Baoshan Sanren went down the mountain the moment one of her disciples went back up.

“Shizun, I know that it is not allowed to go back to the mountain, but please. Allow me!”

Baoshan Sanren knows, she's not a cold-hearted woman. So, she just sighed and demanded an explanation.

As much as she wants to take them back again after they went down, she cannot. Those Humans. Those Mortals, who went down the Celestial Mountain, will have a fate worse than death. The Celestial Mountain is blessed. Once they went out of the Mountain's reach, they would lose its protection. The mountain would not be kind to those who’ve already been tainted.

Baoshan Sanren huffed.

Cruel. Why made me an Immortal, if I will just have to see my disciples, my descendants, die? Immortality has a price, it seems.

She had to erase every memory, from the mind, heart, and soul, of every child, every disciple she took. That way, the mountain will be on a good term with them.

“Shizun, it’s Cangse-Shijie! Your daughter!”

Cangse… Cangse Sanren had been the product of one of her inventions. She had been Baoshan Sanren’s everything. Her blood and flesh. Even some of her powers transferred to her. Still, only through skills, talent, will, and motives will she ascend to immortality. No matter how much of her powers are flowing through her meridians, no matter how her blood is running through her veins, the only way and the hardest part to achieve and ascend to immortality is having the purity of the heart. That is also the only way that her disciples need to achieve for them to be able to go back to the Celestial Mountain once they’ve decided to go down.

Cangse Sanren, having left the mountain without achieving immortality, can never avoid her fate. The fate of Baoshan Sanren’s disciple. Celestial Mountain’s disciple…

Thus, when her disciple came back up, bringing news about Cangse Sanren, she had to brace herself. “What happened to Cangse?”

Her disciple kneeled and proceeded to kowtow. “Shizun, Cangse-shijie is dead.”

Baoshan Sanren needed a moment to breathe. She closed her eyes and began to inhale deeply.

I am expecting it. Still, it hurts.

 One sole tear escapes her silver eye.

“But, Shizun…”

Baoshan Sanren’s eye snapped open. “But?”

“She had a son, Shizun! And they are condemning him! Just now, I heard that they are planning to raid his den!”

Baoshan Sanren felt as if an arrow struck her heart.

Cangse…Cangse had a child? I have a grandson? My…My blood…Oh- Oh God- His fate…I have to find him.

 She thought determinedly.

Baoshan Sanren straightened up. “Where is he residing? Take me to him.”

Her disciple stands up and meets her eyes. “He is currently at the Burial Mounds, Shizun.”

She is slightly taken aback. Burial Mounds, huh? How did he survive such a place? There is so much resentful energy- Right! Resentful energy… Baoshan Sanren drew a teleportation array, that way they will arrive faster.

---

Explosion.

Gasps.

Shouts.

Screams.

Pain.

Everyone kneeled as they could not manage the pain coming from their middle dantian. Even Baoshan Sanren herself is not exempted.

They realized powers from their core are being

sucked

.

Wei Wuxian just finished destroying the seal the moment Baoshan Sanren landed in the Burial Mounds. He is exhausted, then suddenly there is power.

Oh.

Power… Spiritual Energy… A core

Suddenly, Wei Wuxian is receiving spiritual energy that is slowly forming a core inside the hollow space with only the dark as its company.

The cultivators had long forgotten about Wei Wuxian and his seal. All they could think is the mind-numbing pain they cannot suppress.

And then, everything…

…stopped.

Caws of crows are heard, the winds sang, humans are silent.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Then, there are thunders. Wei Wuxian was being struck by thunders in front of their very eyes. Bright light blinding the cultivators, pure spiritual energies drowning them.

He is ascending.

They’re minds unhelpfully supplied.

Then, Wei Wuxian is gone.

The cultivators are in disarray.

“Wei Wuxian… Wei Wuxian ascended!”

“How can this be?! A monster ascended?!”

“No! My core! My powers had diminished!”

Hearing that, the cultivators checked their cores. Gasps rang out the mountains. Enraged cries are heard, cursing Wei Wuxian. There are also those who kowtowed, praying for forgiveness. There are others who praised him.

All of them didn’t notice a certain Sect Leader looking so pale and angry. Disbelief and rage are noticeable from this Sect Leader.

The said Sect Leader cupped his middle dantian, wherein his core,

his core

, had almost diminished. While checking the core, all he received was a weak pulse. As weak as when he was a teenager. He cannot even unleash Zidian without overexerting himself.

Sect Leader Jiang, Jiang Wanyin roared as he looked at where the sky is located. “Wei WUXIAN!!! Did you think that it is over?! Come back here!

I WILL STILL KILL YOU, YOU BASTARD!!!

 Do you think this is enough to atone for your sins?! WEI WUXIAN!!!”

Baoshan Sanren glanced at the cultivators.

Pathetic,

 she thought. She chuckled, she suddenly caught sight of a group of people.

Non-cultivators…Why are there non-cultivators here?

She told her disciple to discreetly escort the non-cultivators outside the Burial Mounds, tell them Baoshan Sanren will see them later. Her disciple bowed and subtly went to where the non-cultivators are located.

She glanced at the cultivators leaving.

She glanced at the cultivators in gold, who are red-faced, be it from anger, embarrassment or shame.

She glanced at the cultivators in dark green, who seemed to be contemplating when they are near the resentful energy.

She glanced at the cultivators in white, whose faces also seemed to be as white as their robes.

She glanced at the cultivators in purple, especially the one with purple lightning whenever his face sneered, and narrowed her eyes at his core.

She glanced at the Burial Mounds, where her grandson was last standing.

She chuckled darkly.

Well, well… Looks like you have gotten what you deserved.

She cast one lingering stare, and then she descended the Burial Mounds, willing to find the non-cultivators and ask them what they were doing at the place, such as the Burial Mounds.

---

“Popo, I am not here to harm you. My master, Baoshan Sanren, will just talk to all of you.” Baoshan Sanren heard her disciple talking to the oldest of the non-cultivators.

“Baoshan Sanren? The immortal?” She heard the elder respond.

“Yes. Yes, Popo.” Her disciple said.

“I’m here. I’m Baoshan Sanren.” She finally responded.

The non-cultivators gasped, their eyes full of hope and wariness. Baoshan Sanren immediately softened her eyes. “Tell me, what are you doing in the Burial Mounds? And a non-cultivator at that, how did you survive?”

One of the non-cultivators responded he told her that they are the Wen remnants. They were protected by a person they called A-Ying.

“Wen remnants? Why were you called Wen remnants?” Baoshan Sanren asked, she did not know why they were the only remaining of the Wens. She knew of the Wen Sect, located in Qishan. And, there are a lot of people, Wens, living in Qishan.

The same person told her of the war. Saying that their sect had gone too far, resulting in retaliation and war.

“And they are capturing you? Non-cultivators who are supposed to be out of the war between cultivators?”

“What will even change, Immortal Baoshan? We are Wens. As long as there are Wens living, they won’t stop hunting us.”

Baoshan Sanren huffed a bitter laugh.

They never change, huh?

She sighed, “Well, this A-Ying of yours, where is he?”

There is some pride in their faces, some who even smiled softly. “He ascended. Our A-Ying, our Young Master Wei. Our Laozu…”

She heard her disciple gasp. Her disciple looked at her and said, “That’s it, Shizun. Wei. Cangse-shijie’s husband is surnamed, Wei.”

Wide eye, she asked her disciple of the name of her grandson.

“Wei Ying, courtesy name Wuxian.”

She looked tearfully at the non-cultivators, “Is-Is your A-Ying named Wei Ying, Wei Wuxian?”

Some of them looked wary, but they answered. “Yes, Immortal Baoshan.”

She let out a wet laugh. “My grandson…”

I’ll go to heaven later, for now, I will save the people my grandson saved.

Once she calmed down, she offered them a settlement. Two options, actually. One: They will go with her to the Celestial Mountain without having any memories and will be secluded for life. Two: She will give them a place far from the cultivation world, and live in peace.

They looked thoughtful. The second option seemed tempting as they wanted to live freely in peace. However, their past will always be their nightmare.

So, they chose the first option.

Remove all their memories, and live in a secluded mountain until they die.

Baoshan Sanren smiled at them. “Is there anything you wish to bring?”

The eldest meekly spoke, “My-My great-grandson, Immortal Baoshan. He is still at the Burial Mounds.”

Baoshan Sanren gasped, she sent her disciple to get the child. She turned to the group, “My disciple will get you your great-grandson, Madam. For now, let us depart.”

And then, Baoshan Sanren drew a transportation array to the nearest door and went to the foot of the mountain. Before they went up the celestial mountain, she asked the group to close their eyes as she casts a memory removing spell to the group, so as to cleanse the lingering pain, regret, sorrow, sadness, happiness, joy, and many other emotions they had experienced to be reborn as a new person.

The moment the Wen remnants opened their eyes, their life had now begun changing for the better.

Unknown to them, a certain white robe disciple had already claimed the youngest Wen as his child. Baoshan Sanren’s disciple will not get to reach the child she had been tasked to get.

---

Wei Wuxian opened his eyes. He did not know what he is currently doing. Is he lying down? Is he standing up? Sitting down? One thing crossed his mind,

I’m dead? Yeah, I’m dead. I didn’t know I would end up in heaven though.

“Your Highness.” He heard a voice.

“Your Highness.” A little louder.

“Your Highness!”

Who the hell is shouting? And who is this “Your Highness”? Can’t they answer who is calling them? I want to be at peace.

“Your Highness, Wei Wuxian!”

Oh.

 The voice called his name.

I am the “Your Highness”?

“Uh- I am no royalty, but I am Wei Wuxian. What can I do for you?”

 “Your Highness, I am Ren Jiayi, in charge of your palace. If you do not remember, you ascended into Godhood. You are supposed to ascend only to immortality the moment you destroyed the Stygian Tiger Seal, but with another immortal in the vicinity, their spiritual power pushed you to ascend into being a God. Congratulations, Your Highness. You are now the God under resentful beings. Most especially, God of Demonic Cultivation. While you have both energies, spiritual and resentful alike, the resentful energy inside your body dominated and becomes your main power. Your main domain is the South, particularly the Yiling area.”

Okay, what?

“I’m a God?”

How could I be a God?

 He is currently in a place -

a palace?

 - full of black and red decorations. The outlines of the pillars are in silver. The walls are painted in black. There are paintings on the wall with silver and red colors. The furniture, such as the couch and bed are in black and red colors. Oh, and he is currently lying on the said bed. All in all, the palace is a beauty. Truly of Wei Wuxian’s style.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Wei Wuxian was left dumbfounded. He intended to die, thank you very much, and not to ascend into some kind of Godhood. He was about to facepalm when he realized something. “Wait, wait. Who are you? I’ve never met any Ren Jiayi before.”

