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Jonathan Sims is many things, but affectionate is usually not one of them. Martin is starting to realize however, as their night drags on in the best way possible, he gets a little hopeless when he does not have all of his faculties about him.
The first sign of this comes when they all go out for drinks after a very long day in the archives. Jon has, apparently, been joining Daisy, Basira, and Melanie on these trips in his absence, and while the thought burns just a bit it is incredibly nice to see him in an element that is not back (and mind) breaking work. He is still Jon though, so even though he has become much more kind in the past couple of years he is still something of a bastard.
Daisy plies him with drinks until that is no longer the case.
She seems to know what he likes and asks him without pressuring him if he wants more of it whenever she gets up to go to the bar. After a point, Jon lets out a light laugh at some ridiculous joke or other that Basira makes, and Daisy says, “Oh, Nice Jon is back,” to joking cheers from the other two.
Martin is utterly confused for a bit, until he realizes how relaxed Jon has become with them all. He knows he doesn’t drink often – they have talked about it before – so Martin has never seen the side of Jon that laughs a bit more freely and lets himself smile at those around him.
Daisy gives him one more drink, telling him with stern finger wag that it is his last, and he rolls his eyes with something like an affectionate grin as he sips on it.
After this, Martin watches his former boss and long-time love interest slowly develop into a completely sappy mess. He’s still something of a bastard when he talks to them – of course he is, it’s Jon – but it is much more teasing than anything Martin has ever heard from him. Slowly, he begins to tilt on the bench in Martin’s direction. He’s sure Jon doesn’t know he’s doing it, that he’s taking tipsy as literally as he possibly can, but Martin sits as still as he can until Jon turns to grin up at something funny he’s said, and the look of absolute affection in his eyes throws every thought he has ever had right out the door.
“Martin,” Jon says seriously, blinking so slowly it seems like he forgot for a moment how to open his eyes, “Martin you are so important to this group. You’ve done so much to help us and to protect all of us. Do you know, Martin? Do you understand?”
He’s caught by surprise as words trip over themselves on his tongue, and the sound of giggling draws Martin’s attention to the three women at the table with him, three different knowing smiles directed right at him. When he is finally able to untangle his tongue, he quietly responds, “Thank you, Jon.”
“I’m so mean to you,” Jon continues, then laughs and gives Daisy a significant look. She returns it, and Martin is left wondering what on Earth is happening, and why she seems to know what nonsense Jon is saying. “But you are great. I think you’re great. You’re swell, Martin. Very dashing. Keep that in mind when Hyde comes back out, will you?”
“I- I will?” He seems satisfied, turning to take a long drink of the water Daisy has ordered him, and Martin turns to the women and gives them all a wild look.
“Let me introduce you to three drinks Jon. He gets very lovey-dovey once you get something in his system to distract him from all of his repression.” Daisy’s eyes are shining with secrets that Martin wants to beg her to tell him, but he refrains and just nods as though he knows what she’s talking about. A heavy weight on his shoulder tells him that Jon has given up trying to sit up straight and is using him to rest his head on. Martin steadfastly refuses to look as he downs his soda and tries to focus on the haunting that Melanie is telling the group of them about.
Jon lets Martin walk him home, significantly more sober than he was earlier after about an hour of drinking water and eating whatever bread or fries that Daisy and Martin push his way. The cold night air seems to shock him to a further level of sobriety as well until he is just tired and out of it enough that he is still clinging to Martin’s arm.
It’s all a whole lot to deal with.
When Jon is safely inside and set up with a hangover cure for the morning and the coziest pajamas that Martin could find, he is about ready to collapse. The entire walk to Jon’s flat was seasoned with long bouts of silence followed by sudden outbursts of affection, either in the form of Jon reaching up to touch Martin’s face or flurries of compliments. Martin could have sworn he hear Jon mumble something about his being strong enough to just lift Jon up and carry him away.
(That is true, Jon is a whisper of a man and Martin could easily sweep him off his feet. The thought nearly makes his knees buckle, and he has to catch himself before he lets Jon fall.)
All this to say that Martin is thoroughly exhausted by the end of it. He really doesn’t mean to falls asleep slouched on Jon’s couch, he just needed to sit down and gather his thoughts for a moment. He lets his eyes slip closed for a second, and when he opens them it’s to Jon stumbling through the living room, one hand held up to protect himself from the cruel rays of sun glaring through the window. Martin shifts and startles him so badly he trips over his own heel and is left staring, red in the face at the unexpected man on the couch.
