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The Institute will be closed tomorrow for fumigation. To get rid of what, exactly, Martin can't remember. Elias had explained, but once Martin had realised they were being given an extra day of discretionary leave, he'd honestly stopped listening. He's sure it's fine. Good that they've found whatever is wrong with the plumbing and are getting it sorted quickly. What matters is that he's getting a free day off, no expectations and no plans -- much more important than where Elias has found the asbestos they need to remove.
He thinks he might go to Camber for the day. It's a lovely seaside village in Kent, about an hour and a half by train, and interestingly its beach is the only sand dune system in the whole of East Sussex. November's an odd time to go to the seaside, but Martin’s never minded odd. Even at this time of year he should be able to get some chips to share with the seagulls.
He's just packing up for the evening, about to put his laptop and charger in the special lockers Elias has got to protect their electronics while the emergency rewiring takes place. In his mind he’s already sitting on the train out of St Pancras watching the world go past.
"Martin," Jon drawls in that way he has where Martin’s never quite sure if he's being scolded or made fun of.
"Yes?" Martin puts down his laptop. He's learned the hard way not to do two things at once when talking to Jon. He'll only mess up both of them.
"What are you doing tomorrow?"
It sounds more like an accusation than polite small talk, but that's just Jon's way.
"I thought I might go to Kent?" Martin says. He wishes it didn't come out like he was asking for permission. "That is, I'm going to Kent. There's a village there called Camber. It's by the sea."
"A village called Camber by the sea. What do you intend to do there?"
"It's not for work!" Elias has been very clear that they aren't to work tomorrow. Something to do with tax deductions and government bursaries for whatever they'll be doing with the protected species of bat found in the walls. "I just like it there. It's calming."
"Calming. Right." Jon pauses for a moment. "We'll be getting the train from St Pancras, I assume? Or do you prefer to leave from Stratford?"
"St Pancras. I mean--"
"What time?"
"I'm sorry?"
"What time do we leave, Martin?" Jon asks. Each word is precise, enunciated with a pointedness that Marin feels is a little unfair, given who is behaving unreasonably to whom here.
Still, Martin finds it hard enough to say no to Jon when he's insisting he doesn't need to eat or sleep, or when he's spying on Tim's house in the night. He never stood a chance of saying no to Jon inviting himself along for a nice late-autumn/early-winter day by the seaside.
"9:30?" Martin says, instead of, Are you aware any normal person would have told you where to shove it? or, I can't tell which of us looks more pathetic right now, but I know neither of us look great. "Might as well go off-peak."
"9:30," Jon repeats. He looks down at his hands. "And. Well. Thank you, Martin. I find I am looking forward to some sea air."
Martin can't control when he blushes. He can, however, control when he picks up his laptop and turns his back to Jon to do vital Putting Things In Lockers Like Elias Told Us To Because Of The People Coming To Flea Treat The Carpets work, so at least Jon will only notice if he happens to be looking at the tips of Martin's ears.
*
Martin doesn't normally take his favourite thermos out of London. John Lewis discontinued the model in 2014, and last time he checked there was a lightly used one going on eBay for £55, which even he feels is a bit excessive. But he only has three thermoses, and one of them -- his least favourite, but still a very serviceable spare -- was left by an ex-boyfriend.
He supposes he could always use that one and let Jon have his second favourite, but honestly, he likes the thought of sneakily spoiling Jon. Jon barely eats, barely sleeps. Doesn't drink the tea Martin brings him. So why shouldn't Martin give him something nice? It's not as if he'll notice.
Armed with his second favourite and his favourite thermoses, Martin makes it to the Pret in St Pancras station only a few minutes late.
He finds Jon waiting there with two tickets and a bag of pastries.
From a distance, a casual observer would barely notice the scars. Or Martin doesn't, at least. There's just an ordinary-looking man in a long, dark coat, a grey scarf wrapped around his neck, and something impatient in his stance. There's not a single moment where the scars become apparent -- it's more of a gradual process, until suddenly the hypothetical observer realises that not only are they seeing substantial damage, but they've been seeing it for a while. Like falling in love. Or boiling a frog.