Ren Jiayi smirked. “I am the Burial Mounds, of course, Your Highness. I manifested into a real body after you destroyed the seal and ascended.”

Wei Wuxian blinked, “Burial Mounds? Wow, then your name means “auspicious one”, quite the opposite of you, no?” He taunted Ren Jiayi, not because he wanted to create a fight with them. He is just bored.

Ren Jiayi smiled dangerously, “I do not know what Your Highness is talking about.”

Clearly, Wei Wuxian should watch his mouth. The temperature seemed to lower as Wei Wuxian shivered. When he shivered, he felt something.

Warmth.

“How could I have a golden core?!” As far as Wei Wuxian knows, he has none and will never feel the warmth of a core again. But as he examined the core further, it felt akin to a golden core,

but no golden core should feel warm and cold at the same time.

Ren Jiayi straightened, “It is true that Your Highness has a core again, but it is not golden.”

“It is a silver core.” A voice called out.

A very familiar voice.

Wen Qing.

He gasped, “Wen Qing!”


“Come with me.” Ava does not wait for Sara’s reply, she just simply turns around and starts walking. If Sara wants to be one of her soldiers, she will follow the command instead of waiting for her general to explain herself.

“Where are we going?” Ava shakes her head mentally — at least Sara is following her while questioning her orders.

“If you’re going to be one of my soldiers, I need to assess your fighting skills.” Ava glances over her shoulder, watching as realization dawns on Sara’s face.

“Okay,” she nods, walking easily next to Ava, “but we need to make a quick stop by my tent first.”

“What do we need from your tent?” Ava asks, stopping and turning around to face her. Sara continues walking but turns around so she is looking at Ava as she does so, making Ava have to follow her.

“You’ll see,” she says, arching an eyebrow.

Ava sighs but follows her the whole way to her tent.

“Alright, what is it that is so important that you had to go get it?” Ava asks once they’re there.

“This,” Sara says, picking up the walking stick she had not used since she went with Charlie.

“What are you going to do with that? I thought your leg was healed.” If there is worry in Ava’s voice, it is only because Sara is her responsibility now.

“It is. I need it to fight.” Sara shrugs, twirling the staff around in her hands. Ava is certain she is going to hit something in the small space, but somehow she manages to avoid it. “Now, are we going or what?” Sara asks, backing out of the tent’s opening.

Ava sighs, once more starting on a path to the training grounds.

Once they make it to the training grounds, Ava gestures for Sara to walk up to a dummy. Sara frowns, following the order but looking at Ava curiously.

“Show me what you can do,” Ava says, nodding at the training dummy.

Sara narrows her eyes, burying the end of her staff in the dirt. “Nuh-uh,” she says, crossing her arms around the staff. Ava definitely does not think she looks cute like that.

“Excuse me?” she says, taking a step towards Sara, hands fisted behind her back.

Sara meets her gaze, an innocent expression in her eyes. “You promised that once my leg was good, you’d spar with me.” She raises an eyebrow, looking expectantly at Ava.

Ava takes a deep breath, the fondness that has grown for Sara over the last couple of weeks warring with the fact that she is now under Ava’s command. “And I will, once you show me that you’re well enough for it.”

“You’re just scared I’ll beat you,

General

.” As she speaks, Sara uncrosses her arms, once more grabbing her staff as she determinedly walks towards Ava, stopping just a step away from her.

Ava feels her nails dig into her palm as she stares into Sara’s defiant gaze. She should order Sara to do as told or even take a break, telling Sara that she has no time for this and will come back later. Instead, her gaze drifts to the weapons rack, her fingers itching to hold one of the weapons on display.

“Fine, but don’t blame me if you find yourself on the ground.”

“We’ll see who ends up where.” Ava can hear the smirk in Sara’s voice as she walks over to fetch a training sword.

Ava tightens her hold on her sword, watching Sara with inquisitive eyes. She wants to make sure she does not go too hard, especially when all Sara has to defend herself with is a wooden stick, so she waits for Sara to make the first move. Sara tilts her head, watching Ava as she twirls her staff in one hand.

Sara’s tongue pokes out as she continues to observe her, and the moment Ava’s attention is drawn to it, Sara advances, moving to strike Ava with her staff. Ava barely registers it in time to raise her sword to deflect it, her body moving on instinct.

Sara pulls back, raising her staff in the air to block Ava’s responding blow. Despite the blade’s bluntness, it makes a chip in the wooden staff. Sara turns the staff around in her hands, trying to use it to her advantage, but Ava just manages to pull the blade back to herself before she can do it.

Both of them return to their starting positions then, watching for the other to make a move. Ava has to admit, Sara seems to know what she is doing with that staff, despite Ava’s low expectations of the makeshift weapon. Still, Ava decides to take it slow, not wanting to overwhelm her.

Ava waits for Sara to attack again but it appears Sara has no intention of initiating this time. She just simply watches Ava with a patience Ava did not know she had. Gripping her sword tightly, Ava advances, letting her sword arm move out of instinct. Sara dodges the blow quite skillfully, then tries to strike Ava’s legs with her staff. Ava just barely twirls out of its reach, stretching her sword out towards Sara only to keep some distance between them.

Despite how little they have sparred, Ava can already say with certainty that Sara is superior to the average recruit.

“I thought your father was a guard,” she says, curious as to how Sara gained her skill. Last she checked, most guards were not better than her soldiers.

“I didn’t say he was the only one who trained me,” Sara smirks, her blue eyes sparkling in the sunlight.

Before Ava has a chance to respond to Sara’s vague answer, Sara charges her again with her staff raised, ready to strike.

Ava blocks the blow, then advances, delivering a flurry of blows to Sara’s defenses, wanting to see how much she can take. Sara stumbles back, blocking the attacks but letting herself be pushed back to the edge of the training grounds.

With one final swing of Ava’s sword, Sara’s foot catches on something, making her lose her balance. Ava instinctively reaches for her, worry taking over. Sara’s staff drops to the ground as she grabs onto Ava’s hand, but instead of letting Ava steady her, she pulls on it, bringing Ava down with her.

Ava drops the sword to the side so she can brace herself with her hand, burying it in the dirt before she can crush Sara with her body. She sighs out of momentary relief.

The relief does not last long. Sara’s face is almost innocent as she looks up at her with a grin - a stark contrast to the sharp blade Ava feels pressing against her side, just underneath her chainmail. Ava freezes, wondering where Sara even got a dagger considering her weapon of choice.

“Well played,” she sighs, shaking her head at letting herself be played.

“I have to admit, I didn’t think you’d be so easy to beat,” Sara says, arching a brow as she pulls the dagger away.

“You’ll have to excuse me for not wanting my soldiers to get hurt if I can help it.” Ava feels Sara’s chest vibrate underneath her hand as Sara lets out a chuckle in response. The action makes Ava aware of where she had grabbed Sara — her hand gone for the closest thing at the moment, which happened to be Sara’s tunic — and that her hand is still on her, with one of Sara’s hands locked around her wrist.

Sara’s hand releases its hold, moving instead to push some stray hair that has escaped Ava’s bun out of her face. Ava cannot decide if her heart is beating impossibly fast or not at all as she catches her breath, eyes trained on Sara’s face. Sara lets her fingers linger on her cheek as she catches Ava’s gaze, eyes glistening with something Ava cannot place.

Her eyes move lower on Ava’s face and her palm cups Ava’s cheek. Before Ava knows it, Sara lifts her head from the ground, hand holding Ava’s head in place.

Ava feels completely frozen, like she has forgotten how to move even the smallest muscle. Sara’s breath hits her lips and a voice in the back of her head is screaming for Ava to let go.

Sara’s lips are almost so close that Ava can feel them. Right before they can get close enough, Ava pulls her head away, rolling off of her.

“I can’t,” she breathes, feeling like her entire body is on fire.

“I’m sorry,” Sara says quickly, pushing herself up to her feet.

“Sara, wait!” Ava calls, struggling to get herself up from the ground, but Sara is already running away, not even sparing Ava a glance. Ava lets herself fall back onto the ground, cursing everything that just happened.

The rest of the day, Sara avoids her. Ava sees her once, when the camp is called for supper, but the moment Sara lays eyes on her, she turns in another direction as if food is not on her agenda. And that is all she sees of her. Part of her swears Sara is better at being stealthy than Charlie, either that or she has simply found a spot Ava does not visit during her day to day.

In any case, Ava has not spoken to her since their sparring and…

whatever

 it was that happened at the end of it. Which should be fine. Ava has gone days without speaking to people in her camp and sometimes weeks without speaking to those she is closest to when either she or they are out on patrol. Not speaking to Sara is fine.

Except it isn’t.

Except there is something in Ava that

needs

 to know that they are okay. That what passed between them, what Ava stopped from happening, did not ruin the friendship they built over the past few weeks.

Which is absurd. Ava is the general of the Rebellion forces, she does not have time to care about making friends with her soldiers. She certainly should not

need

 anyone.

Ava sighs, letting tired legs carry her into the war tent to read over the last few reports for the night. She only finds a single sealed letter lying on the table. She quickly breaks the seal, weary eyes taking in the words. Her heart cries over what she reads.

The entire squadron she sent out just a few days ago, save a couple, died during an Empire siege. Ava crumples the paper in her hand, wanting nothing more than to bury her blade in Damien Darhk’s chest. Her mind immediately wanders to all the families she will have to write, all the families who will never see the member they sent off to war.

She puts the letter back down on the table, smoothing it out so she can see the names of the two still alive. All she can hope for now is their safe return.

A yawn escapes her lips when she makes to stand up properly. The letters will have to wait until morning, she thinks, her body yearning for the comfort of her own tent.

Ava sheds her armor as soon as she reaches her tent, out of the view of her soldiers. She feels the strong pull of sleep and yet, there is something in her mind that will not allow it. Bringing a hand up to rub the back of her neck, her thoughts wander to the letter. Involuntarily, her mind pulls up a list of the dead with Sara’s name at the bottom.

Ava closes her eyes, dropping down on top of her blankets. She lets out a breath as she pulls her legs to her, gently resting her hands on her knees. The words from her trainer that taught her how to clear her head repeat in her mind, clear as the day they had been spoken to her. As she sits there, she slowly feels her worries seep away and she almost enters a trance-like state.