Breakfast is rushed and full of apologies and void of eye contact. Martin goes home without saying more than three words to Jon, or hearing as many back.
Neither of them speak about it and the night is forgotten. (Or, in Martin’s case, shoved deep, deep into the back of his mind.) Martin has actually done a fair job of repressing it altogether, if you don’t count the times when he and Jon’s eyes meet, or their skin makes contact in any way, or in an instance like tonight, where they’re bodily pressed together on Daisy and Basira’s couch, pretending to concentrate on some movie or other that Melanie picked out.
As the night drags on, Martin notices Jon’s mood make subtle shifts. It comes in stages: first he gets very quiet, all of the annoyed commentary about the movie fades away and Martin notices his eyes became lidded as he starts to fade; he’s grumpy next, moreso than usual and in slow way that Martin feels hard-pressed not to find cute. He gets a bit whiny after a couple of hours, and then quiets down again, and Martin realizes that Jon has not moved away from where he had begun leaning heavily into Martin’s side. As a test, he shifts casually away and is met with a small noise of protest as Jon follows him, half asleep by now and looking ready to drop off at any time as he buries his head in Martin’s shoulder.
Melanie pops her movie out of the DVD player and they all begin to have quiet discussions about it, poking fun at Melanie for her cheesy taste in action movies and talking about how much better of movie it could have been had the creators had an ounce of respect for women. Throughout it all, Martin stays as perfectly still as he possibly can. Even after they all head off to their predesignated beds (Basira and Daisy to their own bedroom, since it is their flat, and Melanie into a door that has appeared at the end of the hall), even when Daisy gives them a very significant once over and smirk before letting her partner drag her away.
In the bravest move he has ever made in his life, Martin carefully lifts his arm, and Jon immediately burrows under it, allowing Martin to carefully put it around his shoulders. “Jon,” he whispers helplessly. Without the women in the room making their own little noises, the name seems impossibly loud and meaningful. The Archivist does not react. “Jon, we should probably go lay down.” He still doesn’t respond except to hide his face as though it will block out the sound of reason. Martin huffs a laugh and marvels a bit at how incredibly open Jon suddenly is as he mumbles sleepily and clicks his teeth together lightly.
Even as his snores fill the quiet living room, Martin is unable to move, completely in awe of the man in his arms. He remembers last time, however, and the pain in his neck and his back when he slept upright on Jon’s couch. Laying down might not be too much better, but if he can toss the cushions lining the back of the couch to the floor, there will be enough room for the two of them to sleep side by side. Martin attempts to lay Jon down and shift away to give him his space, but Jon suddenly wraps both arms and legs around Martin, and he happily gives in to the reality that he won’t be going anywhere tonight.
This time, when he wakes up, it’s to two round brown eyes staring inches away from his own. He manages to pry his eyes open to explain why he and Jon are crowded together on the couch, but he only sees Jon’s look of wonder wipe from his face, and then Jon is gone with a yelp and a harsh thud.
Martin peeks over the edge of the couch to see him on the floor, rubbing his heel. The rest of his fall was broken by pillows haphazardly thrown between them and the end table. He can’t help the laughter that bubbles passed his lips, which only increases when Jon turns an affronted look on him. He’s only indignant for the moment it takes him to take in the situation again before he averts his eyes and goes red all of the way to the tips of his ears.
Not before Martin catches his gaze lingering on his hair, which is no doubt a wild mess.
“Sorry, Jon,” he manages after a moment. “We fell asleep after the movie. I tried to move somewhere else, I swear I just…ah, couldn’t?”
Before he can try to explain further, Jon holds up a hand, rubbing the bridge of his nose with the other. “I’m well aware of my sleeping habits, Martin. Georgie used to- Well, anyways. I’m sorry that I, er…”
Martin quickly waves his hands in the air as if to erase Jon’s apology, “Oh, it was no bother! I honestly don’t mind, it was just, um… Well… It’s alright, Jon.”
Jon makes some awkward, breathy noises before he finally lets out a little laugh and shakes his head, “If you say so,” he says, pushing himself off of the floor and back beside Martin on the couch. “Do you, ah, where would you like me to sleep?”
Were he any more coherent than he was, Martin may have given Jon a real answer. Were he in his right mind, he probably would have done anything other than scoot back against the backboard of the couch and open his arms, waving them lightly until Jon quirks a small smile and lays back down against his chest, burying his face in Martin’s shirt and taking a deep breath.
