Aftershocks // for John

[loficharm]

[cw: discussion of death/near-death]

July 1st, 2020

The afternoon passes in a blur, the two of them muddling together some sort of welcome for the new arrival who, Martin cannot possibly stop inwardly acknowledging, shot John in the chest. It's all he can think about, especially as they finally make their way home, the two of them keeping quiet, John holding his hand as though he knows how much nervous energy is brewing beneath the surface (of course he knows; he's John, and Martin is obvious). It isn't just that it happened, an improbable accident or a cruel joke played on the three of them; it's that John forced it. He Knew it was coming, Knew to step in front of Martin the moment before it happened, Knew just enough and with only enough time to choose to take the shot. He saved Martin's life, again, from something so stupid and (nearly) unforeseeable that it feels like it should be ridiculous. And the consequence was that Martin caught his body, felt him die, and there is no amount of rationalizing and reassurance he can give himself that will make that okay to him.

So he is a bit of a mess by the time they walk into their flat and he shuts and latches the door behind them, and the moment they're shut up inside with only their cat as witness, it's like a switch flips, or rather a poorly constructed dam finally breaks. He only has time to turn around and face John directly before he feels himself crumple a bit, reaching out to take both his hands, wanting to pull him close, but not wanting to jostle the fresh wound, healed or not.

"For Christ's sake, John," he says, his voice trembling, tears he can't possibly stop starting to spill down his cheeks. "Don't ever do that again."

There was no alternative, and he knows that; he'd like to imagine one, that John could have shouted a warning or that he could have bodily thrown Martin down without risking a different sort of harm (to say nothing of the uncertainty that he'd have been strong enough to do so). But in this moment it doesn't matter, because Martin smelled his skin burn and felt the weight of him change in his arms, and the only bloody thought he can hold in his head is never, ever again.

Comments

[statement_ends]

John doesn't have to Know that Martin is barely holding it together. Even if recent events weren't more than enough to tip him over the edge, his discomfort is clear enough in his eyes and his voice and, most of all, in his silence. Martin is a natterer, even when he's frightened. Quiet suggests something well beyond fear.

Perhaps John ought to be able to match it, that fear, but he isn't sure he wants to, or can. It was... unpleasant, what had happened. It had hurt. If he'd had more time to think about it, it might have occurred to him that there was a chance, however small, that he wouldn't simply recover from whatever foreign threat Darrow was in the process of throwing at him, and that he was risking more than temporary discomfort and another scar for the collection.

But it's the alternative that scares him, to the point where he cannot bring himself to regret any of it: not his choice or the consequences. Another scar, in exchange for Martin's life, is a fucking pittance. He'd make that trade again in a heartbeat. He may be tired and sore and worried about his partner, but he is not sorry as much as he is relieved that, despite what could have happened, they are walking home together, hand in hand.

He also knows that Martin knows all of that, and that airing it would be little comfort. So he keeps quiet as well, holding tight to Martin's hand, until he has to let go to enter their flat. And then, it's only a moment or two — the precise amount of time it takes for Martin to shut the door and turn back around — before Martin is clutching his hands again, both of them, as his composure finally shatters.

"Martin..." John starts, taking a small step towards him. He wants to just pull him into a hug; he is also acutely aware that it might have mixed results when he's still got a bloody hole in his shirt and a fresh scar visible through it. He settles for tipping his forehead down to rest against Martin's, and carefully extricating one hand so he can lift it to Martin's cheek. "I had to. I'm sorry. I—" his own breath hitches, and he swallows thickly. "I couldn't lose you."

[loficharm]

Martin's hand follows John's to his cheek, clutching it there instead, and his eyes fall shut as John leans down against him, though his breath hitches over a barely contained sob at the reply. It isn't fair, some petulant part of him thinks, that John's primary recourse against losing him is to instead risk the loss of himself. A calculated risk, perhaps not much of a risk at all, but that hardly matters. It hardly matters to Martin, in this moment, where he should be grateful and glad it worked out, but all he can feel is a fresh surge of terror and bitterness that it has to be this way.

"I—I felt it," he whispers, his fingers tightening around John's. "I felt you leave. I felt you die. John, I—" He can't stop himself sobbing this time, and he almost wants to jerk back, to pull away, like he can't stand being touched in this state. He manages not to, though he does pull his other hand free and press it instead over his own mouth, needing to stifle himself a little. Needing to hold himself together.