A state she is ripped out of when there is a gentle burn on her leg. It does not hurt, but the unexpectedness of it is enough to make Ava let out a curse as she opens her eyes. She looks down at her leg, pushing away the fabric of her trousers to look underneath. She finds a small mark she has not seen before, a new scar having found its way onto her body.

She sighs, supposing she should not be surprised that her soulmate has gotten yet another scar. She traces the scar for a moment and her mind wanders to what her soulmate’s reaction is whenever

she

 gets a new scar.

A yawn interrupts her thoughts and Ava decides to leave it for another day, the call of sleep too loud for her to do anything else.

***

A few more days pass and Ava talks to Sara all of two times, if the short words exchanged can even be called talking. When she gets a report from a nearby camp that needs reinforcements, Ava figures it is a good distraction from everything going on and makes up a squad to take with her there, instead of leaving it to one of her soldiers.

Ava thinks she spots a head of blonde hair watching as they leave camp, but that could just be wishful thinking as she only sees it for a second. She shakes her head, willing her thoughts to move on to something else. Sara has made it pretty clear that she does not want to spend time with her anymore and that is just fine with Ava.

***

When they arrive at the small Rebellion camp, multiple arrows are immediately pointed at them. Ava raises her fist both to signal for her squad to stop and to show the white canary symbol sewn into the wrist of her glove. Someone calls for the archers to stand down and opens the gate, ushering them through.

“I apologize for the arrows, we cannot be too safe in these times,” the captain of the camp, a young woman, says.

“There’s no need for apologies, you do what you have to to defend the camp,” Ava says, shaking the captain’s hand.

The captain nods. “I’m Captain Reese, at your service. You’re the reinforcements we asked for?”

“Yes, we came here as soon as we got word.” Before Ava can say anything else, Amaya comes up to her side.

“General, Captain,” she says, nodding at both of them. “I was wondering if I could gain free range to check on your wounded?”

Captain Reese just stares at them for a second, before she nods her head vigorously at Amaya. “We would be very grateful.”

Amaya offers a nod and leaves them be.

“You’re the, uh, general? Of the Rebellion?” Captain Reese asks, looking at Ava with wide eyes.

“I am,” Ava says, straightening her back — despite it being impossibly straight from before — and offers Captain Reese a slight nod.

“Oh God, I had my archers point arrows at the general,” she whispers, looking horrified.

“I would have done the same in your place,” Ava assures her. “Please, tell me about why we’re needed here,” she says, hoping to bring Captain Reese’s thoughts away from the way they had been greeted.

“Of course,” she says, clasping her hands. “If you would follow me.”

The cause of the camp's problems turns out to be a rivalling Empire camp only a few miles away. Before Ava and her soldiers arrived, the Rebellion camp had almost been defeated by the Empire soldiers.

They leave camp late the next day, aiming to arrive at the camp at nightfall for the best chance of the enemy not seeing their attack. Their group is not the biggest — a rather big part of Captain Reese's soldiers are out of commission due to the last attack. But with Ava and her soldiers, its big enough to pose a threat. And with the advantage of an ambush, they do not need the bulk of their forces to defeat the camp. Or so Ava hoped.

The battle is over much quicker than anyone thought it would be. Only a few soldiers are standing guard and none of them spot the group approaching in the darkness. The more stealthy soldiers take care of them quickly enough, and then Captain Reese leads the attack through the gates. To Ava, the attack is over in the blink of an eye. Most of the soldiers lay dead from trying to fight back and the survivors have been thrown in the dungeon.

Ava’s squad stays the following night, partaking in the camp’s small celebrations at still being alive. With Amaya’s help, most of the wounded look to be recovering, which only adds onto the reasons for celebrating. Ava thinks about excusing herself early, but finds the celebrations a good distraction to the current state of the land and her personal life.

***

Back at her own camp, Ava cannot be bothered to greet anyone but Gary before she makes her way as quickly as possible to her tent. It is not particularly late, but Ava is sweaty from the ride and the warm, sunny day, and is eager to get out of her armor and clothing.

Too wrapped up in her thoughts, she does not notice anyone entering the tent until her name is spoken. Ava turns her head, pushing the tunic she just pulled off against her chest.

“Sara,” she sighs, feeling something pull at the corner of her lips as her eyes take in Sara’s familiar face, her freckles even more adorable than usual in the low light of the tent.

“Hey,” Sara says distractedly, eyes trained on Ava’s back. With a start, Ava realizes exactly what is on her back.

“They’re not as bad as they look,” she says, imagining the scars she has ever only seen in mirrors. “Most of them aren’t even mine.” Ava mentally slaps herself, not knowing why she said that.

Sara nods slowly, moving her eyes from Ava’s back to her face. “Your soulmate…”

“Yeah,” Ava confirms, even though Sara had not posed it as a question. She feels weird saying it, yet somehow lighter. She has never mentioned her soulmate or any of their scars to anyone before. Not a lot of people have seen them and those who have assume the scars to be her own.

“It’s a lot, but I don’t mind them,” she says when Sara continues to just stay there. “I don’t know if I’ll ever meet them but at least every new scar means they’re still alive, which I guess counts for something.”

“Right,” Sara says, looking off to the side of the tent. Ava takes the opportunity to fetch a clean tunic, quickly pulling it above her head. “I wanted to ask you something, just after the other day—”

“You want to be reassigned?” Ava cannot help herself from asking the question, her heart sinking in her chest at the thought of Sara possibly leaving.

“What? No!” Sara says, eyes going wide. Relief washes through Ava at her words. “I just wanted to ask if we’re okay. After what happened.” Sara looks so open and vulnerable and Ava’s heart melts at the sight.

“Yeah,” she says softly, offering Sara smile. “Yeah, we’re okay.”

“Good,” Sara says, releasing a long breath. “I will let you get back to whatever you were doing before I intruded.”

“See you tomorrow?” Ava says hopefully.

“See you tomorrow,” Sara confirms before leaving.

Ava cannot help a big smile as she watches the space Sara had previously occupied, a warm feeling spreading through her.


Draco knew he had to change his game. Hermione was treading on dangerous territory despite his warnings. She was a far too precious gem, and he didn’t want her to get caught in the middle of the crossfire. No. Fucking. Way.

Her surprise appearance at St. Mungo’s confirmed his belief; she was stubborn as hell and was not letting it go. He needed a higher power to make her ditch his case,  this higher power being a man he wasn’t so fond of, Harry Potter.

Hiding his blond hair under a hoodie, he kept his head low while walking through the hallway of the second floor towards his destination: the Magical Law Enforcement, more precisely the office of the Head Auror. He knocked softly, and the voice he hadn’t heard in a while gave him the permission he needed.

He entered the room, sat in the chair appointed by an absent minded hand and waited. The dark-haired wizard looked up and slack-jawed, “Bite my arse, no one has seen you for ages, and you decide to make your first appearance in my office. To what do I owe the honour?”

“Potter, I’m not here to trade pleasantries. I’m here for more urgent matters, issues you are more than likely aware of.”

“Hermione.”

“Granger, indeed. You need to get her off my back.”

“Malfoy, I sound like a broken record by now. Have you any idea how many times I have told her to back off?”

“She’s stubborn.” He smiled softly, surprising the wizard on his opposite side the most.

Am I on drugs? Malfoy talks warmly about Hermione? The wonders of the world are not yet out…

“Malfoy, I will not repeat this in her face, but you are spot on. When she’s into something, she’s unstoppable.”

“This time it could cost her life. I’m not a magnet for good luck these days.”

“Why do you care? She’s a mudblood.”

See how Malfoy answers now, the answer will be determining. If I might help this man or not, depends on how he describes Hermione.

“Be careful and don’t repeat that foul name in my presence again. Blood prejudice is an issue I wholeheartedly hate, definitely if it's about your friend. I’m alive because of her; my arse was saved from a stay at Azkaban thanks to her. Not something I’ll forget easily.” Draco spoke resolute, never faltering a word. “And she could have kicked me out of her house, and no one would have blamed her. Instead, she got me on my both feet again.” He unzipped his hoodie halfway, “Her stubbornness could kill her. Make her see reason.”

“Malfoy, what do you think I have been saying to her the past days? All that I’ve said has fallen on deaf ears. Instead, she has paid visits to your friends-”

“Yes, I know, Blaise, Pansy and Theo-”

“Claiming to want to organise a school reunion!”

Draco chuckled and shook his head, “The idea alone…She’s resourceful at least.”

Harry had trouble comparing the man staring at him with the boy he used to know,

who are you and what have you done with the git?

 "That's my Hermione." His amused face became a serious one, "Let me present an alternative, tell me what the hell is going on with you so that I can help you decently. Then you and Hermione can pursue whatever this is between the two of you."

“Nothing is going on between her and I.”

“Yes, and my name is Mickey Mouse.” Harry was not to be fooled, “Be honest with me and allow me to help you. I want us to set aside old grudges and misplaced pride feelings. From what I know, you were attacked in the neighbourhood of Knockturn Alley.” The blonde nodded, “Malfoy, did you recognise who attacked you?”

“Hermione spoke of a Gibbons.”

Harry flexed both hands, one over the other in a squeezing gesture, “Sometimes I would like to squeeze her neck.” Realising to whom he just confessed, Harry blushed, “Don’t you ever tell her I said that.” He lifted his spectacles to rub a hand over his face, “Gibbons, the former Death Eater. Theodore is convinced your father bought his freedom, according to Hermione.”

“He didn’t, and you know it as well as I do. The thing is, when people are convinced otherwise it's hard to make them change their mind. I'm laying low, keeping to myself. I'm ashamed of what I did and said, of the man I was forced to be. I try to contribute where possible, as far as people allow me to go. To a certain extent, I'm content with the life I lead; I don't miss the jet set world for one bit." Harry listened intently; if he weren’t already convinced of Malfoy’s change of heart, then he would be now. This was a different human being than the spoiled brat he knew; this man was one Harry wanted to befriend.

I’m no longer surprised about Hermione’s behaviour.

Draco continued, looking off into the distance, “You would think that after ten years, people would let go, move on… Accept the past and focus on the future.”

“How do you see your future Draco?” Addressing the blond by his given name, was a deliberate decision. Hopefully, the wizard would understand the hidden hint.

“As it is right now? Me ending in a body bag; preferably not in the company of your stubborn witch.”

Harry rose an eyebrow, “That’s pretty dark, why struggle? Why not ask for help? You still have friends.”

“And bring my problems to their front door? Drag them down the pit with me? I know Blaise wants to help. I’m the one preventing him from doing it. And I’m trying to do the same with Hermione, alas with no success. That’s the sole reason why I’m here. You have to stop her.” He was at the end of his rope.

