I’ve been full of yearning for weeks now so I wrote a safehouse fic in which Jon talks about Martin’s feelings (!!) with him (!!!)

you can read it on ao3 or below:

There’s something unmistakably pleasant about putting things in their place. About knowing where things are and how to find them. It was an impossible task in the Archives, but here, every sheet of paper is equally mundane and unimportant. So Jon has taken over the small coffee table and covered it with the small pile of receipts that have accumulated in the past week.

He labels and dates them, cataloguing fruits and onions from the stand on the side of the road, pasta and rice and tinned beans from the small grocery store, the box of tea Martin had bought from a small shop beside the second-hand bookstore. The rain moves in rivlets down the windows, the scent of something fresh and alive coming in from the gap under the door, and Martin is humming softly in the kitchen as he monitors the state of the pasta. It’s almost finished.

There’s nowhere else Jon would rather be, nothing else he’d rather be doing, no one else he would rather be with. He feels himself smile as he reaches for-

There’s something already written on the receipt. Of course there is, it’s a receipt, but something else aside from the Pineapple, £2 handwritten in blue ink in the centre. It’s cramped and messy, a few lines scrawled in a corner, and Jon squints to read it.

It’s a poem. Or part of one, at least.

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