Between slow applications of what could only be called smooches, Jon chuckled, “Is this the right environment for this?” Martin spent a few moments whipping up a clever reply, which fled his mind immediately when the doctor opened the door.

The sun hurt Jon's eyes.

He'd always been this way, scowling and squinting beneath skies that other people found pleasant. Since sleeping death released its grip on him, it had only gotten worse. Still, Melanie would certainly inflict bodily harm on him if he smoked in his usual spot, the service entry where she'd taken to brooding, so he'd found a nice park nearby. Every day he left the Archives, telling himself it was for the fresh air, then sat beneath the foul sun and blackened his lungs.

That day, prickles climbed the back of his neck. He paused at the height of an inhalation, then almost choked as he heard the voice he'd been aching for ever since he woke:

"Jon?"

"Martin?" he gasped. Sure enough, there he was: a bit over-dressed for the mild March afternoon, freckles abundant and beautiful, hands worrying before him.

Martin's eyes dropped to the cigarette. "Could you put that out?"

Jon's first impulse was to do just that, but he caught himself. He didn't want to seem too eager. Whatever Martin's own reasons, Jon's insistent (bordering on needy) attitude had certainly not helped the few interactions they'd had so far.

He took a pull of smoke, a small pulse of living heat between his knuckles, then breathed it out slowly to give himself a moment. Finally, with what he thought was astounding steadiness, he replied,

"Are you going to stay?"

Martin gave him a bit of a look. Then he said, "We need to talk. It's important."

Jon's heart may have actually stopped for a moment. He obliterated the cig on one of the bench's metal slats, then returned his eyes to Martin, slightly breathless.

"Okay."

With a look that Jon could not decipher but nonetheless did not like at all, Martin came and joined him on the bench. And then he just- sat there. He fiddled with his coat, looked out over the park, looked back at Jon. He succeeded, without doing anything, to drive Jon to the edge of insanity.

"Well?" he breathed finally, feeling like his heart might give out. God, this was the closest Martin had let him get. He- he could have touched him.

And then, wonder of wonders, Martin touched him. He wound his warm, soft hand around Jon's knobby wrist, and it had been so long since someone touched Jon like this that he found himself going tense despite how much he longed for it, despite how desperately he wanted to pull his hand just far enough back to lace it into Martin's.

The last thing he expected was to have his hand pressed to Martin's stomach. Racing mind coming to a rubber-burning stop, Jon managed, "Martin, what--?"

And something moved under his palm.

A dozen statements filled his mind, worms and fungus and a lonely man with bugs squirming from beneath his nail beds, and he tore his hand away. “What—” He stared at Martin's stomach for a moment, like spiders might tear through it at any moment. “M-Martin?”

“I, uh. Heh. I’m sorry I’m just now telling you,” Martin said, the twist of his mouth apologetic. God, was he not even frightened? How far gone was he?

“Y-you-you haven’t actually told me anything,” Jon managed. Christ, he should have pushed harder for Martin to talk to him. What had he gotten himself mixed up in? What if he was dying? Or, lord, already dead? Well-- a quick inventory of Martin's appearance quelled that fear a bit. He certainly didn't look bad. A bit tired, maybe, but healthy. Sporting a fair bit of new weight, which could have been a sign of emotional distress, Jon supposed, but certainly didn't point to something feeding off of him.

“Ah. Yeah." Martin chewed at a fleck of dead skin on his lip, and did not look at Jon. He opened his mouth a few times, but didn't say anything. A slight frown flickered between his brows. “I’m…”

Jon leaned forward. Martin took another breath in, out. He met Jon's eyes.

“I'm pregnant.”

Jon's ears rang.

Pregnant? Had he fallen in with some avatar? Had something unspeakable happened to him? Surely not Peter-- And, shit, Martin was a man! How--!? Oh, of course. God, he was losing his head. He knew very well that Martin was transgender. After all, they had--

they had--

Oh.

What a very normal sort of terror.

Martin made a valiant effort at a smile. “Bit past seven months, now," he said.

With the language center of his mind quite offline, Jon heard himself mumbling, “S-seven.” That didn't seem accurate. Now that Jon looked-- okay, yes, maybe, but- seven- how could he not have noticed? Maybe Martin had the time wrong? Well, no, he would know, wouldn't he- so that meant it really had been seven- which meant-- “So, it’s- it’s—?”

Martin smiled, small and sad. “Yours, yeah."

His.

Good lord.