Once again, they don’t talk about it, and Martin is starting to think that they should. Maybe it isn’t as big of a deal as he is making it in his head, but it feels significant that Jon, who does not warm up to anyone, has shown him this side of him two separate times. Still, he doesn’t want to bring it up and scare Jon off, so he keeps quiet.
Seeing Jon laying in the floor of the Archives hallway, barely able to hold onto his own consciousness? It’s making Martin regret not doing a whole lot of things.
Basira is on the phone with a 999 operator, Daisy and Melanie are still somewhere in Helen’s corridors trying to hunt down and destroy the last follower of the Lightless Flame that had done this to Jon. They weren’t even a very important member, which seems to be what really gets Jon if his grumbling is anything to go by. Jude had made her retreat with those who listened to her and left behind two or three members who thought themselves too important to follow her directions.
It’s more difficult than he had ever imagined, trying to dam the wound in Jon’s side with his hands as he whines and squirms away – and given their line of work, Martin has imagined this moment many, many times.
“He stabbed me,” Jon grumbles when he finally quits moving and making everything worse. “He worships a god that’s all about fire and he couldn’t think of anything more original or fire-themed than a knife?”
“Jon,” Martin chokes on a sob that comes out as a hysterical laugh, “If the last words you say are whining about the fact that you died because someone couldn’t think of anything more creative to gut you with than a knife…I am going to affiliate myself with some other power that will allow me to bring you back just so that I can kill you again myself.”
Jon’s laugh is wet, and Martin has to force himself not to look up to see the blood dripping from his lips. “You’re right,” his breathing is a bit more labored, and Martin vaguely hears Basira telling him how close the ambulance is. “I had things that I wanted to…to say to you before I left. I thought I would be able to do it before the literal last second, but we all know how good I am at, er, confrontation.”
“Jon, please just-“
“Martin, I have to tell you,” he gives a considering look to the ground for a moment, “It may actually be incredibly selfish of me, but I want you to know how much I care about you before I die. You need to know how much you matter.”
“You can tell me this when you’re not bleeding out, Jon, you need to-“ Martin cuts himself off this time when Jon gives him a look that says what they are both thinking. There’s no guarantee he has enough luck to survive yet another near death experience.
“You are important to this team, and you are incredibly important to me. I haven’t… You know that I don’t understand my own feelings half of the time, let alone the ones of those around me. I am so inept at being able to tell what something means and how to go about acting on it. But I know exactly what I feel for you, and I’ve known it for a long time,” he lets out another chuckle, and Martin holds in another sob as his voice grows weaker, “That is absolutely not to say that I figured it out right away. The point is, Martin, that I don’t think I will ever have another opportunity to tell you this, and I want to actually take this one this time. I love you, Martin Blackwood.”
The words make Martin’s heart stop, even as he feels Basira tugging him way from Jon’s wound, notices that his grip had slipped and the EMTs are taking over the job of keeping Jon alive. He still doesn’t stop talking, doesn’t break eye contact with Martin as if he isn’t aware of the others around him. If Martin didn’t recognize the glint in his eye that meant he was Beholding, he would be much more concerned.
“I know I’m not someone who is easy to love, and I don’t expect it to be returned. I just wanted you to know, because it’s true.”
It would be a much more embarrassing situation if Martin had any more situational awareness outside of the never ending chant in his head saying friends in danger, Jon in danger, friends in danger, Jon in danger. Instead of feeling embarrassed, Martin clings to Jon’s voice as he is ushered past.
Basira is shaking him by the shoulder, and he comes back to himself to see her giving him a stern look. Right. He can’t check out now, that’s completely unfair to the people who need him. Jon is in safe hands.
The two of them busy themselves with destroying whatever ritually important object Jon and Daisy had swiped from the Lightless Flame’s church. Most of the briefing before the heist had gone over Martin’s head – he’d discussed it with Melanie after and they had come to the conclusion that a lot of what Jon says doesn’t make sense to anyone but him and sometimes Basira. They assume it has something to do with the Eye giving him information the rest of them just don’t have, but it has always been a bit hard to follow Jon’s line of logic.
The object in question is simple, at least, it just looks like a little metal lighter, completely covered in intricately carvings. From the way that the people who invaded their archives to get it back were acting, it was something very important and very difficult for them to make. Even the process to destroy it seemed unnecessary – not that Martin was planning on taking any chances – and involved disassembling each piece and tossing them into the coffin at intervals just far enough apart that they should remain separate. Before they’re even done, the two of them hear a creaking door followed by heavy footsteps and the sound of Daisy calling out Basira’s name. Basira drops a handful of lighter pieces into the coffin and runs towards her wife’s voice without hesitation, leaving Martin behind to slide the lid closed and trail behind.
