Chapter Text
It's a pleasant afternoon in mid-may, and the weather is perfect for a stroll in the gardens. Not that Barnabas ever wants to do much else barring the most miserable rain, but Jonah complained that there was nothing new to be seen this time of year (a lie, and he would love to properly explore Vauxhall, especially with this group, but there is the matter of he admittance fee) and suggested they instead find somewhere more private. This, apparently, had been entirely the wrong thing to say, but he plays off the apparent faux pas with a laugh at himself, as if he'd been joking all along, and it's enough to lighten the mood even if he's sure nobody quite buys it. By the time they actually arrive at the gardens, Jonathan, saint that he is, has slipped money into Jonah's pockets as they walked so that he can cover the fee without embarrassing himself, and Jonah adds it to his ever-growing mental list of things to repay Jonathan for, one day.
So they all find themselves in the gardens, meandering and talking and taking their time on each trail and attraction (Jonah especially, though he tries to mask his awe to a more suitable level of polite appreciation) and having quite such a good time that for a moment, Jonah thinks the creature in front of them is some kind of grotesque addition to the display. He almost comments and puts his foot in his mouth again, but as he turns to speak he notes the expressions of the rest of the group. Of Barnabas, already rushing to the man, or whatever this creature is, checking him over for injuries, looking up at the doctor (in training?) of the group with wide, panicked eyes. "Jonathan?"
Jon didn't quite know what he expected, he didn't really have time to wonder about that, about what could happen from here. Truthfully, he thought that was it for him. He would whisper platitudes to Martin as he guided the knife into his hand, assure him that this was the right thing to do and wherever they ended up they'd still be together until the very end, but... Well that was the thing, he assumed that would be the End, and there wouldn't be more beyond that. The knife, still wet with Jonah's blood, plunged into his chest and he wasn't alive long enough to see the Panopticon crumble around them. Just a single, massive, bloodshot Eye glaring into his very soul as it all went dark to the sound of Martin crying. And that should have been it.
He should have Known the Eye wouldn't let him go, there was never an escape for him.
He woke in pain and panic, eyes rolling in their unholy sockets as he searched for anything that made this make sense. What felt like years of exhaustion hitting all at once, second to the realization that he must need sleep again, which meant everyone must need sleep again. He really was Somewhere Else, and Martin was nowhere to be seen. When a strange man- Barnabas Bennett, the Eye helpfully supplied to add to his confusion -rushed in and reached towards him, he flinched back rather violently, looking very much like a deer in headlights. "Don't- Don't touch me- Where...?" he clumsily attempted to shuffle back.
Jonathan, to his credit, had no clue what this thing was. But it was clearly hurt if the blood was any indication, and the panic on its face was obvious too. He ignored the awestruck look on Robert's face- Yes, this may be proof of what he was telling them, but now wasn't the time to fixate on that. Instead, Jonathan stepped forward and set a hand on Barnabas' shoulder to stop him from getting any closer.
"It's quite alright, we just want to help you. You're injured, correct? I'm a doctor." Not really, not yet, but now wasn't the time to get into specifics on that. "Are you... Are you human?" He had to ask, even if the answer seemed obvious and all of those eyes fixed on him made him feel sick.
"What- Oh. I um- Sorry." Jon didn't look any calmer exactly, still seemed ready to bolt, but he at least closed his eyes for the time being, still just trying to process all of this, but hiding inhuman traits was second nature by now. Martin never really liked it either, and he didn't need to make the apocalypse any harder for him, he could grant these strangers the same courtesy.
Barnabas steps back as soon as he's asked, before Jonathan's hands hold him in place (not that he minds the hands, anyway). "You're hurt..?"
Jonah is still staring silently, his expression carefully neutral. He isn't sure what he should feel, so he shows no trace of feeling anything but vaguely defined interest.
Honestly, Jon was keeping awake mostly from adrenaline right about now, but that likely wasn't going to last very long, as he recalled how quickly he passed out when they found Salesa's pocket of reality and the time caught up to him. This wasn't as extreme, he had the Beholding here at least, but he knew he was pushing it. "No, I..." he trailed off, gaze finally catching on Jonah. He'd never seen him in this body, not outside of portraits, but as with all of them he recognized him immediately. There was a strange sort of emotion that came up, a mixture of anger, fear, and even something like relief that at least there was someone he Knew here. "...Jonah," he said very intelligently.
