Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Friday nights were always the quietest. The work day finished early, people left to go to the pub or out for dinner or whatever else normal people did on a Friday night, and Jon was always the last one to leave the building. He would end up with an approximately two-hour period of solitude between all his colleagues finishing work, and the cleaning lady arriving for her night shift.

It was the perfect time to hunt.

He paused in the doorway of the archives storage room, casting an eye over the blocky shapes of filing cabinets and shelves that waited in the dark. Nobody had been in here for several hours. There was a hint of furniture polish in the air, the one used to wipe down the wooden shelves, and a residual scent of warm dust from when the old radiators came on in the morning at this time of year. If he’d felt the urge, he could have determined the last person to enter this room based on his sense of smell alone.

He didn’t particularly want to do that - it felt uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t put his finger on. Instead, he closed his eyes and listened.

The muffled clank of old pipes. The distant sounds of people passing by outside, heading into the weekend with loosened ties and shoulders. Cars and buses honking, engines revving. A train running along the Victoria line, pulling into Pimlico. 

He twitched his nose and frowned. He needed to focus. 

Don’t get distracted. You need to eat before you can go home.

Ah. There they were. 

He removed his shoes and socks, leaving them neatly tucked inside the doorway, and crept forward barefoot. Slipping gracefully across the carpet, barely stirring the air as he moved, he reached the back left corner of the room. There it was an easy leap to land silent as a cat on top of a large grey filing cabinet and crawl along to a small hole in the wall. He paused there in a crouch, sniffing.

Minutes passed, but Jon felt no discomfort maintaining his contorted position. He could have waited there without moving for hours.

Thankfully he didn’t have to. Eventually, a tiny pink whiskered nose poked its way out of the hole, followed by beady black eyes and twitching ears. The mouse padded out into the open, sniffing the air cautiously.

Jon grabbed it in a flash and it squealed in his grasp, wriggling helplessly. Jon ignored its cries and tightened his grip, bringing it closer to his face so he could meet its terrified gaze. 

The mouse went still, captivated. Jon sighed. “Sorry, little one,” he whispered. “This isn’t going to be pleasant for either of us.”

He opened his mouth wide and bit down hard, swallowing the mouse’s blood as quickly as he could. It wasn’t quite right, that blood, but it was hot and fresh and enough to take the edge off. The coppery sweetness swirled over his tongue as he tried not to think about how many diseases the mouse might be carrying, or how grateful he was that he didn’t seem to be able to get sick anymore. 

Just eat. Finish up and go.

“Hello?”

A voice, from the doorway.

“Is someone in here?”

Martin. Jon froze. There was nowhere for him to go. The only way out of the room was the door, and Martin was standing there. He could sense him now; he’d been so focused on feeding that he hadn’t heard him coming down the corridor. What was he even doing here?

“Sorry, it’s just the door was open? Hello?”

He’d left the door open?! Really, Jon? Bollocks. Bollocks and damn and bloody hell. What could he do? Could he hypnotise Martin, make him walk away and forget this had happened? It worked well enough on the mice, but they were mice. Martin was a person…

No, no, what was he thinking? He couldn’t do that. That was so creepy. Perhaps if he just stayed quiet for long enough, Martin would go away.

Nope. He’d turned the lights on.

And there was no way he couldn’t see Jon, dead mouse in hand, crouched on top of a filing cabinet, blood dripping down his chin. 

“Uh…”

Completely at a loss for what else to do, Jon hid the mouse behind his back and waved feebly with his other hand. “Hello, Martin. Did you leave something behind in the office?”

“I…I…”

Jon tried again. “I’m very sorry. I really didn’t want any of you to ever see me like this. Are you alright?”

Martin nodded numbly. “I’m gonna…I’m gonna go. Night, Jon.” He ran out of the room.

Jon looked at the dead mouse and sighed heavily. “Well. I suppose I couldn’t hide forever.” 

Martin kept running over the image of what he’d seen. Jon, crouched and bloody, teeth bared, his eyes flashing like a cat’s. He’d been eating a mouse, or a rat or something. Sucking its blood. Martin had read enough stories (and written a few of them in his teenage years which would never, ever see the light of day) to know what that meant.

Jon was a vampire.

Martin had so many questions. He hadn’t gone out all weekend, had barely slept - couldn’t, alone in his poky little flat, knowing that Jon knew that he knew his secret. Would Jon hurt him to stop him talking? He didn’t think so. But then, he’d thought Jon was human until Friday night. He’d…well. Let’s not go into the details, Martin. For all you know, you only felt that way because he was trying to lure you in so he could eat you.

All morning he’d been avoiding Jon’s office door. This was nothing unusual from an outside perspective; nobody liked knocking on Jon’s door unless it was absolutely necessary, because you could never tell what sort of mood he’d be in. Unless you were Tim, who basically just went where he liked and charmed people into thinking they wanted him there. Or Sasha, who also went where she liked but in such a way that you’d never know she’d been there, until three weeks later when you realised that important-looking letter you’d finally worked up the courage to open was nowhere to be found.

Martin was certainly not Tim or Sasha.

He had tried to distract himself but was utterly unable to concentrate on work. So he’d gone to the kitchen and made tea, because that was what he did in a crisis. This had led to him automatically making a cup of tea for Jon, which in turn had led to another crisis of does he even drink tea? Or is it just blood? Human blood?

Safe to say it hadn’t been a productive Monday so far. It was now almost two in the afternoon. He’d eaten his lunch alone, and was currently outside Jon’s door dithering about whether to go in and confront him. What could he even say? How were you supposed to start a conversation like that? He didn’t want to piss him off, not…not if…

His phone buzzed in his pocket, making him jump. He checked the screen and saw a message from Jon. With another jolt, he remembered they’d swapped numbers after the last time Martin had been off sick and Jon hadn’t been able to get hold of him.

I can hear you outside, it said. Please come in if you’re going to, and shut the door behind you. Jon.

The fact that Jon signed his texts with his name made him smile in spite of everything, and he felt some of the tension ease in his chest. What was he thinking? Jon wasn’t plotting to eat him. This was Jon. The same Jon who could give a twenty-minute lecture about emulsifiers with minimal prompting. The same Jon who always looked a little bit surprised when people spoke to him, as if he was astonished that they acknowledged his existence. The same Jon who dressed like he shopped exclusively at Oxfam. Who knew? Maybe he did. He was clearly good at keeping his cards close to his chest.

The point was, this was just another thing to add to the list of things he knew about Jonathan Sims. It was a really, really, really weird thing, sure, and definitely not easy to talk about, but he could handle it. 

Probably.

He opened the door before he lost his nerve again, and closed it carefully behind him.

Jon was sitting at his desk with a file open in front of him, but he obviously wasn’t reading it. Instead, his gaze was fixed on Martin’s face. He wasn’t wearing his glasses today - did he even need them? So many questions - and his deep brown eyes were wide and fearful. He looked trapped.

Martin’s heart didn’t melt immediately; he had to give himself some credit. 

It took at least three seconds. 

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” he blurted out. “I won’t. I swear.”

Jon’s mouth fell open a little bit. He blinked several times as if he couldn’t process what he’d heard. “You…what?”

Martin swallowed hard and took a step forward. “I won’t tell anyone. You obviously didn’t want any of us to know, and I’m really sorry I caught you out. So. Yeah. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Jon continued to stare at him in shock. “Aren’t you…aren’t you afraid of me?” 

“Not really?” Martin clasped his hands and tapped his index fingers together nervously. “I mean, you’re still you, right? Same old Jon. Who’s also a vampire. And you’ve been managing fine so far without hurting any of us. I don’t know how long you’ve been like this -”

“About nine months,” Jon interjected softly. “It happened a week or so before I got promoted.”

“Really?” Martin closed the distance to the desk and sat down opposite him, fascinated. “This whole time?”

“Yes.” Jon sighed. With the added context, Martin wondered if it was more of a reflexive action rather than an actual need to breathe in and out. A way of centring himself. “I had no idea how to even consider bringing it up, so I just got on with it. Tried not to let it interfere with work.”

Martin frowned sympathetically. There was a lot to unpack there, but he was trying to be tactful. “That must have been tricky.”

Jon chuckled. “Something of an understatement, but yes.”

“Hmm.” Martin nodded, trying to appear outwardly calm even though his mind was reeling. Jon didn’t need someone panicking and bombarding him with questions; he seemed to be extremely relieved that he could actually talk about it and Martin hadn’t run away screaming, or run at him while brandishing a wooden stake. Martin couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been to keep such a huge secret.

“I have to admit, it explains a lot,” he said. Jon raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You never drink the tea I make you, or seem to eat lunch. You never come out to the pub on Fridays. I just thought you were really anti-social.”

"I can’t drink, and pubs are too loud. Too many people. And god, the smells.” Jon shuddered. 

Martin nodded again. “So you’ve got heightened senses, then? You said you could hear me outside the door, too.” He tried not to consider how strange that was, but he could feel his cheeks turning pink all the same.

Jon must have noticed something in his expression. “I try not to do it on purpose,” he assured him. “But sometimes it’s hard to ignore. Like when a particular noise catches my attention, or I’m specifically waiting for something to happen. I don’t…spy on you and the others, I promise. I don't want to. Uh, these help.”

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a set of headphones, the over-the-head kind with extra padding. “Noise-cancelling,” he explained. 

“Really?” Martin was a little surprised. It seemed so obvious now he thought about it. And it explained why knocking on Jon’s door sometimes got no answer, even though everybody knew he was in there. You had to knock loudly.

“Ancient mythological problems require modern solutions,” Jon quipped.

They both laughed. “This is so surreal,” Martin said, shaking his head. He ran a hand through his hair and sat back in his seat.

Jon frowned. He turned the headphones this way and that between his hands, twisting the wire around his fingers. “Did you mean it? About not telling anyone?”

He was looking at him so intently, and Martin swore he could see the fear behind his eyes. Carefully he leaned forward again and dared to put one of his hands on the desk, not quite reaching out to take Jon's but enough for him to know he was there. Anything he could do to reassure him. How could he ever have been afraid of him?

“Of course, Jon," he said in a low voice, trying to convey sincerity with every word. "It’s not my secret to tell, is it?”

The smile that flitted across Jon’s face for a brief, beautiful moment, was one of the nicest smiles Martin had ever seen. Definitely in his top three. He looked so relieved, so much softer, like an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. 

Martin knew he’d done the right thing.

Chapter Text

Martin took an early lunch on Wednesday that week, and when he wandered into the kitchen he was quite surprised to see Jon sitting at a table. Particularly when he appeared to have a lunchbox in front of him. He waved.

“You can eat food?” he asked, approaching the table and sitting down opposite.

Jon scrunched up his mouth thoughtfully. It was kind of adorable. “Not really. I mean, I can chew it and swallow it, but it, er, comes back up quite quickly.” He looked down, staring at his hands. He was picking the skin of his thumbs with his index fingernails. “I just thought that, well, you mentioned how you’d noticed I never ate anything, and I thought that if you noticed then the others might as well, so it might be a good idea to keep up appearances.”

Martin grinned as he popped the lid off his own lunchbox. “So this is just cover? Did you go out and buy a lunchbox and -  what is that? - chicken salad sandwiches, so nobody would think you were weird?”

“I did an online shop,” Jon replied dismissively. Then he narrowed his eyes and looked back up at him over the top of his glasses. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Not at all!” Martin spread his own lunch out on the table; cold leftover noodles from last night’s takeaway dinner, a banana, and a brownie he’d bought from a little coffee shop on the way into work that morning. “I think it makes perfect sense.”

It was also incredibly endearing, but he wasn’t going to dwell on that for the moment. 

Jon harrumphed and crossed his arms, but the corners of his mouth were quirked upwards. “You can have the sandwiches if you want. They’ll only go to waste otherwise.”

Martin considered this. “Leave them in the fridge and I’ll take them home with me,” he suggested. “Saves me having to think about dinner.”

“You should have more than a couple of sandwiches for dinner, Martin,” Jon admonished him with a raised eyebrow. 

Martin opened his mouth to scoff in response, but closed it again. There were a lot of things he could say to a man who from what Tim had told him never remembered to eat anything unless someone shoved it into his hand, and even then there was a chance he would put it down and forget about it. He found, though, that he didn’t want to put their newfound camaraderie to the test. So he just ate his lunch. 

After several minutes of chewing mushy lo mein and trying not to make too many mouth noises, he noticed that Jon was fidgeting. He swallowed some noodles and tilted his head to one side. “Something on your mind?”

Jon jumped like a startled cat, looking a little guilty. Was he nervous? Martin fought back the urge to laugh in surprise. What did Jon have to be nervous about? He was the one steadfastly ignoring how the fluorescent kitchen lights picked out the strands of silver that ran through Jon’s hair, and how when he relaxed his face the lines of his cheekbones and nose were so elegant they made Martin fervently wish he could draw more than a stick figure. He had such an expressive face…

Ahem. Well. Jon shouldn’t have any reason to be so on edge.

“I suppose,” Jon was saying, “I’m still not used to being so, er, open? About this? Talking about how I can’t eat normal food and such.” He gestured vaguely to his untouched sandwiches.

Martin nodded, trying to look like he’d been listening the whole time. “Right. I guess it would take some getting used to.”

“Yes.” Jon’s smile was more like a wince. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, of course I do -”

“Oh!” Martin felt his cheeks turning pink and inwardly cursed his pale skin. “You do? That’s…that’s nice.”

Jon chuckled. “Well, yes. I mean I do feel somewhat like I have to since you’re the only person I’ve told about this, but also,” he cleared his throat reflexively, “in spite of your occasional mistakes with filing and follow-ups, I’ve found you to be a dependable sort of person. You say you’ll do things, and you do them.” 

Martin’s blush intensified and he dropped his gaze, focusing instead on the fascinating world of leftover beef and vegetable noodles. He wasn’t used to compliments, especially ones that were given so sincerely, and especially especially when they came from Jon. Oh boy. That was a lot to take in. To his horror, he could feel a prickling behind his eyes. No, no, do not start crying, Martin, get a bloody grip on yourself.

“Martin?” Jon leaned across the table. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah!” he spluttered, waving him away. “Fine, fine. All good.” He plastered a smile onto his face and tried to make it look convincing.

Jon did not appear to be convinced. He hummed thoughtfully, but to Martin’s relief decided not to push. 

“So,” Martin said a touch louder than was necessary, determined to change the subject with a vengeance, “if chicken salad isn’t your usual, what do you eat?” He glanced around and dropped his voice. He’d suddenly remembered that this was a kitchen for everyone to use, and the door could open at any moment. “Is it always…mice?”

Jon grimaced. “Rodents, yes. They’re relatively easy to catch and small enough not to fight back too hard. The blood isn’t perfect but it can sustain me, and that’s fine. Truth be told I did a bit of experimenting at first; black pudding, dried blood from a butcher, packets of frozen pig blood -”

“No way.” Martin gaped at him. “Where do you even get that?”

“It’s actually quite easy to find, a lot of Asian supermarkets stock it,” Jon said conversationally. “I did a bit of research first, of course, to see what was available, but I suppose my goal was to see how far I could divert myself from the actual…drinking of fresh blood.”

“And did any of it work?”

Jon bit his lip. Martin’s eyes were drawn to the movement. He hadn’t expected to see fangs, of course, but Jon’s teeth looking perfectly ordinary felt disappointing in a weird way. Perhaps he could extend his fangs when he needed to? He’d file that away to ask another time.

“It appears that the more processed the blood is, which is to say the more palatable it is for humans, then the less effective it is for me,” Jon explained with a sigh and a rueful chuckle. “Would that this were as easy as eating some blood sausage every few days.”

Martin wasn’t sure how to respond. The idea of stealing blood from a hospital crossed his mind. He dismissed it immediately. Too much time spent watching Buffy made that seem feasible, and anyway he had to give Jon some credit. He’d been thinking about this a lot longer, he must have considered that before. 

“You said that rodent blood isn’t perfect,” he said slowly. “What does that mean?”

Jon fidgeted in his seat. “It’s like when you haven’t eaten all day,” he said. He interlaced his fingers as he thought about how to phrase it. “You have a headache, your stomach’s rumbling, you just need to eat something, right?”

“Okay…”

“You know what would really make you feel better is a full meal, but all you have available is a snack. Toast, or something else small. It’s still food, but it’s not enough.” Jon shrugged one shoulder. “It’s rather difficult to explain. I’ve never had to put it into words before.”

“It’s fine,” Martin reassured him. “So when you say that kind of blood isn’t enough, does that mean human blood would be? Sorry, I’m just trying to understand.”

“I’m reasonably sure it would be, yes,” Jon replied, “but I don’t feed on humans, so its merits don’t matter.”

Martin stared at him. “What, at all? You haven’t even tried?”

He shook his head. “I never have. I can survive without it.”

This time, Martin did scoff. “It’s not about whether you can survive, Jon. It’s about whether it’s enough for you! I mean, yeah, you’re a vampire, but you should still be able to have a life, right?”

“I don’t want to hurt people, Martin. I refuse to feed on humans. I don’t even go near other people when I’m hungry, in case I lose control of myself.” Jon’s face was clouding over, his eyes narrowing and his mouth setting into a thin line. It emphasised the sharpness of his features, and for the first time Martin was able to see an element of something otherworldly lurking below the surface. He began to realise how lucky he’d been that when he’d caught Jon feeding he’d been able to get away. It sent a shiver down his spine. 

“And besides,” Jon continued. There was a distinct edge to his voice now, and Martin got the impression that the words he was saying had been simmering inside him for a long time. “I have no idea how this…this affliction is passed on. I don’t remember how it happened to me. What if I drank from someone and made a new vampire by accident? I can’t be responsible for this happening to anybody else. It’s awful, Martin. The hunger never goes away, and all my senses are so much stronger. Do you know I can’t even use scented washing powder anymore? It’s too much for my nose. I had to get rid of so many clothes and buy all new bedsheets, because they felt horrible against my skin. I have even less of a social life than I did before. Coming into work is only doable because I lock myself away all day, put my headphones on and ignore how delicious everybody in the Archives smells to me. Do you know -” he pointed towards the door “- I can hear Tim talking to Rosie upstairs? He just came back from the sandwich shop over the road. He’s wearing a new cologne today, and she thinks cedarwood and lime suit him. I can smell it from here. I can smell you. Right now, there is a part of me that wants to bite you. And I could do it very easily. You wouldn’t be able to stop me. But I won’t.”

Silence hung heavy between them. Martin knew his mouth was hanging open but couldn’t summon the impetus to close it. He felt ashamed, almost, for not having considered the full implications of what Jon was going through. It had sounded so cool at first. Strength and speed, power, bloodlust, all the romantic aspects of vampirism that were played up in old books and movies. 

But in a world like this? In London, where people were always everywhere, always talking, crammed into streets and cars and the Underground? God, it had to be horrible.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” he muttered. “I didn’t think.”