Martin makes some kind of, Oh, you shouldn't have, protest at the tickets, which Jon dismisses with a shake of his head.
"I brought tea," Martin says.
"Thank you." Jon takes the proffered thermos. "I wasn't sure what kind of baked good you might like, so."
He's good at that. Where Martin gives the impression of tailing off mid-sentence even when he's finished what he wants to say, Jon can stop on a random word and make it seem like of course that's the end of his sentence, what fool would need more?
"I like the cinnamon danish?" Martin says, trying to remember the last time he'd bought something other than a hot drink at a Pret. "Or anything, really. I'm sure what you've got will be great. Delicious. Did I mention you shouldn't have?"
"You did, yes." Jon doesn't smile, exactly, but he gives the impression he might consider it at some future date. "I got one of everything. Happily, that included the cinnamon danish."
They have breakfast on the train. Milky tea, one sugar, and a cinnamon danish for Martin. Tea with barely a splash of milk, no sugar, and a plain croissant for Jon.
They eat in easy silence, broken only when Jon laughs quietly to himself, then says, "I haven't had tea from a thermos in years."
Martin makes an enquiring noise in case Jon wants to elaborate, but it seems that's the whole story. Still, now he's even more glad he decided to treat Jon to his favourite thermos.
Remarkably, there are no delays and the change at Ashford goes smoothly, so they make it to Rye ten minutes before the once-every-two-hours bus to Camber is due to leave. Martin is just silently congratulating himself on this feat when the elderly man from the ticket office slowly makes his way towards them, accompanied by an equally elderly dog.
"No bus today, gents," the man says. The dog sits politely beside him, tail wagging slowly as its owner delivers his news. "Engine trouble. You need the number for a cab?"
Martin has the local taxi firm number saved on his phone, actually, but the man looks so pleased to be useful, he doesn't have the heart.
When he types it into his phone, it shows up as "TAXI - CAMBER" -- the man can't see, but Martin notices Jon noticing, is relieved when Jon chooses not to point it out.
And then they and the remaining five Pret pastries and two still-mainly-full thermoses of tea are in Camber. It's drizzling lightly, most of the shops are shut, and Martin can't stop smiling.
Jon pulls his scarf tighter. This close, Martin can see it's not just one shade of grey -- it's mostly a pleasant mid-grey tone that picks up the grey in Jon's eyes, but there's a pattern embroidered into it in darker thread. It takes him a moment to realise what the pattern is. Another moment to believe his eyes.
"Why do you have Thomas the Tank Engine on your scarf?"
Jon gives him a quelling look. When Martin started working at the Institute, a single one of those looks had him quelled for the whole day. Now, though, he'd probably find it more uncomfortable to receive a look that wasn't trying to quell him at all.
"It was a gift." Jon pauses. "From my niece."
"You have a niece?" Martin blurts out. He's expecting Jon to ignore the question, or reply in clipped tones, Yes, Martin, I did not spring fully formed from the Archives, convenient as that would have been.
Instead, Jon looks away. "I have four of them. They live in Australia with their mothers, one of whom is my sister."
"And one of them sent you the world's subtlest Thomas the Tank Engine scarf?"
"My eldest niece. She's seventeen. She has a great deal of talent with the embroidery needle and, regrettably, a sense of humour."
The thermoses and the pastries go in Martin's rucksack. Martin and Jon go for a walk down to the beach.
"But why Thomas the Tank Engine?" Martin asks after a few minutes.
"Actually, the true Thomas And Friends aficionado would know that this is in fact Emily the Stirling Engine, my niece Emily's favourite for reasons that escape me."
A pause while they take it in turns to pass through a wooden kissing gate.
"You know," Martin says when they're walking side by side through the drizzle again, "you don't always make it easy to tell when you're joking."
"I know."
Martin sneaks a look at Jon's face. He's not smiling, but that expression is there again, the one that hints at the possibility of a smile some time in the future. If it makes an appointment and submits the appropriate paperwork in advance, of course.
