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When they first arrived here in this place Somewhere Else, Jon didn’t dream much what with the blood loss and (thankfully quite temporary) coma. Afterwards, as he recovered, he usually had nightmares. But, at least, they were his own – eyes that followed in the sky, knives, loss, distance, and pain. Still preferable to the feeling of hitchhiking his way through someone else’s horror.
But recently, he’s been dreaming more frequently. He’s been dreaming of a blanket.
Sometimes, he dreams of an earlier version of himself, wrapped up in his own insecurities and circular logic that prevented him from reaching for something he now cannot imagine living without. He dreams of this version of himself curled up next to Martin during that stolen weekend when he let himself give into the pull and hide from the impending doom surrounding them both in the warmth and safety of Martin and a shared blanket.
Sometimes, he dreams of being broken and bandaged in a hotel room and the way his whole chest swelled to bursting when he realized that Martin kept that blanket – their blanket – in his emergency overnight bag at the institute.
Sometimes, he dreams of that liminal period between being kidnapped by Nikola and leaving for China and America. Time spent on a lumpy, uncomfortable couch, made infinitely more bearable when he avoided the things that could only charitably be referred to as cushions in favour of leaning himself up against Martin and letting the building inevitability of The Unknowing fade away for a few precious, borrowed moments.
More often, though, he dreams of running away with Martin, away from The Lonely and The Institute and The Tunnels, taking their frantic yet meandering route to Scotland and anticipated, if unrealized, safety. He dreams of late-night bus rides spent sleeping pressed against one another, wrapped securely together as though the blanket offered a layer of protection and security against the things that pursued them. He dreams of nights spent in a series of impersonal hotel rooms, each one transformed into something that felt like home when their blanket was spread to cover the generic duvet. And he dreams of the precious three nights together in what was to have been their safe haven. Three nights before Jonah’s statement and the open door and endless hellscapes.
Last night, he dreamt of hell. Hell made manageable by the man beside him – the one dragging him along towards the impossible hope that everything Jon had done could be somehow made right. The man who would not let him give up and give in to despair – would not let him wallow and be digested by the thing that was no longer a cabin.
He dreamt of a house in an oasis in the middle of hell. A house where time still worked and food and sleep were still necessary. Of the feeling of relief to curl up with Martin under the blanket they carried with them through hell itself and rest, even as the separation from the Eye left him weakened and disorientated.
And he dreamt of that last, final moment. That moment when he extricated himself from Martin’s embrace and left him alone under their blanket – now just a torn and filthy remnant of their all-too-brief time together. When he left to try to end their world to save countless others. When he left everything that really mattered behind to attempt something stupid. Again.
“Jon? Jon, sweetheart, wake up. You’re having a nightmare. It’s okay, Jon. I’m right here. We’re here and we’re together and we’re safe, Jon. You’re okay.”
Jon comes back to himself. To their tiny apartment and their bed and the world that they have been working so hard to fit themselves into. To Martin.
“Martin, yes, ah. Thank you. For waking me.” Not too long ago, he would have reached for his glasses and escaped from the bed to splash his face with cold water and pull himself back to reality as sensibly as possible. Now, he adjusts his position to snuggle into Martin, who has sat himself up in bed and holds his arms out in an unspoken invitation. He rests his head against Martin’s chest and lets the rhythm of his heartbeat steady the lingering sensations from his dream.
“Do you want to talk about it or just let it be for now?” Martin asks gently, once Jon’s breathing has slowed and his body is no longer tensed.
“I… well. I’ve been dreaming again.” Jon begins, then allows the thought to trail off.
“Yes, Love, I had figured that much out for myself.” Martin is encouraging, but not pushy.
“I’ve been dreaming more often lately. Mostly about – well. About our blanket. The time we spent with it. Under it. The absolutely terrible decisions I made under that blanket. All of the things that took me away from there. Away from you. The hundreds of different choices I could have made in those moments that would have allowed us so much more time together. That would have kept us from being ripped away from – from everything. I just – I ruined that world, Martin. I ruined our world and then I abandoned it. I ripped you out of it. And we’ve lost it all – Basira, Georgie, The Admiral –”
“Melanie.” Martin supplies, helpfully.