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose and hissed out a sigh through gritted teeth. “I’m sorry too,” he said. “I didn’t mean to bombard you with all that. It’s just…the modern world doesn't make allowances for creatures like me, Martin. I have first-hand knowledge of how bad this can be, and I can’t risk ever putting someone else through the same thing.”

Martin nodded. Jon was right - of course, he was right. He knew better after all. Martin had a lot of catching up to do in terms of vampire knowledge, so maybe it would be best if he just listened to what Jon told him and took it all on board before offering his own insights.

But then, Martin’s mouth had never been one to fully comply with his thoughts.

“If you change your mind one day,” he found himself saying, “I’d be up for it.”

Jon had been in the process of awkwardly picking apart one of the abandoned sandwiches, and he dropped the pieces all over the table as Martin’s words registered. The look he gave him fell somewhere between affronted, disbelieving, and absolutely furious. His eyes were so intense Martin felt trapped. He instinctively moved back in his seat as far as he could. 

“Martin,” Jon said. His voice was flat and sharp, a knife through the air. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that.”

He stood up abruptly, pushing back his chair so hard it scooted across the floor and fell over, and all but ran out of the room.

Martin looked down at his fork and briefly contemplated ramming it into his own brain. Maybe it would help him forget this colossal fuck-up.

Yep. Trustworthy. Dependable. That was him.

Shit.

Chapter Text

Hey. I’m sorry for what I said. It was stupid. Just forget it. 

You can still talk to me, if you just want someone to listen. I promise I’ll keep my mouth shut.

Lunch was nice today.

Are you okay?

It’s after 5, I’m going home. See you tomorrow?

Jon’s thumb hovered briefly over his phone screen’s keyboard. He had been steadfastly ignoring his phone since lunchtime, going to far as to lock it in one of his desk drawers, but he’d finally given in after the clock had ticked past five pm and he needed to think about going home.

He didn’t know where he’d start with typing a response. His feelings were a mess. He’d barely gotten any work done that afternoon, and had nearly bitten Sasha’s head off - metaphorically speaking - when she’d come into his office with a question about a translated statement. She’d given him one of her signature “be rude to me again and I’ll change all your passwords” looks before leaving him alone for the rest of the day. He’d heard her telling the others to steer clear, too.

Not that Martin had needed telling anyway. They hadn’t exchanged a word all afternoon. Jon found he actually missed him; not even having him in the same room, but just knowing he could talk to Martin if he wanted to. 

But the look on his face before Jon had left the kitchen…he’d never seen him so scared.

He’d made him so scared. 

Oh, Jon, what did you do?

He’d overreacted, that’s what. He’d been angry, especially after opening up so much, and Martin’s proposition had startled him. At the time it had felt like a perfectly reasonable reaction. All sorts of miserable thoughts had crossed his mind - Martin was mocking him, not taking him seriously, even using him - and he’d spent a long time since stewing in them and feeling sorry for himself.

Reading back Martin’s messages, he realised he was being an idiot. Hadn’t he been saying earlier how he trusted Martin? Thought he was dependable? He hadn’t been lying, after all, and he didn’t really think Martin was capable of being quite so devious. Not once in their brief time working together had he ever gotten the impression that he was one for taking the piss out of other people, even in a joking way. 

He was, as he was so wont to do, wallowing in his own insecurities and taking it out on someone else.

He felt a pang of guilt. He wasn’t being fair to Martin at all; it was only natural that so soon after learning vampires were real, let alone that his boss was one of them, he’d want to ask all sorts of questions. And while offering himself up as a food source was rather stupid and reckless, particularly after Jon had explained all the reasons why he wouldn’t ever feed from a human, he also couldn’t help feeling that the gesture was rather…sweet. Martin really did seem to only have his best interests at heart.

Oh, good Lord. He needed to apologise to him. 

On the one hand, he could wait to see Martin in the morning. It would be perfectly reasonable.

But he knew he wouldn't be able to think about anything else all night. And without even the distraction of sleep…

He stood up abruptly and walked a full circle of his office, which accomplished precisely nothing when he had much to accomplish. He returned to stand behind his chair and picked up his phone again, reading Martin’s latest text for the umpteenth time. He’d already left - could he catch him? A glance at the clock told him it was almost quarter past five, but perhaps if he left now?

He grabbed his coat and bag and made for the door, wrenching it open. A surprised Tim was on the other side, passing by on his own way out. For god’s sake, Jon really needed to pay better attention to his surroundings. What was the point of having enhanced senses if he never used them? 

“Alright boss?” Tim asked cautiously, looking him up and down. “Never seen you so eager to leave the office.”

Jon cleared his throat. “Fine, Tim. Just, er, I have an appointment to get to.”

Tim arched a dark eyebrow in a way that Jon had always secretly wished he could do. “Oh yeah? An appointment? Well, you’d better get moving then.” He stuck one hand in his jacket pocket and gestured ahead with the other, allowing Jon to go in front of him. “After you. See you in the morning.” He grinned, catching his tongue between his teeth, his blue eyes twinkling.

Jon decided not to think too hard about what assumptions Tim might be making and hurried instead down the corridor and up the stairs. Rosie gave him a strange look from behind the reception desk while she pretended to tidy up before leaving; he ignored her. 

Finally, he was out in the fresh air. It was a little chilly, and the light was fading quickly, but neither of those things bothered him much.

Right, Jon. Concentrate. Which way did Martin go when he left? Where did he live? Jon wracked his brains, trying to remember if Martin had ever mentioned that. Should he go back in and ask Rosie? No, no, because then she’d want to know why, and he’d waste yet more time. How could he not remember such a simple thing? Did he really pay so little attention to the people he worked with?

At a loss for anything else to do, he picked a direction that felt right and started walking. He only registered why it felt right a few seconds later - he was following Martin’s scent. Oh, that felt creepy. He’d tracked things before, animals for food, but it felt so invasive to do it to a person. 

You’re not hunting him. You’re just trying to find him. So you can apologise. He took a careful sniff of the air, trying to filter out the general smells of the city. Traffic fumes, people hurrying home from work, the river Thames, bins, a huge range of foods cooking, alcohol, cigarettes. All together they were almost overpowering. He couldn’t believe he’d used to smoke; of course, he could do it now without worrying about the detriment to his health, but he didn’t think he’d be able to stand the assault on his senses. Ugh. Ignore it, ignore it.

He kept walking, seeking those familiar notes that made up the smell of Martin, firmly ignoring his feelings about how weird it felt to be doing such a thing. Orange blossom laundry pods. Tea tree and mint shower gel. Those little cleaning wipes he used for his glasses. Chicken salad on wholemeal bread?

Oh. He must have taken the leftover sandwich home with him. Jon experienced a brief moment of indescribable emotion. He swallowed it down determinedly and turned a corner.

It was nearly dark now, the pavement lit by streetlamps and shop signs, and a pervasive drizzle had started to fall. He removed his glasses and tucked them in the inside pocket of his jacket so they wouldn’t get wet, put his collar up to keep the rain off his neck, and walked on as quickly as he could. Every so often he stopped to get his bearings, sniff the air, make sure he was still following the trail. He reasoned he’d been walking for about ten minutes already, which meant logically he’d be catching up to Martin soon. Martin was taller and had a longer stride, but Jon moved faster. 

He paused for a second, suddenly struck by the realisation that he had no idea what to say to Martin once he caught up to him. He wanted to apologise, but where could he start? How would he explain why he’d tried to follow Martin home from work - moreover, how he’d been able to follow Martin home from work? Oh, hello, Martin, fancy seeing you here. I was just using my heightened sense of smell to track you through London at night. Anyway, sorry for scaring you earlier…

With a groan, he ducked to the side and into a narrow street, leaning on the wall of an empty office building. He wanted to bang his head against the brickwork. Good God, he hadn’t thought this through at all, really, had he? He’d latched onto the first idea that sounded vaguely sensible and run with it, not stopping to consider whether it was actually viable. What was it about Martin that made him act so irrationally? Maybe he should go home and wait until the morning. At least then he could spend some time putting together coherent sentences to use instead of making a fool of himself.

Wait a minute. 

He sniffed the air a few times.

Martin’s scent was stronger all of a sudden. Was he coming back this way? Maybe he’d forgotten something again.

Cautiously, Jon peeked around the corner of the building. Two figures were coming towards him, moving quickly, their shoulders hunched. One of them kept checking over their shoulder as if they were afraid of being followed, while the other was whispering urgently and tugging the brim of a baseball cap down as far as it would go to cover his face. 

They passed Jon, and he could see that neither of them was Martin, but they smelled like him. Him, themselves, and the unmistakable tang of blood.

Jon didn’t know what came over him. 

Well, he did, but there wasn’t time to think about that right then.

He burst out onto the main street, startling the two of them - they were probably a bit younger than him, he registered, but both bigger - and grabbed the nearest. It was no effort to pull him forward by the front of his fake leather jacket and spin him around so he was pinned against the wall.

“What did you just do?” Jon barked. 

“What the fuck?” The other one came at him, fists raised. Jon caught the punch easily and pushed back perhaps a bit harder than was necessary. The man fell to the ground spluttering in shock. His hat fell off and landed in a puddle.

 Jon turned back to the first one. “You hurt someone,” he said in a low voice. “You’re running away.” There was a sound coming from his throat that he’d never made before, something like a growl that laced his every word. The man struggled in his grasp. He was only holding him with one hand, but there was no way he’d escape unless Jon let him go. 

“We didn’t - we ain’t -” he stammered, pale as a ghost, eyes wide. Jon raised his arm, lifting him onto his toes, and he squeaked in fear. “We didn’t mean to, I swear!”

Jon bared his teeth. “Don’t lie to me,” he said in that same growling tone. It felt…sort of good, satisfying, to be threatening like this. Like hunting, but more. Powerful, that was the word. It would be so easy to lean in, pull this man’s head to the side, expose the neck. Take a bite, feel the skin yield to his teeth, all that fresh blood filling his mouth…

Stop it. Don’t hurt them. Just make them talk.

“Your eyes…” the struggling man whimpered. “What the fuck’s wrong with your eyes?”

Jon pulled the man forward until they were nose to nose. This close, his senses were nearly overwhelmed with sweat and blood and cheap aerosol deodorant, but the scent of Martin was undeniable. If these two had hurt him…

“Where is he? Where did you leave him?” he hissed. “Tell me, and I’ll let you go. You can keep running. Does that sound good?”

“What if we don’t?” The other one had jammed his wet cap back onto his head and was on his feet again, hovering on the sidelines, full of false bravado. Jon could smell his fear. “What are you gonna do?”

Jon turned his head and fixed him with a terrible look. He froze, then took a step backwards. “Okay, okay,” he said, hands held up in surrender. “We’ll go, yeah?”

Jon didn’t think. He dropped the one he’d been holding in the air, ignoring his yelp of pain as he hit the hard pavement, and the next moment he was standing in front of the other, who screamed and staggered back. “Give me what you stole,” he snarled. “I know you took something. I can smell it on you.” He looked behind him. “Both of you.”

They gaped at him.

“Now.”

They both started scrabbling in their pockets. One of them threw Martin’s wallet towards him, the other his phone, which had a long crack spider-webbing across the dark screen. 

Jon glanced up and down the street. More people were coming, and he needed to go. The one in the baseball cap was helping the other to his feet, both of them staring at him like startled animals, poised to run. There was a part of him that really, really hoped they would. He wanted to chase them down, hurt them back, feed on them. He’d never felt quite so violent before. He flexed his fingers as though they were claws. 

Martin needs you.

He swallowed the instincts down, deliberately reached instead to pick up Martin’s things and put them in his pockets. “Where is he?” he asked, trying to keep his voice as level as possible.

The man in the fake leather jacket pointed back the way they’d come. “That way. By the bus stop. I don’t…I dunno if he’s still there.”

“I’ll find him," Jon said. "Now run home  before I change my mind."

He didn't wait to see if they did; he was already gone. He sent a silent thank you to whoever might be listening that the streets were so quiet, miserable rain on an autumnal Wednesday night keeping people indoors. Not too many strangers staring at him as he rushed by faster than was normal, a blur of long brown coat and sensible shoes. 

The bus stop wasn't far - he could see it already, but there was nobody there. He ran the last few feet in record time and whirled around, searching. "Martin?" he called, straining to listen for a response. "Martin? Where are you?"

"Mmmnnnnrrr," said Martin. He was slumped over a few feet away, half obscured by a wheelie bin. He peered around the side of it and squinted in the streetlamp light. "Jon?"

"Martin!" Jon ran to him and knelt down on the ground, soaking the knees of his trousers. "Are you alright?"

"Jon." Martin blinked up at him a few times as if he wasn't sure he was really there. His glasses were cracked, and his nose was bleeding. "What are you doing here?"

"Never mind that now." Jon lifted his hand to push Martin's hair back, then hesitated. "I'm going to touch you, okay? I can smell blood, but I don't know if it's just your nose so I want to check your head first."

"Okay." Martin acquiesced easily. He was slurring his words a bit, which was worrying. Maybe he had a concussion? Jon tried to recall what he was supposed to do if that was the case. All he remembered was not to let Martin go to sleep.

"Lean forward for me," he murmured, reaching behind Martin's head. "I've got you."

Martin groaned and shifted forward, slumping against Jon's shoulder. "'m dizzy," he grumbled. "My head hurts."

Jon gingerly ran his fingers through Martin's hair. He couldn't feel any wetness, aside from the rain soaking him, so there probably wasn't a head wound. Good. "I know, I'm sorry," he said, still trying to keep that soothing low tone in his voice. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"Idiots. I was waiting…for the bus. So I didn't have to…walk in the rain. And they came up. They hurt me." He sounded angry at first, but then his breath hitched. "They took my stuff. My wallet."

"I've got your things. It's okay. But I think your phone might be broken." Jon moved him carefully so he could lean back against the wall. "Does anything else hurt?"

Martin looked down at his right hand, and Jon followed his gaze. The knuckles were beginning to bruise. "I punched one of them," he said as though surprised at himself. "Huh."

Jon smiled a little as he looked Martin over. There were bruises coming out on his face, too; one along his jaw, and he'd have an impressive black eye tomorrow. "Good for you."

"Thanks," he croaked. He suddenly reached out and clung to him, falling into his arms. His shoulders were shaking. "I was really scared, Jon."

Jon wanted to run back down the road and rip those men to shreds. He stayed where he was and let Martin cry over him, rubbing his back soothingly. "I've got you," he repeated, over and over. "I've got you."

After a few minutes, Martin’s sobs subsided. Tearstained and snotty, he looked up at Jon and grimaced. "Sorry. That was disgusting."

"Don't be stupid," Jon admonished him. "Come on. We need to get you to A&E."

"No!" Martin shook his head emphatically and winced. "Ow. No. I hate…hospitals."

Jon bit his lip. "Hmm. How about your flat? Can you walk?"

"Think so."

"Okay. I'm going to lift you up, alright? And we can walk there together." 

Martin frowned at him. "What are you talking about? You can't…lift me."

"I can and I will. Stop arguing." Jon stood up and put his hands under Martin's shoulders. "Ready?"

"Okay…" Martin was still sceptical, but he seemed to be keeping up the conversation alright. Jon took that as a good sign.

"Three, two, one…" He counted down and pulled Martin to his feet as carefully as he could manage, not wanting to jar him in case of an injury they hadn't noticed yet. Martin yelped in surprise and staggered a little, but Jon caught him easily. He pulled Martin's arm over his shoulders and tucked himself against his side, wrapping his own arm around his waist. Now they were away from the horrible-smelling bin, the scent of Martin's blood so close to his face was rather distracting. He gritted his teeth and ignored it. "Alright?" 

"Yeah." Martin seemed dumbfounded. "You're really strong, aren't you?"

"Yes." Jon nodded briskly. "Right, you're going to have to tell me where to go, because I'm afraid I can't remember where you live. If you get tired, let me know, and I'll carry you."

Martin laughed. "That would be nice. Maybe you should do it anyway."

If Jon could have blushed, he would have. "Let's get you home."

Chapter Text

"Ugh. I hate stairs. Why did I get a flat…on the second floor?"

"Is there a lift?"

"S'broken. Always broken."

"Hmm. Put your arms around my neck."

Martin woke up bleary, yet he felt so cosy and safe. The bed was warm and soft and his room was dark. He could make out some light coming in through the gap under the door, the white glow of his hallway light. Some remnant of whatever he'd been dreaming about still lingered in his mind; strong arms around him, carrying him, holding him close against a firm chest. Someone talking to him in a low, reassuring voice.

He had the strangest feeling that someone else was in his flat, but for whatever reason he didn't mind. How odd.

Five more minutes.

"Shit."

"What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

"No, no…I just. I lost my keys."

"Ah. Well, um, I could help with that, if you don't mind me breaking your door in."

"You could…oh. Yeah, okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Wait, wait, hang on. Do I need…should I invite you in?"

"I don't actually know. It's never really come up."

"What do you mean?"

"I…don't get invited round to people's homes much."

"Huh. I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

"Well, just in case. You are…you can come in. You're welcome here."

"Thank you, Martin. I'm going to put you down, alright? Lean against the wall and cover your ears, this could be rather loud."

The next time Martin woke up, he could hear voices in the hallway. They were arguing - or at least one of them was. He vaguely recognised that sonorous, exasperated tone. The other person kept umming and aahing and talking about seven-to-ten days. 

He rolled over to face the window. It still looked dark outside. He had no idea what time it was. How long had he been asleep? Didn't he have to get up for work at some point? He reached towards his bedside table and fumbled blindly for his phone. It was there, but the screen was dead. He couldn't be bothered to get up and find his charger.

He couldn't be bothered to do anything, really, except snuggle under his duvet and try to ignore the throbbing behind his eyes. In his sleep-addled state, he figured that if someone else was here then they could wake him up for work, right? 

He'd be fine. 

"This might sting a bit."

"Jon, I can do it myself."

"But you're not going to."

"Fine, fine. God, this stuff smells awful."

"Yes, it does."

"Oh. Oh, no, is it too much for you? I can do it, honest, if you need -"

"I’ll manage, Martin. Just sit still, try to relax. You've been through a lot tonight."

The third and final time Martin awoke that day, he could smell bacon. His stomach grumbled. Who was cooking breakfast?

Oh.

Jon was cooking breakfast.

Flashes of the night before came back to him, memories he'd thought were dreams; Jon carrying him easily up three flights of stairs, bridal-style, as if it was something they did every day. Smashing his front door in because his keys were missing, and helping him lie down on the sofa. Bringing him tea - when was the last time someone else had made him tea? Granted it had been far too milky and full of sugar, but he'd been touched by the gesture.

Jon kneeling on the floor by the sofa, gently cradling his chin while he cleaned his face with antiseptic. Dressing a cut on his cheek with Steri-Strips, laser-focused on not hurting him. It turned out that when Jon was concentrating extra hard, he stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. Martin had thought it was the cutest thing he'd ever seen.

