jonmartin ficlet
(martin makes dumplings. that's it that's the fic)
(cleaned up ao3 version)
martin wakes up at three in the morning, shaking from the impression of cold, and goes to the grocery store.
there isn't a wide selection available at this time of day, but he knows he already has most of what he needs at home. he takes his cart directly into the international aisle, looks down the neglected shelves until he finds a lonely package of wafer-thin dough. he pauses at the seafood aisle, considers some shrimp, and decides against it. he just wants something simple, something doable.
the scallions he keeps in a glass of water on the counter have grown lush in his absence, and he picks a bunch of stems with careful fingers. he's surprised they haven't wilted, and wonders if someone had taken care of them in his absence. jon, maybe, or even basira. it seems ludicrous, the idea of one of them coming over and carefully swapping out the water for his growing scallions, but maybe that's what friendship is, outside of world-ending monsters: taking care of the living things you've neglected in your absence, making sure they keep growing.
the filling isn't hard, just ground pork, scallions, sugar, soy. he remembers the vague impression of cooking wine, but it's been a long time since his fridge was stocked enough for that. he mixes it by hand, sticky and cool and undeniably solid, real. don't overwork it, he thinks in his mother's voice. or it'll come out tough. he uses his wrists to open the tap, washes his hands, and notices the filtering of dawn light through his curtains. it doesn't feel like hours have passed.
'martin?' he hears, and turns to see jon in the doorway of his (their?) bedroom. his stomach twists, a little, at the pale rings of lavender-grey under jon's eyes, the soft exhaustion that clings to his weary shoulders. he had been so careful not to wake him, his knight in overlarge sweatpants.
'i couldn't sleep,' he says, hushed, as if it were a confession. the next words roll out of him, unbidden. 'did you take care of my scallions?' jon looks confused, which is fair. martin had not thought about his words very carefully. it is a luxury, this not-thinking, after months (years) of being so careful about what he said to jon. to everyone, really, but especially jon, who was prickly and suspicious and so eager to protect everyone but himself, so terribly precious and terrifyingly fragile.
'...i just changed out the water,' jon says, and he sounds almost defensive, the way he used to after he did something kind, as if ready for his actions to be interpreted as cruelty. martin aches a little, and loves him a bit more fiercely.
'thank you,' he replies, a little too choked for the occasion, but jon doesn't seem to mind all that much, so it's fine.
it's fine.
'i'm making dumplings,' he tells jon, turning back to the counter. he opens the pantry, relieved to find flour. it's a fifty fifty chance, in this kitchen.
jon looks more aggressively confused, and martin smiles a little. 'it's almost new years,' he says, then clarifies. 'chinese- chinese new year, i mean. obviously it's already been new years, i know the date-' he scatters flour on the counter, breathing in the powdery smell. 'i used to make dumplings every year, with- well, it's a tradition. i haven't been doing it much for the past few years, with the evil circuses and whatnot, but-' he shrugs, feeling a little torn open. it's one thing for jon to Know these things about him, these little scars that litter the whole of him, but it's another to offer something up freely, give jon another piece of the mess that is the true martin blackwood.
he sneaks a peek at jon's expression- he looks worried. martin hates that it's a familiar look on him.
'can i- help, maybe,' he asks, uncertain, and it is already against martin's fundamental nature to deny him anything, let alone when he looks like this.
he shrugs. 'sure,' he says, and shuffles over to make room.
jon helps him cut open the package of dumpling wrappers while martin fills a small bowl with cool water- a little more lukewarm, maybe, than the usual chilled water he normally uses, but he thinks about the way jon rubs at his scars in the cold, and turns the tap a little more. he teaches jon how to stretch out the dough, getting him to fetch two spoons for the filling. he's never been very good at folding, even before years of disuse eroding his abilities further, but it doesn't matter so much, he tells jon, as long as they aren't overfilled, and as long as they get sealed enough that water doesn't get in.
jon is clumsy with the fine work, fingers stiff, and martin bites his lip so he doesn't apologize for the frustrated furrow of his brow. he pauses his own filling to fold his fingers over jon's, helping him tuck the corners of his creases in. jon looks- frustrated, but only for a moment, before he softens, smiles at martin in thanks and apology.
they finish the last of the filling, and martin digs around the drawers for a steamer, lining it with cheesecloth and carefully arranging dumplings inside before putting them over a pot of heating water. jon puts the leftover dumplings in tupperware, stacking them in the freezer.
'i'm not very good at this, am i,' jon says as they clean up, sounding more wry then annoyed.
martin smiles a little, something loosening in his chest. 'no,' he agrees. 'but it's okay. neither am i.' he pauses, considers. makes a decision. 'you'll get better with practice- it took me about thirty years to learn, after all.'
his heart does a tired half-cartwheel, flopping over in the general vicinity of his esophagus. jon doesn't seem to register his words, and then he drops a spoon in soapy water. martin tries not to laugh, or make any noise at all.
'thirty years,' jon repeats, soft. 'i...yes, i believe it might take that long. longer, even- i've been told i'm something of a perfectionist. it might take fifty years before i'm satisfied.'
martin smiles at him, bright and devoid of fog. 'oh!' he says. 'that's- that seems right. but- if you really want to be an expert, it might take you more than fifty years. eighty, maybe.'
'or ninety, even, considering my hands.'
'maybe an even hundred?'
'let's just go with forever,' jon says, smiling. 'if you don't mind teaching me for that long.'
'forever, then,' martin agrees without hesitation, as the scent of food fills the room with the morning light, and he can even let himself believe it.