. He genuinely hadn’t realized.
“Yeah,” said Jon.
“Oh.” Martin turned his head to look back out the window, suddenly uncomfortable under Jon’s loving gaze. The sky was just beginning to lighten, and he knew that the sun would soon start to peak over the horizon.
“Come on,” said Jon, “let’s head back to bed.”
Martin continued to stare out the window. “The sun’ll be up soon. ‘S practically morning.”
“So?” Jon was clearly confused by his response. “The blinds in our room don’t let in much light. Besides, it’s not like we have anywhere to be. We can sleep in all day if we want to.”
“Yeah, but…” Martin turned back towards Jon, unsure how to finish his sentence.
“But what? What’s wrong, Martin? Why don’t you want to come to bed?” Jon was careful to keep the compulsion out of his voice, but Martin almost wished he wasn’t. How could he possibly begin to describe the incessant thoughts and feelings and guilt buzzing through his head, keeping him from sleep? How could he tell Jon, yes I love you, but being in bed with you feels wrong and kind of freaks me out? How could he start to answer this question when even he didn’t know the whole of it?
“I just— It’s too quiet,” was what eventually came out of his mouth. It wasn’t until he heard himself say the words that he realized it was true.
“Hm.” Jon considered this for a moment. “I could, ah. I could tell you a bedtime story?”
“A bedtime story?” Martin let out a surprised chuckle. “Isn’t that a little, I dunno, childish?”
“Plenty of adults listen to podcasts to help them sleep,” Jon protested, “this would be no different.”
Except that it’s you, thought Martin, it’s you doing it for me and me alone.
“A-and you wouldn’t mind?” Martin’s voice came out small.
“I offered, didn’t I?” said Jon, as if it were that simple, “and besides, it would be nice to tell a story that’s not, ah…”
“A tale of horror and woe used to feed a voyeuristic god of fear and terrible knowledge?”
“Yes, that. It’d be a nice change of pace.”
“A happy ending, for once?”
“Sure." Jon held out his hand, which Martin took. "I know just the story.”
Jon led them out of the kitchen (shutting off the light first), down the hall, and back into their bedroom. As Martin settled into bed, Jon sat down next to him, his back against the headboard. Martin felt a hand on his head, gently carding through his hair.
“Is this alright?” Jon asked, “are you comfortable?”
“Mm-hm,” said Martin, leaning into the touch. It was grounding, but not constricting.
“Good, good.” Jon said absentmindedly. “So uh, have you heard the story of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight?”
Martin hadn’t, so he responded with a negative hum.
“Alright, so it’s a tale from Arthurian legend. A poem, actually. I first read it back in uni. Well, I read a few translations of it. It was originally written in middle English, back in the late 14th century. I’m quite partial to the Tolkein translation, although it is very much in his style, so I understand it isn’t for everyone. However, I was a bit of a Tolkein fan at the time, so I rather enjoyed it. Anyway, the story.” Jon cleared his throat, “It’s Christmas at King Arthur's court. The knights of the round table have sat down for their evening feast, but no one has touched their food yet...”
With that, Jon launched into his story. Normally, Martin would be hanging on every word, but after the first few sentences he found it difficult to keep up with exactly what Jon was saying, the language drifting past him like water through a sieve. After some desperate but ultimately futile attempts at figuring out what was going on (someone’s head got cut off with an axe? Or not?), Martin finally gave up and let the familiar sound of Jon’s voice wash over him without processing any of its meaning. Eventually, even that faded away as Martin drifted off to sleep.
Before he lost consciousness, his last thought was of warmth.