“Draco, listen. There’s nothing I’d like more, but she doesn’t listen. And I’m starting to understand why Malfoy. I do.” Sigh, “Let’s get things straight, aside from this old grudge from Theodore, you have no idea why you’re being targeted?”

“No.”

“Have you seen anyone else besides this Gibbons?”

“I didn’t even recognise the man, Potter.” Throwing his arms in the air; “They attacked me from behind, the cowards. But, nothing new here, Death Eaters attack in packs because alone they are chicken-shit scared.”

“Draco,” Harry’s eyes bored into the blonds, “I’m getting to the bottom of this. Mainly to avoid that Hermione gets hurt and secondly, I believe you have paid your dues. It’s time you can return to a normal life.”

“What will you do with Hermione?”

"Work with her; it's the only way I can keep an eye on the witch. Sometimes she's too smart for her own good." Both men smirked.

Draco took a piece of parchment and a quill, and wrote a series of numbers on it and slid it to Harry, “This is my mobile; owls won’t find me.” The blond left shortly after, though with another point of view about his old school nemesis.

Potter deserves his promotion; he allows common sense to prevail above old resentments.

 The wizard pondered of his youth, regretting once more his stance as a spoiled brat.

We can’t change the past, only the future.

Did he have a future?

 He wondered,

Has Potter given me his blessing to pursue Hermione?

 The man had used his given name a few time, though Draco wasn’t yet ready to change his way of addressing the man himself,

Should I fight back for her? Am I strong enough?

-oOo-

Hermione was making plans

if he

…

 correct this lady; it's not if, it's a when, when he arrives tonight, I'll know. I'm done with sleeping next to a charming prince and being unaware of it.

 Charming prince… “Have I called Draco a charming prince just now? He’s a spoiled brat, yes. A very sexy spoiled git. Oh hell, what’s happening to me?”

She modified her wards to the point they would wake her up, upon his entry. As a nightgown, she chose a sexy laced thing she bought at Victoria’s Secret, during a well-deserved shopping day at Muggle London. It was a see-through;

He has seen the merchandise already. See if he’ll only look and not touch, he he.

Adjusting her cushions to sit comfortably on her bed, she set her notepad and a self-inking quill on her lap and wrote all she had:

One: Theo has connections to the Carrow family, Rowle and Rookwood.

Two: Rookwood knows Gibbons attacked Malfoy.

Three: How does Rookwood know?

Four: Reason? Only because the Malfoy’s aren’t in Azkaban?

She ticked the point of her quill against her lip, “How gullible does this sound?” She talked aloud, “Here we are ten years later, and wounds haven’t disappeared but become dull instead. I still miss Fred but the pain doesn’t consume me anymore, Molly has adjusted too. Live and let live, move on.” Her arms made wide gestures, to accentuate her thoughts, “No person at Azkaban is there innocently, those who are still there have no right to a free life. They are condemned for their actions during the war, not because they said a ‘fuck you’ against a Minister.”

She pondered in silence for a few minutes, “Maybe to catch a mouse I need a meaner cat. Who’s the big baddie, who also has extensive knowledge of the underworld and probably will do whatever needed to save his son?” Mentally she added to her tomorrow’s to-do-list: visit Malfoy Sr.

-oOo-

The chirping of  birds woke her the next morning. While the slumber dissipated, her brain made a few assessments.

He didn’t show up, the git. And a notepad is not a fluffy pillow. And I have to satisfy my brain with the required dose of caffeine first and appease the growling beast on my stomach before I can move on to my first to-do-task.

Harry’s owl ticked at her window and offered her paw, pecking at Hermione’s had until she received the wished treat as a thank you. The witch smiled, at the typical behaviour and opened the note. She pencilled her answer quickly and attached the letter back on the owl watching it fly away into the sky.

Harry wanted to speak to her,

probably to annoy her again and coerce her into stopping her mouse chase. He should know better by now.

 But her first task of the day was, visit the house of hell, aka Malfoy Manor.


(This picks up, right where the first part of the story left off...)

She left me there as she had before: naked, my cock stiff, my heart pounding and my head crazy with wanting, and again she left the curtain open a bit, leaving me exposed if any passer-by happened to look back into the stall. This time I tried to calm myself, tried to stay nonchalant, and vowed not to make eye contact if someone did seem to notice me. That wasn't so easy, when I realized a pair of women strolling arm in arm had stopped and were whispering, looking at me, laughing. I pretended not to notice, but my cock, which had just started to calm down was having none of it, and grew again, stiffened right up, wanting all the attention it could get.

Dasha came back then, with several pairs of pants, some shirts, and a bright smile. She gave a little laugh and kind of tossed her head, her long red hair flowing and her breasts swaying lightly under her light dress.

"These should all fit," she said. "Try them on, see what you like."

They were all very good quality, nice linen, the pants thicker material than the shirts. She watched me, commenting, and apparently had good taste. I liked it all, and told her so,

"Wear what you want, and I will wrap up the rest," she said.

"All of it?"

"You need clothes, don't you? You can't wear that ridiculous stuff you had on before," she said. "These look good. Wear them. I will fold these up for you. Come along."

I came out with her, and saw that the two women were still there, shamelessly watching me, laughing. Again I tried to pretend to not notice them, and really, my head was full of Dasha. I couldn't imagine that she was done with me, and I knew I wanted to put myself in her hands. I felt almost scared, certainly shy, but I had to say something.

"Can I ... can we ... see each other?"

"Silly boy, of course," she said, her voice low, soft.

"Today?"

"You're so eager for me to play with you?"

I nodded.

"You're not afraid I might - hurt you?"

"I don't think you're mean, Dasha," I said.

She looked in my eyes a moment, and then nodded.

"I'm pleased you think that way," she said. "We can meet this evening, in the garden across the street, at the statue of Pushkin. You know Pushkin?"

"Of course," I said.

"Of course," she echoed. Then she gave me the other clothes in a bag, and when I asked her how much it all was, she laughed and shook her head. "I don't want any money from you. That would not feel right. These are yours, from me."

If there ever would have been any doubt in my head about seeing her again, that would have knocked it out. But there hadn't been.

I spent the day walking the city, wandering, looking. The beauty of Russian women has become almost a cliche, but in those days, when the Cold War had just ended and few had seen inside the Soviet Union, it was still a wonderful surprise. I felt like I'd never seen so many beautiful women, long hair, long legs, grace. And of course I was already excited, from what Dasha had done with me, and the expectation, the anticipation that she would play with me more. It didn't hurt that girls and women noticed me, my long hair stood out, and my penis wouldn't quite settle down - and sometimes that was noticed, too.

Knowing we were going to meet at a statue of Pushkin, I thought I should get something by him, and at a little antiquarian bookstore I found a copy of his poems and of his novel in verse, and bought them both. I was looking at the beginning of the novel, sitting on a bench facing the statue, when I heard footsteps, and looked up to see Dasha.

The grace of her movements astonished me. She was casual, calm, almost careless as she walked, her long read hair swaying down her back, her strong leg flashing out of the dress that fell just past her knees, the golden freckles across her broad face. I forgot every other woman I had seen and lost myself in her.

She took my arm and we started to walk in the garden. It was quiet, evening, the sun gold over the trees, lighting the pink, green and yellow houses around. She asked me about my day, what I had done, and seemed pleased that I had merely wandered, explored.

"My husband loved to walk the city, even though he lived here all his life," she said, and she held my arm tighter a moment. "I hope you don't mind me talking about him. It's just - he was just about your age when he died, and you look so much like him, and - maybe I got carried away today, but - he let me play with him like that, he would let me do things - he knew that letting me have control didn't mean he was weak. He knew it was the ultimate bravery to surrender yourself to another."

She was close against me. I could smell the warmth of her body, feel her muscles as she walked, and her words filled my head.

"He sounds like a very smart man," I said, my voice catching in my throat as I felt my cock stiffening.

"You feel that too, don't you," she said. "That's what this is, isn't it?"

Her left hand came across her body and pressed against my hard-on, closed half around it.

I couldn't deny it, and didn't want to. I knew what I wanted.

She nodded at a bench at a curve in the path. There was no one else around, evening coming on. The city was strangely quiet, even at midday, back then.

"Let's sit down," she said.

When we did, she stretched her legs out straight in in front of her. I followed their line out to her feet, slender in light canvas sneakers, and I thought of how she did nothing fancy, and yet had captivated me from the moment we started talking.

"My feet get sore, standing all day," she said softly.

"You should put them up, let them rest," I said.

She turn on the bench and moved a little away from me, as she did placing her feet lightly in my lap.

"Is this what you mean?" she asked.

I nodded and put my hands on them.

"May I?" I asked.

She shrugged, her smile turned to teasing. I slipped one sneaker off, then the other, and started to massage her right foot. Her toes were long, slender like her foot, her legs, and her feet were somehow both strong and delicate, with high arches. As I massaged, I turned to face her more. She let me take her right foot, but brought her left into my lap, and pressed it against my cock.

"Take it out, Dean," she said.

"What if someone..." I looked around.

"You can cover it, if someone comes," she said. "Take it out."

I gently put her foot down, and nearly tore open the fly of my pants, letting my hard-on stand up. As good as the fresh air felt on my exposed cock, when she pushed her foot against it, grabbing it just under the head between her toes, that felt even better. And when I lifted her foot again, without thinking, without pausing, I brought it to my face, to my lips, and began to kiss her sole. My eyes were closed, but I heard her sigh and laugh, heard her say tenderly, "Oh my, you sweet boy. My feet are dirty, you know."

Yes, her foot tasted of salt, of sweat, and I could feel little grains of sand or dirt, I don't know what, but I kept kissing her sole, up to her toes, and I licked between them, sucked them into my mouth, kissed them, all the while feeling her rubbing my shaft with her other foot. I had opened my eyes, watched her watching me, her smile nearly laughing, her eyes dancing.

She squeezed my cock between her big and middle toes, surprisingly strong, and pressed with her heel against my balls, the pressure right at the place between pain and ecstasy. As she released, a gush of precum came up, and then another. As I kissed my way to the arch of her right foot, she rubbed her left up my shaft, then took her right foot away from my lips and gave me her left, which was wet with my goo.

I sucked at it, licked it up, tasting the tang of my own juice with her salty, sweaty feet, felt the joy of her watching me do it.

"Do you like that?" she asked. "Do you like kissing my feet, Dean?"

"My god I do," I murmured into her sole.

"You don't mind that someone's watching you? A woman on her balcony - don't look - she's enjoying the evening, enjoying you pleasing me. You don't want to make her self-conscious."

"She can watch," I said. "I - I'm not ashamed of kissing your feet. I don't care who knows."