The two women throw themselves into each others arms and hold one another as tightly as they can for a long while before separating to check each other over. Daisy pauses and trails her hands down Basira’s side and hand, where Jon’s blood still stains her skin. Basira shakes her head and explains to the other two what happened after they left, how Jon was taken away in an ambulance, how they’ve disposed of the lighter. In return, Helen makes herself known with a wide smile and tells them how they disposed of the man responsible for sending Jon to the hospital.
Despite himself, Martin feels a little thrill of justice.
When Daisy and Basira are finished smothering one another, four pairs of eyes turn to Martin (Or five pairs, depending the angle that you look at her or how long you can last before you look away.) He didn’t have to be Jon to know exactly what they were thinking, the pity practically radiated off of every one of them. “Alright, Daisy’s arm looks like it needs looking after, who feels like driving to the hospital.”
Helen wordlessly appears another door in the hallway with a needless flourish of her arm and tilts her head to direct a crooked (probably) grin at Martin. He nods and steps through it, ignoring the cautious way they stick close to their partners, as if him losing Jon reminded them how quickly anything can happen.
It’s hours before Jon wakes up, maybe even a full day, but Martin has been falling in and out of sleep at the edge of his bed for so long that the passage of time means nothing to him. It has been a long ass day, and he could barely keep his eyes open from the moment that he sank into the uncomfortable arm chair beside Jon’s bed. Something about the relief of the doctor reassuring him that Jon was in stable condition had weakened his knees as well as his resolve to be awake. Vaguely, he remembers waking up to wheel the chair to the edge of the hospital bed and take Jon’s hand in his, pressing kisses to his knuckles and murmuring assurances to himself more than to the sleeping man.
The archival staff had arrived at the hospital at three o’clock in the morning, and Helen had ushered Martin to Jon’s room before returning to the other three to wait for Daisy to be seen. Daisy had been released shortly after, and the women visited briefly before all disappearing through another doorway to Daisy and Basira’s home to sleep off three days of late night research followed by one of the smaller fights they had been a part of since joining the Institute.
Doctors assure Martin before breakfast that there is no reason Jon shouldn’t be awake before the next meal, which only serves to make Martin anxiously count down the hours until noon. Sure enough though, at a quarter to 11 he begins making the whining noises of someone who isn’t ready to be awake. Martin watches his eyes blink open and marvels at the thought that this may be the most sleep Jon has gotten in ages – it may not be necessary anymore, but it certainly doesn’t hurt.
His hands close instinctively around the one they have been cradling for the better part of the day, and Jon’s first instinct is to flinch back, eyes shooting open and looking around the room. Martin begins stumbling over apologies, going to break contact when Jon’s eyes light on him and his grip tightens as his whole body visibly relaxes. A slow grin spreads across his face as he turns his cheek into his pillow and watches Martin with half hooded eyes. Martin’s own flicker to the iv dripping pain killers into Jon’s wrist, and he bites back a laugh.
“Good morning, dear,” is not what he expected Jon to say.
“Oh, ah, morning. Would you like me to call a doctor now that you’re up?”
Jon shakes his head, tapping his thumb against Martin’s knuckles without rhythm. “Are we at a hospital?” He mimics Martin’s nod and blinks as if it takes all of the effort in the world, “That makes sense, I was stabbed. Were you stabbed? Are you hurt?”
Martin has to press his shoulder back into the bed when Jon gets up as though to check Martin over, urgent to find any wounds. “No, no I’m perfectly fine, Jon, please don’t pull your stitches. Everyone is alright. Basira and I finished destroying their artefact, and Daisy was hurt but she was seen to and sent home when we brought you in. How are you feeling?”
A loud sigh rings throughout the room as he responds, “Heavy.”
There is quiet for a moment, Martin is unwilling to break it or to try to pull away from Jon’s vice like grip. Eventually, Jon does again.
“You were so brave,” he doesn’t allow any room for argument, “You pushed him away from me and saved my life. And then you sat there with me, even though you were scared. It was entirely charming. I am entirely charmed. Thank you for keeping my insides inside of me.”
Martin just nods, too flustered to do anything but keep himself from laughing.