There's nothing more to be said. It isn't John's fault, and there is no other way it could have happened. He should be grateful. He should be grateful.

"I thought I'd lost you," he says instead even as descends further into being a wretched weeping mess. "I, I thought—I thought if I kept going to see you you'd hear me and you'd wake up, and you didn't, and then I stopped coming, I gave up, I didn't try hard enough and I wasn't there, I wasn't there when you did, and I—"

He breaks off, pulling his other hand away and covering the whole of his face as he sobs outright. He wasn't expecting himself to make this leap, isn't quite sure where it happened, and he can only hope John follows. "I don't want to be the reason you don't wake up," he babbles. "I didn't want—I just wanted you to be safe, that's all I ever wanted, and I can't—the one time I thought I could, all I did was leave you alone and then I almost lost you anyway. What good am I if I can't—if I just give you more reasons to—"

He's too tired to keep going. He's barely making sense, whipping himself up over things past, things that are now, functionally, resolved. He trembles beneath John's hands, his breath wet and labored, wishing his thoughts would just stop.

[statement_ends]

John breathes out a soft, dismayed sound when Martin says he felt it, something John hadn't really considered. In that moment between his flash of insight and the flash of the blast, there'd been no time for a nuanced examination of every possible option and the potential fallout. That his body would have been knocked straight back into Martin's arms hadn't occurred to him, how that would feel hadn't occurred to him. Perhaps it's just as well, given that he woke up with more of an audience than usual, and there'd been a new arrival still to deal with. It's good that they weren't both beside themselves, that Padmé hadn't had to deal with that on top of everything else.

Now, though, his own eyes fill with sympathetic tears, and he squeezes Martin's hand. He lifts his head to press a kiss to Martin's brow, to nest another in his hair. It doesn't feel like enough.

And then Martin carries on, haring off on a horrible tangent that only trips John up for a moment before he understands. Oh, Christ. His heart plummets.

It had been difficult, given the varied but still broadly negative reactions he'd received when he finally woke up, to imagine anyone had sat by his bedside and tried to call him back before Oliver Banks had shown up. He wasn't unkind enough to assume anyone hadn't, but he hadn't wanted to dwell on the idea of all the tender concern he'd failed to repay. Christ, he hadn't wanted to think about Martin there, talking to him, trying and failing until there was nothing to do but stop.

"Martin—" John's own composure is starting to unravel, and he pulls back, wanting to seek Martin's gaze even as Martin covers his face entirely, sobbing into his own hands, spiraling down into a truly wretched conclusion that hits John like a blow. "B— th-that..." John lifts his free hand to Martin's shoulder, then exhales, defeated, and pulls him in. He can't keep holding him at arm's length, he can't. "Come here," he says, somewhere between coaxing and begging, shifting a little so Martin's head will end up against his shoulder, farther from the hole in the middle of his shirt. Martin is miserably tense under his hands, but he doesn't resist, and John slowly, carefully curls his arms around him.

"You've got it all backwards," he murmurs into Martin's hair, puffing out a damp, strained impression of a laugh. "You're the reason I'm here."

[loficharm]

For an awful moment Martin wants to resist the pull toward John. He feels like a live wire, too frayed and sharp to be touched. But he has no real willpower for it, no deep desire to reject John's embrace, and he pitches forward instead, practically collapsing against John's shoulder where he continues to weep, muffled but no less pitiful. He can still detect the faint burning smell, though he's not sure if it's more a sense memory at this point. It doesn't matter. John is warm and close and alive, holding him and murmuring the beginning of a reassurance that Martin feels hopelessly unable to accept.

He huffs once, struggling to pull himself together. A part of him wants to lean harder into his own petulance, his own self-destructive desire to be as wretched as he feels, to justify all this with this own lack of worth. He knows he has saved John just as much as the reverse; he knows what they are to each other and he can guess the shape of some of the things John might say. But he wants to deny them; for a moment, he really wants to deny it all.

It isn't enough, however. John soothes him as well as he can under the circumstances, and Martin can't imagine pushing him away now, if only for his sake. He waits until he's settled a bit, turning his head to the side and breathing out slowly.

"Have I?" is the best he has to offer, not really fishing for anything but needing something to say that isn't an outright rejection.