She moved her foot away from my hard-on, giving it a last little kick as she pulled it away.

"Stroke yourself, Dean," she said softly. "Show her how much you love my foot against your lips."

I didn't hesitate. I grabbed my cock and started stroking it, holding her foot to my lips with my other hand, kissing her.

"What must she think of you? A grown man, jerking off while he kisses a woman's foot, her toes. And you're not ashamed at all? Embarrassed? What if you meet her, if she recognizes you - someone you work with - a student. With your long hair, she would know you right away, on the street, with her friends - would she tell them? Would they come to you, tease you-"

I kept on stroking myself, trying to control myself but slowly going faster and faster, her voice in my head building everything up until I felt on the verge of cumming, of shooting out everything - but she must have felt it. She pulled her foot away, grabbed my arm and pulled my hand off my cock.

"No, Dean," she said. "Not now. Not yet. Not here. That's for later. Come home with me, we'll have some dinner. You can meet my sister."

My heart was pounding, I was almost out of my mind. My cock was twitching, so close I could feel it, feel it wanting to burst out. I felt my face burning.

She slipped her feet into her light sneakers, stop up and took my hands, brought me up, too, before I had even put myself away. I was afraid to touch it, feeling just my fingers on it could set me off. Again I looked in her face, the fine lines at the corners of her gray eyes, her wide smiling mouth, her straight red hair, bold as she herself.

"Put it away and we'll go home," she said.

I gently got it inside, closed up my fly. Then I saw the woman, youngish, blonde like so many here, leaning on the railing of her balcony over the garden.

"Don't worry, Dean," Dasha said. "She wouldn't have watched if she didn't like what she saw. I'm sure she'll think about you a lot now."

And with that, we started out of the garden, to her home.


Martin wakes up to the familiar sensation of hair sticking to his mouth and a sharp knee digging into his hip. It’s not remotely comfortable, but even groggy with sleep it brings an immediate smile to his face. Of all the little things he’s come to be comfortably accustomed to, his boyfriend twining around him without fail every night like some kind of heat-seeking vine is one of the most endearing.

He can’t check the time - his mobility is a tad compromised at the moment - but the strength of the sun streaming through the window tells him enough. He nuzzles into the sleep-tangled mess of hair in front of him.

“Jon.”

There’s a beat, followed by an unnatural stillness.

Martin huffs out a quiet laugh and kisses the top of Jon’s head. “I know you’re awake. We have to get up.”

The vine clings just a little bit tighter.

 “I know, but we’re going to see the flat at eleven, and then we told Georgie and Melanie we’d-”

He finds himself abruptly freed as Jon shoves away and flops over with a pained groan, dragging a pillow over his face.

“Can I have one day where I don’t have to interact with Melanie King?” comes the muffled complaint.

Martin rolls his eyes as he pushes himself into a sitting position. “You haven’t seen her in over a week.” He stifles a yawn and reaches for his phone.

“My previous record was a year.”

“You know, everyone knows you’re both just playing it up for the drama, at this point. You get along fine. I mean for you guys.” Martin yanks the pillow off of Jon’s face and tosses it aside. “Come  on, it’s already after nine.”

The look Jon gives him is nothing short of petulant. Martin snorts. Then he dips down to kiss his forehead before finally sliding out of bed.

“Well,  I’m  going to go shower. Love you.” He pauses halfway to the door, waiting.  “...I love you.”

An exasperated, drawn-out sigh and a warm, if grumbled, “...I love you, too” are eventually forthcoming, and Martin grins to himself. That’s been pretty nice to get used to, too. He goes to grab a fresh towel and lays one out for Jon while he’s at it. The fluffy yellow one.

When he comes back to the bedroom a short while later, Jon is propped up against the headboard, texting.

Martin moves around the room, collecting his clothes for the day. “Who’s that?”

Jon glances up at him before returning his eyes to the phone. He types out something and then sets it down on the nightstand. “Sasha. She’s found a new lead on the circus. At least she’s fairly certain.” He slings his legs over the side of the bed and finally gets up, stretching.

“Oh.” Martin pauses, one leg in his trousers. “Should we- do you need to go in..?”

“I-” Jon grimaces. “No. I asked, and she has a handle on it for now. Besides, she’s working from home. She forwarded me what she found.”

“If you’re sure.” Martin resumes getting dressed, watching Jon as he lays out his own clothes. It’s bothering him, Martin can tell; not going. But ever since they found out exactly what the institute  is,  they’ve been trying to make sure no one spends any more time there than strictly necessary. Doing what they need to do - right now, learning what they can about the Stranger - but staying connected to their lives outside.  Making lives outside.

It’s not perfect, and Martin hates every day that any one of them is stuck there, but it’s the best solution they’ve got for now. And it helps.

He fixes them both a quick breakfast while Jon showers, relieved to see that he comes out looking less distressed. They chat quietly about other things while they eat and Martin texts Georgie to confirm the time, and then they’re on their way.

“Good sized kitchen,” Martin points out. It’s easily twice the size of the one in their flat, with spacious countertops and a double sink. Jon has taken up cooking recreationally in the past few months - in the name of getting a hobby, at Martin’s and Georgie’s insistence, anything at all not related to work. They’ve both found that he’s really quite good at it, and finds it cathartic, besides.

Plus, it gets him to eat regularly without any extra trouble on Martin’s part, so it’s a win on all sides.

He wanders in after Martin, looking around. He nods, looking faintly pleased, but his mind is clearly elsewhere.

Martin frowns and takes an instinctive step towards him. “Everything alright?”

“Hm?” Jon blinks at him. “Oh. Oh, yes, just-” He averts his eyes, suddenly looking a bit sheepish. “I, er, I asked if they allow pets here. They do. Small ones.”

It takes Martin a second, but then his frown instantly morphs into a wide grin. “Are you asking me if we can get a cat?”

Now Jon definitely looks sheepish. He stares at the smooth countertop with studied concentration. Traces his fingers along the edge of it. “It’s not like we haven’t discussed it before. And- I know you get to spend a lot of time with the Admiral, since you started working more with Georgie-”

“Yes.”

This gets Jon to look up. He narrows his eyes. “Yes..?”

“Yes, Jon, we’ll get a cat,” Martin laughs. “It’ll be nice to have the extra company.”  And I think it would be good for you, he doesn’t say.

“Oh.” Jon smiles - one of those rare, bright, full smiles that Martin is still trying to find new ways to draw from him. He mentally files away ‘cats’ on his growing list. And then Jon quickly bites it back and stuffs his hands in his pockets, looking past Martin and out into the dining room.

“Good. I mean, I’m glad you’re on board. I think it- it could help.” He clears his throat. “So, this seems like a nice one. Ready to sign?”

Martin lets out a startled laugh. “We haven’t seen it all!”

Jon huffs irritably. He waves his hand vaguely at their surroundings. “It has a kitchen, an office for you, and enough room for our cat.”

“All the essentials.” Martin rolls his eyes. “Still, I’d like to at least check out the water pressure.”

“Right. Of course you would.”

“What’s that even supposed to  mean,  Jon?”

Jon levels him with a flat look as they leave the kitchen. “You are the pickiest man I’ve ever seen about your showers.”

Martin scoffs, half indignant, half amused, but refrains from taking this any further. If only for the sake of the poor lady showing them around.

Half an hour later he’s sat next to Jon on the tube on their way to Georgie’s new studio.

In the wake of learning about- well, everything, he and Melanie had decided they no longer had the stomach for in-person supernatural encounters, and so Melanie had handed over control of the channel to Andy and defected to Georgie’s podcast. They’re currently working on getting her own show running, and talking about taking on other projects. Georgie has taken Martin on as a regular guest, as well.

Today, she and Melanie are getting everything moved into the new space, and since Martin is off work - he’d also picked up a job at a bakery that opened recently - they’re going over to help out.

Jon is quiet and preoccupied next to him, and Martin takes the opportunity to study him. He watches him first read the email Sasha had sent him, and then settle back against his seat and gaze absently down the aisle. He looks- relaxed. Tired, careworn, but genuinely alright, all things considered. On impulse, Martin reaches out to take his hand. Jon startles and looks up, takes in Martin’s smile, and offers a small one of his own before lacing their fingers together.

Georgie is just getting back with an arm-full of donuts and coffee - one iced, extra sweet, extra un-coffee-like for Jon, as always - when they arrive at the studio.

Jon reaches for his drink, and she makes a scolding noise and steps back out of his reach, regarding both of them critically.

“And just where have you two been?”

“Sorry.” Jon tosses a sharp look at Martin.  “Someone  wanted to check the water pressure in the new flat.”

Martin makes an offended sound next to him, and Georgie rolls her eyes. “The nerve of him, right?” She shoves the box of donuts into Jon’s arms and - much more politely, he notices - hands Martin the coffees. “Come on, tell me about it while we work.”

Melanie is on a step ladder when they walk in, placing sound-proofing tiles. She twists around at the sound of the door opening and slumps against the wall. “Oh, thank god.”

She hops down from the ladder and makes a bee-line for Jon, taking the donuts from his arms and unceremoniously replacing them with a stack of foam tiles. “Here. You two be useful for a change. My back is killing me.”

“We’re only fifteen minutes late,” Jon grumbles.

“And I’ve been here working for forty-five,” Melanie snips back.

“Remind me when we mutually decided that you’d-”

 “Children,”  Martin warns lightly. He takes half the tiles from Jon and makes his way over to where Melanie had left off.

“Thank you, Martin,” Georgie calls over, long-suffering, from where she’s settled down on the floor to start unboxing equipment. “We cannot let those two get started.” To Jon and Melanie, “You know you’re just alike, right?”

“What can I say?” Melanie says, offhand. “You have a type.” She opens the box of donuts. Jon snatches one before she can stop him - more out of petulance, he admits, than actually wanting one - and hurries over to join Martin.

“So,” Georgie asks, “how was the flat?”

“Really nice!” Martin answers, brightening. Jon smiles at the enthusiasm in his voice. “It’s clean, has plenty of room, the second bedroom is perfect for that office I’ve been needing.  Beautiful  kitchen for Jon.”

“Great water pressure,” Jon adds, innocently enough.

“Would you-” Martin swears as one of the tiles falls and smacks him in the face. Jon catches it and hands it back to him before resuming placing his own. “-behave? Just because you don’t care if your showers- Anyway,  we like it! We’ll be moving in as soon as Jon’s lease is up.”

“About time,” Melanie says. She’s crouched down near Georgie and dragged another box over. “Now you guys can take a turn hosting game nights.”

“We’ve  offered,” Jon points out, waspish.