And now, to know it was all real? He rolled carefully onto his back, wincing, and sank into the pillows. Jon was here, in his flat, taking care of him. He'd been there all night. This was actually happening. 

Martin hadn't known it was possible to blush from head to toe, or that the phrase "warm and fuzzy" actually had some basis in reality. He felt a bit overwhelmed, to be honest. He wrapped his arms around himself and squeezed. What did it all mean? Was Jon just looking out for him because he thought it was the right thing to do? Or was it something more? How had he even found him last night? 

There was a knock at the bedroom door. "Martin? Are you decent?"

"Um…" Martin looked down at himself. He was topless, which he somehow hadn't noticed. Had Jon undressed him? Nope, nope, nope, don't think about that right now. Pull the duvet up, cover your chest, tuck it under your arms. Normal things. Normal things. "Yeah, sure, come in!" he called, his voice squeaking like a teenager’s as he fumbled for his glasses and shoved them onto his face.

The door opened and Jon came in backwards. When he turned around, Martin saw why; he was carrying a breakfast tray. There was a plate with bacon, toast, and what looked like scrambled eggs, a glass of water, and a big blue and white striped mug of tea. 

Martin took a moment to appreciate the unusually domestic image and squirrel it away behind the door in his head marked ‘Particularly Good Memories’. Jon regarded him from the doorway, softly illuminated from behind by the hallway light. He must have tied his hair back while he was cooking, but a few strands were escaping the ponytail and curling around his face. He was wearing one of Martin’s aprons over his clothes, the green one with ginger cats on the front pocket.

His heart thudded in his chest so loudly that he was sure Jon must have heard it. They stared at each other, and was he imagining the look of soft affection that passed over Jon’s face? Wishful thinking, most likely. 

“Morning,” he said, trying to restore some sense of normality to the proceedings. 

“Good morning, Martin.”

The spell between them broken, Jon entered the room, and after a few seconds of shuffling and “sorry”s and “let me just”s, Martin was settled with breakfast in bed. Jon hovered, looking as though he didn’t know what to do now. 

“Sit down, Jon, you’re making the place look untidier,” Martin joked, tutting. He shuffled over and patted the empty side of the bed, marvelling internally at how he could sound so normal while inviting Jon to share a bed with him. “Did you make all this?” he asked, gesturing to the plate with the knife and fork. 

Jon nodded. “I hope it tastes alright. All the ingredients smelled fine when I bought them, so it should be -”

Martin held up a forkful of eggs to cut him off. “Wait. When did you go shopping?”

“This morning.” Jon shuffled on the spot, looking a little sheepish. “I didn’t want to leave you alone, because the front door wouldn’t close properly, and the so-called twenty-four-hour locksmith I found wouldn’t come over here until seven at least, so I had to wait. But that’s been sorted out now, so I went to the corner shop and got some food, and I’ve already rung work, by the way. Neither of us needs to go in today.”

“Hang on.” Chewing thoughtfully on bacon, Martin tried to wrap his head around everything Jon had just blurted out. Eventually he landed on, “We’re not going to work?”

Jon looked at him as though he’d tipped the plate of food over his head. “Of course not. You’re in no state to be going in, and somebody needs to keep an eye on you.”

“I’m fine, Jon. I feel fine, I don’t need you to stay.” It was instinctive, the immediate dismissal, and it was only when Jon fixed him with a steely glare that he actually took stock of how he was really feeling. He couldn’t open his left eye all the way. His head was pounding, his jaw ached, and it actually hurt to breathe in through his nose. In fact, his entire face felt stiff and sore, and the rest of him wasn’t much better. “Fucking hell...”

“I put some painkillers on the tray,” Jon said knowingly. He pointed, and Martin noticed the two white tablets next to the glass of water. 

“Oh my god, you’re an angel,” Martin enthused, grabbing the tablets and swallowing them immediately. He heard Jon give a little cough, and realising what he’d just said he almost choked on the water. Once he’d established he wasn’t in fact going to die, he ducked his head and concentrated intently on eating his breakfast. His cheeks felt like they were on fire.

Huh. The food was actually really good. Crispy bacon, soft eggs, toast liberally buttered and just the right shade of brown. He devoured the lot and set the tray to the side, then picked up the mug of tea and cradled it in his hands. That was a lot better than last night’s attempt, too; Jon must have been taking notes. He wouldn’t put it past him.

He glanced up and realised Jon was watching him, that familiar intensity in his eyes. He suddenly felt very shy. “Um,” he said, “do you mind leaving?”

A funny expression crossed Jon’s face, a blink-and-you’d-miss it frown before he got his features back under control and projected only polite indifference. “Do you…want me to go, then? I know I said before -”

“Leaving the room, Jon,” Martin explained quickly. “So I can get dressed. If you don’t mind. Not quite at the stripping-in-front-of-my-boss stage of the relationship yet, you know?” He occupied his mouth with tea before it ran even further away from him. Good God man, could you be any more awkward if you tried?

“Oh!” Jon’s eyebrows shot up and he all but scrambled off the bed. The tray tipped off the side and he caught it easily, balancing everything without even dropping a crumb on the carpet. “Of course, Martin, sorry, I’ll, er, leave you in peace. I’ll just…go and clear up.” He lifted the tray a little and opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something else, and the next second he was gone. The door closed with a quiet click behind him.

Martin grabbed the nearest pillow, held it to his face, and screamed into it. What was he doing? Jon was his boss, for fuck’s sake. Yes, they could probably call themselves friends, but there’d never been any sort of sign that would change! He just had a crush on his boss, this smart, beautiful, snarky, adorably awkward man who could potentially kill him if he were so inclined. There were so many reasons it would never, ever work between them. It was never going to happen, Martin, so stop acting like an idiot. Say thank you, send him on his way, see him tomorrow at work and start being more professional, yeah?

“Martin?” Jon called, making him jump. He sounded like he was in the kitchen. “Are you alright?”

Martin’s grip on the pillow tightened. Of course, he’d heard that. Bloody vampire senses. “Fine!” he shouted. He threw the duvet off him with a grunt and stood up.

Oof. Headrush. You did get punched a lot last night, Martin, maybe take it slow. Put on some clean boxers first.

He pottered slowly around to the wardrobe and pulled the door open, a bit stuck for a choice. What to wear when you were apparently spending the day at home with your boss, who’d recently rescued you from an attempted mugging and then carefully tended your wounds? Was that a “jeans” occasion? He eventually decided on a loose button-down shirt with no visible holes, and a pair of comfy trousers. Clothes are clothes, Martin. He’s not going to be judging your fashion choices. He’d go without his binder today, though; he didn’t think he’d be able to get it over his head.

Fully dressed and feeling a little more like himself, even if it did still hurt a bit to move, he made his way to the bathroom to use the loo and clean himself up a bit. There - more human by the second. Mind you, under the cheap lightbulb the bruises on his face looked truly awful. He took off his glasses and leaned closer to the mirror, prodding the purple shadows around his eye. Ow. That was stupid. The Steri-Strips on his cheek were holding up fine, which was a relief, and the bruise along his jaw actually looked quite good in a weird, five o’clock shadow sort of way. He resisted the urge to poke that one too.

Right. Well, he couldn’t hide in the loo forever.

Jon was just finishing the dishes when Martin came into the tiny kitchen. It was absolutely spotless - more than Martin was ever able to manage. He stared around in astonishment. “Been busy?”

Jon turned and gave him a quick smile while drying his hands on a towel. “I get very bored at night,” he explained. “Not sleeping leaves me with a lot of time on my hands. So I…tidied up. In here, and the living room.” He frowned. “Is that weird?”

“A bit,” Martin said, nodding, “but it’s okay. Let’s just make it another thing I need to thank you for, eh?”

“You don’t have to thank me.” Jon came towards him, brown eyes darting quickly over his face to check on his bruises. “For any of it. As long as you’re alright.”

Martin’s breath caught in his throat. They were standing so close all of a sudden, inches apart. He really wanted to touch Jon’s hair. 

He was officially a lost cause.

“Well, thanks, anyway,” he said, trying to sound normal. “I owe you.”

Jon shook his head. He was still staring up at him, like Martin was a puzzle he was determined to figure out. “You don’t owe me anything. I wanted to do it.”

“Why?” he asked clumsily.

“Because I was worried about you, Martin.” Jon tilted his head to one side like a curious bird. Did he ever blink? It was like being under a spotlight, looking into his eyes. “I was looking for you…I wanted to find you last night, to apologise for my behaviour over lunch. I know I scared you. I’m sorry for that.”

“Oh, well,” said Martin. He watched Jon’s eyes drop to his neck, so quickly he could have imagined it, as that familiar blush began to bloom across his pale skin. “That was…don’t worry about that. It was my fault.” He felt like he was talking on autopilot, letting his mouth move on its own while most of his brain was otherwise occupied drowning in Jon’s gaze. 

“It was perfectly natural,” Jon replied. His lips were barely moving. His hand hovered for a moment as if he wanted to lay in on Martin’s arm. “You’re a human, I’m a vampire…you had… have questions, I expect. I should have been more prepared.”

Something was niggling in the back of Martin’s mind. He looked away long enough to gather his thoughts. “When you say you were looking for me, what does that mean?”

Jon bit his lip. Martin could have watched him do that forever. “I was…tracking you,” he admitted in a low voice. It seemed like a time for speaking in low voices. “Following your scent.”

Martin felt incredibly grateful he’d put some deodorant on before coming into the room. “I…didn’t know you could do that.”

“I don’t, very often. Only when I want to.” Jon finally laid his hand on Martin’s arm, and it felt like an electric shock. He wasn’t as cold to the touch as Martin had thought he’d be. More a sort of snakeskin temperature. “And then I smelled your scent on those men, and I got so angry, I…” He tightened his grip, almost possessively.

“What did you do?” Martin asked, hardly daring to breathe. “Did you…hurt them?”

“Scared them, mostly. I made them give me your things, and then they ran away. They might have a story to tell, but I doubt anything will come of it. And they certainly won’t bother you again.” Jon loosened his fingers but didn’t let go. He let all his breath out in a very long sigh as if he’d been holding it for hours. Maybe he had. “When I found you, Martin,” he murmured, “I was so relieved. So relieved. I kept imagining all these awful things had happened to you…”

It was obvious to Martin now. Even if nothing ever happened between them, if his crush was only ever a one-sided thing, there was no way they could ever just be boss and subordinate now. Something inexplicable had come between them the moment he’d discovered Jon’s secret and promised not to tell. 

Whatever it was, he’d take it. Just to keep to himself, hold close, bring out and look at on the coldest, loneliest nights. That would be enough.

But maybe…

“I think,” Jon continued, “what I’m trying to say is…well. I said I have a lot of time on my hands without sleep. And last night, I spent most of it thinking.”

“Yeah?” The word was barely a sound from Martin’s lips. Hope fluttered in his heart, and Jon’s eyes flicked to his chest instinctively. “What were you, um, thinking about?”

Jon moved his hand down Martin’s arm and intertwined their fingers. His skin was a little rough, his nails a little sharp. Their hands fit together perfectly. “I was thinking,” he said, “about how much I seem to care about you. I’d never really noticed it before. When you’re not around, I don’t like it. When we weren’t talking yesterday, I missed you. And the idea of you in danger, it scares me. I was angry, yes, but I was afraid as well. I wanted to kill those men for what I thought they’d done to you. The only reason I didn’t was because I wanted to find you, make sure you were alright. That was more important. You are more important.”

When had their mouths gotten so close together? Jon reached his other hand up and cupped the side of Martin’s face, careful not to push on the bruise. 

“I think I’ve fallen for you, Martin Blackwood,” he whispered, and then their lips met and Martin knew there was absolutely no way he could settle for a one-sided crush. Never in a million years.

Chapter Text

“Jon?”

“Hmm?” 

 “Can you cross running water?”

“Martin, I have walked over the Thames dozens of times,” Jon replied from the other end of the sofa. He was lying on his back with his feet on Martin’s lap - an unusually relaxed position. It was very comfortable, though, and somehow more intimate than all the kissing they’d done a few hours before in the kitchen.

And the lounge.

And on the doorstep when Jon had run out to get more milk, because of course he’d forgotten milk on his impromptu shopping trip. He found it was rather easy these days to forget ordinary human things like that. It was a relatively new development, and he didn’t particularly like how often it kept happening.

Better to distract himself with thoughts of kissing Martin. Now that was a new development he was enjoying. Why had it taken him so long?

Because you refused to get over yourself and admit that you have feelings, you stubborn creature.

“Right.” Martin typed something into his phone, a rhythmic tap-tap-tap. The quiet resumed aside from the low buzz of the television. Someone was trying and failing to win some money by answering quiz questions.

Jon fidgeted. He recognised the feeling under his skin, the itch in the back of his throat. “Why do you ask?”

Martin glanced at him over the top of his glasses mischievously. “And you don’t sparkle in the sunlight, I assume?”

Jon gaped at him. “You’ve been outside with - what on earth are you reading?” he exclaimed, shifting around and reaching for Martin’s phone. Laughing, Martin held it out of reach, but Jon easily pulled on his arm and grabbed it out of his hand. He curled against Martin’s side and covered the phone protectively. “Encyclopedia Britannica. Vampire. Legendary creature.” He glanced up and raised his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“I was curious,” Martin admitted. He shuffled downwards and settled down next to Jon, wincing as he put his arm around his shoulders. Jon shot him a look of concern, and he waved it away. “There’s so much conflicting information about them. You.”

Jon frowned. “You could ask me,” he said reproachfully.

Martin dropped a kiss on the top of his head. “Don’t be grumpy,” he admonished him, “it’s just I was thinking about how you didn’t know if the by-invitation-only thing applied to you. And then I got onto what else might be a thing that you didn’t know about. And, well…” He gestured to the phone. “Encyclopedia Britannica.”

Jon tutted. “It’s not as though there’s an instruction manual for this sort of thing.” He paused, biting his bottom lip, then decided to hell with it. “I do keep a journal, though.”

“Really?” Martin’s eyes widened. “What do you, er, write about?”

“My experiences as a vampire. My experimentation with…feeding.” There was that tickle in his throat again. “Things I know for certain don’t affect me. How to handle being able to hear and smell everything. Um, I think I wrote down the best fabrics to wear and what to wash them in at some point, as well.”

"Huh," said Martin. "Can I ask why? You don't have to say, if you'd rather not."

Jon put the phone down and folded his hands over his chest, trying to think how best to phrase things. "As far as I'm aware," he began, "I am in a unique position - I mean, relatively. There’s at least one other person out there like me, of course, otherwise I wouldn’t be like this. And as I said, there's no guidance. No instructions. All I have to go on is folklore and hearsay and" - he nudged Martin gently with his elbow, careful to avoid any sore spots - "movie references. It's not a particularly pleasant position to be in."

"Understatement." Martin kissed the top of his head again.

Jon suppressed a grin. He’d never considered himself one for casual affection, but Martin made it seem so easy, and he found himself now wanting to reciprocate. Deliberately putting a barrier around himself since his transformation, telling himself it was for everyone else’s safety, he hadn't realised how much he'd missed physical contact with other people.

Or even how lonely he'd been, really. 

He reached up to hold Martin's hand where it was hanging down over his shoulder. He liked how warm Martin felt, how he could fully enclose Jon’s hand with his fingers if he wanted to. It was grounding, an anchor to stop him getting lost among his darker thoughts. "If this happened to anyone else," he said softly. "I mean, of course I'd rather it didn't, but if it did, I hope I'd be able to find them. And help them…come to terms with it. Know they weren't alone. Does that make sense?"

"Oh, Jon." Martin gave his hand a squeeze. "That makes perfect sense."

"Good." Jon breathed a sigh of relief. Breathing still felt natural, though he didn’t need to do it, but people might notice if he stopped. And sometimes a good sigh was the best way of expressing himself.

“What about…” Martin hesitated. Jon fancied he could almost hear the gears turning in his head. “What about if you found the person who turned you? What would you do then?”

There was a question and a half. Jon hummed, thinking it through. “I…don’t know, to be honest,” he admitted slowly. He tried to cast his mind back to the previous year, to that night walking home from the train station. “I don’t remember anything about them. Except their eyes.”

He paused. Martin didn’t speak, didn’t push, simply waited for him to continue. 

“They had these bright, bright eyes, they were so captivating…” He could see them in his mind, those two glowing points that caught and held him like a moth in lamplight. “I saw them and I felt trapped, like I couldn’t move away. Or at all, really. My body wouldn’t listen to me.”

Martin shuddered. “That sounds horrifying.”

Jon nibbled his bottom lip as he thought about how to explain. It was difficult to make himself acknowledge the incident again; he'd spent a long time deliberately doing the opposite. “In retrospect, yes, but at the time…it was like part of my mind was screaming at me to run away, but the rest of me locked it behind a door in my head. I didn’t care about that. I felt…comfortable. And then by the time I registered their teeth in my neck, it was too late.” Almost without realising, he tightened his grip on Martin’s fingers. “I don’t remember anything but pain after that.”

“Oh, Jon…” Martin said again, and held him even tighter. “See, this is exactly why I didn’t want to ask you about this stuff. It’s traumatising!”

Jon chuckled ruefully. “It’s fine, Martin, really. I’m only so hesitant to talk about it because I never really have before, you know? I’ve gone for months keeping this from everybody. Some bits are hard to think about, yes, but if I don’t want to tell you something then I won’t.”

“Good,” said Martin. He was pouting a little, which was frankly adorable. “I want you to feel like you can talk to me, okay? I can’t relate, obviously, but I’ll listen.”

Jon was touched. “Thank you, Martin. That’s very sweet of you.”

Martin’s heartbeat picked up speed. He stared at Jon for a couple of seconds, his lips parted slightly as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t make the words come out of his mouth.

Yep. Adorable.

Jon stretched upwards and kissed him impulsively, pulling him as close as he could without hurting him. Martin’s yelp of surprise quickly turned into a pleasant moan, and Jon chased the sound eagerly. He closed his eyes and felt as though all his other senses had been turned up even more than usual; his mouth and nose were overwhelmed with Martin. God, he smelled good. Underneath the soap, detergent, and lingering hint of antiseptic, his skin was warm and a little sweet, and he tasted amazing…

Martin broke away. “Jon?”

Jon hummed deep in his throat, the sound reverberating through his chest, and tried to kiss him again.

“Jon – ah – hang on, I can’t –”

He froze. It was like a spell had been broken. He opened his eyes and realised he’d all but crawled into Martin’s lap, pushing his hands into his hair and effectively pinning him to the sofa. How had he abandoned his self-control so easily?

Of course. He was hungry. He hadn’t fed for a couple of days, and confronting those muggers the previous night had gotten his hackles up, the predator within him raring for a fight, a hunt, something. 

