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Martin's just put the kettle back on its hob (they really should buy an electric for the cottage, why it doesn’t have one is beyond him) when Jon appears on the other side of the stove. He leans back on the counter and cabinets, hands turned back to grasp the edge of the countertop.
"Hello Martin." There's a grin picking up the corner of his eyes. "What are you doing?"
It's very difficult not to indulge Jon when he's in this mood. Not for the first time he considers that his boyfriend is a bit like a cat, thinking he's subtle in his mischief. He never, ever is.
"Oh, hello Jon. Lovely to run into you here, in the kitchen, where we keep our tea. Which I'm making, by the way. Assumed you'd want a cuppa once you'd decided to grace the waking world with your presence." For the first time since they’ve known each other, Jon is sleeping well, and often. It makes something fierce and proud and protective inside of Martin preen, and he’s not even a little ashamed.
"Mm. That's very kind of you."
He's quiet for a moment, smiling openly now. Martin's about to ask what he's up to when—
"Don't you think that four-and-a-half minutes is a bit long to wait for tea?" He turns himself so he's leaning a hip against the counter and looking up just a little bit at Martin, fondness transforming his face. "Not enough time to really start anything else. Too much time to just stand around, you know?"
"Speak for yourself, I happen to be quite good at waiting for tea. But," and he turns as well, to face Jon properly, "I know how much you hate boredom. Is there something you have in mind, to fill the next, oh, four minutes?"
He has just enough time to put down the spoon in his hand before Jon's in his space, arms stretched up over his shoulders. He sets his hands at Jon's waist, drags them down the few inches to settle at his hips, and brings their mouths together.
Jon has—charmingly—brushed his teeth, and tastes of nothing but mint and himself. Martin loves kissing, always has since he got the knack of it, and he loves being kissed by Jon in particular.
He's surprisingly indulgent about it: a soft press of lip to lip; the tip of a tongue curling against his own; the occasional, dull press of his teeth wherever they strike his fancy (below the ear, or into his bottom lip, or at the base of his throat). Sometimes there's heat to it, but there’s always and definitely warmth.
He stretches his own arms around and up Jon's back, pulling him closer. One hand roves back down to the small of his back, while the other roams upwards and starts to clasp at his hair, fingers careful where they rub and tangle. (Learning that Jon liked his hair tugged on and played with had been one of the great triumphs of Martin's life. They had both been exhausted, sunk deep into the cottage's old settee and watching the fire go down. Jon had taken off his glasses and closed his eyes to lean into Martin, which turned into Martin wrapping around him, petting his arms and shoulders through his clothes, and working his thumbs up his neck. He'd sighed at that, long and low and with a hint of his voice in it, and then moaned when Martin twisted and pulled so slowly and carefully at the roots of his hair, tensing and releasing those thin and clever muscles on his scalp. Jon had gone boneless in his arms, and another layer of the chill that had covered Martin for so long melted away.)
On cue, there’s a rich hum spilling directly into his mouth, and he feels Jon’s smile as he draws back his hands to cradle Martin's face.
"Mmph,” grunts the Archivist. He pulls back just a little, just enough to let some joy spill out between them. "It's like that, is it?"
"Could be like anything. Like, I dunno, this” and he pecks Jon’s cheek quick and chaste. “I’m quite happy as we are. And I'm making tea." He nudges Jon's nose with his own and then they're kissing again, lips soft and swollen in each other's air.
It's much more than four minutes later when they surface again, the edge of the countertop digging into Martin's hips where he's been pressed back against the cupboards. He's just made a noise that's half-shock, half-laughter, and a third half again pleasure from what's just been done to his earlobe (tip of the tongue traced around the bottom, followed by the sharpest bite yet). He leans back and to the side, stretching up into his height advantage, and he knows he's flushed and smiling when he clears his throat. "O-kay then! Yeah, uh, right!"
Jon beams at him, places his hands on the countertop to either side of Martin.
"I am going to need a break, or there's going to be a whole...situation—" and that makes Jon fall forward into him, not to kiss him again but to rest his forehead on Martin's shoulder with an undignified, snuffling laugh.
"A situation" echoes from somewhere around his collarbone, and Jon's shoulders are shaking and then Martin is laughing too as he pretends to try putting a hand over Jon's mouth to make him stop repeating the word over and over again. The laughter bubbles up and seeps in between and around them both for a while, and when they catch their breaths they're resting their heads against each other, clear-eyed and smiling.
"Tea?" he offers, kissing Jon on the forehead.
(The tea is over-steeped, tepid and bitter and out-of-place in their little house. So: they start again.)