It doesn’t seem to bother Jon, who plows on, “I think you are doing a very good job, Martin, we’re very glad to have you back with us. I love you.”
Suddenly, Martin’s heart stops completely. Suddenly, he’s hit with the memory that this isn’t even the first time Jon has said it. He scrounges for a few minutes for something to say, finally coming up with, “Jon, I love you, too,” just at the door to the room swings open and a lively nurse swings in with lunch for the both of them.
“Hello, dears!” She chirrups, arranging Jon’s food on the sliding tray by his bed and then Martin’s on the bedside table. “Lovely morning we’re having, might try to get this one in a wheelchair and get him some fresh air soon. Does everything look alright, dear?”
Jon swings his head up to look at her and gives her his big, dopey grin, “It looks lovely, thank you. I love you, too.”
She laughs brightly and pats his hand. Martin’s nerves tighten and uncoil in his stomach, thinking maybe it’s just the drugs and blood loss, “Thank you so much. You know, your partner has been very diligently about keeping watch over you while you recover. He’s a keeper.”
Martin doesn’t know what to do with the wink she tosses him, or the soft look in Jon’s eyes when he lolls his head back over to direct his smile at him. “He’s great. You’re great.”
The breath is caught in his throat, blocking any words from escaping, so Martin just nods and offers Jon his own shaky smile. Smiling to herself, the nurse flits around the room for a moment before disappearing and leaving behind a heavy silence.
Martin clears his throat and leans on his elbows on the bed, hands still caught in Jon’s, the other man’s grip loosening but neither are about to let go. “I know you’re absolutely out of your mind right now,” he’s met with a sound as close to giggling as Jon is capable, “but when you can retain information and have control over what you say, I think we probably need to talk. About feelings. Jesus I thought you were meant to be the emotionally constipated one.”
“It’s hard,” Jon’s eyes are closed suddenly, and his voice has taken on a more familiar tone, “Feelings are…I don’t understand them as well as other people do. It took me so long to, to- Anyways, I don’t understand my own, much less anyone else’s. I didn’t want to assume anything, and then I thought ‘I might as well, I’m going to die anyways.’ Maybe that was selfish, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, it was,” Martin nudges Jon gently, making him smile a little even as he begins to drift off. “It’s alright, though, we’ll figure it out.”
Eventually, after what feels like a very long stint in the hospital, they do.
Obviously Jon is lucid for most of it, and whenever Martin visits him in those moments, something heavy hangs in the air between them. What they are not going to do, though, is have a deep and emotional conversation surrounded by beeping machines and the sterile smell that reminds Martin of every moment he spent in this same hospital, in rooms that look just like this except for his mother in those beds.
They do talk, though, when it’s all over. Martin helps Jon back to his flat and they spend five minutes going through the motions of polite host-and-guest behaviors before Jon throws himself down on the couch and demands they have their conversation. So, (after Martin scolds Jon for being too rough with himself) they each unload what has been sitting on their chests for months, or years, or eternities.
The entire ordeal involves a whole lot of Jon avoiding eye contact, and Martin respecting his need for space until the moment that they are finally finished talking, both a bit breathless, and Jon holds his open palm out to Martin. When Martin takes it and lets himself be pulled down, laughing, on top of Jon, it’s an unofficial declaration that they are both finished making one another cry.
They spend the rest of the night wrapped up in one another, sharing kisses and stories of times they acted like disasters around one another.
In all honesty, the few months into their relationship that it takes for them to move in together probably fall a few months short. It’s at once an incredibly fast decision, as well as one that feels like it has taken an eternity to make.
Martin and Jon have known each other for ages, of course, and know each other better than most other people in this world, and still make an effort to continue to learn new things every day. It is almost a point of pride for Martin when he wakes up next to Jon one morning and just knows his boyfriend is sick.
Of course, Jon denies it. But Martin was expecting that, even as he presses a cold glass of orange juice into his hands and leaves cold medicine on the night stand next to the snuffling man. It takes all morning for Jon to demand that Martin stop fussing, that he is perfectly fine and healthy. When Martin gives him a patient, knowing look as Jon recovers from a violent coughing fit, he finally resigns himself to being taken care of.