His gaze dropped, unbidden, to Martin’s neck. His shirt collar was open and exposed the pale freckled skin, now coloured with a delicate flush of pink. 

No. Don’t you dare.

He leaped off Martin like a man possessed and scrambled back to the other end of the sofa, turning his face away and trying not to inhale. He could feel Martin looking at him, imagine that little head tilt he did when he was concerned about something and wanted to ask a question. 

“Jon?” Martin asked, sounding worried and a little breathless. “You alright?”

Jon nodded mutely. 

“You’ve got a weird look on your face.”

He turned to look at him, not meeting his eyes. “I’m hungry,” he bit out. “I’ve been ignoring it for a while. Being that close to you, it made it all a bit…much. I just need a moment.” He paused, nose twitching. 

“Jon?” Martin prompted after several seconds of silence. He fidgeted, playing with the hem of his shirt. “What is it?” 

Jon finally looked at him properly, his eyebrows knit together in an apologetic frown. “I’m so sorry, Martin. I didn’t mean to, er, to string you along, or wind you up, or anything like that –”

“Wait, whoa. Hang on.” Martin held up his hands. “What are you on about?”

Oh, we’re having all the awkward and meaningful conversations today, aren’t we, Jonathan? He clenched and unclenched his jaw, gathering his thoughts. “Um.” How to put it? For heaven's sake, he should just say it, he was being an idiot. If he was going to try and have a romantic relationship with the man – and now he’d actually faced his feelings head on for once, he knew he very much wanted to – then Martin needed to know.

“I’m ace,” he blurted. “Asexual? I don’t…do…that.” His voice dwindled into a mumble. 

“You…oh!” Martin’s eyes went wide and he blushed. “Oh.”

Jon pulled a face. “You’re disappointed.”

Martin frowned at him. “Will you stop putting words in my mouth? No, I’m not. I’m just...processing. Give me a sec.”

Jon waited quietly, tucking his knees up so he could rest his chin on them. He tried not to stare at Martin too fixedly in case he found it unnerving. A few seconds had never felt so long.

“Right.” Martin sat up with a grunt and a wince, shifting until he was comfortable. He fixed his soft blue eyes on Jon’s face and smiled at him, the left side of his mouth quirking further upwards to reveal the dimple in his cheek. “Ow. Okay. First, Jon, thanks for telling me that. No, shush.” He raised a finger in warning, and Jon closed his mouth again. “You’ve told me a lot of very, very personal things lately, and I’m glad you feel like you can. It’s like I said, I…I can’t relate exactly, but I’m not going to change my mind, or break up with you, or…uninvite you from my home, okay? It’s fine. You being ace is fine.” He sighed and gave a little chuckle. “I’ll be honest, sex hadn’t even crossed my mind yet, we only kissed each other this morning.”

“You’re not…” Jon paused, waiting to see if Martin would shush him again. “You’re really okay with it?”

Martin laughed. “Of course I am, Jon! I’ve had a crush on you for months. There - there’s my confession for the day, we’re two-one now. I thought you were gorgeous the first time I asked you if you’d seen a dog and you answered ‘in general?’.” He shook his head fondly, and Jon felt some of the tension in his body melt away. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m okay with you being a vampire, so the fact that you don’t like to have sex isn’t exactly going to send me running for the hills. We don’t have to do that. We don’t have to do anything - I’m happy just being with you, getting to sit with you and watch stupid television and laugh at the inaccuracies of vampire lore. And you basically saved my life last night, in case you’d forgotten. Not that I’m going to make a habit of getting mugged, but like…we’re good. I thought I’d be okay with just a crush but I’m not, and that’s okay too, because I want you. I want this, whatever it means. Yeah?”

“Yeah…I mean, yes, I…I want it too,” Jon stammered. He thought he might have fallen a little bit more in love with Martin in the last five minutes. “That was a good speech.”

“Some of my best work,” Martin said with a grin. “I really, really care about you, Jon. And, I’m not trying to send you away...”

Jon raised an eyebrow, even as his heart sank a fraction. “Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming?”

Martin laughed again. “Very subtle subject change, sorry. You said you were hungry. Why don’t you go out and find something to eat, and then come back? If you want? I need to lie down properly anyway, my head is killing me.”

Jon pondered this, glancing at the clock. It was almost six. “How about I go and get my, um, dinner, and bring you back some food as well? Do you want me to…to stay the night, again?”

“If it means you cleaning my flat some more, I’m all for it.” Martin pushed himself upright, scrunching his face up in pain. Jon was by his side immediately to help him stand. “Oof, yeah, might need some help before you go out. Everything hurts.”

“I’ve got you.” Jon slipped almost automatically into the same position as the night before, draping Martin’s arm over his shoulders and holding him around the waist. The proximity was…manageable, now he’d had the opportunity to distance himself a bit. He could manage.

He would never hurt him.

They shuffled to the bedroom together, and he helped Martin lie down.

“Are we going to work tomorrow?” Martin asked. He already had his eyes closed. 

Jon reached down and pulled the covers up around his shoulders, then brushed a stray curl off Martin’s forehead. It felt as natural as breathing still did. Had he been denying himself these gentle comforts for so long? Madness.

“I probably should, at least,” he said softly. “But you see how you feel in the morning.”

Martin hummed a response and snuggled deeper into the pillows with a pleased little grunt. Jon smiled to himself and retreated from the room, turning off the lights and closing the door with a soft click. 

He’d be back soon; first, he needed to feed.

Chapter Text

There was a huge pile of brown document folders on Martin’s desk when he got to work on Monday morning, but even that wasn’t enough to wipe the smile off his face.

The weekend had been wonderful. It was astonishing how easily Jon had slipped into the routine of his days, as if they’d always had lunch together - Jon cooking, Martin eating and washing up - and gone for walks to the tiny park near his flat, before Jon went out to hunt once it got dark and came back with a takeaway and a bag of snacks for Martin to nibble on while they watched a rubbish film and critically ripped it to pieces. 

Were they moving too fast? Maybe. But if they were, he didn’t mind - he’d known how he felt about Jon for months, so it didn’t feel that fast at all to him. He’d never been so comfortable with anybody he’d tried to have a relationship with. Could he call it that yet? A relationship? The thought sent a giddy little thrill up his spine as he wandered into the Archives kitchen to make his usual morning tea.

“Bloody hell, Marto!” Tim greeted him with a wave and a wide grin as he nudged the fridge door shut with his hip. “You’re alive!”

Sasha, sipping her takeaway coffee from her floral-patterned travel mug, gave him a once-over. “You look awful,” she commented, but the observation was softened with a quirk of an eyebrow. “Jon wasn’t kidding.”

“I looked a lot worse a few days ago,” Martin said, trying not to blush at the attention. “You missed a hell of a black eye.” He reached for his usual mug and dropped in a teabag. “How much did Jon tell you?” he asked, trying to sound innocent as he flicked the kettle on like everything was perfectly normal.

“Just that he found you after you got mugged on Wednesday night, you needed some time to recover, and he was going to keep an eye on you.” Sasha took a sip of coffee that spoke volumes. “Weird that he lives in the totally opposite direction to you.”

“Well, he did have that appointment to get to,” Tim added. “Which I assume he didn’t make, if he was being your knight in shining armour for the evening?” He leaned suddenly over Martin’s shoulder, looking for all the world as if he was just reaching for the packet of chocolate biscuits in the cupboard.

Martin laughed in a way he hoped was believable. He had found, after working with them for a long time, that both Tim and Sasha were extremely good at knowing if they were being lied to - the difference being that Tim would call you out on it immediately, whereas Sasha would let you think you’d gotten away with it until it was too late. He often felt that talking to Sasha was like playing a video game where prompts appeared about an NPC’s feelings; Sasha will remember this. 

The trick, then, was to tell them the truth as if it were a lie, and as such it could be written off as ridiculous. He didn’t like lying to them both, but he didn’t know what the rules were about dating your boss, or even if Jon wanted anybody else to know about them being together. Not to mention the, well, vampire thing.  

“Oh yeah,” he said with a well-placed eyeroll, “I got the whole chivalry package. He carried me to my flat, stayed there all night, treated my wounds…”

Tim narrowed his eyes and peered at him for a second. Martin held his ground and looked back at him innocently. He wouldn’t be pushed on this; there were many aspects of the whole situation that were extremely personal to Jon, and he wanted to keep the first flutter of their new relationship to himself for as long as he could. 

Finally, Tim tossed his head back and barked out a laugh. “Who’d have guessed! We’re discovering a whole new side of Jonathan Sims, eh?”

“And what would that be, Timothy Stoker?”

Christ, Martin still wasn’t used to how quietly Jon could move. He was standing by the door - how had he managed to open the door without making a sound? It was a heavy fire door and creaked like anything - wearing a crisp white shirt, grey blazer, and a pair of dark red trousers that Martin hadn’t seen him wear since the day they’d met and there’d been that whole thing with the spaniel. He was also wearing his glasses, perhaps specifically so he could look judgmentally over the top of them, as he was doing now. He would have looked every inch the terribly serious professional boss-man if it wasn’t for the little smirk on his beautiful lips.

Calm down, Martin, you’re at work.

Sasha was holding a hand to her chest, the other clutching her coffee mug. “Jon, you scared the life out of me!” she exclaimed reproachfully. “You never come down here in the morning. What’s up?”

“Sorry, Sasha.” Jon came into the kitchen proper, on the pretense of getting a glass of water for himself. The way his hands moved as he reached into the cupboard and turned the cold tap on was so elegant. Martin looked away before anyone caught him staring. “You were all having such an interesting conversation, I couldn’t help but listen in.”

“Didn’t mean anything by it,” Tim lied. Sasha shot him a look behind Jon’s back, and he pulled a face in return. “Martin was just regaling us with tales of your gallantry last week. Have to say, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Oh?” Jon turned to face the three of them, holding his glass of water with both hands. Martin’s mouth went dry at the sight of him. When Jon was surrounded by humans, it was easier to see how he didn’t quite belong; his body language was too smooth, his gaze a bit too intense. No wonder everybody else in the building said he was a grumpy bastard, unfriendly, difficult to work with or even be around. Aside from the façade he put on, the aura of Other he projected was impossible to ignore. He was beautiful and intriguing, but he put people on edge for reasons they couldn’t define, because everything about him was perfectly honed to kill and something deep down was telling them to get away even as they inexplicably wanted to get closer. 

And yet he absolutely refused to hurt people. He could have so easily snuck up on the three of them and had a breakfast of his own, but instead here he was, leaning against the kitchen counter with an amused look on his face. It was like sharing a room with a leopard that just wanted some company.

Oh. Oh, he was trying to be around people instead of holing up in his office. Maybe it was just to keep up appearances, like the chicken salad sandwiches, but Martin suspected differently. His heart swelled. 

Jon suddenly looked straight at him, brown eyes gleaming under the fluorescent lights, and Martin realised he hadn’t taken in anything that had been said since Jon had turned around. He gulped. How was Jon going to treat him at work? They hadn’t discussed it over the weekend, they’d been -

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better, Martin,” Jon said evenly. “You do have a lot to catch up on, but let me know if it’s too much. I’m sure we can work something out.”

Martin’s initial reply was a garbled mess. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Uh, yeah. Thanks. I’ll keep you posted.” 

Jon nodded. “Don’t leave it to the last minute, please. Have a good day, everyone.” He left the kitchen deliberately walking at a normal human pace, and the door closed behind him with a heavy thud.

The other two rounded on Martin. “Right. What was that?” Sasha demanded.

“Nothing!” Martin squeaked. God, Jon always made him so flustered! Maybe it was a coward’s move, but leaving the room as fast as possible felt like the best option before he blurted out something he’d regret. “Lots to do! Bye!”

He didn’t even finish making his tea.

It was officially the longest morning ever. Martin diligently stayed at his desk, kept his head down, and worked his way through the pile of folders that had been left for him to deal with. He remained resolutely silent the entire time, even when Sasha kept shooting him looks over the top of her monitor, and he ignored all Tim’s plaintive messages through the company Slack.

Once they both gave up on trying to get him to spill whatever secrets they suspected him of keeping, however, the repetition of his work in the quiet office was actually quite…nice? Familiar, after the whirlwind of new things from the past few days. He managed to get through a significant chunk of files, diligently cataloguing and summarising them in his computer, and making notes for possible follow-up. 

It was interesting to read about the alleged supernatural experiences people had recounted, knowing that just down the hall was a mythical creature hiding in plain sight (unearthly levels of hotness notwithstanding). As Martin skimmed each statement for the bare bones of information to log, he found himself looking for clues; tales of strange night-time encounters, people with eyes you couldn’t look away from, memory loss, new feelings of hunger or sensory overload. Perhaps one of these statement-givers had encountered a vampire, a real one – the one who’d turned Jon, even – and lived to tell the tale. Or perhaps they were now a vampire themselves, someone out there Jon could eventually find and share his knowledge with. 

He must have been incredibly lonely, Martin thought with a pang. He hadn’t seen it before, but it made a lot of sense in hindsight.

At exactly midday, his phone buzzed on the desk twice in a row like an angry wasp. He jumped and jerked his hand, the pen he was holding making a long and jagged blue line across his page of notes. He took a deep breath and chuckled to himself. He needed to stop being so skittish.

Sasha was looking his way again, blinking at him like a suspicious owl. “Everything alright?” she asked casually.

Martin ignored her and ducked his head, checking his messages. It was Jon – he’d thought it might be.

What are you doing for lunch? Jon.

And then, a few seconds later, X.

Martin fought down the urge to grin and giggle like a schoolgirl. Kiss. Jonathan Sims, who signed his texts like he assumed nobody ever saved his number, had sent him a little kiss and a sort-of lunch invitation.

Was thinking I’d go to Pret and get a sandwich, he texted back. Do you want to come? X

A little thrill ran through him as he typed out and sent that kiss. The temptation to also sign his name was strong, but he resisted in case Jon thought he was making fun of him. He felt a little bad that he couldn’t at least offer to buy Jon lunch, especially after he’d done so much for him recently.

Well, he could do something in the way of…food, but Jon had made it very clear how he felt about that. It was a bit frustrating not being able to reciprocate his generosity. Martin knew it wasn’t expected; he just wanted to do something nice for him.

Meet me out front in five minutes, Jon responded, and I’ll walk with you. Jon x

Deal x, Martin replied. He stood up and stretched, rolling his head from side to side until something in his neck popped. Ooh, he still wasn’t a hundred percent, was he? Sitting in the same position for three hours straight probably hadn’t helped either.

“I’m off to get lunch,” he announced to Tim and Sasha, both of whom were steadfastly staring at their computer screens. The suppressed curiosity in the room was palpable. “Either of you want anything?”

Tim waved him off. “Nah, I’m good, thanks. Brought my own today.”

Sasha looked at him slyly. “Depends,” she said. “Where are you going? I might tag along.”

“Just…uh…Pret. For a sandwich.” Martin swallowed hard, suddenly floundering as he tried to think of an excuse to keep Sasha from joining them. Not that he didn’t like Sasha, but that was the last thing he wanted today.

“Saa-aash,” Tim whined suddenly. “You promised you’d have lunch with me. We haven’t had a proper catch-up for ages.”

Eyebrows raised so high they vanished behind her black fringe, Sasha stared at him. Martin knew she was thinking exactly the same thing he was – she and Tim spent nearly all their time together at work and usually part of the weekend too. There was no way they had anything to catch up on. What on earth…?

Tim caught Martin’s eye and winked ever-so-slightly, and suddenly it made sense. Oh, yes, well done, Tim. He owed him a drink for sure.

Sasha wasn’t fooled. “Tim,” she said disapprovingly.

Tim leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Sasha,” he mimicked in a sing-song tone.

Martin glanced back and forth between the pair, conscious that five minutes had probably passed and Jon would be waiting for him. Should he just sneak out while these two were having what looked like a telepathic battle of wills?

Finally, after what felt like an age, Sasha crossed her arms. “Fine,” she said, defeated.

“Cool!” Martin exclaimed, pulling on his coat at record speed. “See you later!”

He could hear them bickering in his wake, but didn’t stick around long enough to hear what they were saying. He hurried down the corridor and upstairs past reception, waving at Rosie as he went, and burst into the weak wintery sunshine with a great sigh of relief.

Jon was standing nearby under a skinny tree still clinging on to a spattering of golden-brown leaves. He’d added a striped scarf to his ensemble as a nod to the weather, and at some point during the morning had put his hair up in a ponytail. Both things served to make Martin weak at the knees and even more nervous than he had been trying to fend off Sasha. In the sunlight, with the halo of the tree behind him, Jon looked ethereal.

Jon turned around as Martin emerged from the building, the light playing off his features and catching the strands of silver in his hair so they turned to gold. As he moved his head, Martin noticed he was wearing earplugs to blot out the noise of everyday London life. After a moment, he smiled, and Martin’s heart stuttered.

“H-hi,” he said, trying not to pant. He ran a hand through his own hair nervously.

“Hello, Martin.” Jon looked him over carefully as if checking he was still in one piece. “Did you run here?”

“I walked. Quickly.” Martin licked his dry lips and attempted a joke. “Didn’t want to give you long enough to have second thoughts.”

Jon frowned. “I would have waited,” he said defensively. “And besides, this was my idea.”

“True.” Martin took a deep breath and let it out as slowly as he could manage. “Sorry. I’m all mixed up. Why was this so much easier when it was just us in my flat?”

“It’s still just us,” Jon assured him. He reached down and gave Martin’s hand a very quick squeeze just in case anyone they knew was watching. When he let go, Martin felt bereft. “But we’re also still figuring this out, aren’t we? This is new territory for me, too.” 

Martin scoffed. “I know you’re just trying to make me feel better. You’ve had partners before, right? Other relationships?”

“Yes, I have.” Jon looked from side to side then took a step closer, and suddenly a street in broad daylight in the middle of London felt as quiet and intimate as if they were sharing a bed. Martin’s breath caught in his throat. “But nobody since I…changed, and certainly nobody like you. I’m enjoying the discovery, to be honest.” He sniffed quickly, and smiled wider. “Is that new cologne, by the way? I didn’t like to mention it this morning. It suits you.”

“Thanks,” Martin said in a strangled sort of way. When did Jon get to smooth? He swallowed hard. “You smell – uh, you look good today. I like the scarf. And your hair is nice.”

Jon reached behind his head and twirled the ponytail around his fingers. “Thank you. I washed it specially.” It was difficult to tell if he was joking. “So, sandwiches, was it? Come on. I’ll buy.” He turned and began strolling down the street.

“What? No!” Martin hurried after and fell into step beside him. “Stop paying for my food, it’s not fair.”

“I can manage, Martin, you don’t have to say that for me,” Jon said, stepping easily over an uneven bit of pavement and coming to a stop at the zebra crossing. “And I like treating you.”