"Emily is the seventeen-year-old?"
"Indeed. She's been sending me homemade scarves for Christmas since she was nine years old. This is among my favourites."
It's more information about Jon -- about his life, his family, his tastes -- than Martin has been privy to in the preceding six years. He thinks he dimly remembers when he had just started at the Institute, seeing his fascinating and intimidating boss wearing a very obviously hand-knitted blue and silver scarf one winter.
"Is she a Harry Potter fan?"
Jon looks at him sharply, then looks away. "Yes. They all are, to some degree. No doubt you are, as well."
Martin likes the earlier books better. They're comforting. Good and bad neatly divided, and no one dies just because someone else made a mistake.
"I just remembered your scarf, a few years ago? The blue and silver one."
"Yes, that was her. She's a Hufflepuff, she has informed me. When she turns eighteen she intends to get a tattoo of a badger."
Jon's drawl tinges everything he says with disdain and disinterest. This is neither. Martin thinks it might be fondness, at least as far as Jon will allow it to show.
The rest of the journey down to the beach is in companionable silence. It's easy to be quiet around Jon, easy to be with him without having to fill the air with nervous small talk. Jon's the last person to be described as comforting, and yet that's what he is to Martin. A comfort. A weird, terrifyingly intense ball of prickly, jagged comfort.
*
The beach is grey and deserted. The drizzle has eased off into something closer to a fine mist -- still subject to gravity, but less so. The sea stretches out before them, vast and dark and utterly unknowable. They walk along the shoreline together, coats wrapped tight against the wind.
Sand dunes in winter -- even, or especially, if they make up the only sand dune system in the whole of East Sussex -- have a heaviness to them, a soaked-through air that's apparent from the moment you see then. They make it hard to forget how closely related they are to cement. The washed up shells and seaweed serve as an additional, helpful reminder that it's not long before the tide will return to reclaim them.
"I like this," Jon says suddenly, the first words either of them have spoken in maybe fifteen minutes, maybe half an hour.
"Me too," Martin says. He does. He wouldn't have come here if he didn't. And if he likes it all the more when he gets to share it with Jon, well, he's not the one who suggested Jon come here, so why should he feel bad about that?
He gets out their thermoses, pours Jon a lid-cup of still-hot tea, then himself. He thinks about trying to get Jon to clink their lid-cups, but decides against it. It's enough that they're here, and that Jon has eaten at least one thing already today.
"Here's to the Institute's emergency gas leak closure," Jon says, raising his lid-cup to the sea.
Martin joins the toast. "Yes, thank goodness they found that issue with the roof before anyone was hurt."
"What?"
"What?"
Jon frowns. "Why are we toasting the Institute?"
"Why not?" Martin takes a long sip of his tea. "They gave us a free day off, after all. Let's get chips for lunch. Google says the shop just up by the car park is still open in the winter."
"Well, if google says so." Jon drinks his tea looking out across the water.
Martin allows himself a moment to study Jon, aware that he might get caught. Jon isn't conventionally handsome -- even less so after everything with Jane Prentiss -- but he's captivating. The way he holds himself. The way he shapes his words so carefully. The way he's scrutinising the sea as if it's a statement he's sure he could read if only he looks closely enough.
Jon's so brittle and so very unyielding. Some days Martin just wants to bundle him under a blanket and ply him with hot chocolate and cake until he allows himself some, any indulgence. And other days, of course, Martin wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake some of that stubbornness loose.
Martin never does either. Can't really imagine what would have to change that he could. But the yearning is there.
He doesn't get caught staring. Maybe Jon knows he's looking and chooses for once not to embarrass him. Maybe he's just lucky. But either way, he turns his gaze back to the sea before Jon has finished trying to divine its secrets through sheer force of personality.
Petrels circle somewhere out in the distance. They always make Martin think of the Rime of the Ancient Mariner, even though he knows that's an albatross. Jon could be the ancient mariner, maybe, with Martin as the helpless, captivated wedding guest. Or perhaps the Magnus Institute is the ancient mariner, Jon is the transfixed wedding guest, unable to leave before the story is complete, and Martin is just a passer-by, not even mentioned in the poem, one of the anonymous crowd who serves only to highlight how alone the wedding guest truly is.
