The Weekend Arrangement

The Long Reach of Your Shadows

Jon wasn't sure he'd ever been as comfortable in his own skin before. Everything seemed easier now that Martin was moving in. Even things that used to set his teeth on edge and leave him feeling harangued and surly have suddenly become much easier to manage.

Rarely found upstairs in the wider building of The Institute, too concerned with hiding away in his dusty Archives; Jon had been getting ample practice in 'being lovely' as people from far flung departments continued to find flimsy reasons to visit the basement department for a morsel of gossip.

He isn't sure if it's the additional sleep, or just the chance to praise Martin effusively, but Jon doesn't mind the intrusions nearly as much as he used to. He's finding he doesn't mind quite a lot of things as much as he used to- so many of the daily irritations that used to set him off are much easier for him to brush to the side.

Now, there were boxes scattered throughout the townhouse. Martin's things were steadily making their way here as they knit their lives together; and most nights they were together in person. Nights they were apart, Martin would pack some boxes, so he could bring a few with him to work and then haul them along on the walk home. Home. Their home soon enough.

In just two weeks they'd make the final push to bring the last remaining boxes and what furniture Martin wanted to keep. Just two more weeks; just to the end of the month- and then, never another lonely sleepless night. The first week, they had tried staying together- Jon heading with Martin out to Stockwell; but Martin found that concentrating on a dull task like packing became near impossible with Jon around- so they had come to the decision that a split week schedule was going to be the only way Martin would ever get anything packed.

Tonight was a chance for Martin to pack some more and Jon had plans to unpack one or two of the boxes that had already made their way into the townhouse. When he came across the carton of jumpers, Jon decided there was no good reason not to wear one for the evening.

Martin often laughs about Jon's insistence on wearing his sweaters, but never makes any moves to take them back. They were warmer than Jon's own jumpers; and Martin would relinquish them without a fight. It's a small thing really- just a sweater, but the small things Martin regularly and unthinkingly does have added up into something overwhelming. The tea that is always right, the soft kisses and tightened holds when Jon would wake from a nightmare, the way he could disrupt even Jon's worst spirals with gentle words- just being with Martin has made Jon feel more normal and secure than he maybe ever has in his life and he relishes it.

Jon settles into his solitary evening while he putters around the kitchen making himself a small, simple dinner. He expects a call from Martin later; and his phone is charging in the bedroom. Those calls always start as a quick ring to ask about an item for packing or just to say goodnight, but tend to devolve rapidly into low whispers and sordid promises for the next evening they are together. Jon likes to be lying in bed wrapped in one of Martin's jumpers while they murmur filthy things to each other.

It's early still, plenty of time to eat something and get some unpacking done before retreating to their bedroom and waiting for his call. Jon gets a little thrill every time he thinks of it as their bedroom in their house.

Jon is shocked when a hand wraps around his waist bringing him roughly back. A second too late Jon's brain registers that hand- that long fingered clutching hand was yanking up his jumper and bringing him backwards into a body that was hard and angled and not at all the soft firmness of Martin's chest. Before he can scream another hand claps over his mouth. Memories long suppressed all flood back, and it's hard to breathe around the gag. Jon can taste sour sweat on the palm clamped tight against his face. There's a whisper at his ear, low and menacing and full of barely concealed rage.