The Weekend Arrangement

Lay Your Troubles Down, Dearest

The small room behind Jon's office has never felt so oppressive. The ceiling-high shelving seems to loom threateningly and the wheezing of the air exchange sounds like a dying breath. The cot, which had served admirably as a makeshift bed for a nap or a clandestine rendezvous now just seems hard and cramped, the blanket a flimsy and musty covering.

Martin needs to get Jon out of here. Needs to get him somewhere comfortable- comforting. Someplace softer than here, and definitely someplace warmer than the cold, dry basement air of the Archives. Jon is shivering hard enough for the chatter of his teeth to be heard and the little he has said has been in quiet whispers and uncertain murmurs.

There wasn't anything to gather in the office, Jon had fled with practically nothing. The jumper he's in is terribly worse for wear now, Jon had been nervously picking at loose threads and pulling his arms inside for whatever warmth he could glean from it the entire time he had barricaded himself in the office. If Martin noticed it was his sweater Jon had been worrying to pieces he hasn't mentioned it. Jon had tried to refuse Martin on his insistence on giving him the jumper off his back, but even though it would leave him in just a thin tee- Martin was having none of it.

"Martin, it's so c-cold. Y-you'll need...I- I don't need two sweaters."

"You're shaking. I'll be fine; I'm more worried about you, love- let's try and get you a little warmer and more comfortable, okay?"

So Jon had yielded easily- he was far too tired to fight, and having Martin fret over him was soothing in its own right. Jon was even further mollified when Martin handed him his butter knife back. He's wary of going back to the place that had been so brutally invaded; but knowing Martin was going with him helps, and hearing Martin confirm with Tim that no one else had come near the house sets him a little further at ease. He doesn't want to stay here, not in this dim, chilly room behind his office but every door closer to the outside causes Jon to baulk and seize up a little. Martin doesn't push or seem frustrated, he just stops and squeezes Jon's hand lightly until he feels ready to move forward.

Eventually they make it to the door leading out onto the street and Jon takes a deep breath, clutches his little knife and Martin's hand tighter and heads out towards Kensington.

If the cab driver was at all curious about picking up two pyjama clad men; one brandishing a butter knife like a tiny sword, he doesn't say anything to them. Neither Martin nor Jon probably would have even noticed if he had; they spent the ride cautiously scanning the streets leading to the townhouse for any signs of Michael and holding hands tightly.

He's gone, probably gone, almost certainly far away from the area by now, it's been hours- but this sort of invasion is not something that either is willing to take lightly. Martin isn't at all sure how much the ride cost or how much he had handed to the driver- he was too nervously scrutinising the area around the front door to pay any heed to it, but the man seemed pleased enough and drove off.

Once they were alone in front of the townhouse, Martin wraps an arm around Jon to usher him up the steps carefully, head craning around looking for any signs of an intruder; and Jon has the delirious thought that this must be what it's like to be the Prime Minister, constantly surrounded by protective, watching eyes.

There's a bit of a fumble at the door, Martin seems unwilling to let Jon go as he searches for the newest key on his ring to let them inside. Once he has it located, they still can't get in as the security chain has been engaged, and Martin has to press his face against the small gap to call into the house.

"Tim. Tim! It's us, I've got Jon- I need to get him inside."

It's only another few seconds before they hear the chain being slid out of its home and the door is flung open to reveal a tormented looking Tim gripping the handle of a child's cricket bat. Jon vaguely remembered it- his grandmother had tried unsuccessfully to get him involved in sports as a youth, she had thought if he would only run around outside with other children it might curb his propensity for wandering. The sports never took, but the bat had remained tucked away in the downstairs closet.