“Well, I’d like to treat you too!” Martin insisted, leaning down over Jon’s shoulder. “I know I can’t exactly take you out for dinner, or even buy you a coffee, but I’d like to be able to do things for my boyfr–”

The crossing signal beeped, drowning out whatever he might have perhaps been about to say, nobody could prove anything, shush. He bit his lip and looked at the ground, unable to move even as everybody else on their lunch break jostled past him to cross the street. He was pretty sure he was burning so hot with embarrassment he’d melded with the pavement. Curse his bloody lack of a verbal filter...

“Martin.” Jon put a finger under his chin and gently tilted his head up so he could look him in the eye. He was smiling, his eyes shining behind his glasses. “Did you just call me your boyfriend?”

Flushed with shame, Martin tried to summon a bit of courage. It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s Jon. He doesn’t look angry or worried or anything. It’s fine. “Are you…alright? With that?”

“I am,” said Jon, enraptured. He was gazing up at him like Martin had granted all his wishes at once. Couple that with the fact that he didn’t need to blink as often as a human, and Martin felt a little overwhelmed, unsure where to look. “But only if you are. We don’t have to rush anything.”

He nodded. “I know. How about we…we put a pin in that, for now?” Martin, what are you doing, why aren’t you picking him up and spinning him around and proclaiming to the world that you love your vampire boyfriend? “And just do sandwiches today?”

Jon smiled. “Of course. Whatever you like.” He nudged Martin with his elbow, and they stood side-by-side waiting for the crossing to beep again. “And perhaps on the way, we can figure out how you can do something nice for me, as you insist upon it.”

Martin didn’t really believe in fate; but at that moment, as a double-decker bus went by with a big banner on the side requesting people sign up to be blood donors for the NHS, he had a distinct feeling that the universe had done him a favour.

“Actually,” he said slowly, “I’ve just thought of something.”

Chapter Text

“Just think about it, that’s all I’m asking.”

“I’ve already told you my feelings on the subject,” Jon grumbled as they turned onto Causton Street. “Why do you insist on bringing it up?” They’d been having such a nice time together, and now he was rapidly falling into a bad mood. 

“Because!” Martin threw his hands in the air. “Because humans take blood from other humans all the time, and it’s perfectly safe and sanitary, and I think it would be a good way for you to get what you need. You can’t survive on mice forever!”

Jon flinched and glanced around urgently. “Martin, keep your voice down.” 

Martin shook his head. “Sorry. But my point stands – I don’t see why you’re so resistant when there’s this perfectly reasonable solution staring us in the face.”

“I…” Jon floundered, tapping his thumbs back and forth against his fingertips as he tried to think. Martin did have a point. Frankly, he felt stupid for not having considered the idea before, being too wrapped up in the monstrosity of it all to consider the relatively straightforward procedure of taking blood from a person’s arm, like thousands of humans did every day.

He came to a sudden stop and stuffed his hands in his pockets, turning away from the crowd passing them by. He felt all mixed up inside, all his prior confidence draining away. He’d thought it might be nice to go for a walk, an almost lunch date to break up the workday and spend a little time together, and now he felt like he was ruining it by being so against Martin’s suggestion. It was just so difficult to tell him why. 

“Hey, Jon…” Martin stopped walking and backtracked, coming not so close as to crowd him but enough to shield him from passers-by. “I’m sorry I pushed,” he murmured in a tone soft enough that only Jon would be able to hear it. “I just think it’s a good idea, you know? Much safer for me, less tempting for you, and without all of the, um…” He trailed off.

Jon raised his head, curious in spite of himself. “All of the what?”

Martin bit his lip. “The, er, domination, power dynamics, the physical…act. The sexy stuff?” His face turned crimson. “I just figured it would be like, the ace equivalent of blood drinking. Am I making any sense at all?”

Jon, however, was touched. “You thought about all that in the last three minutes?” he asked, stepping forward so he could rest his cheek on Martin’s chest. Immediately his roiling thoughts eased, and when Martin put his arms around him a moment later he relaxed even further. For now, he wasn’t even worried if anybody saw them together. This felt much more important.

“I’ll be honest, Jon,” Martin murmured, “It’s sort of been on my mind for the last week. Or something like it, at least. How it might, um, happen.” 

Had it only been a week since he’d told the truth for the first time since his change? It felt like forever. 

“And then with everything you told me on Thursday, and then I saw the bus back there and…yeah. I’m not just rushing into this decision, I promise, and I don’t want you to think it’s because I feel like I owe you for saving me. I mean, I kind of do, but this isn’t about that.” Martin sighed and pressed a blink-and-you’d-miss-it kiss against Jon’s hair. The warmth of his breath felt nice. “I want to do things that will make you happy, make you feel good, and…and everything, because I care about you, okay? Not returning a favour. Just because.”

“Okay.” Jon tilted his head up and kissed Martin’s chin, the only part of him he could currently reach. He tried to put as much as he could into that small kiss, all his apologies and gratititude and ‘I don’t want to hurt you’s. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” Martin released him. “Now come on, or we’ll never get back to our desks in time.”

They finally reached the nearest Pret-A-Manger – one of at least five that were near the Institute, depending on how far you fancied walking to get your lunch – and Jon immediately balked at the sight of the bustling interior. The crush of people, shouting voices and hissing coffee machines, all those different smells…no, thank you. 

“I’ll wait out here,” he said at once. 

“You sure?” Martin looked inside the shop and nodded in understanding. “Okay, yeah, fair enough. I’ll be as quick as I can.” He squeezed Jon’s hand quickly before heading on his quest for sustenance.

Jon managed to snag a seat outside through dint of being small, fast, and very mean-looking when he wanted to be. He stretched his legs out under the table, folded his arms, and made an attempt to appear normal. 

It wasn’t very easy. Even with earplugs in, a busy street in the middle of London on a Monday lunchtime was very loud. He found himself flinching at every sudden noise. The people squashed in flimsy metal chairs all around him, layered with colourful winter coats, their conversations fogging the air while they ate their various soups and wraps, made him feel like he was sitting in a cage surrounded by fluffed-up birds with no concept of their own volume. The mingling scents filled his nose and tempted his teeth, even as he tried not to breathe. It seemed so much harder to ignore them now than it used to. His mouth settled into a grim line. He had to remind himself; this was the price he had to pay for trying to play a more active role in having a life, rather than locking himself behind closed doors and feeding off rodents. People smelled good, and it made him want to eat them.

Oh, God. Martin was right. He couldn’t go on like this forever. He had a horrible feeling that continuing to ignore what he was really hungry for would inevitably mean hurting someone, which was the last thing he ever wanted to do. He’d made a promise. He needed to keep it.

But what if that forced denial of what he actually needed was making it worse? What if he snapped one day, lost all his carefully built control? Hurt some stranger walking home at night, or sitting outside in broad daylight like he was right then? What if he broke at work and hurt Tim, or Sasha, or…

Martin. He snapped his head up, jolted back to reality. He peered into the shop window, trying to see where Martin was, but couldn’t make him out amid the scrum. He hoped he’d come back soon.

Please, Martin. He got too lost in his thoughts when he was on his own.

He shifted in his chair, somehow uncomfortable though he could have sat there for hours without needing to move. He hadn’t felt like this about anyone before. It was all new and scary. He loved the casual intimacy – outside the workplace, of course – and the way Martin looked at him, like he was something beautiful. He loved that he had someone who listened. But would he always feel like he wasn’t doing enough? 

Would he always feel the need to hold back?

Lord knows he wanted to explain things to him, felt like he owed him that. Sometimes he felt like he had nothing to offer but explanations and excuses and apologies. Maybe that was why he’d been so determined to look after Martin over the past few days; he could give him something else, anything else, to make up for the things he wasn’t saying. Couldn’t say. 

If he…no. If they were going to do this – come on, Jon, you’re not in this alone anymore – then Martin needed to know everything. There was one more confession he had to make before he took Martin’s blood.

Orange blossom detergent.

Jon looked up and saw Martin coming towards him, holding a takeaway cup in one hand and a triangular sandwich box in the other. Instantly he felt his shoulders drop, his spine uncurl. He hadn’t even realised he’d been hunching over. 

He took a moment just to appreciate how Martin looked, standing there with a slightly bemused look on his face. His hair was mussed, and his pale skin flushed, from the warm and busy interior of the shop. He was nibbling his bottom lip as he smiled at him. He looked gorgeous. He should always wear grey and blue, and cable-knit jumpers. They looked so good on him. 

“Hello.” Jon stood up and hugged him, needing Martin’s grounding presence after wallowing in his darker thoughts. “What did you get?”

The hug was perhaps a bit more powerful than usual, which was probably why Martin seemed a little surprised by the sudden contact, but he went along with it amiably enough. He looked down at him and his eyes twinkled. “You tell me,” he suggested, his smile widening.

Jon laughed. Well, that might be a nice distraction. “Alright. Give me a moment.” He closed his eyes and blocked out the rest of the world, focusing only on Martin and what he was holding. “Hmm,” he intoned, twitching his nose. “You didn’t get coffee, did you?”

“Nope.” Martin sounded like he was trying not to laugh. 

“Tea, then.” Jon sniffed carefully. “Ooh, Earl Grey. With a touch of sugar. That’s a change.”

“Go on,” said Martin encouragingly.

“And your sandwich is brown bread. Chicken. Avocado. Lettuce and spinach. Basil, a lot of basil, too much. And…mayonnaise.” Jon opened his eyes. “Did you get chicken salad?”

“Maybe.” Martin beamed like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Before Jon could interject, he leaned down and kissed the tip of Jon’s nose. “Got it in one. You’re incredible.”

Jon tried to smile back. Oh, I really hope you still feel that way later.

It was a strange experience, being anxious as a vampire. Jon wasn’t sure where he landed on the spectrum between life and death, and his body still wanted to go through the motions of anxiety; shortness of breath, hot and cold flashes, increased heart rate, clammy palms. It just couldn’t. 

Such were the many mysteries of how his body functioned these days. If he was essentially dead, why did he need to eat? How did his senses work? How did his muscles work? He was no closer to figuring it all out than he had been nine months ago, now matter how much midnight research he did while the rest of the world was asleep.

But there was no time to fall down that rabbit hole now. He had to do this, before his courage got away from him.

He’d been pacing up and down his office pretty much since he’d gotten back from lunch and shut the door behind him. How long had that been? An hour, maybe more. He stopped abruptly now, half-surprised he hadn’t worn a hole in the carpet. 

Come on. Open the office door, call Martin to come and see you. It’s not difficult. 

He was fine with you being a vampire, and with you being asexual. Frankly, the man has an unbelievable level of tolerance for everything you’ve told him. He’ll be fine with this, too.

But what if he wasn’t?

What if this was what finally made Martin look at him like he was everything Jon felt himself to be?

Like a monster?

No. No. Don’t think about him like that. Give him a chance.

Deep breath.

Sort of.

Jon flapped his hands ineffectually, fingers twitching. For God’s sake, man, just do it.

He lunged for the door and opened it with much more force than was necessary, nearly slamming it against the wall. The doorknob shook alarmingly under his fingers but thankfully stayed embedded in place. He took a deep breath for no reason other than to ground himself a little, then darted down the corridor to the main office before he could change his mind.

“Martin,” he barked roughly. Oh, he hadn’t meant to do that. Now they’d all think he was angry. 

“Everything all right, boss?” Tim piped up, frozen in the act of putting a folder back on its shelf. He had a strange expression on his face, like he was looking for a challenge. Was he preparing to leap to Martin’s defence?

Jon ignored him. “Martin,” he said again, aiming for a softer tone. The man in question was staring at him with wide eyes, looking worried. That was precisely what he hadn’t wanted to happen. Well done, Jon. Why on earth didn’t you just text him? “Come to my office, please. I need to talk to you.”

“About what?” That was Sasha, twirling a pen around her fingers. How was she able to look down her nose at him while he was standing up and she was sitting at her desk? Maybe it was because she was taller than him.  

He gritted his teeth. He didn’t have time for their questions. “That’s none of your business, Sasha. Martin, now please. And I’ll thank you not to eavesdrop,” he said with a pointed look at the other two. “I’ll know if you do.”

Martin followed him silently back down the hall. Every fibre of Jon’s being wanted to turn to him and hold him and assure him that he hadn’t done anything wrong, but he waited until they were both back in his office before daring to say a word. 

“Can you close the door, please?” he asked without looking around.

It shut with a click that felt incredibly final. “What’s this about?” Martin murmured. “Are you alright?”

Jon kept his eyes fixed on the empty wall. He didn’t want to turn around. He didn’t think he could cope with seeing Martin’s face once he told him.

“I’ve been lying to you,” he said.

Silence.

“When I told you that I don’t feed from humans. That I’ve never fed from a human. I lied.”

Was his heartbeat picking up, or was he imagining it? His face and eyes felt uncomfortably hot. He kept going.

“Back when I was first turned, I was so confused for days afterwards,” he explained. “I was scared, and in pain, and so hungry all the time and I didn’t know why. There was this big blank patch in my memory and it terrified me. I couldn’t sleep at all. So I just went out at night. Walking for miles.”

He could sense that Martin was still standing behind him, breathing quietly.

“I kept away from people. I didn’t want them to see me. I climbed buildings and walked over the rooftops, kept to the darkest parts. I just…knew how to do that, somehow.”

More silence. Jon swallowed and automatically licked his lips. It felt like every word he said was trying to choke him, to claw its way out of his mouth. He curled his hands into fists, dug his nails into his palms. It didn’t really hurt at all.

“One night I found someone sleeping on the street. An old man. I caught his scent, and I couldn’t resist the hunger anymore. So I went to him, I knelt down beside him, and I…I fed on him. And it tasted so good, Martin, it was warm and fresh and it made me feel so much stronger…”

Something hot was running down his face. He could feel himself trembling, his fists shaking as he fought to get everything out in the open. It felt so odd to be panicking without panicking. He hated it.

“Then he woke up,” he whispered, “and he started screaming. I didn’t even care about his pain, I just kept feeding. I was…I enjoyed it. I felt powerful. I didn't want to stop. Then people started coming, and I still didn't stop, but someone got too close and..." He stumbled and broke off. "I had to run. I left him there. I ran away and I left him bleeding in the street. I don’t even know if –”

“Jon.” Martin was behind him suddenly, putting his hands on his shoulders with gentle but firm contact. “Can you look at me?”

Jon whimpered and acquiesced easily to Martin’s attempt to turn him around. “You…have you…”

“God, Jon, you’re crying, hang on…” Martin rummaged in his trouser pocket and pulled out a packet of tissues. When Jon didn’t move, he unfolded one and dabbed at his cheeks. The tissue came away stained bright red. 

“Martin!” Jon grabbed his wrists urgently. “Have you been listening to me? I hurt someone, I might have killed someone!”

“You were doing what you had to do, Jon! You were scared, and you didn’t know what was happening to you.” Martin kept wiping at his face, marring his own fingers with Jon’s blood. “Sorry, you’ll probably need to actually wash your face.”

Jon batted the tissue away. “How can you be so casual about this?! I’m trying to tell you how dangerous I am, what drinking your blood might do to me even if I don’t take it…if I don’t bite you. If I took it from you with a needle and then drinking it made me want more, and I hurt you trying to get it? I could never forgive myself. I still haven’t forgiven myself for hurting that poor man…”

“I forgive you.” Martin cupped his face in his hands and kissed him, and the world went still.

“Jon,” he whispered, “I promise I am taking you seriously. I know you’re scared, I’m a bit scared too to be honest. Hence why I’m acting like everything is perfectly normal right now.” He chuckled shakily. “If you’re worried you’ll hurt me, we’ll find a way around it. Maybe you take my blood and then drink it when I’m not there or something. Whatever. We’ll find a way, yeah? Let me do this for you.” He kissed him again. “Please.”

Jon felt like he was going to fall apart. He clung to Martin like a drowning man, wanted to pull him closer but stopped himself. “Wait,” he said hoarsely, “I’ll get blood on your jumper.”

Martin reached up and brushed some hair off his face. It stuck to the drying blood on Jon’s cheek before he pulled it free. “And that,” he said, “is exactly why I don’t think you’d hurt me. You care too much, Jon. I love that about you. You did such a great job of hiding it, I just didn’t see it until now.”

Jon nodded mutely. He didn’t think he could speak any more without crying again. Martin was being so lovely, so understanding and gentle and everything he didn’t deserve. What had he ever done to warrant this man’s affection? How was Martin still here, still comforting him?

“We don’t have to do it any time soon,” Martin was saying soothingly. “You take as much time as you need. When you give the word, we can sort something out and make sure it’s as safe as it can be.”

Jon gazed up at him for a long time. Was this what it felt like? To have someone care about you in spite of what you were, what you’d done? 

Oh, never mind the stains. He reached up, pushing his hands into Martin’s soft hair and kissed him back, hard. It tasted like sweetness, like copper, like blood. 

It was perfect. 

Chapter Text

Tim cornered Martin after work; he must have been waiting for him to leave. Despite being a few inches shorter, what he lacked in height he made up for in presence, and Martin felt himself automatically cowering under the intensity of his gaze. ‘Angry Tim’ was a rare occurrence, but an intimidating one.

“Hey, Tim,” he said shakily, forcing his mouth into a smile. “I thought you’d be gone by now.”

Tim pursed his lips. “I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said, “since you refused to tell us what Jon said to you earlier.”

Martin gulped. “It was…it was nothing.”

“He upset you so much you got a nosebleed,” Tim snapped. At least the excuse had been believable, then, even if it did make Jon seem absolutely awful. “That is bang out of order, I don’t care if he is our boss.” 

“Tim, please.” Martin cringed at how whiney he sounded. He generally didn’t enjoy lying to his friends, but it wasn’t his place to tell the truth here. If Jon ever decided to widen the circle of people who knew his true nature, that was a decision he alone could make. “Just leave it. I’ll be fine.”

“How can you let him speak to you like he does?” Tim insisted. “I know me and Sasha have known him longer, but you can’t roll over and show your belly every time he snaps at you!”

“I don’t roll over,” Martin said witheringly. “I just…I want to do a good job! And yeah, he’s not exactly nice about it when he brings up my mistakes, but I’d rather that than him letting me bumble along without realising when I’ve screwed up.”

Tim looked at him for a long time with narrowed eyes. Martin waited, on edge, trying not to look shifty and wondering how far he could stretch his excuses before they fell apart. He knew that from an outside perspective, Jon’s self-enforced solitude and mercurial moods could make him come across as an anti-social arsehole. Hell, he’d thought Jon was an anti-social arsehole until he’d discovered the why behind the what. Tim and Sasha had known him before he’d been changed, too, so they’d become accustomed to not putting up with Jon’s bullshit. It must be very odd for them to see him so altered, even though all he'd been doing was trying to keep them safe.

 Finally, Tim’s features cleared, and he put his hands firmly on Martin’s shoulders. He looked up at him steadily, searching for something in his face, blue eyes deep and curious. “Oh, man. You’ve really got it bad, haven’t you?”