“Right, yes, Melanie. But also - the blanket. Martin, you and I, we held onto that through everything. Through the loss of each other and all over Europe and then the end of everything and through hell itself. It was the thing we had left - and I managed to take even that away from you.” The end of this is muffled as Jon turns his face fully into Martin’s soft T-shirt he only wears for sleeping. And cuddles.
“Jon. The only reason I loved that blanket was because it reminded me of you. Of us. Of this – us here, together. Sharing warmth and just letting ourselves be and rest. You haven’t taken any of that away from me. Not for lack of trying, if we’re being honest, but you didn’t. We didn’t die. I didn’t kill you. Well, not permanently, anyway. Those were the longest minutes of my life when we woke up here and you didn’t have a pulse, but – you didn’t leave me. You tried to, but in the end, Jon. You didn’t. You trusted me to cut the tether. You let me save you so we could be together. You finally trusted my judgement over your own. And now we get to be here. We have all of this. So, yeah, given the choice, I would have brought that ratty pile of rags with us and treasured it in a cedar chest for the rest of our days, but I still have everything that blanket represented. Everything that gave it value. It’s all right here.”
“Oh. I – well. I see. I suppose, when you put it that way, I have been being rather sentimental and foolish.”
Martin places a careful kiss on the top of Jon’s head. “I rather like it when you are sentimental and foolish. Now, how shall we spend our first day of our lazy holiday break? You fancy a cuppa?”
“Not just now, Martin. In a minute. Right now, I just want to do what I should have done years ago. I want to stay right here. With you.”
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As comfortable as they are, Martin insists they cannot spend their first Christmas Eve together lazing about in bed the whole day. Besides, they need to eat sometimes. Neither mentions that they had technically been together last Christmas. While Martin would always appreciate everything they did for Jon, holidays at the rehabilitation centre were not the same as this. Christmas together in their own place. So, in spite of Jon’s grumbling complaints and repeated efforts to pull Martin back into the warm bed, they eventually make their way into the kitchen. They fall easily into their weekend brunch routine – Martin in charge of tea and eggs, Jon doing his very best not to burn the toast.
They eat. They cuddle on the sofa marathoning Doctor Who Christmas specials and arguing about whether or not the Christopher Eccleston episode with The Gelth counted. (“It’s got Charles Dickens and is set at Christmas Jon” “Yes, Mahhhhtin, but it aired on April 5th, so it clearly doesn’t count” “I don’t care, we’re watching it anyway.” “Yes, dear.”) They both cry at the ridiculous one with the sky sharks. They drink tea and eat overly-iced cookies. They talk about horribly awkward parties back at the Institute and laugh at the memories of Tim’s terrible collection of Christmas Jumpers and his insistence that Last Christmas must be played on a loop the final day in the office. They have dinner and toast to those they lost and those they left behind. They tidy up and slip gifts under the small tree in the corner. They go to bed, both feeling slightly giddy as they anticipate something they thought they would never have – Christmas morning together.
And they both sleep peacefully, uninterrupted by unpleasant dreams.
In the morning, they exchange gifts. A poetry collection and a leather journal with a collection of colourful pens. A complete Shakespeare including a couple of plays that had been lost in their reality. New oven mitts and a collection of second-hand mugs picked up over the past few months whenever Jon saw a particularly cute one in the local charity shop. Some new cozy jumpers for Martin, and some less new cozy jumpers for Jon that Martin wore for a while so they would smell like him enough that maybe Jon would stop stealing all of his all of the time even if it is cute as hell because you know, Jon, it is cold out there and sometimes I do need to wear my own clothes…
Finally, there is one gift left. It is quite bulky, and the wrapping job is charmingly messy. Martin hands it to Jon with a smile. Jon opens it and sees a blanket. Clearly hand-crocheted. And big. The yarn is soft and supple, and it is exactly the perfect weight. It is nothing like their blanket was, different size, material, colour, everything. It feels exactly like their blanket. Jon blinks away the mist in his eyes. They move back to their accustomed places on the couch and Martin covers them both. Tea and pastries are within reach, and the yule log on the television screen burns cheerfully, if ineffectually. Martin smooths Jon’s hair as Jon fidgets with the edge of the blanket between his fingers. He sighs contentedly.
“Martin, this - it’s… perfect. How did you ever find the time?”
“Oh, you know. Been working on it here and there for a while now. I just… I wanted to make sure it would be big enough.”
“Big enough for what?”
“For Two.”