Jonathan frowned, glancing back towards Jonah. "...Do you know this man?" he asked.
Jonah takes a step back, eyes widening. "I certainly do not."
"Well. He seems to know you," Barnabas adds, very helpfully.
Jonah huffs, the stress of it all starting to wear on him. "I don't know him, Barnabas, I don't know what else to tell you-"
"I Know you," Jon said cryptically, not really in a good mindset to explain further.
Luckily, Robert is less gobsmacked and could fill the blank there with an innocent excitement that had yet to be properly drained out of him by the reality of what the Dread Powers truly did to people. "You're of the Eye, aren't you?" A bit on the nose, but at least it was easy to place him.
"...Yes, you can explain it," Jon mumbled, sitting on the ground. Oop, looks like he's tuckered out.
"Ah- Sir, maybe here isn't the best place to rest?" This was, after all, still a public space, and Jonathan felt like they had some sort of responsibility here.
"He's exhausted, clearly. I'll keep watch on the path and make sure nobody troubles us." Barnabas has to feel like he's doing something, at least.
Jonah is deeply unsettled by the idea of being known by a stranger. What else does he know? Still, better to know thy enemy than to flee in ignorance. "Excuse me, but how do you know me? I'm sure we've never met."
Jon gave a finger gun at Barnabas. "I appreciate you," he said, attempting to curl up on the ground only to be understandably interrupted by Jonah. A big part of him was very bitter about everything he did, but he was also unfortunately aware that this was a Jonah that wasn't touched by the Powers yet. Turns out that killing him actually did a lot to vent most of the anger, and it was hard to direct it at him now when he was very much a different person. There was some bitterness still, obviously, but just no fire behind it. "Time travel, fucking apparently. Listen, I got here a few minutes ago and I haven't slept in months, I'll be more helpful if you give me a few minutes more."
Jonah blinks. "Time...travel?" The concept is new in this day and age, even within fiction. "I- I certainly hope you don't expect us to wait while you sleep for the next several hours."
"I am barely holding onto consciousness right now, I can't guarantee I'll be awake long enough to explain, and honestly I'd do a better job of it if I slept anyways. ...But you have a fair point." He sighed, pushing himself up again, wobbly as that was. He rubbed at his eyes to try and wake himself up, not entirely successfully. "You aren't obligated to wait for me, just as I'm not obligated to answer your questions. We don't owe each other anything." he reminded him.
"You owe me an explanation for knowing my name, at the very least." Then, realising he should probably expect to be known by a few strangers via gossip, "This is the first I've seen of you anywhere, and a man with so distinct an appearance is not easily missed or forgotten."
"Funny thing is, I really don't?" Jon said with a sleepy sort of cheekiness. "I mean, what are you going to do if I just don't explain anything?"
"Turn you over to a constable, perhaps. At the very least, I would no longer owe you the courtesy of protection while you sleep in a pleasure garden in broad day."
Jon narrowed his eyes, but unfortunately he again had a point. "...Fine. What Robert Smirke has been telling you about the Dread Powers is... Well, he doesn't have it all right, but he's right about enough. I am the Archivist, I am from the future, somehow sent back to this time. And you-" he pointed at Jonah with a positively icy look on his face. "Ruined my life and turned me into a monster. So I would say I'm quite familiar with you."
Jonah doesn't quite follow all of that. From the future. Part of the nonsense Robert has been spouting off. And-
He scoffs. "I have done nothing of the sort. Perhaps a mental doctor would be a better fit than a constable. Do you know any, Jonathan?"
"Not personally, but I do think contacting Bethlem might be the best idea," Jonathan said, not entirely keen on the idea of a blood-soaked lunatic with a grudge on Jonah running around, especially an unfounded grudge like this.
Yeah no, there is no fucking way Jon's going to an insane asylum in the fucking 1800's. He looked quite ready to just bolt, when Robert interrupted. "Wait- I don't think we need to go to such measures- Look, even if he is spouting insanities, he has clearly gone through something traumatic. If even some of what he said is true, this is proof of everything I've been studying! You can't just send him off before I've had a chance to properly question him when he's of a more sound disposition," he argued. Bit of a selfish motivation there, but Jon is not about to complain.
"Trauma is another excellent reason to contact Bethlem, not an argument against,” Jonah rebuts, “and you can't trust the word of a deranged man who has, so far, simply agreed to a leading question. Really, Robert, I expected more rigor from you. Or are you that eager to be right, that you would discard good practise?"