Martin’s eyes widened. “I, uh, I don’t know what you mean,” he stammered.

“Martin, Martin, Martin…” Tim shook his head and scrunched up his face sympathetically. “You’re not exactly subtle about it, mate.”

Okay. He could work with this. It was another not-quite lie (he’d worry about the ethics of that later), and he was already blushing, after all – apparently any mention of Jon in his presence made his face turn pink. He let his shoulders drop. “Is it that obvious?”

“Oh, Marto.” Tim gave his shoulders a squeeze then let go. “It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone. You could have made a better choice, though; I mean, I’m right there.”

“Tim!” Martin was surprised into laughter. “Shut up!”

“What, am I not your type?” He put one hand on his hip and the other behind his head, striking a pose. “Not enough of a dickhead for you?” 

“Jon’s not a dickhead, Tim, he’s just…got a lot going on.” Careful, Martin, don’t say too much.

“Uh-huh.” Tim raised an eyebrow. “Well, even if you do fancy the pants off him –”

“Tim!”

“– that’s still no excuse to be a doormat, hm? And who knows, maybe if you stand up to him a bit, ol’ Jonny boy’ll find it pretty hot. Maybe he likes being bossed around, eh?” He winked.

Martin’s cheeks were flaming. “Tim, come on…”

“Alright, alright, I’ll give it a rest.” Tim held up his hands in surrender. “But you should think about it. In all seriousness. I hate seeing you like that, mate.”

Martin nodded and smiled, genuinely moved by Tim’s words. Even if he didn’t know all the ins and outs, it was really nice that he’d felt the need to say something. Tim approached everyone with the same level of casual charm – unless they’d given him a reason not to like them – and for a while Martin had been unsure of where they stood, feeling a bit like a third wheel in the Archives office with him and Sasha and all their inside jokes. This proved Tim did genuinely care about him under that caramel-smooth exterior. “Thanks, Tim,” he said, and he meant it. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Tim saluted and wandered off, strolling down the street in the opposite direction with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. Martin sighed in relief. He had not been prepared for that.

He started off home himself, walking quickly. It was so cold, all he could think about was getting back to his flat and switching the heating on, trading office clothes and his binder for oversized pyjamas, and eating dinner. He tried to recall what he had in that wouldn’t require a lot of effort. Frozen pizza, maybe? He’d definitely been eating better while Jon had been hanging around at his place, but then, Martin had never been much of a cook.

He hurried past a bus stop where a miserable line of commuters were queueing for the next rail replacement service. A chill wind picked up, sneaking icy fingers down the back of his neck. He shivered and zipped his coat all the way up, burying his nose in the fabric.

He realised suddenly that he was nervous. Why was he nervous? He glanced behind him, filled with the sensation that someone was watching him. There were people there, walking and window-shopping – it was a street in London during rush hour, after all – but none of them were looking at him that he could see.

And yet he couldn’t shake the feeling.

Panic.

Heart pounding in his chest, he stumbled to a halt and backed up against a wall, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. A passing woman shot him a concerned look from underneath the brim of her hat, but she walked on.

He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his phone, cold thumbs tapping at the screen as quickly as he could. He held it to his ear with a shaking hand.

“Hello, you.” Jon sounded like he was smiling down the phone.

“Jon…” Martin could hear the tremor in his own voice. “Jon, I’m…”

There was an immediate change. “What’s wrong?” Jon demanded. “Where are you?”

“I’m…” Martin tried to breathe. “I’m walking home. I was fine, I was fine, and now…”

“I’m still at the office. Do you want me to come and get you?” There were sounds of movement in the background, like Jon was getting up and gathering his things together.

“I don’t know.” He bit his lip. “Yes. Please.”

“Alright.” More movement, rustling fabric and a jingle of keys. “Can you keep talking, Martin? Tell me what you see, five things you can see, that’s it, isn’t it?”

“I…okay.” Martin swallowed. His mouth was terribly dry, and his head hurt. He could do this, he’d read about this.  “Uh, I see a taxi with an ad for Wicked on the side. There’s a man with a little white dog. Lots of cars. Buses. There’s a…a restaurant. People are sitting by the windows and drinking wine.”

“Good, Martin, that’s good,” Jon reassured him. “Stay where you are, okay? I’m coming to find you. Breathe, just breathe, nice and slow.”

Martin nodded, feeling a bit pathetic. “Mmhm. Okay.” Come on Martin, you know this, you can do this. What’s next? “Touch. Touch. I can touch this wall. My coat. My phone. My…glasses? I can hear, um, traffic. People.” My blood rushing in my ears. “Oh, god, I hate this…”

“Me. You can hear me. I’m here, I’m on my way. You’re doing really well, Martin, you’re doing brilliantly,” Jon said, warm and encouraging. “I could never remember the order.”

He clung to Jon’s voice like a lifeline, tuning out everything else. All the noise and bustle out on the street was starting to press in on him, hemming him in until he began to feel suffocated. He reached up and scrabbled to unzip his coat again, to feel the air on his skin even though it chilled him to the core. People kept giving him strange looks, but nobody deigned to stop. Everything felt like so much. What was wrong with him? It had been an emotional day, true, but why was he panicking now and yet he hadn’t when Jon had told him that ‘actually, I lied, I drank a homeless guy’s blood one time’? He pressed his free hand over his eyes and groaned, trying to calm his racing heart. His hands were trembling violently. “Where are you?” he gasped into the phone.

“I’m here!” Jon called, and he heard it twice; and there he was, running towards him, darting between people with his long coat flapping behind him until he skidded to a halt and dropped to his knees in front of him. “I’m here, I’m here. Can I touch you?”

“Please.”

Jon took his hands and held them tight, careful not to crush his fingers. The contact was grounding, solid, and Martin held him as tight as he could even though his skin was absolutely freezing.

“I don’t…” he gasped between panting breaths, “I don’t know what happened. I was fine, I was fine, and then this, and…and…”

Jon nodded thoughtfully. “I think I know why.” He shuffled around so he could kneel at his side, out of the way of people walking past. “Last time you walked home alone, Martin, you were attacked. That was only a few days ago; it’s no wonder you feel anxious.” He cupped the side of Martin’s face with one hand. He was wearing fingerless gloves, and the tips of his fingers felt like ice, but Martin leaned into his touch regardless. “I’m sorry, it didn’t occur to me. I would have walked with you.”

Martin shook his head quickly. “It’s okay. I didn’t think…I didn’t think of it either. I’m such an idiot.” He closed his eyes, embarrassed.

“I would argue with that,” Jon replied, a hint of amusement lacing his words, “but I’m a vampire, and you’ve decided to date me, so I’m not perhaps the best judge in that regard.”

That startled him into laughter, an ungainly snort and a giggle, which he guessed was what Jon had intended. Trying to distract him from the panic – and it was working, too, even just having him there. He didn’t know how he’d ever managed before without having Jon to hold his hand when he was upset. “Can we go?” he asked, suddenly wanting more than anything to get out of there. “I think my bum’s gone to sleep.”

Jon looked him over carefully. “How are you feeling now? Your heart rate’s slowed down, that’s good.” He paused. “Sorry. Is it weird when I do that?”

“Um…I kind of like it, actually,” Martin admitted cautiously.

“Really?”

“Well, yeah, it’s like…” he fumbled for the words, “like you’re looking out for me, you know? Makes me feel…safe.”

“Oh.” Jon dropped his gaze, looking uncertain. For a moment Martin thought he might have upset him – though he wasn’t sure how – before his face broke into a shy grin. “That’s, er, well. Thank you, Martin.” He got to his feet and brushed ineffectually at the damp patches on his knees. “Shall we?” He offered a hand.

Martin took it and let himself be hauled upright. He wobbled a little and Jon caught him, pressing his palm to his chest to hold him steady. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how strong you are,” Martin confessed.

“It took me a long time,” Jon said. He slipped his arm through Martin’s and leaned against his side as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world, like he’d been doing that for years. “You wouldn’t believe the number of things I broke. Lots of late-night trips to B&Q.”

Martin chuckled. “Oh yeah?”

Jon looked up at him with a serious expression, though his eyes were twinkling. “I’ve gotten very good at DIY.”

They started walking slowly, taking their time. “And yet you couldn’t fix my door?” Martin tutted at him.

“I didn’t want to ruin it irreparably,” Jon confessed. “But, if you ever need a kitchen cupboard door replaced, I’m your man.”

“Well you probably know your way around my kitchen better than I do at this point,” he said. He marvelled inwardly at how much better he felt already. They were together, they were bantering – since when did Jon banter? – and it was like he’d never been anxious at all.

They walked the rest of the way to his flat mostly in silence. Occasionally one of them would comment on a shop window display, a case at work, a book they were reading. It was the nice, easy type of companionship that Martin had always hoped to have with someone, where he felt okay to just be there without a burning desire to fill the lulls in conversation. He found himself getting as close to Jon as he could; though he was smaller and thinner, the solid weight of Jon pressed against his side as they went along was extremely comforting. He tried not to hold on to him too tight in case it was noticeable.

Okay, maybe his anxiety wasn’t completely gone. 

He wasn’t sure how he’d manage by himself, once Jon went his own way. He couldn’t ask him to stay over again, it was already too much…

“Would you like me to come up?” Jon asked suddenly.

Martin surfaced from his thoughts and blinked in surprise. They were outside his building, the flickery spotlight above the main doorway buzzing intermittently above their heads. “You don’t have to,” he said instinctively, and inwardly cringed. Why did he always jump the gun like that, try and make himself no trouble? “I mean, if you’ve got other stuff going on.”

Jon eyed him curiously. “Martin, that isn’t what I asked.”

“I know…” Martin groaned in frustration. “I just…I feel a bit like all you’ve done for the last fortnight is look after me? You came running, like, immediately, when I rang you, and I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful, I just…”

Jon stood on his tiptoes and caught Martin’s mouth in a kiss, effectively silencing him. Whatever Martin had been planning to say went dancing out of his head and he melted a little, instinctively stepping forward and slipping his hands around Jon’s waist. 

Eventually, Jon broke away and pressed his forehead against Martin’s. He was cold, but it felt wonderful, like an ice pack. “Sorry, I know that was a bit rude,” he said in a low voice. “Just know that I’ll keep running when you call me, as long as you say you need me to.”

 “Why, though?” Martin couldn’t help but ask. He kept himself focused on Jon’s mouth, because looking into his puppy-dog brown eyes right then felt like it would be too much for him to handle. “It’s barely been two weeks since I found out about you, and…and before this, you hardly gave me the time of day.” He hesitated. “You were a bit of a dick, actually.”

“Heh.” Jon smiled. “I know, I was an arse. I thought distancing myself from everyone was the right thing to do, and I didn’t even know you then, much less trust you. I suppose I was afraid of opening myself up, so I hid my feelings.” He glanced around them quickly, but there was nobody else nearby who might overhear. “In my mind, if I made it so people didn’t want to be around me, then not only would there be less risk of me hurting them, but it would hurt me less when they decided to leave, if that makes any sense at all. Somewhere along the way I think I changed my mind, but it was a bit too late by then. I have no idea how to talk to people now.” He laughed at himself, shaking his head.

“Are you kidding?” It was Martin’s turn to laugh. “You’re one of the most eloquent people I know.”

“And yet, you leave me tongue-tied.” Jon shrugged. “It’s a mystery.”

Martin huffed, blushing yet again. Maybe he could pretend it was just the cold. “Jon, you can’t just say stuff like that, Jesus…”

“What? I have months of sentimental nonsense to catch up on, let me have this.” Jon grinned up at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

Exasperated, Martin threw up his hands. “Stop being cute. You’re just saying this to make me feel better.” Oh my GOD, Martin, why are you being so bloody stubborn? Isn’t this everything you wanted out of life? What are you doing?

Jon tilted his head, studying him. “Do you really not believe me?” He slipped his hands into Martin’s, pulling him closer. “Martin, you’ve given me more in the last week than anyone has. Ever. You said me checking on your heartbeat makes you feel safe? Well, you make me feel safe. I can tell you things I’ve never told anyone. I can be myself around you.”

God help him, Martin had to check just one more time. “But what changed? Why are you so suddenly all in? I mean, I know me, I fell for you hard a long time ago, but you -”

Jon shook his head fondly. “Remember when I said I hid my feelings? I didn’t want to let anyone in?” He raised his eyebrows for emphasis. “I was talking about you.”

Martin’s mouth fell open and he shut it quickly with a snap. “But you said…the other day, you said you’d fallen for me. As in, now, as in you didn’t feel this way before. Right?” He bit his lip, unsure if he wanted to hear the answer. Everything felt too good to be true at that moment, and his heart started thudding like before but for a totally different reason.

“It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment, Martin,” Jon said, “but you can rest assured that I haven’t jumped into this relationship with you because you’re the only one who knows my secret, if that’s what you worried about.” He reached upward and kissed him again, a tiny peck on the lips this time. “I was denying myself what I wanted because I was afraid of ruining it. I just…may not have realised that what I actually wanted wasn’t so much the company of other people in general, but you, specifically. Even if you do continue to misfile things and forget to write down your notes all in the same place.” He smiled, and oh, that was a good smile. Might even go in the top three. 

“Also,” he continued after a pause, “I was thinking. I would like to…drink some of your blood. Sometime. If you’re still amenable.”

Martin didn’t bother to shut his mouth this time. That was changing the subject with a vengeance. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Earlier, in your office, you were so…well, I don’t want you to think you have to…”

“I don’t, I swear.” Jon squeezed his hands. He looked very nervous all of a sudden, like he was afraid he’d overstepped. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot today, and I want to try. Now that everything is out in the open, and you know exactly what you’re getting into. It’s better all round if we try it this way.”

“O-okay,” Martin stammered. Jon was going to drink his blood. Jon was going to drink his blood. His vampire-loving awkward-goth teen self did a little dance inside his head. Calm down. You know it’s not going to be like that. “What, uh, what were you thinking?”

“How about Friday?” Jon suggested. “If you’d like. You could come to my flat for dinner after work, or I’ll come round again and cook something for you, and then we’ll give it a go.”

“Friday?” Martin swallowed hard. “This Friday?”

“I’ll need a few days to get supplies, I think, and to learn how to actually take blood from your arm without breaking something.” Jon was rambling a bit now, his speech getting faster, like he was trying to get all the words out before somebody stopped him. “I want to be absolutely sure I’m doing this right, Martin. So I need to learn how to properly handle all the equipment. And find some way of practising; I’m fairly certain a needle wouldn’t pierce my skin. But then it would be very easy, and you could go home or I could go home and drink it, just as long as you’re not around, just in case…”

“Hey.” Martin didn’t kiss Jon to shut him up, but he did place his hand over his mouth. Jon’s voice dwindled into a muffled squeak. “Friday sounds great. I’ll look forward to it. And, Jon?”

“Mmph?”

“Thanks for letting me do this for you. I’m really glad you…I’m glad you feel confident enough to try.”

Jon pressed his lips against Martin’s palm before gently pushing his hand away so he could speak. Well, he could have done that at any time, but he was always so careful with him. Martin had never had someone treat him like a delicate flower before; he found he quite enjoyed it, after years of only ever being seen as big and solid. “Will you be alright on your own tonight?”

Martin glanced upwards, finding the dark window of his flat on the second floor. It didn’t seem quite so daunting now. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be okay. You go home and do your thing. Whatever it is vampires do on Monday nights in London.”

“Well apparently now it’s going to be some online shopping.” Jon smiled up at him and squeezed his hands once more. “Goodnight, Martin.”

“Night, Jon.”

A few minutes later, Martin stood inside his flat, leaning back against the newly mended front door. In four days’ time, his vampire boyfriend was going to take his blood and drink it. But first, they were going to have a dinner date.

There were butterflies in Martin’s stomach, and he didn’t know which event was exciting them more.

Chapter Text

Jon had made plans for Friday, which of course meant that for the rest of the week leading up to it he could think of nothing else. In amongst trying not to give the game away - the dating or the vampirism - he got the least amount of work done in three days that he ever had in his life. He spent his days floundering behind his desk, and his nights watching YouTube tutorials and practising how to use the equipment he'd spent a fortune on express shipping for. He broke three cannulae through sheer nervous strength before he got it right.

Then suddenly it was Thursday night and he hadn't a clue what to make for dinner the following evening.  How had he forgotten that?

Sat cross-legged on his sofa, he drummed his fingers against his laptop keyboard, wondering what to type. “Iron-rich foods”? “What to eat after donating blood”? That might be a good place to start.

Wait, hang on. Just in case.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and sent a quick text to Martin.

Hello. Do you have any allergies or dietary restrictions? Jon x

His phone buzzed cheerily a moment later. Evening. None that I know of. Why? x

Jon smiled to himself. I'm planning a menu. x

A few seconds passed before another text appeared. A tasting menu? X

He chuckled. "Oh, Martin..." he murmured under his breath. He was suddenly filled with the desire to hear his voice. The phone barely had a chance to ring before it was answered.

"That was a terrible joke," he began, shaking his head.

"Can't have been that bad," Martin replied. "I can hear you smiling."

"In sheer disbelief, I assure you," Jon insisted. "Besides. You're worth far more to me than any Michelin-starred mouthful of overpriced purees and spherifications."

"I'm...going to take that as a compliment, because I genuinely have no idea what you're talking about." Martin was laughing - no, giggling , that was closer. It was an adorable sound.

Jon hummed appreciatively. "You're blushing, aren't you?" he teased. He could imagine it. That was adorable, too.

"No." A pause. "Yes."

"Good. I like it when you blush; it makes you look pretty. Your cheeks go all pink, you see, and your freckles -"

"Jon," Martin grumbled, drawing out his name into at least three syllables. "Now you're doing it on purpose."

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry. I'll stop." Jon suppressed another grin. "Haven't gotten over the novelty of complimenting my boyfriend yet."

Oops. There was silence on the other end of the line. Jon could hear Martin breathing, of course, but he didn't say a word for a good five seconds.

"Martin?" he prompted. Still nothing. He bit his lip. "Martin, I'm sorry, was that too much? I know you said -"

"It's okay!" Martin suddenly squeaked. He cleared his throat. "It's...it's fine, Jon."

"Really?"

"Yeah! Yeah, I'm good." Martin took a deep breath. "Um, so you're okay with that, then?"

Jon bit his lip again. "If you are, then yes. I am."

"Cool. Cool. Heh." There was another pause. Jon heard him taking a sip of a drink, the clink of a mug being put down on a table. No coaster, tut tut. "My boyfriend is a vampire."

He snorted. "I'd rather you didn't say that aloud to anyone but me, if you don't mind."

Martin - his boyfriend, Martin - giggled again. "Fair enough. So this menu, what are you thinking?"