“Yeah, but no one wants to hang out in your dingy grandma flat all night. We’re trying to  keep everyone’s spirits up, remember?”

 “Melanie,” Georgie scolds, but Jon can hear the laughter in her voice. He regards her flatly before turning back to the wall. More seriously, she adds, “Congrats, you two. You’re getting your official first place together! It’s a big step.”

“Yeah, actually,” Melanie agrees. “Hosting benefits aside, we’re happy for you guys.”

Martin thanks her shyly, and Jon ducks his head and sets about lining up the next tile with determined precision. Warm contentment curls in his chest, and he can feel Martin’s eyes on him, followed by a gentle hand sliding across his back -- before it has to dart back up to catch another falling tile.

And so they get back to work, chatting idly about the new flat and then the studio and then plans for future podcast episodes.

Jon doesn’t say much, content to just listen to the friendly chatter. And he is. Content, that is. More than that, he thinks, considering for a moment; he’s happy.

It might seem absurd, considering.

He’s  happy. There was a long time in his life when he truly didn’t think he’d get to have any of this. And then he got it, and almost as quickly thought he’d have to watch it all be ripped away again.

But here they are. It’s not perfect, but they’re all working through it. And they’re closer than ever. Not just him and Martin, but- everyone. Tim and Sasha and him. Georgie. Melanie. They’re doing what they can with the circumstances they have, and they’re supporting each other and keeping each other grounded and it’s- more than Jon ever hoped for or thought he  should hope for, even without supernatural circumstances.

It’s good.

“Oh, sure,” Martin’s voice, bubbling with laughter, breaks into his thoughts. He’s talking to Georgie or Melanie, Jon didn’t hear. “Sure, let me just grab my phone and ring up all the  ghosts I know-”

Jon snorts, despite having lost track of the conversation a while ago. Martin beams down at him and it makes his chest tighten pleasantly.

Every moment like this means more to Jon than he can put into words. Someday he should try. But for now he just accepts a bundle of wires from Martin and crouches down to begin untangling them while that warmth curls up through his ribcage again and settles there.

Suddenly - or not, Jon’s lost track of things again - Melanie stands up. “Martin,” she says, “come help me with something upstairs?”

Jon looks up at hearing Martin addressed. Fixes his eyes on his face. Martin blinks and seems a bit taken aback. So it was sudden, then. But then he smiles and says, “Um, yeah, sure?” and turns to Jon. “Be back in a bit, I guess?”

“Uh- right, alright.” Jon accepts his quick hug and watches them leave, brow furrowed. He turns to Georgie with a question on his lips, but she’s got her back to him, steadily working at getting their equipment set up on the table.

He stands up to go join her, pulling up a chair across from her. “So…”

“So,” she agrees, not looking up. Not getting anything from her, then. He huffs in frustration and reaches for a box of- something. He’ll figure it out, he supposes.

They work together in companionable silence - a microphone, it turns out, that’s what he’d grabbed - until finally Georgie speaks up.

“Hey,” she says. “How are you doing, Jon? Really?”

Jon glances up at her, then returns his attention to the mic he’s fitting together. “I’m- good..? I’m good, actually. It’s-” He presses his lips together, thinking. “It’s better. It’s not easy, but, it’s better. Martin makes sure of that,” he laughs. “And… you, and everyone else. It’s not easy, keeping things balanced. But it helps.”

“Good.” After a beat, she reaches across and lays her hand on his forearm, giving it a quick squeeze. “I’m proud of you, Jon. I hope you know that. Not just for, you know. But everything else. I’m proud of you.”

The plastic base he’d been fitting goes skittering across the table. “I- I, erm-” He quickly retrieves it, keeping his eyes down. He nods once, stiffly, and resumes his work. “...Thank you, Georgie. That means a lot.” He tries to pretend not to notice the sudden emotion clogging his voice, and knows she’ll be kind enough to do the same.

He’s just had enough time to swallow back the feelings and no small embarrassment threatening to undo him, when Georgie clears her throat. He looks up to find her giving him a pointed, curious look. It makes him uneasy.

“On another note…” she begins, “...have you thought about it any more? The thing we talked about?”

...Unease is quickly replaced with bafflement. He scrunches his face at her. “The thing we-” And then it hits him. “Oh.  Oh.” He instantly drops his eyes back to the table, fidgeting with the mic stand. “I- well, yes. Yes, I’ve thought about it.” He sets the mic aside and drags over the next box.

“And?” She’s relentless.

“And what?” Jon’s fingers stop their fidgeting in favor of tapping an agitated rhythm against the tabletop. “I’ve thought about it. ...And decided that it’s probably a bad idea, considering.”

 “Jonathan.”

 “Georgina,”  he shoots back automatically. He raises his head again, fixing her with a serious look. “Look at us, Georgie- look at  me. Look at our lives. Not- not to mention it’s too soon. Everything else aside, it’s only been a year-”

“Since you made it official,” Georgie points out. “We all know you were a thing long before that. And you  lived together  before  that. If you’re hung up on doing things ‘right’, I’d say that ship has sailed, Jon.”

“That’s- fair,” Jon concedes, reluctant. “That’s fair. But the other things I mentioned-”

“What about them?”

When Jon raises an eyebrow at her, she amends, “Okay, I know it’s not something to just brush off. And that’s not what I’m trying to do, sorry.” She gives him a soft smile. “And I hope to god you guys find a way out of this mess. But for now, don’t hold yourself back from the good in your life while you’re trying to sort out the bad.”

Jon regards her a long moment, then rubs at the back of his neck; a nervous habit he’d picked up from Martin. He drops his hand back to the table with a sigh. “...Do you really think it’s a good idea?”

Georgie doesn’t hesitate. “Do you love him?”

“Of- of course. Yes.” He feels his cheeks warming traitorously. Even now, after all this time.

She nods, lips pursed. “And you really want this?”

“I think we’ve established that, Georgie.”

“And you think he’ll say yes?”

“God, I hope-” he cuts himself off when he catches her smug look. “...Point taken,” he grumbles. “Fine. I’ll- I’m going to do it. Soon.”

“Mhm.” Georgie stretches across the table for a loose adapter. Jon reaches it first and hands it to her. “I’m going to hold you to that. In your own time, of course. But it’s not  allowed to take another near-death experience, Jonathan, I  swear.”  She flicks a scrap of cardboard at him.

“Hey.” He knocks the cardboard off his shirt with a huff. Shakes his head. “...Thanks, Georgie. For-” he gestures vaguely at her. “All of it. All the time.”

She grins at him. “Love you, Jon.”

“You, too.” Then, desperate to change the subject, “You were, uh, talking about a new segment on the show..?”

She gives him a knowing look, but goes along with it. “Yeah, Martin helped come up with it, actually--”

“So, what’s new with you?” Melanie asks once they’re upstairs. She’d brought Martin up here to help rearrange the room, apparently? Table off to the side, filing cabinet moved to the other, that old desk sat by the door and ready for Georgie’s friend to come and pick it up.

Martin laughs. “Melanie, we talk almost every day.”

“About boring stuff,” she says, waving him off. “Here, get the other side.” She grabs onto the end of the table, and he moves to the other. “I want to know the good stuff. Life-changing plans. That sort of thing.”

“Um. Well.” Martin lifts the table on her count, and they carry it across the room and carefully set it down. “I don’t know, um, I’ve told you I’m going to uni next fall?.. If all goes well, I mean.”

Melanie nods as she crouches down to get a grip on a filing cabinet. “Right, good. What else?”

“Can I ask why I’m being interrogated?” Martin grabs the other side and they lift. He grunts in surprise; it’s a lot heavier than he’d expected.

“Excuse me-  Jesus, what’s in here, bricks?  - for wanting to know about my best friend’s life.”

Martin scoffs at that. “Best friend? Really?”

“Well, technically Georgie’s my best friend, yeah,” she amends. “But she’s got the girlfriend title now, so you’re promoted to best friend. Congratulations.”

“Good to know.” Martin rolls his eyes, but fondly. They get the cabinet moved and go for the desk. They’ve got it halfway across the room when Melanie continues:

“So..? You didn’t answer my question. Anything else? Getting married any time soon-  shit, Martin-!”

The desk slips with a violent crash, sending drawers flying open and loose papers cascading out across the floor. Martin freezes there, wide-eyed, face flaming. Then he flusters and springs into action, dropping to his knees and gathering up the spilled pages.

“Sorry, sorry, but-  what? Why would you ask that?”

Melanie kneels next to him, inspecting the desk for damage and replacing the drawers. “Because you guys are stupidly in love and practically married already?” She straightens up, dusting off her knees. “Desk is fine. No thanks to you.”

He stands too, slipping the papers back into the top drawer. “Well, what do you expect, Melanie? Springing a question like-  that  onto somebody.”

They get the desk successfully moved, and Melanie perches on the edge of it. “Have you guys talked about it any..?”

“Seriously?” Martin scrubs a hand over his still warm face. Props himself against the wall. “...Yeah? We have. A- a bit. In passing, like, not a serious sit-down conversation. But, erm, it’s something we both want, yeah.” He thinks. He  hopes.

His heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest, at least in part from the crash, but also…

Martin slips his hand reflexively into his pocket, fingers curling around the tiny box there. “Did, um,” he clears his throat. Fixes his face into something hopefully fairly neutral. “Did Jon say something, or..?”

“Not to me, and if he’d said something to Georgie I’d probably know about it, so…” Melanie shrugs and hops off the desk. “But that’s good-”

“I’m going to ask him,” Martin blurts out.

He notices Melanie still, then. She turns to him slowly, an odd expression on her face. “Ask him what, exactly..?”

“What were we just talking about?” Martin deadpans. “To... to marry me.” He feels a little laugh rising in his throat. “I’m going to propose to Jon.”

Melanie’s eyes go wide with something that looks like alarm. “Oh. Martin, I don’t-” She snaps her mouth shut.

Martin frowns. “You were  just on me about marrying the guy-”

“No, no, marry him, by all means.” Melanie waves her hands. “Just- you’re asking  him? You’re sure?”

“What’s  that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. You know? Never mind.” She smiles and pats him on the arm. “Good luck. Seriously. And I’d better be invited to the wedding.”

“Of course. And- thanks?” Martin watches her head back down the stairs with some consternation. He shakes it off and takes a moment to compose himself; smoothing out his clothes, making sure the box in his pocket isn’t too obvious. Forcing back the half giddy, half nervous smile that he feels dancing at the edges of his features.

Melanie hurries on ahead of him and back into the room where they’d left Jon and Georgie. Jon’s head snaps up when they walk in. He looks a touch flustered and wide-eyed himself. Martin tilts his head, questioning, but Jon simply gives him a tight smile and returns his attention to whatever he and Georgie were working on.