"Are we all just forgetting that the man was covered in eyes a moment ago?" Mordechai pointed out in a rather bland tone, "I think that's rather good proof that he's not entirely full of it."
"So we intend to let the deranged creature who is clearly not human and calls itself a monster continue to spout its insanities and take them as fact?"
"I'm just saying we can keep that in mind before saying Robert has no reason to buy it."
"You could also leave me alone and I'll gladly go figure out my own situation away from you," Jon said.
"Absolutely not, I can't in good conscience just let you roam the streets," Jonathan shook his head.
"...Listen, if you try to send me to Bethlam, for one thing I am not going to go willingly. For another thing, if I do get there, they are going to torture me. I'm a medical anomaly, clearly not from here, among other reasons why you would be condoning me to hell on Earth forcing me there. Maybe you are okay with that, but I have a lot of reasons not to let it happen."
Jonah feels a twinge of sympathy, of his own fears of Bethlem and what they would find, what they would make him do. He hides it all away, though, tucks it deep, deep down. Attacks, as a means of defence and distraction. "What better place for a demon than Hell?"
Jon tensed, for some reason it felt worse to have Jonah specifically calling him that. "...You can't really think I'm a demon. Please- You know what it would be like there."
"Then persuade us."
Jon hesitated, but he didn't have a very good alternative. "There are roughly fourteen fears in the list that Smirke will go on to coin, I am of the Beholding. The Beholding is essentially the fear of being watched, known, and horrible knowledge. I have something similar to omnipotence, which I can prove if you really want that by telling you just about anything about yourselves that I wouldn't rightfully have any way to know, but I do try to limit that for the sake of respecting privacy. I don't fully get how I'm here- I thought I died, I... My boyfriend was supposed to be with me, I don't know why I'm alone," he tried to explain, avoiding eye contact. He hated to beg, especially after getting unfortunately used to having much more leverage, but right now he had to remember he didn't have all the cards here, he had to rely on the sympathy of Jonah Magnus of all people. "...Please. I'll tell you anything you want to know. This can be beneficial for you, I just... I can't keep doing this, I thought I died, I wanted to die instead of doing this again. I'm so tired of this."
Jonah's jaw tightens as the stranger speaks. A mix of fear, of curiosity, of want, of concern, even. "For a start. You may want to avoid bringing up a boyfriend in public." That's the easiest thing to process, at least. The most obvious thing to say.
"Right..." he looked down. This was a much less accepting time for... Well, just about everything. He rubbed at his eye roughly, internally blaming any wetness there on the tiredness even if he knew that wasn't true.
"...For what it's worth, though. It is safe, with us." Jonah crouches by the stranger, offers him a handkerchief. Not a particularly nice one, but intact and clean, and Jonah assumes whatever scorn the others would send him for not having a proper handkerchief will be outweighed by the gesture itself. He hopes, anyway. "And we can help you find him without calling too much attention."
Jon hesitated, but took the handkerchief offered to him and used it to dry his eyes better, holding it tightly like it might help ground him. Safe. Safe with Jonah Magnus and the ancestors of the Lukas line and Mary fucking Keay. It was almost laughable really. "I'd Know if he was here. He... I would Know. He wouldn't leave me." Was it because he hadn't been the Archivist? Had he left his body to be crushed alone in the rubble? He shook his head, trying not to think about it.
"Ah. Is he...in the future, as you said?"
Jon laughed bitterly. "I can't tell the future, I only know up until he stabbed me, and then I was here... If he's not here, I don't know where he is."
Jonah recoils at that, somewhere between horrified and offended. "He stabbed you?"
Jon gestured at the blood. Mostly his own, some Jonah's, though he decided this wasn't a good time to mention that aspect. "Clearly it didn't take."
"Yet he still tried."
"He needed to. I told him to. You threatened to send me to Bedlam, you have no room to talk," he said defensively.
"I'm not claiming to be your lover. I'm a stranger who very likely happened upon an actual insane person."
"...You don't know him," Jon muttered. "Just don't call for them, please."
"If you prove stable, we won't have reason to even consider it. Jonathan, would you please come and look at the man? He's been stabbed."
It probably wasn't meant as a threat in any way, probably meant as a reassurance, but Jon was absolutely interpreting that as 'be on your best behaviour or they're going to go with the nuclear option'. So while he didn't particularly want anyone coming closer or touching him, he didn't lash out about it this time.