"Well, that's why I wanted to ask you." Jon took his laptop off his knees and stretched his legs out in front of him on the rug. "I'm going to go shopping later, when the supermarket's quiet, so I can get some ingredients. But I don't just want to get anything . I want to make something you'll enjoy. Which, ideally, would also be good things to eat after you've donated blood."

"If it's anything like the blood drives I've been to, all you need is some orange squash and chocolate biscuits," Martin said.

"Don't be stupid," Jon chided him gently. He realised in a distracted sort of way that his free hand was fidgeting, index finger picking at the skin around his thumbnail as he tried to think of the right words. "This is...this is important, Martin. I want to make sure you're looked after, and do everything I can to keep you safe. I've spent every night since Monday practising how to cannulate, how to keep pain to a minimum, what to do if you feel faint..."

"Hey. Jon?" Martin's soft voice cut through his rambling easily. "You sound really nervous. You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

"I don't think so?" Jon's tone slipped upwards and turned the statement into a question. "I mean, I am nervous, but I still want to go through with it. I just, uh, also want you to be okay. All the time."

"Jon." He loved when Martin said his name like that, putting so much feeling into so short a word. How did he manage it? "Listen to me. You're not going to hurt me. I've given blood before, and I've never passed out or anything. I'm sure this won't be any different."

"But what if -"

Martin interrupted him. "I trust you, Jon. With dinner menus and needles and...and me. I trust you. Okay?"

He sighed automatically, tasting the air as it filled and then left his lungs. "Okay." His heart sang. I trust you. "I trust you, too, Martin."

"Good."

Jon smiled and then turned onto his side so he could curl up in a ball with a cushion underneath him. "I'm sorry. I was being silly."

Martin sighed, too. "You weren't - you were overthinking it, that's all. It's fine. I'd be surprised if you didn't, actually. And by the way, I'll eat pretty much anything except green beans. And mushrooms."

"Noted." Jon rolled onto his back. He couldn't seem to keep still. "Did you know, I have to wear sunglasses when I go to the supermarket? I don't do it very often, obviously; sometimes it's just nice to go somewhere at night. I get a lot of strange looks."

"Why do you...oh! Fluorescent lights, right? That must suck." Martin made a sympathetic noise, like he wanted to hug him. "I bet you look great, though. Are you sure people give you funny looks and they're not, like, checking you out?"

"To be honest I wouldn't know the difference," Jon admitted. "I've never been good at noticing that sort of thing."

"You know, I kind of figured that out for myself," Martin said breezily. "You had no idea I spent hours doodling hearts with our names in them when I should have been working on case notes."

"You did not !" Jon burst out laughing. "Please tell me you didn't, that's - oh my god..."

"Fine, I didn't, but honestly, Jon," Martin insisted, "you have no idea how attractive you are. There's like this whole air of...of mystery and danger and aloofness about you, even when you aren't deliberately trying to stay away from people. You're gorgeous."

"Martin..." Jon melted a little bit. Nobody had ever said anything like that to him before, not even his long-ago ex Georgie. She'd always been more of a "you look nice, Jon" type. "You know that's probably just a vampire thing. Without all this, I'd be perfectly ordinary."

"Yeah, maybe." Jon could imagine Martin shrugging as he said it, maybe with a little smug expression on his lovely face. "I'd still want to have dinner with you, though. Perfectly ordinary you has all the bits I like."

He would have absolutely been blushing if he'd still been capable of it. Instead, he heard a strange high-pitched noise, and it took him a second to realise that it had come out of his mouth, and now he was the one giggling and grinning like an idiot. What had Martin done to him?

"Well," he replied when he once again felt capable of forming coherent sentences. "I suppose if I'm meant to be making dinner for my boyfriend tomorrow, I'd better go out and get some ingredients, hm?"

"Seems like it." Martin sounded like he was smiling again. "Night, Jon. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Martin." He ended the call and then simply lay on the sofa for another fifteen minutes - he counted - replaying their conversation in his head.

He had a boyfriend. Martin was his boyfriend. Tomorrow they would have a date, and he'd cook for him, and then feed from him - sort-of. It was...still a lot to think about, but a nice lot.

He'd never felt like this in his whole life. He hadn't thought he could. How was it he could feel so light-hearted and fluttery and full of butterflies, when nothing in his body worked like that anymore? It was so strange. He hugged himself, the pressure helping him to calm down.

Later, while browsing the supermarket reduced section in case of a bargain, he took his phone from his pocket and snapped a selfie on a whim. He was wearing a pair of sunglasses with leather surroundings that stopped light getting in behind the lenses, rather like blinkers on a horse. They were a bit clunky, but very helpful. His hair was loose and admittedly a little tangled from the wind, and he had his black jacket zipped all the way up so the collar sat snugly around his neck.

If he was honest with himself, he didn't think he looked half bad. Maybe a bit Matrix.

He sent the photo to Martin - it was past midnight, but he would see it in the morning - and was a little surprised when he got a response barely seconds later.

So you show up in photographs, then? x

Evidently. x

There's a guy behind you checking out your arse, by the way. x

Jon scrolled back up to the photo to double-check and chuckled to himself. Liar. Go to sleep. x

Stop making me think about you and I will. x

Jon shook his head and put his phone away again, turning back to the shelves. A pack of chestnut mushrooms caught his eye, and he chuckled again. He could do better than that.

Martin deserved it.

He pushed his empty trolley towards the homeware section instead. Maybe he could find some candles that didn't smell of anything too strong.

Chapter Text

"You have a doctor's bag. An actual...doctor's bag.”

"It's called a Gladstone, and it was my grandfather's." 

"Yeah?" Martin grinned. "It suits you." 

He gave himself a moment to take it all in. Jon looked, well, gorgeous. Not that he didn't always, but he seemed to have made a particular effort for their date. He was wearing a dark red button-down shirt under a long black cardigan, soft velvety blue trousers, and shiny black shoes. The outfit itself wasn't super fancy, really, but there were these little touches that made it very Jon.

The top two shirt buttons were open, framing his neck, and there were cat-shaped pins on each wing of the collar connected by a group of silver chains that draped down his throat. The way the metal glinted against his skin was very distracting. His shirt was tucked in, revealing a belt with a subtle black-purple-grey pattern, which coordinated nicely with the little black ring on the middle finger of his right hand. He had three silver bracelets around his left wrist - two plain, one with tiny charms - and he'd painted his nails to match his shirt.

Martin let his eyes travel back up to Jon's face. He wasn't wearing his glasses, but he was wearing eyeliner. God, Jon wearing eyeliner was something he'd never considered before. It made his eyes look dark and endless, and the little cat-eye flicks at the corners were perfect. He had braided his hair, too, in a loose plait that hung over one shoulder. Martin wanted to pick it up and play with the soft strands between his fingers. 

His boyfriend was beautiful. 

He realised he was standing in the doorway gaping at Jon like a fish, and closed his mouth with a hurried snap. "You...you look..." He cleared his throat and found his voice. "How did you find the time?"

"I got changed in my office," Jon admitted, and Martin tried very hard to push that image out of his head before he made a fool of himself. "And I might have run home from work to pick these up." He lifted the two bags he was holding - a burlap shopping bag that Martin would have had to carry with both hands, and the aforementioned Gladstone - and grinned sheepishly. "I don't sweat, you see, so it wasn't a problem."

"Of course you don't," Martin sighed, feeling inadequate in his smartest jeans and the one cashmere jumper he owned. "That's so unfair."

"None of that, please." Jon put the bags down and suddenly he was in the hallway, flush against Martin's chest, crowding him and pushing him back until he was leaning against the wall. He pushed his hands into Martin's hair and pulled his head down to kiss him, soft and slow. "You look lovely," he whispered, then reached to kiss him again. "I like you in blue." Another kiss. "I missed you."

Martin smiled shakily. Were his glasses fogging up? "You saw me at work," he managed to say. 

"I saw you, yes," Jon murmured against his mouth. "But I can't kiss you at work, can I?"

Martin licked his lips, feeling a little bold as he held onto the gorgeous creature in his arms. He let one hand rest on Jon's hip, the other cradling the back of his head. He'd been right; the braid was very soft. "Better make up for it now, then."

Jon's answering hum was nearly a purr. He wrapped both arms around Martin's neck. "You smell lovely, too," he whispered. 

"Heh." Martin felt very breathless all of a sudden. "You said you liked this aftershave, so..."

"I do." Jon nuzzled his nose against the sensitive spot just below Martin’s ear. "Lovely," he said again. 

"J...Jon," Martin stammered, swallowing hard as a little thrill ran up and down his spine. Oh boy. "You're hungry, aren't you?"

"Hmm?" Jon lifted his head and stared into his eyes. "A bit, yes. Though I had a mouse very early this morning."

Martin couldn't help it; he laughed. "You had a - no, no, don't be offended, I'm sorry. It was just a really weird phrase."

Jon raised his eyebrows. "I suppose I've never said it aloud before; I imagine it's quite strange. I just thought I should eat something before I came over here rather than be completely starving. Although..." He tilted his head to one side thoughtfully. "Maybe I just find you irresistible."

He turned them suddenly, dipping Martin backwards like they were dancing a tango and startling him into an undignified yelp. He brought his mouth back to his neck, dragging his lips along Martin's skin until he found the right spot that made him squeak. 

"What's gotten into you?" Martin gasped. 

Jon whispered in his ear. "I think it's less that something's gotten into me, and more that I've gotten over myself," he answered, lips brushing Martin's earlobe. "It's like I said before. I can be me, around you. That means doing all the things I've been thinking about for months on end. I want to make you feel special."

Well what the hell was he supposed to say to that? Martin realised he was blushing all over, but Jon apparently liked it when he blushed, so it was alright. He still marvelled at the fact that Jon could move him and lift him and carry him so effortlessly, cradling his spine like he weighed next to nothing. It did make him feel special, actually, that Jon took such care when holding him. "You...okay. I think I'd like that."

"Wonderful." Jon stood him upright again and went to fetch his bags. He paused on the threshold, half-turned to face him. "Hmm. In retrospect, I'm glad the invitation to enter your home seems to be perpetual."

"You didn't know ?" Martin gaped at him.

Jon grinned. "I got distracted." He stalked past, carrying his heavy bags with ease, and headed for the kitchen. On his way he placed the Gladstone in the doorway of the lounge. "Come on. I know you're hungry, too."

Martin shook his head and followed him into the flat. Jon was already emptying the shopping bag and arranging items on the worktop. Seeing him looking so at-home made something in Martin's heart go ping . 

"Do I get to know what I'm eating yet?" he asked, trying to sound lighthearted and not like he was about to melt into a puddle of romantic mush. 

Jon whirled around, graceful as a ballet dancer, in the midst of tying one of Martin's aprons around his waist. It was the green one again, with orange cats on the pockets. "You," he intoned, "are staying out of the kitchen until everything is ready. I want it to be a surprise." He took off his jewellery and dropped it in the left pocket of the apron, then moved to the sink to wash his hands. 

"I thought this was supposed to be a date?" Martin asked. "Not a very good one if we aren't even in the same room."

Jon considered this for about a second. "Fine. Sit over there." He pointed at the table. "But no peeking."

"You're a very demanding boyfriend, you know," Martin said, though he sat down as requested. He even tucked his chair in. "Did you get anything to drink?"

"No alcohol before you give blood." Jon delved back into the shopping bag and pulled out a green wine bottle. "But I found this. Non-alcoholic fizz, apparently. Would you like a glass?"

"Sure." Martin was sure he didn't own any wine glasses, let alone champagne flutes, but a few moments later Jon set one down in front of him and filled it with the fizzy not-wine. He even held the bottle with his thumb tucked in at the bottom like a waiter in a fancy restaurant. Martin picked up the glass and sipped his drink; it was quite nice, fruity and light. The bubbles popped pleasantly on his tongue. "Did you buy these, too?" he asked, twirling the flute in his fingers. 

Jon was very suddenly and deliberately not looking him in the eye. "I might have done," he hedged. He was still holding the green bottle, this time by the neck, and Martin laid his hand over his. 

"Don't be embarrassed," he said. "I think it's cute."

"Really?" Jon smiled sheepishly. "I bought candles, too."

Martin sipped his drink again and beamed up at him. "I can't wait."

It was easy, after that. Martin settled into his chair with his nice drink, feeling relaxed and cared for, and fell into a sort of half-daydream as he watched Jon moving around his little kitchen.

Jon moved fast . One moment he'd be standing by the stove with a wooden spoon, poking at the contents of a frying pan, then all Martin had to do was blink and he was on the other side of the room, wielding a knife with alarming speed. Another blink, and he was standing by the table, laying cutlery for him, then placing a tall candle in the middle and lighting it before darting back to the stove. Martin wondered briefly if the motions only looked fast to him, and from Jon's perspective he was moving normally, but he didn't want to get into a conversation about the theory of relativity over dinner. There were already enough things happening to make his head spin. 

Jon was making dinner for him - which smelled delicious, by the way - and he'd dressed up for him. He'd bought wine, sort-of, and candles. He was gliding around his kitchen like he lived there, knew it like the back of his hand, wearing one of his aprons, cooking for their date night . He thought he was worth all this effort. His boyfriend. And...

After.

After dinner, he would finally be able to do something for Jon, too. 

Very subtly, Martin rolled up the sleeve of his jumper and pinched himself.

Yep. This was real. 

"Incoming." Jon was walking over, at regular human speed, with a plate balanced on his arm and a flower-patterned teatowel slung over his shoulder. He stooped and set the plate in front of Martin. 

Then he sat down opposite him. His eyes were gleaming strangely in the candlelight, the warmth of the kitchen had made little wisps of his hair curl around his face, and his smile was soft, sweet, a little apprehensive.

Martin found he didn't really care what was on his plate, to be honest.

"Ready?"

Martin nodded. He knew the drill. Don't wear your binder just in case you get dizzy and need to breathe, do the haemoglobin test (which he'd passed), then lie back and try to relax, make a fist with your non-dominant hand, wait for the needle, keep the arm moving gently throughout. He'd done it a few times before, at NHS blood drives. He knew his blood type, too; had a little rubber bracelet hanging from the ring with his house keys that declared it.

That probably didn't matter to Jon, though, did it? Did all blood types taste the same?

"Martin?"

"Hmm?"

Jon, perched on a stool at his side, was staring at him in his vampires-don't-need-to-blink way. It was a weird contradiction to the latex gloves and plastic tabard he was wearing over his nice clothes, sleeves rolled up, all business. "Are you alright?"

He'd asked that same question approximately every ten minutes since he'd first jabbed the tip of Martin's finger to test his iron levels. Martin had noticed that Jon's movements were all a little sharper, more refined, like he was trying even harder than usual to keep himself under control. Big contrast to how he'd been in the kitchen.

Martin had also noticed the way his nostrils flared when a drop of blood welled at his fingertip, closely followed by the snapping sound of Jon clenching his teeth together tight enough to shatter them. 

Care. Control. Restraint. This was still Jon, wanting to make sure he was okay, wanting to look after him. It was just...a different method. Bit more abrupt. Iron grip on the reins, that kind of thing. 

"I'm fine," he said, trying to sound reassuring. "Ready when you are."

Jon sighed. It was a thing he did, Martin knew now, to centre himself, the familiar action of breathing in and out helping him to calm down. His eyes dropped to Martin's arm and he rolled up his sleeve, held the cannula with a steady hand. "Make a fist for me," he murmured. 

Martin did, and Jon tapped his arm a few times to encourage the veins.

"Sharp scratch," he whispered, like he was talking to himself. The needle didn't move any closer. He was staring at the skin, the green-blue-purple veins that were very visible because Martin was so pale. It was like he'd frozen in place.

"Jon. Hey. Jon?" Martin cupped Jon's cheek with his free hand and tilted his chin up. "Come back to me. Look at me."

Jon's eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide. He was perfectly still, and there was obviously no pulse for Martin to feel under his fingers, but it was clear he was really, really nervous. 

Martin leaned forward and kissed him on impulse. It seemed to bring Jon back to life; he jumped a little and then groaned against Martin's mouth. His lips parted and he huffed out an unnecessary breath.

"Don't...don't startle me," he warned, with a dangerous edge to his tone. "Not when I'm like this."

"You won't hurt me, Jon." Martin felt the truth of it deep down. There was a particular spot at the very centre of him, he thought, where he kept all the things he was absolutely sure of, and that truth was nestled right in the middle. "You're not gonna break my arm, or bruise me, or stab through the vein, nothing like that. This is just you putting a needle in my arm so I can finally give you something back after everything you've done for me the last couple of weeks. You can do this. We can do this. Okay?"

A funny look passed over Jon's face. He blinked, finally, several times in quick succession. "A couple of weeks," he said softly. "Two weeks."

"Since I caught you eating a mouse on top of a filing cabinet, yeah." Martin chuckled. "Feels a lot longer for me, though."

"Me too," Jon admitted. One corner of his lips curled up into a tiny, disbelieving smile. "I just didn't want to acknowledge it at the time."

Martin's heart fluttered. "Go on," he said, nodding towards his exposed arm. "Please."

Jon stuck his tongue out again when he finally inserted the needle. It did sting, and Martin sucked in a gasp between his teeth that earned him a quick, worried glance, but then it was done. The tape was down, there was a stress ball in his hand, and all he had to do was keep it moving while his blood collected in a bag for the next, oh, fifteen minutes?

He settled back in his chair. "So," he began. "How are you actually going to drink it? Do you have a straw?"

" Martin. " Jon stared at him like he'd grown another head. "You - I can't just -"

"What? There's nobody here but you and me." Martin shrugged one shoulder. "I thought it might help. To talk about it like it isn't a huge deal, I mean. It's just...eating. Or drinking, I guess. Everybody needs to do that."

"I suppose so." Jon frowned. His gaze flicked to the plastic tubing that led from Martin's arm to the bag hanging off the chair, before he made himself look away. "I hadn't considered it, to be honest. But I think I can rule out using a straw - it's not a Capri-Sun, after all."

"Maybe a mug? Like Spike, from Buffy?"

Jon lifted an eyebrow. 

"He had a blood mug. Microwave-safe and everything."

"I believe I can sacrifice one of my mugs for the cause," Jon conceded. "It's not as though I've used them for anything else in the last nine months."

Martin swallowed. "You're still going to...take it home then? Drink it at yours?"

"That's the plan." Jon laid a hand on Martin's arm. He was that lovely, cool, snake-skin temperature. He lowered his voice, leaned closer. "It’s not a mark against you, I promise. I know you don't think I'll hurt you. I know you trust me, I know. I trust you, and I don't want to hurt you. So I won't take an unnecessary risk. Just in case."

"Just in case. Okay." Martin felt warm and fuzzy despite the discomfort of the needle in his arm. He rolled the stress ball a few times in his hand. "How much longer?"

"Ten minutes, I believe. I'll go and make you a drink, shall I?" Jon got to his feet and disappeared into the kitchen before Martin could reply. 