Okay. Cool.

Melanie strides over to Georgie’s spot by the table and slips an arm easily around her waist. “Help me with something upstairs?” she asks pointedly, leaning her head into Georgie’s shoulder.

“Wait,” Jon begins, glancing from her to Martin and back again, “didn’t you just-”

“Sure, let’s go.” Georgie drops a quick kiss to Melanie’s temple and they head for the stairs, both sending Martin an odd look as they go.

Martin watches them helplessly. “What the hell…” He turns back to Jon, who he finds is studying his face carefully. Of course. It sets his heart racing again.

“Is everything alright?” Jon asks.

“Hm? Yeah. Think so.” Martin casts one final baffled look towards the staircase before settling down in Georgie’s empty chair. More aware than ever of the little box pressing into his hip. He swallows his nerves and nudges Jon’s shin under the table with his foot. “So,” he says brightly. “What are we working on?”

Jon studies the board before him shrewdly. He’s got a clear shot at Tim’s capitol with the bulk of his infantry, but Melanie is coming up on his flank and he’d have to divide his forces if he wanted to keep his  own capitol guarded, weakening his chances at both. He internally curses himself for falling for Martin’s trap all those turns back; he could really use some ranged pieces right now.

It’s game night, just over two weeks later. Sasha is hosting this time, and they’re all huddled on the floor of her living room, surrounded by empty pizza boxes. Jon picks up a cavalry piece and hovers it above the board. He’s-

“Oh my  god,” Melanie breaks in. “For the record, if this was a real war? Your empire would be burned to the ground by now.”

-trying to take this seriously. He says as much. “I thought that was what you wanted?”

“Meaning ‘get off your phone and stop snarking the whole time’.” Melanie rolls her eyes. “Not turn into the world’s biggest board game nerd.”

Jon narrows his eyes at her. Then he sets his piece back down and sits back. “I skip my turn.”

“Are you serious? You’ve had me blocked in for  six turns, you prick-”

Tim bursts into loud laughter and claps Jon on the shoulder. “Don’t take it personally,” he tells Melanie. “He just knows one of us will kick his ass the second he makes a m- hey!”

While he was talking, Sasha had quietly taken her turn, and now his capitol is surrounded. She raises her eyebrows mildly. “Speaking of,” she says.

Martin snorts, and Jon makes eye contact with him across the board.

Twenty-six. That’s how many freckles Martin has on his face. He gets to know that, now. He has for a while, but he always re-counts, just in case.

Something warm and familiar passes between them and it makes Jon’s stomach swoop pleasantly.

“Guys, you’re doing it again,” Melanie intones. “Martin, your move.”

“Oh, right, right, sorry-” Martin flusters and hunches forward over the board, casting Jon a final shy glance before turning his attention to his pieces. Jon flusters too, and then even more so when he raises his eyes to catch Tim and Sasha exchanging a look.

“What?” he snaps.

“Just never get tired of this, that’s all,” Tim explains, disproportionately smug.

“Ew.” Melanie shakes her head. “I really don’t get you two.”

“Hey, you didn’t live through what we did,” Sasha points out. “Let us have our victory.”

“I had to deal with Martin and  his  pining.” Melanie’s turn comes up, and she glares at the board. “Still can’t fucking  move, Jon.”

Tim scoffs. “You’re going to try and tell us that  Martin pining is worse than Jon?”

“I’m right here, Tim,” Jon says irritably, flushed as he keeps his eyes firmly on the board.

Martin speaks up. “Honestly. And come on, guys, it’s been a year. Can we talk about something other than my love life? Ever?”

Melanie seconds that motion adamantly. Sasha rubs Martin’s arm companionably.

“We don’t mean to make it weird. It’s honestly just the most interesting thing going on in our lives right now.”

Now is Jon’s turn to scoff. “Do I need to remind you that we’re tracking a circus of supernatural clowns-”

Melanie and Martin both make a sharp, scolding noise. Jon flinches and whips his head up in alarm.

“Nope! Rule number one of game night,” Melanie says. “No clown talk.”

“Jon, we’ve talked about this,” Martin scolds. Tim is shaking his head in disgust.

Jon holds his hands up, placating. “Accident. It just- slipped out. Clown rule. I remember.”

It takes him a moment to realize the sound swelling in the room is Sasha, doubled over in hysterical giggles. Jon straightens up, concerned. “Sasha..?”

“Hold on,” she gasps, shaking with mirth. She sits up and leans into Martin’s side, swiping at her eyes. “Sorry,” she says, high and breathless. “It’s just that our lives are so  stupid-  we have to have a  clown rule--”

Tim promptly loses it next, and then Martin. Jon catches Melanie’s eye and they look at each other helplessly for a long moment before finally, reluctantly, letting the laughter catch them, too.

Eventually, they do manage to finish their game - Sasha wins, as usual, but Martin almost got her - and Melanie heads home. The others decide to put on a movie at Martin’s suggestion; no one quite ready to part ways yet.

“Sounds good,” Sasha says. “I’ve got some popcorn above the sink.”

“Great! I’ll go fix it,” Martin offers. He squeezes Jon’s knee before rising and heading into the kitchen. Jon watches him leave.

Tim stands up next, heading for the door. He’d grown quiet the last little while. “Be right back,” he says, cheerful as ever. “Just need some air.”

Jon hesitates. These past several months have been the hardest on Tim, out of all of them. He’d been down after the Prentiss attack, but then when they’d found out- everything, had learned about the Stranger, well. Jon shares a look with Sasha, biting his lip. Finally, he gives a mumbled, “I’ll, ah, I’ll be…” He waves at the door and gets up to follow Tim.

He finds him outside on the balcony, leaning on his elbows on the railing and staring out into the night, pensive. Jon joins him, mirroring his posture. Neither of them says anything for a long moment, until Jon tentatively breaks the silence.

“Are you- are you thinking about-”

“Yeah,” Tim bites out. He doesn’t look at Jon. “Never stop thinking about him, if I’m being honest.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say to that. He peeks over at Tim, faltering. Finally he reaches an awkward hand out and settles it on Tim’s shoulder. Tim tenses briefly, giving Jon a sharp glance, before relaxing and slinging an arm heavily around his back.

“What a mess, huh?” Tim asks. Jon assumes it’s rhetorical. “...Sasha referred me to her therapist,” Tim continues, after a blank. “The one she went to after Jane Prentiss. It helps. This-” He raises his arm from Jon’s back just long enough to gesture behind them, “-helps.”

“I’m glad,” Jon answers quietly. He means it. He really does.

Tim huffs out a humorless laugh, but the crooked smile he turns on Jon looks genuine, at least. “You know, you’ve got to start being more of a bastard again. You’re too soft these days, boss. I don’t know how to deal with you.”

Jon starts to pull away, a sharp retort on his tongue more for the sake of playing along than anything, when the door creaks open, flooding the balcony with light. They both turn around.

“Martin’s going to come looking for you guys,” Sasha warns, leaning out the door. “You know how serious he is about rule number two.”

“What’s that one again?” Tim asks.

“No brooding alone on the balcony,” Sasha says. At Jon’s skeptical look, she adds, "I know. But he’s your boyfriend, and they’re his rules. Take it up with him.”

“Won’t be necessary,” Tim says. He claps Jon on the back with a resounding thump. Jon coughs and glares at him. “We’re not alone, at any rate. So we’re free to go on brooding all we like.”

“You know I can hear you,” Martin calls lightly from inside the living room.

“Busted,” Sasha mumbles, sing-song. “Come on, popcorn’s ready.” She turns and heads back inside. Once they’re back in, Tim takes the armchair, and Sasha curls up on one end of the couch. Jon sinks down on the other end next to Martin, letting him pull him close to his side.

Martin smiles down at him, soft and concerned. “Hey. Alright?”

Jon lets his head fall back against Martin’s warm shoulder. He hums, affirmative. “Just talking.” Martin pulls him closer and passes him the bowl of popcorn.

When they get home late that night, while Martin is doing something or other in the kitchen before bed, Jon opens the bottom dresser drawer and peeks under the stack of old shirts he’s got stuffed in there. Checking on the tiny, plain box tucked away beneath them. The sight of it sends his pulse rocketing and he hurriedly replaces the shirts and slams the drawer shut, straightening up just as Martin enters the bedroom.

Martin gives him a bemused look. One that quickly turns to suspicion. “Jon, if you’ve got a tape recorder or a statement or something-”

“I  don’t,”  Jon insists, defensive. He wipes his damp palms on his pajamas. “I just, ah- thought I saw... something. A bug.”

“A bug.”

“Yep.”

And Martin doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he just shakes his head and climbs into bed. “Well, come on. It’s late. The ‘bugs’ can wait til morning.”

Jon starts to protest out of habit, but he’s cut off by a heavy yawn. “...Right.” He climbs in next to Martin, who wastes no time wrapping him in his arms.

“Christ, Jon, your heart’s pounding.” He sits up, brow furrowed in concern. “Was it a spider? Do you need me to get it?” He’s already half out of bed. Jon panics and shoots out his hand, latching onto Martin’s wrist.

“No!” It comes out far sharper than intended and he winces. “I mean- it’s- it wasn’t a spider. It’s fine. Let’s just rest.”

Martin hesitates a moment before sliding back into bed and turning off the lamp. Jon flops back against the pillow in relief. He’ll have to find another hiding spot. That or go ahead and ask the damned question. To his dismay, that sets his pulse racing even faster. He twists around in Martin’s arms, curling against him in a way that hopefully will make it less noticeable. Martin makes a surprised little sound and slides a hand into his hair. Murmurs some quiet endearment.

 Good, Jon thinks. Crisis averted. Good.

He’ll have to do something about this.

 Soon.

Martin rocks on his heels as the last customer meanders out of the shop. Honestly, it’s what? Fifteen steps to the door? How are they still here? His eyes flick anxiously from the clock to the street outside, stomach flipping every time someone passes by the door or so much as glances at the window.

Finally,  finally, the world champion of the leisurely pace pushes the door open and steps out into the street, and Martin rushes out from behind the counter and turns the lock and draws the blinds before anyone else can get a craving for last minute pistachio muffins.

He sweeps up and wipes down the counters with such haste that he actually breaks a sweat. Then he counts the money, locks the register, and bolts for the backdoor, yanking his apron off and flinging it over his shoulder with a flourish of relief and frantic energy.

They moved into their new flat today; Jon should already be there, getting things unpacked. And Martin definitely wants to hurry home to help him, and also just to enjoy the experience of moving into their first real place together.