Jonathan came closer to look at him, finding... Well, there was a hole in his strange shirt, and when he moved it aside he found a number of scars, and a wound that was just about closed up and long since done bleeding, healing far faster than it had any right to, though it looked like it was simply an older wound. Either way, not something that should be able to heal uncovered like this, and the blood was clearly fresh. Not even to mention it was clearly in a spot that should be fatal.
Seeing his confusion, Jon sighed. "I heal very quickly, it'll be a scar by the end of the day..."
Jonah moves aside to let Jonathan closer, though he never looks away from the wound itself as Jonathan works. Huh... "Well. Hopefully you don't start teaching that to anyone, or Jonathan will be out of a job."
Jonathan laughed a bit. "I don't think I'd mind finding a new line of work if the repayment is nobody dying of horrible wounds," he said, using what he had in his little travel kit to clean and wrap the wound. Not the best circumstances, but thankfully it seemed like this strange man would be okay even with that in mind.
Jon had closed his eyes, head starting to nod forward a bit while he wasn't being interrogated.
"Of course you wouldn't." These rich boys and their blase attitudes about unemployment and obsolescence. Mention losing a line of work to a machine or the like in Jonah’s hometown, and grown men would break down in sobs. "Ah. Jonathan? He's falling asleep."
"Oh- That he is." Jonathan moved to try and catch Jon’s attention to stay awake properly, but instead just ended up with him tilting forward and just fully falling asleep against his shoulder. Seems like the Eye was finished helping him stay awake now that it seemed like the immediate danger to him was past.
Jonah snorts amusement at that. "Pity about your coat."
Jonathan sighed. "Mm, I think I'd rather get a new one than try to explain the bloodstains." he lamented, though didn't seem too bothered by it. Again, these rich boys and their blase attitudes with money. "...What should we do with him?"
"I'm half inclined to leave him where he is, but I'm sure you wouldn't stand for that, even if he is going to be healed by nightfall."
"You know me too well, Jonah," he said, shaking his head. "I can't imagine the garden staff being quite so understanding, I think he really would end up in Bedlam or prison."
Mordechai rolled his eyes. "You do love your charity cases," he said dryly, sparing a glance at Jonah specifically before looking back towards Jonathan. "You know it isn't your responsibility what happens to a lunatic."
Jonah is deeply offended by that glance, has to set his jaw and clench his fists to keep himself from saying something profoundly ungentlemanly. At least Barnabas and Albrecht weren't there to see it. The indignation spurs him on, though, and he gets right to his feet. "Right. Well," a hint of his natural voice and accent slipping through his carefully practised diction, "nothing for it. Since Jonathan so very dearly loves charity cases," the words spat like venom, "I'm sure he won't mind putting our friend up for a night. Do hail us a ride or something, Mordecai. I won't be carrying this creature all the way there on my back."
Jonathan looks like he wanted to say something about that glance, but also there wasn't a gentlemanly way to point it out without also drawing further attention to the fact that it was clearly a jab at Jonah, and he certainly didn't want to embarrass him further.
"I mean, I would be happy to put him up?" Robert started to offer, though Jonathan shook his head.
"You mean you would be happy to harrass him about your research? I think not. He may heal fast, but he is still a patient until I deem him recovered," he said firmly, adjusting his grip on the limp figure. At least he was a small thing.
Mordechai put his hands up. "Of course, dear Jonah. I'll hail a carriage and let Barnabas know he doesn't have to keep guarding the path," he said, seemingly quite content with calling their plans short early as he turned to do just that.
Barnabas is disappointed, but understanding. He hurries back to the others, offering to help Jonah and Jonathan carry the stranger. But he is, indeed, a small thing, and Jonah has more muscle to him than one might expect of a sheltered gentleman teenager.
Jonathan was kind of scrawny, making up for that with height alone, but luckily Jon was very sticklike- Which was something he decided they would need to address as well since it certainly wasn't a healthy body mass, but in any case it was fortunate right now. The two of them were able to handle it and Barnabas was instead given the unenviable task of reassuring the staff and carriage driver that this wasn't a kidnapping. It did help that at least Jonathan could cover most of the blood stains with his coat so it didn't look like a murder victim.