Making tea and putting some snacks on a plate wouldn't take ten minutes, not with how fast Jon could move, but he probably needed some space. There was blood pumping out of Martin's arm, after all, collecting in a bag so Jon could take it home with him. It was probably taking a lot of effort not to pay attention to that. 

Martin drummed his fingers against the chair. Stared at his bookshelf. Hummed a song to himself, though he couldn't think of the title. Played with the stress ball. He could hear Jon in the kitchen, the rumble-bubble of the boiling kettle, cupboards opening and shutting. He remembered Jon telling him about how he kept breaking the cupboard doors in his own flat, when he was still getting used to his new vampiric strength. He thought about how careful Jon was, all the time, every day, opening doors and picking up mugs and writing things down without snapping the pen in half. 

Holding his hand.

Kissing him.

It wasn’t fair. 

It wasn’t fair .

An alarm beeped. Of course, Jon had set a timer. Ten minutes were up.

"Martin?" Jon was in the doorway, hovering. He had a mug of tea in one hand and a plate of sliced fruit and biscuits in the other. "Are you alright? Your face is red." He cocked his head to one side. "Your heartbeat -"

"Come here.” Martin beckoned him over. 

Jon walked towards him, slow and cautious, and put the mug and plate down on the coffee table. “Martin? What’s wrong? Do you feel sick? Dizzy?”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Martin snapped. He immediately regretted it. “Sorry. Sorry. I just…” He gestured to the cannula. “Get this out of me, please.”

“Alright.” Jon sat down on the stool and set about peeling the tape from his skin, slipping the needle out. His movements were still sharp, meticulous, absolutely under control. Like he didn’t dare even blink without one month’s written notice. 

It wasn’t fair.

Before Jon could press a cotton ball to the little drop of blood in the crook of Martin’s elbow, Martin caught his wrist. 

“Jon,” he said. “I’m going to say something you might not like - in fact you definitely won't like it. Can you at least let me say it? No interrupting.”

Jon frowned and narrowed his eyes. "Alright."

Martin took a deep breath. This might ruin everything. But he had to try. He closed his eyes.

"You should drink from me." 

He heard Jon gasp, felt his sense of betrayal. His heart went ping for a different reason.

"Mar -"

"No. No interrupting." Maybe this would be easier if he kept his eyes shut. He tightened his fingers around Jon's wrist. "I know there's a bag of my blood for you right there. You can have that - save it in the fridge or something, for when you want it. But right now…right now, I'm here, and I'm offering you a choice."

It was no use; he had to open his eyes. He had no way of knowing how Jon was responding to this, no pulse to feel or breathing to hear.

He looked at him. Jon was like a statue, eyes were fixed on the wall, like he was determined not to even acknowledge the blood that was right in front of him. He seemed to be listening, though.

"You never had a choice, Jon," he said. "You have to live like the world's made of paper. I know you're really strong, like, physically, but it's not just that. You walk around London, all these people, every day, and you never give in. You came to work every day for nine months and you didn't say a word to any of us about what you're going through. You're strong , Jon, you're so strong, but you shouldn't have to be. Not all the time."

Jon still wouldn't look at him, but his jaw was clenched impossibly tight and his nostrils were flared wide.

Martin swallowed. "It's not your fault you're like this, Jon. It's not. You were changed against your will, you were hypnotised and trapped and abandoned, weren't you? And…and you shouldn't have to be so strong all the time. You never let go, not even when you're being all playful and dancing with me or kissing me, I know you don't. You're suffering , Jon, and I…" He paused. He was pretty sure his heart was going to burst out of his chest, it was pounding so fast. "I love you. And I don't want to see you like this."

Now, Jon looked at him. His beautiful brown eyes were rimmed with red. He looked like he might cry. "What did you say?" he asked in a choked whisper.

Martin was almost crying, too. He laughed, and coughed, and cleared his throat. "I love you, Jon." His chest felt so heavy and yet so light at the same time. "And I'm giving you a choice. Say the word and I'll drop it, I swear, I'll never bring it up again. But I'm here, if you need me. You can take what you need. You can let go. "

A single tear of blood slipped out of Jon’s left eye and ran down his cheek. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. "I can't…hurt you. I can't bite you," he said at last. His voice was small.

"You don't have to bite me." Martin slid his fingers along Jon's arm, down over his hand, lifting up his index finger. He pressed it to his exposed elbow, let the blood there pool on Jon's fingertip. Then, he released him.

"Say the word," he said again, breathlessly. His voice was barely audible, but he knew Jon would hear him. "But you have a choice. I promise."

Jon couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from his finger. Moving as if in a dream, he raised it to his lips and licked the blood off with the tip of his tongue. 

His reaction was nearly instantaneous. He inhaled, gasping, and then it was like a shudder ran through his entire body, like something he'd been gripping for dear life had finally been released. 

He was staring again. Brown eyes that shone like a cat's in the lamplight of Martin’s tiny living room, pupils blown wide, voids that threatened to overtake Martin and pull him under. 

"Oh," he said. His voice was deeper, so much deeper, more of a growl than anything else.

Martin shivered. 

Jon leaned forward and lowered his mouth to his skin.

Chapter Text

Not too much.

He’s already lost a pint.

You could drink that.

He’s offering.

It smells amazing.

It will taste so much better.

Straight from him.

It’s Martin.

You won’t hurt him.

Let go.

All of these thoughts passed through Jon’s head in the five or so seconds it took him to raise his own bloodied finger and put it between his lips. He licked the droplet of Martin’s blood and let it swirl over his tongue.

Even that tiny amount was enough to flood his senses with the need for more . 

He gasped as a great rolling release of tension surged through his body. How hard had he been holding on? It was as though months and months of determined control had suddenly snapped and left him shaking at its departure.

He looked up at Martin’s face, searching for any sign that he might be about to change his mind. All he did was stare back at him, the beginnings of a smile frozen on his lips. 

“Oh,” said Jon. His voice came out as a growl, like it had only once before, when he’d been threatening a mugger, holding him against a wall and demanding he tell him where Martin was.

Martin was sitting right in front of him. Offering him a choice. His cheeks were a little flushed, and his heart was thundering so loud Jon felt he could almost feel it, even though they were no longer touching. 

He watched Martin shiver at the sound of his voice. 

Yes.

You can do this.

He wants to give it to you.

Take it.

Let go.

He leaned forward and brought his mouth to the crook of Martin’s elbow. The point where the needle had pierced his arm was still bleeding, barely, but it was already drying out. He laved his tongue over the tiny wound, moistening the skin, savouring the taste.

It wasn’t enough . 

“What’s wrong?” Martin whispered. He sounded like he was holding his breath.

There was a sound halfway between a snarl and a frustrated whimper, and Jon realised suddenly that it had come from him . How strange. Something was stirring inside him, something that he remembered indulging only once before. It felt like it belonged in dark alleys and shadowed corners and cold, moonlit nights. “I need more,” he admitted in that same deep, growling tone. He brought his hand up, traced his thumb over the puncture mark. “It’s too small, the wound, I can’t…”

Martin shifted like he wanted to touch him then thought better of it. “What do you need to do?”

“Cut it.” Jon almost surprised himself by how quickly he knew the answer. It felt so natural. “I can…cut it.” He pressed his thumb harder against Martin’s arm, the edge of his thumbnail digging into the skin but not breaking it, not yet. “It will hurt.”

“It’s okay.”

Jon didn't need telling twice. He pierced the skin with his thumbnail, sliced a clean line across that immediately blossomed with blood like leaves turning red in the autumn. 

Martin hissed in pain. "God, Jon, your nails! Jesus…"

"Sorry." Jon didn't look up at him, though he squeezed his hand in apology. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the blood. It was dripping down the side of Martin's arm, carving a scarlet trail across his white skin. He ducked his head again.

Oh god. It tasted incredible, hot and metallic and sweet. Jon licked up the drops and then latched his mouth around the fresh cut, minding his teeth. He swallowed a mouthful and felt another snarl rumble through his chest.

Martin gasped. "Jon…" He sounded confused. "It feels good. Why…why does it feel good?"

Jon broke away long enough to reply. "I'm not sure," he murmured. "Are you alright?"

"Mm-hmm." Martin was breathing hard. His voice was more high-pitched than usual. "Just, not too much, yeah?"

"Not too much," Jon agreed. He licked his lips. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, just then, for him to climb into Martin's lap. He tucked his face against his bleeding elbow and felt Martin curl his arm around his head, giving him more access. He sucked hard on the wound, letting another mouthful of blood slip down his throat.

Every one of his senses was full of Martin ; the coppery warmth of his blood on his tongue, the pale softness of his skin, the smell of his aftershave. The pulse in Martin's wrist was thundering right next to his ear, and he was holding the back of his head with his other hand, twisting his fingers into Jon’s hair until the braid fell apart. 

It would be so easy, said the darkest part of him. What's he going to do? Fight you?

He shuddered as the blood filled his mouth again, swallowed it down, thick and slow. He gripped Martin’s wrist and straightened his arm, pinning him in place. Martin twitched, but Jon’s fingers were very strong. "Wonderful…" he intoned, punctuating his words with hungry strokes of his tongue. "You taste wonderful… "

Martin whimpered. Just once. But that was all it took.

Jon released him and sat up, panting, running his tongue over his lips to chase those last few drops. He felt like he was buzzing, every nerve set alight with delicious fire. It actually took a second or two for the living room to resolve into solidity around him; when it did, it felt brand new. The edges of everything were sharper, the colours brighter, the scents of the air more potent. He twitched his ears. He could hear everything .

He heard a sigh so faint it could barely be called sound. 

Martin was lying back in the chair, eyes closed, his breathing shallow and quiet. His face was even paler than usual, the freckles scattered across his cheeks and nose standing out starkly against the pallor. Alarm bells began to ring in Jon's head.

"Martin?" He put his hands on Martin’s face, tilting his head forward to face him. "Martin? Are you alright? I'm sorry, I didn't…I wasn't…please say something?" 

After an agonisingly long moment, Martin answered him. "Dizzy," he breathed. "Get the…the plate, will you?"

"The - oh!" Jon scrambled off Martin's lap and grabbed the plate of snacks he'd left on the coffee table what felt like a lifetime ago. "Here."

"Ta." Martin took a biscuit and swallowed it in two bites. "Bloody hell. That was…yeah."

Jon's heart plummeted. "Too much?" he muttered. "Martin, I'm so sorry, I -"

Crunching another biscuit, Martin flapped a hand at him. "Stop apologising right now," he said sternly. Then his expression softened. "I offered, you made a choice to go through with it. You maybe got a bit, um, over-enthusiastic? But then you stopped. You did it, Jon. You did it. "

Jon realised he'd been compulsively drumming his fingers against his thighs and quickly stopped as this new revelation washed over him. 

He'd done it. He'd drunk Martin’s blood. Martin would be fine, given lots more snacks and water, and a day or so to recover. 

It was okay.

He burst out laughing. He ran his hands through his hair, raking it with his fingers, and spun around in a slow circle. "I did it," he said, grinning wide. "I did it! I…you…" He stopped spinning and stared at Martin, who was still eating snacks. "You," he said in a strangled sort of voice, "are the most… I can’t believe you. You're brilliant, you're ridiculous, you, ah, you have a death wish, you just let me drink your blood, I..." He approached Martin's chair, leaned down and cupped his face in his hands. "Thank you. You're incredible. I love you." 

He almost kissed Martin before something occurred to him. "Wait here!" he blurted, darting away through the flat to reach the bathroom. He quickly swished some water and mouthwash around his mouth and scrubbed his face with soap. 

Back in the living room, Martin was looking a little shell-shocked at his sudden departure and reappearance. All he managed to say was "Wha -", before Jon was straddling his lap and kissing him. He dropped an apple slice in surprise and moaned into Jon's mouth. 

"I'll clean you up," Jon offered between kisses. "Your arm, I mean. Anything you need." He kissed him again. He had decided that kissing Martin was one of his favourite things to do. 

"O-okay." Martin licked his lips. "Um, how are you doing? You seem…I dunno. Bouncy? More energetic." He blinked a few times as though in a daze. 

Jon couldn't stop smiling. "I feel great, " he enthused. "I feel stronger, I can sense more, I…I feel like I could fly. "

" Can you fly?" 

"No!" He paused. "I don't think so. I could probably jump very high. I should test that. But not right now."

"Heh." Martin dropped a tiny kiss on the tip of Jon's nose. "Glad I could help. Maybe this is what it's always supposed to be like for you, if you drink human blood. Maybe you get stronger the more you drink or something."

Jon was thoughtful. "Maybe," he said. He planned to continue that thought, but he was distracted by the lovely lines of Martin's face. He traced his thumb over his cheekbone, round and down and under his jaw. He could see every aspect of him in the clearest detail. It was all glorious. "You're so beautiful," he whispered. "You said you love me."

"Yeah." Martin smiled. "I did. And you said you love me."

"I did. I do." Jon pulled him close and rested their foreheads together. Euphoria was thrumming through his whole body. He wanted to pick Martin up and twirl him around, but he should probably wait until he was feeling less dizzy. "What you just did, it…Martin. You're amazing."

Martin closed his eyes and bit his lip, embarrassed. "Next time, let's not do the blood bag thing first, yeah?"

"Next time?"

"Well, yeah, I thought so," Martin replied. "I don't think this should be a one-off, not when you need it like you do - but we should be more careful from now on. And I want to make you feel this good again. Christ, Jon, you're practically glowing. " He laughed, and the sound was magnificent in Jon's newly sharp ears.

Jon held him like he never wanted to let him go. He didn't, in fact; he loved him so much. Months of denial hadn't done anything to make the feeling less intense. He wanted to take care of him, make him happy, cook for him and walk in the park with him and, yes, drink from him again  - because he could do that, he could do it without hurting him! And Martin was so lovely, so willing to give him anything he could, it was…it was a privilege to be with him. He never wanted that to end.

"Like I said," he whispered. He picked up another slice of apple and held it to Martin’s lips until he took a bite. "You have a death wish. And I love you."

Chapter Text

Martin laid his hands gently over Jon's. "You're going to break the desk," he whispered.

Jon looked up at him. His eyes were wide and bright with nerves behind his glasses. "Right, yes. Sorry." He broke his death grip on the edge of the desk and flapped his hands, clenched them into fists a couple of times. "Thank you, Martin."

Martin made a sympathetic face. From where he was stood behind Jon's chair, he could see every line of tension that he carried in his body. His shoulders were rigid, his spine beneath his shirt held taut as a bowstring. His jaw was set, teeth clenched, and even his hair was pulled back into a smooth, tight bun, giving him the look of a particularly severe librarian.

He was so nervous, poor thing.

"I'm coming in," Martin murmured. He knew Jon could feel him and hear him moving around, but when he was in this much of a state it was also incredibly easy to startle him. All his enhanced senses were turned up to eleven, so to speak, blurring and buzzing over each other. He laid a hand on the back of Jon's neck and stroked the spot just where his hair faded into a soft fuzz across his skin. "Relax," he urged softly. "It's going to be fine."

"Not everybody is accepting as you, Martin," Jon muttered. He rolled his shoulders and took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself down. It didn't work very well.

"They're your friends, Jon." Martin introduced a heavier touch, pressing his thumb along the curve of Jon's shoulder until he exhaled through his nose with a little hum of appreciation. "I'm sure they'll understand. Hell, they might be grateful to have an explanation for why you pushed them away so much when you got this job." He moved his hand back up Jon's neck and played with his hair, loosening the tight bun until it tumbled free.

"What if they don't?" Jon leaned into his touch. "What if -"

"Jon." Martin huffed out a little laugh. "Give them some credit, yeah?"

His boyfriend - his adorable bloodsucking dork of a vampire boyfriend, god, this was his life now - closed his eyes and sighed. "Mmm. Yes, of course. You're right." He took Martin's other hand and raised it to his lips, kissing his palm.

Martin smiled. "Are you ready?"

"No," Jon admitted. "But let's try it anyway."

After taking a moment to wipe the smile off his face, Martin left Jon's office to fetch Tim and Sasha.

Sasha was pretending to read her emails, and Tim was perched on the corner of her desk, swinging one leg like he didn't have a care in the world. Both of them had pretty clearly just been talking and abruptly shut up when Martin entered the room.

"Hey," Martin said, waving feebly. He was trying his best to look like everything was fine and normal, but they were both staring at him like he'd announced he was off to join the circus. "Jon wants to see us. All three of us."

"Why?" Sasha folded her arms and tossed her hair. "What's going on?"

Martin squirmed under her searching gaze. He hated lying to them, he really did. It hadn't become any easier over the last couple of months, hiding two huge secrets that only he and Jon shared. It was getting impossible, in fact - hence the extremely awkward attempt to get Tim and Sasha to come to Jon's office. He and Jon knew the pair suspected something, so they'd decided to conduct a pre-emptive strike before one of them discovered him feeding, or worse.

"Just...please?" he asked, verbally flailing. "He says it's important."

Tim looked over his shoulder at Sasha; Sasha stared back at Tim. Martin floundered in the middle of the room, realising once again he'd become the unwitting bystander to one of their silent debates. God, these two.

It wasn't clear who won the argument, but Tim suddenly jumped down off Sasha's desk and stretched his arms up over his head. "Alright then," he said, with the air of a challenge in his tone. "Lead the way, Marto. Let's see what the bossman has to say."

They traipsed single-file through Jon's office door. Martin closed it behind them and moved to stand in the corner, making himself scarce. If Jon needed him, he'd be by his side like a shot, but for the moment he made himself hang back. This was Jon's decision, his choice; he should be in control.

"Thank you for coming in," Jon began. In the few minutes that Martin was out of the room, he'd put his hair up again, but in a looser ponytail this time. He folded his hands on the desk in front of him. "I have something very important to tell you, and whatever...whatever you think of me, I ask that it doesn't leave this room. Please."

Tim had been standing with his hands on his hips, looking more than a bit sardonic, but now he was actually frowning in concern. He leaned forward and put one hand on the desk, peering at Jon's face. "Everything alright?" he asked, trying and failing to sound casual. "You look like someone's died. Is it Elias?"

Jon looked surprised, his stern features relaxing into something that might have vaguely resembled a smile if you squinted. "No, no," he assured them. "Nobody's, uh, nobody's dead. Not really."

"What does that mean?" Sasha asked, eyebrows raised. "Jon, come on, what are you talking about?"

Jon's eyes went to Martin, and the intensity in them made him feel a little weak at the knees. He tried to project encouraging vibes across the room. You can do it, love. It's okay.

A tiny smile tugged at Jon's lips. He cleared his throat.

"I wanted you to find this out from me, before you both end up seeing or hearing something by accident and drawing your own conclusions."

There was a beat of silence. Nobody moved.

Jon took off his glasses and turned on the desk lamp. The light caught his eyes, made them gleam like a cat's. Judging by their gasps, Tim and Sasha both noticed.

"I'm, uh. I'm a vampire."