But that’s not why his throat is so dry and his hair is disheveled beyond all hope from him running his shaking hands through it every couple minutes.

A little jolt of fear hits him - unfounded, for at least the hundredth time today - and he shoves his hand in his pocket. As soon as his fingers touch the box, he lets out a long gust of a sigh and sinks back against his seat.

Tonight’s the night. He’s got it all planned out; later on, he’ll suggest they take a break from packing, that Jon go and have a shower or something. While he’s gone, Martin will lay out a blanket and some pastries he’s brought with him from the shop. Dig out that bottle of wine he’s got stowed away. Light some candles.

And there on the floor of their new home, surrounded by boxes and the clutter of their shared life, he’ll ask the man he loves more than that life itself to marry him.

His skin prickles hot and cold in turns.

Perfect. Can’t go wrong. His foot bounces an anxious rhythm on the floor of the cab - habit he’s picked up from Jon - and he forcefully stills it. Curls his hands into tight fists on his lap.

It  won’t go wrong.

He bites his lip.

It  won’t.

...So far, everything that could possibly go wrong has done so with reckless abandon.

Martin had arrived at the front door of their flat to the sound of a muffled curse. He’d broken into a sprint and flung the door open to find Jon standing in the middle of the hall, glaring with deepest offense at a spilled box of shattered plates.

And things had only gone downhill from there.

Somehow, an entire box of clothes had been misplaced in the move. Martin had rushed back to their old flat to look for it, praying to anyone who might be listening that the door would be unlocked. His prayers, of course, had gone unanswered.

He’d managed to hunt down the landlord and beg him to come down and open it, only to find that the clothes weren’t even there. Arrived back to the new flat an hour later to Jon having broken a lamp - “What the hell are you  doing  while I’m gone?” he’d demanded. Jon had snapped back in defense and muttered something that Martin swore  better not be about a bloody spider -  and suddenly, to top it all off, the water pressure was  terrible.

And then, he realizes, once things have finally calmed down enough to make it noticeable - Jon is acting… weird.

At first, Martin feels a twinge of guilt, thinking it must be because he’d snapped at him. But Jon briskly waves off his apology, and besides; he doesn’t seem upset. Just-  weird.

Martin watches him closely while they work; takes in his agitated, jerky movements and his tight, skittish expression. For an awful moment, it takes him back to the days after they’d found out about Gertrude Robinson -  god - and his imagination has a great time supplying him with new developments.

“Um… how was your day?” he ventures, studying Jon’s face from across a large box of books.

Jon startles and looks up at him, wide-eyed. “Oh. Oh- uh, fine. It was fine. Uneventful.” He taps his fingers against his thigh. “Yours?”

“Long,” Martin says, frowning; not really hearing his own answer. Jon nods and resumes sorting through the books in front of him. There’s a faint flush to his cheeks, Martin notices. He reaches across and lays a hand to Jon’s forehead.

Jon blinks at him.

“Are you sick? Please tell me if you’re getting sick.”

“...No…” Jon leans back out of his reach and sets another book aside. “Am I supposed to be?” The flush is creeping down his neck now, and he’s almost definitely avoiding Martin’s eyes.

“...Right. No, no that’s… good. Just checking.” Martin watches him a moment longer and then gets up to grab another box. The box in his pocket jabs into his thigh despondently. Things could still turn around. Just a stressful start. But things could turn around.

And they do, for a little while.

Jon is still acting a bit- off, but as the evening wears he and Martin at least fall into comfortable conversation over sorting through knick-knacks and cutlery. Martin will talk to maintenance in the morning about the water, tomorrow evening they’ll get their bed frame put together, maybe next week sometime they can go furniture shopping. Sasha’s lead on the circus didn’t really go anywhere, but Tim found something in the library that might be helpful. She’s looking for another job, too; they can’t leave the institute, but she’d like to get something else part-time just to broaden her environment.

And social circle, Jon had added with a touch of disdain, as if he couldn’t imagine her needing anyone else but them.

 Good for her, Martin had thought, sagely.

It’s not perfect - hell, it’s  moving, of course it’s not going to be perfect, who is he kidding - but it’s finally turning a bit more pleasant and Martin’s heart flips when he thinks that his plan might still be salvageable.

“I’m still thinking about studying literature,” Martin is saying, carefully lining a bookshelf up with the wall. “But then there are so many  kinds of literature. Do I just go for a general degree, or do I specialize in- in eighteenth century bee-keeping sonnets?”

“Do you like eighteenth century bee-keeping sonnets?” Jon asks, sounding distracted, handing him a stack of books.

Martin takes them and starts slotting them onto one of the shelves. “It was just an example, Jon. Point is-”

It all happens so fast.

First, there’s a crack and a crash as one of the shelves buckles and sends the books sliding and tumbling to the floor. Then the entire bookshelf falls forward, sending more books cascading to the floor and Martin staggering back out of the way, taking Jon with him.

They stumble over  something  and topple onto a box of something else - clothes, by the feel of it, thank  god - as the bookshelf lands heavily on top of another box, which contained something considerably less soft, judging by the shattering sound.

Martin scrambles to sit up, dragging Jon up with him, checking him over. “Shit-  are you alright? Did I land on you, or-”

 “-fine-” Jon is saying, brushing himself off and looking thankfully more like a disgruntled cat than like he’s actually hurt in any way. “I’m fine, Martin. ...Are you?”

And that’s- ha. That’s quite a question, isn’t it. Martin says something he’s sure is vaguely affirmative and turns back to the disaster in front of them. Yeah. He slumps forward and puts his face in his hands. Yeah, he might as well call this one a day.

He says as much- not about his… plans, obviously, but about the unpacking, but Jon doesn’t seem to hear him. Martin turns back to him, and flinches back when he finds Jon’s eyes fixed on him with startling intensity. That flush is back to his cheeks, and his mouth is set in a firm line.

A chill slides down Martin’s spine and the worry from earlier squirms its way back into his chest.

“Uh. Jon? Is everything-”

“Let’s get married.”

The words come out in such a rush that it takes Martin a full six seconds for them to really register. And then he chokes.

“Wh- Jon, that’s- what are you-” he sputters, coughs, composes himself. “I mean, yeah, yeah, you mean- why are we talking about this now? ” His voice is high and cracking with nerves, and he has to force his hand to not dart reflexively to his pocket.

Jon is shaking his head, scowling and looking flustered and frustrated. The entire disaster playing out aside, it’s adorable, and it’s all Martin can do to keep from kissing the frown off his face.

“I’m not- I’m not trying to  talk about it,  Martin, I’m-” He takes a shaky breath, and Martin feels his thoughts grind to another screeching halt when he reaches into  his pocket and-

Jon presents him with a tiny, battered box, tied in purple ribbon. He watches transfixed as Jon unties it with trembling fingers, nearly dropping it, and pulls the lid off to reveal a simple ring.

“I’m- I’m  asking,  Martin.” And Martin almost laughs - only Jon could sound so put out and irritable while bloody-  proposing. Because that’s what this is.

It hits him square in the chest. That’s what this is.

 “Are you fucking kidding me?” he blurts.

Which he realizes too late is probably not the best response, because Jon winces and immediately drops his gaze. “I- I know the timing isn’t the best, and I know it’s too soon, but when have we ever done anything  right- that’s not what I mean, that didn’t-”

Shit. Martin hurries and reaches out, closing his hands over Jon’s fluttering ones and the little box nestled in them. “No! No, that’s not, I’m not saying-”

“And I know our situation isn’t ideal, I mean in light of recent developments-”

 Shit. Martin gives him a little shake. “Jon, oh my god, no, that’s not what I meant, if you would just shut up for a second-”

“-I thought it would be- romantic, doing it here, I was going to light  candles,  but-”

Martin finally startles him into silence with a bark of laughter. “Oh my god.” At Jon’s offended look, he squeezes his hands. “Sorry, sorry, just- god.  I was going to light candles.”

Jon’s miffed expression morphs into confusion. “You were…” Then understanding. His hands go slack in Martin’s grasp. “Oh.  Oh, you mean you were…”

“Hang on-” Martin lets him go and reaches into his pocket, pulling out an equally battered little velvet box. His hands are surprisingly unshaky as he flips it open, revealing the ring inside. “I had a whole thing planned,” he explains in a rush. “Blanket, wine, candles…” He runs a hand through his hair. “Christ, Jon, I’ve been sick over it all day.”

“Ah.” Jon’s cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink as he stares at the ring, then back up at Martin. “Ah,” he says again. “Sorry. For, er, ruining your plans, I suppose..?”

“No, no it’s, it’s alright, Jon,” Martin breathes out. He should say something else, definitely; they both just  proposed, he can’t just sit here, but he’s admittedly a bit shell-shocked. And Jon looks so beautiful right now, flushed and shy and just as lost as Martin.

“...You could still ask,” Jon says tentatively, at last.

“What?”

“Since I got my turn,” Jon explains. He stares down at his lap, hand curled around the box. “You could- still ask. If you wanted. So I don’t entirely rob you.” His lips curve in a rueful smile.

Martin snorts and shakes his head, endeared. “You didn’t  rob me, Jon.” But… “But, yeah, alright.” He clears his throat and sits up a bit straighter. Reaches out and takes Jon’s free hand gently in his. Jon looks up at him, so soft that it hurts.

“Jon Sims,” Martin begins. His heart is hammering in his throat and all of the words he’d had planned, all of the grand affirmations and poetic declarations, have fled him entirely. But that’s okay.

“Marry me? Please?”

“Alright,” Jon says. It’s just a single word, but the look on his face tells Martin that he’d had plenty of his own flee him, too.

And here in their new home with its shit water pressure, surrounded by the considerably more worse-for-wear clutter of their shared life, Martin sweeps the man he loves more than words can express into his arms and kisses him soundly.

He may be crying just a bit when Jon finally pulls back with a muffled sound. Martin wipes at his eyes, peering at him. “Alright?”

“...Yes.” Jon’s own eyes look suspiciously damp and he drops them to the little box that’s fallen into his lap. Martin sees him press his lips together. Pluck at the hem of his shirt. Finally he looks up again, a sheepish expression flitting over his face. “You, ah… you didn’t answer me.”

Martin smiles at him - he can’t help it. Not right now. “Hm?”

Jon wets his lips. “My- question. I answered yours, but you never answered mine.”

“--Right, right, sorry. Guess I didn’t,” Martin laughs. And god, he loves this man. “Yes, Jon. I’ll marry you.”

“Thank you,” Jon says primly. And he scoots forward and presses himself decidedly back into Martin’s arms.