Barnabas is not the best of liars, but he does at least manage (with a bit of help from Jonah's much more practised liar's tongue) to convince everyone involved that it was merely a case of a costumer having too much drink and falling victim to his own unsteady footing. A mild injury that would no doubt be resolved with some rest and cold water. And so, they manage to get Jon back to Jonathan's in one piece. Once Jon is settled on the couch, Jonah begins immediately to undress him. "Jonathan, a basin of water and a clean nightshirt, if you would?" Not the best manners, he's aware, but he’s rather too upset and determined with his task right now to fuss, anyway.
Now that it was just the two of them- and an unconscious man on the couch, but that hardly counted- Jonathan did feel a need to bring the comment up again. "Jonah, you know I don't consider you a charity case, right? Mordechai is a fool," he assured him softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. He would fetch the water and nightshirt in a moment, once he was sure Jonah knew his silence hadn't been out of agreement or shame.
A sigh, shoulders sagging under the touch. "I know." He lets his natural accent, Scottish and unrefined, slip all the way through. Nobody but Jonathan to hear him, anyway. "It does get rather hard not to feel like one, though. Particularly with constant reminders." He has Jon stripped out of anything that had blood on it, a neat pile beside him of strange clothes and Jonathan's coat.
Jonathan pressed a kiss atop his head. "As long as you know that isn't the case. And that you handled yourself admirably. Many refined men wouldn't have been quite so dignified after that sort of slight." He pulled back again. "I'll fetch the water and clothing. Call for me if he wakes before I return."
"I was much less dignified in my imaginings, I assure you." A nod as Jonathan leaves. "I will."
"I am sure your imaginings were what he deserved to truly hear." And he is off. It took a bit of time to warm the water, but he would return soon enough.
Jonah takes the handkerchief he lent Jon earlier, uses it to mop away the blood splatter with the warm water. "You needn't buy a new coat. I know how to treat a bloodstain."
Jonathan brought another cloth to help with the task. He'd need a proper bath later on, the apocalypse wasn't the best time to keep clean. "Oh? That would be lovely, thank you."
"I'll need cold water and salt, but that should get the worst of it. Peroxide, if not, which I'm sure you'd have no trouble getting hands on." Once Jon is passably clean, Jonah drops the handkerchief in the pinkish water and starts to ease him into the shirt. Much too big, but then, the point of a nightshirt is to be big, anyway.
"I'll gladly provide that if it's needed," he agreed. Once Jon was clothed, he helped lay him back down again and pulled a blanket over him. He seemed like he would be out for a while. "...What should we do with him when he wakes..?"
"You're the doctor, Jonathan." He's already moving, tipping out the basin and filling it fresh with cold water and salt from the shaker. "You tell me what we should do."
"I'm not a doctor yet, and not this kind of doctor," he said. "If he's really healed by the time the day ends, we could just have him leave, but..." But there was the matter that he probably had nowhere else to go, and Jonathan was too kind for his own good sometimes.
"Jonathan. You're already dealing with one 'charity case', as Mordecai so kindly put it." Setting down the basin, rolling up the sleeves of his coat. In go the handkerchief, the coat, and whatever clothes he took from Jon. He starts searching for a brush, while they soak in the water.
Jonathan helped him find it, handing the brush to him. "Again, you are not a charity case. But yes, I see what you're saying. And he clearly made you uncomfortable."
"Did he?" Jonah kneels by the basin, starts scrubbing at the marks. They're fresh, thankfully, and that makes them much easier to rub free.
"I mean, he seemed to. At least until he started mentioning his partner." Jonah had gotten kinder when Jon brought his walls down a bit, but it was hard to tell if that was genuine or just to keep him placated.
"...Forgive me if the idea of a stranger I have no trust for but who claims to know every detail of my being is less than appealing. Men with far fewer secrets than me would be mortified."
"I never said it wasn't perfectly understandable, Jonah. I would also be very unnerved," Jonathan said, "but you live here and I care about your opinion, I would appreciate knowing what you think we should do with him. And if you would rather avoid him, then what you think I should do with him."
Jonah throws his hands up exasperatedly, drops of water flinging across the floor from his fingers. "I don't know, Jonathan. I have no concept of who this man is or what he wants, whether he's friend or foe or neither. Pandora had more insight before opening her jar." Ah. He's a little proud of himself for making an educated metaphor like that, despite every other emotion currently vying for place in his chest.
Jonathan put his hands up placatingly. "I'm sorry," he said. "... We'll talk to him when he wakes. Worst case scenario, we send him to Robert's and let him deal with him instead."