But the Institute has let them go, at least for the day, and Martin will make sure Jon gets some chips and a nice walk by the sea before he has to go back and listen to the rest of the rime.
"I do appreciate this, you know, Martin," Jon says, eyes still on the sea. "I am --" He pauses. "-- not very good at this. At taking a day off and meaning it."
Martin swallows hard. He wants to repay Jon's honesty with his own, but isn't sure what he could say that wouldn't just be another burden. In the end, he goes with, "I'm happy to have you here. Honestly. If I'd thought there was a chance you'd say yes, I would have invited you along earlier." He's proud of that earlier. It softens the statement, distances them ever so slightly from the fact he didn't invite Jon along at all.
"Yes. Well." Jon puts his empty lid-cup back in Martin's rucksack. "Chips?"
Chips.
Jon insists on buying, telling the bored teenager behind the counter to ignore Martin's protests in a tone that brooks no argument. Cod and chips for Jon, sausage and chips for Martin. Lashings of salt and vinegar.
"Curry sauce, garlic mayo, chip sauce, ketchup?" the teenager asks, slurring the options together to make one single long mumbled word missing half its consonants. cur'sa'garli'may'chi'sa'kesha?
Jon looks to Martin, whether confused by the options or the enunciation, it's unclear.
"Chip sauce for him," Martin says, gesturing at Jon's cod and chips in their open polystyrene box. When he brings in a round of Egg McMuffins, Jon always takes the one with HP sauce. "Garlic mayo for me."
They take their boxes -- wrapped in real newspaper, not that fake food-safe print -- down to the beach again. They find a low wall to perch on, sit side by side, staring out at the sea.
The chips are so good. Greasy perfection, just like Martin had imagined them. It doesn't take long for the gulls to notice.
Jon tenses slightly when the first gull lands. Tenses more when Martin very deliberately picks a single chip out of his box and waves it to attract the gulls' attention. But just because this time Martin has someone along to share his chips with, doesn't mean he's going to forget all the times he only had the gulls to keep him company. He throws the chip in a perfect arc through the air, watches it land a good ten metres away, where the gulls descend in an excited mess of wings and hunger.
Beside him, Jon remains tense.
"Is this okay?" Martin finally thinks to ask. He'd kind of assumed that when Jon saw Martin had a plan, he'd stop worrying. Which on reflection was not an assumption based on experience. "I like feeding them."
"I suppose so," Jon says. "I'd never considered it."
Martin throws a couple more chips to the birds. He likes the moment when they work out what he's doing, that they're more likely to get fed if they stay a few metres back rather than mobbing him. He likes the simplicity of the transaction. He feeds them, and in return he gets their company.
"Do you want to try?"
It takes a minute for Jon to pick out a chip, but when he does he follows Martin's technique admirably, waving it before the gulls before he throws it. When it lands and they scrabble for it, he lets out a quiet huff of air that could be a laugh.
"What happens when you run out of chips?' he asks.
"Oh, they turn on you and peck out your eyes,' Martin says, straight-faced. "No, I mean, it's fine. They just leave you alone when they realise you don't have any more."
You sometimes get the stray gull who'll stay near you for a while, keeping an eye out in case you produce a second box of chips from somewhere, but ultimately they just wander off when you don't have anything else to offer them.
Jon ends up throwing more chips to the gulls than he eats himself, but he manages most of the cod, so Martin's going to call that a success. They still have some pastries left over from this morning, and on the train home there will be no gulls to foist them off on.
Martin sits on the wall, near enough to Jon that he could reach out a hand and touch him, and finishes off the last of his own greasy, delicious meal. In his rucksack are tea and pastries and two very functional cagoules should the rain start up in earnest, and in front of him is the sea and behind him is the land and inside him is a tentative, fragile glimmer of hope.
***
END
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