Martin absolutely thrives the second that Jon gives him permission to mother him. He’s breaking out soup cans, cough drops, and heating pads as needs arise, and slowly Jon allows his guard to drop. When Jon sinks into a freshly fluffed pillow, Martin’s heart completely melts, recognizing all of the signs in him that scream that he has never been properly cared for in his life. Martin brushes his thumb over Jon’s cheek, allows himself to indulge in the giddy feeling exploding in his chest when Jon leans into the touch, and turns to find something else to do that will make Jon understand exactly how much he is cared for. He only makes it a couple of steps when he’s pulled backwards by his hand, but when he turns Jon’s eyes are still closed.
“Where are you going?” He mumbles, rubbing his thumb up and down the back of Martin’s thumb in a way that makes his answer an immediate and resounding,
“Nowhere, love.”
He settles back down on the uncomfortable stool he had pulled up earlier to take Jon’s temperature and gently brush his hair from his sweaty brow. Now, Jon lets his eyes squint open and furrows that brow. “You’re so far away.”
Martin laughs out loud at this, tilting his head to the side. “You’re suddenly awfully needy.”
“I’m not,” comes his petulant reply, a lie that they both know full well. He stumbles over the next few words, “You just… keep disappearing. I’m okay, you can stay here with me.”
Maybe climbing into bed with a ridiculously sick man isn’t the best idea he has ever had, and Martin is certainly met with half-hearted protests (and contradictory wide open arms), but when Jon’s voice gets so completely soft he really doesn’t have another choice.
And if he gets sick in the next few days, it wouldn’t hurt to be allowed to be looked after for once.
Jonathan Sims certainly is many things, and affectionate has never been one of them. Not affection in any way that most people recognize, that is, but Martin feels as though he has gotten very good at reading his husband in the years they have been together.
Jon can show love bluntly and in ways that are “easy” to understand when he is drunk, when he is tired or high, mortally wounded or sick, but those instances are not the ones that touch Martin’s heart in the softest ways. They are mostly a treat, obviously, with the exception of the many, many times that Jon has been willing to put himself in danger, but the things that truly make Martin feel completely and thoroughly loved and cared for are moments when the love he shows is perfectly intentional, and in his own Jon-like style of doing things.
When he brings home little potted plants for his husband and resolutely acts as though he had nothing to do with their sudden appearance in their home. The times he has come home from work early (a feat in and of itself) to cook Martin dinner because he knows he has had a bad day. The hours he is willing to spend listening to Martin rave about anything from a new book series to a particularly annoying coworker or visitor of the Institute.
Jon shows his love by kissing Martin’s forehead, holding him through nightmares, and simply speaking the words to him whenever he feels overwhelmed by his feelings for his husband. He shows his love through the trust he exercises by how comfortable he allows himself to be in their home, by making it less and less painstaking each time Martin has to make him talk about the things that are bothering him that go deeper than surface level.
Being one of the only people who understands this version of his affection, who gets to regularly receive it makes Martin feel so completely, smugly, selfishly special that he ends up returning it tenfold whenever Jon shows these small signs of his love. Because Martin understands with his entire being that these signs are, in reality, enormous. Because Martin wants nothing more than to encourage Jon that these signs are enough for him, that he appreciates every single one and he understands exactly what they mean.
Jon does not make grand gestures, or extravagant date plans – aside from the one he made to propose, which only half counts because Martin is fairly certain that Georgie was the mastermind behind it. Instead, he gives Martin his gentle smiles. He keeps his wedding band on a chain on the rare occasions that it isn’t firmly on his finger and uses it to ground him, spinning the cold metal around or between his fingers when the world starts to feel like it is too much for him. Or once in a while, in moments that make Martin feel lightheaded, he presses his lips against it in an approximation of a kiss meant for his husband.
There are still movie nights, or other outings with their little group of friends that result in Jon getting too drunk or sleepy to keep his emotional guard up, days when he is so sick that the only cure is to be a hot water bottle to the man he loves. There are still times when he is in danger, when he risks his life doing something incredibly stupid and ends up in the hospital. Martin treasures the moments of open affection that he can, trying his best to roll with the bad that comes with it, and does everything in his power to make Jon feel safe and loved, even in these moments.
Because open affection may not be one of Jon’s most prominent languages of love, but it is Martin’s biggest in every way that it can be. It’s a point of pride that he can make Jon fluster or melt nearly on command, and that he knows that Jon revels in these displays by the pleased blush on his cheeks and the smile he fights as he pretends to be annoyed with his husband’s “lack of professionalism.”
Martin knows exactly which buttons to press in order to make Jon feel as cared for as he possibly could, to know exactly how loved he is.
And what kind of husband would he be if he didn’t do his very best to press every single one?