"Hah. He'd almost be better off in Bethlem than Robert's care." He doesn't actually argue against the idea, though. Starts channelling his emotion back into scrubbing. Jonathan's coat is soon clean, rolled up to squeeze out the water. Jonah unrolls it and holds it up, inspecting it. "Have I missed any?"
Jonathan laughed a bit. "Robert is eccentric, but it would hardly be that bad," he mused. As for the coat, he looked it over and smiled approvingly. "It looks perfect, dear. Thank you again."
A small smile in return. "Of course. I've scrubbed more than my fair share of blood out of clothing, I assure you. I'm a little surprised you haven't." Jon's hoodie, next. What an odd construction, too. It has...words on it? Not embroidered, like a monogram, but something that feels more like rubber. Not to mention the fabric itself. The shape of the thing. The hood. Is it a shirt, a coat, a cape, a snood..? Bah. He can scrub blood off of it all the same, regardless. And so he does, wary though he is of rubbing off the letters or fraying the cut in the front. He means to mend that later, and with no material like this to patch with, he needs to keep the fray as small as possible.
"Well, not personally. I've had people that do that for me." Ah right, rich boy had grown up with maids and what not. He watched over his shoulder at the strange fabric, tilting his head. "...Nothing about this man makes any sense." He sighed, looking back at the sleeping figure.
"It astounds me how money can get a man educated but leave him entirely incompetent at the same time." He wrings out the hoodie, scrubs at a few more stubborn spots again. "You assume that creature is a man, then."
"Owch, that stings," Jonathan said, shaking his head. "Well, it seems impolite to call him a creature even if that might be more accurate."
"You could still learn, if you cared to. And I doubt politeness is at the forefront of his mind, having been recently stabbed by a supposed lover."
"I wouldn't mind if you taught me. And isn't that all the more reason to try and give a bit of kindness? That's awful really..."
"And yet, he seemed not to mind." Wringing out the hoodie again. It's about as good as it's going to get. He drapes it over a dining chair to dry and crouches back at the basin. "Get down here, let me show you how to do this."
"So his lover was abusive and convinced him it was deserved. That doesn't really refute my point," Jonathan said, moving closer to crouch down beside him.
"Fair. I'm cleaning his clothes for him, aren't I?" He takes the trousers next, assuming they needed a clean, and spares a brief moment to be flummoxed yet again by the strangeness before getting to the task at hand. "With blood, cold water is best, because it thickens less than it would in warmth. Working before the blood dries is best, or as soon after as possible. You let the fabric soak in as much water as it can, squeeze it once or twice to let out the bulk of it. Careful not to wring, though. Then, when the worst is out, the brush. Circular motions like this, see? Agitating out the traces that are left. Dirt is a similar process, but with warmer water and soap instead of salt."
Jonathan watched as he cleaned the trousers, nodding along. "I see. And if salt doesn't do it then peroxide is the same method?" he asked.
"Yes, but you dilute it, first. Very small amounts of peroxide to a full basin of water. Otherwise it could damage the fabrics or bleach the colours out."
"And soap would work for things aside from blood?"
"Most things. Sweat, dirt, urine, the usual everyday mess. Some foods or chemicals are more difficult, but soap will always at least lessen the mark, if not remove it."
"Huh, good to know," he nodded along. "Where would I be without you?"
"Paying somebody to do what you get for free from me, most likely."
"Hah, fair enough," Jonathan hummed.
"...Speaking of which, I owe you for the ticket this morning."
"You cleaned my coat, we're even. And also, I don't think we need to be even anyways."
"I'm the best-paid launderer in the country if washing a single coat buys my entrance to Vauxhall."
"I am a generous man," he said, leaning down to press a kiss to Jonah’s temple. "And I rather like to spoil you."
"Mm. Generous, or bad with money," he teases, leaning up to catch Jonathan in a proper kiss, though a short one. "Let me finish washing up, then I'll properly show you my gratitude."
"Oh, well I can't complain about that," he purred. "Try and wash up quickly, love."
"Of course you can't. Sometimes I wonder if you keep me around for a reason." He's not serious, not at all. He knows he could swear chastity tomorrow and Jonathan would probably still keep him. Lucky for them both, though, Jonah has no such plans.
"Mm, of course not, but it's certainly a benefit." He hummed. He felt confident their guest would be out for a while, so he retired to his bedroom with Jonah for a very fun time.