[statement_ends]

There is more John wants to say, but he waits. He wants Martin to calm down a little, first, not just because his weeping is heartbreaking, but because what John has to say is too important for him to risk it falling on deaf ears. So he just holds Martin close, curled around him as if to shield him again, albeit from something more nebulous and metaphorical than a bolt out of the blue. It isn't until Martin turns his head and ejects a painfully bitter retort that John lifts his head a little.

"Yes," he answers plainly, no longer muffled in Martin's hair. "I... Christ, I wish I'd woken up while you were there, I wish I'd heard you, I-I don't—" he pauses, puffs out a sigh. The why of all that is a mystery he's never going to crack. It doesn't matter. "But when Oliver Banks came to me at the hospital, and told me what my, my choices were, I... I didn't wake up because I was afraid of dying. I woke up because I was afraid of what would happen to you if I didn't, because I needed to—I needed to know you were okay."

He keeps one arm curled tight around Martin's shoulders; the other loosens just enough for John to rub his back. "You're the reason I made it out of the Buried," he continues. "You brought me back after Riggs—" he cuts himself off, not wanting or needing to go into detail. "You've bloody refused to see me as a monster. You've always believed that I'm... that I'm better than what the Eye would make of me."

His voice thickens around the lump in his throat, and John exhales unsteadily, bowing his head to tuck back into Martin's hair. It's so much easier to just bask in what Martin is to him than it is to articulate it; he can't extoll the virtues of the balm without acknowledging the severity of the burn, and just how much it hurt.

"You're my anchor," he insists, the words only coming as easily as they do because they're true. "You always were."

[loficharm]

There's an urge to curl inward at first, to hide himself further at the mention of Oliver Banks, the man who woke John up when Martin could not. They haven't talked about it much, partly because Martin has avoided it. It hurts, is the thing, and it doesn't matter that death is Oliver Banks' whole thing, even though maybe it should make all the difference; it hurts to know that John woke up for him, for an effort measured in minutes and not months. It is further petulant but he's in no position now to switch that off.

All of that disappears in a matter of moments, though, when John articulates why, and when he continues, Christ— Martin goes still beneath him, his own hands drawing slowly down from his face as he tries sluggishly to process this. The word 'anchor' rings familiar beyond its surface definition, and it's only a moment before he remembers why. He pulls back, not away, but enough to lift his head, to stare at John, openly shocked.

That he loves John and treats him as he deserves to be treated is not worthy of any particular accolades, he thinks; that he pulled the knife from his chest is not a revelation, and feels less like something noteworthy and more like the obvious bare minimum. But the rest... he'd assumed John had risen because his work wasn't finished, or that the choice between life and death had been a bloody obvious one. He'd assumed John's rib had been the tether as intended, and that his efforts had only amplified the connection. In both cases, John has neatly shattered his assumptions and filled it in with a truth he can't possibly deny no matter how badly he wants to, because John's said it, and it must therefore be true.

And it shouldn't surprise him, is the most astounding piece of it. Not when John broke through his own carefully erected wall of cold, distant unfriendliness to make sure Martin had a safe place to stay. Not when he waited, made himself available in spite of every cruel dismissal, stepped in to catch him and put the pieces back together the moment Martin finally remembered how to ask for help. Not when he literally hurled himself between Martin and an angry, violent ghost and not when he came all the way across town and deep into the woods to confront the man who'd killed him, without even the slightest bit of a plan, as if it was a biological fucking imperative.

None of it should surprise him.

And in the wake of all that, it is difficult — it is impossible — to cling to the notion that John shouldn't have had to step in front of a nearly literal bullet to save him, as though his hand had in any way been unwillingly forced. It is impossible to keep framing himself as a liability, someone who causes John more trouble than he's worth, when abiding miserable torments and launching headlong into danger has always been John's regrettable bloody love language.

He goes on staring for a moment longer, but no words occur to him, and instead he answers with the only thing that feels available to him: he inches forward to once again close the gap between them, stands up on his toes and kisses John, utterly heedless of what a wreck he is or of how much his hands are still trembling; he kisses him long and slow and deep, parting his lips to draw breath against him rather than break away.

[statement_ends]

Martin draws back just enough to look up at him, his expression no longer tormented, but slack with astonishment. John meets his gaze with an anxious, searching one of his own, uncertain if all that he's said has actually helped. It wasn't a revelation John was intentionally sitting on, as if to save for a special occasion. He's not even sure it's something he's articulated to himself before now, or if it was just... there, waiting for him to shine a light on it. But as Martin's stunned silence drags on from two seconds to three, he fears that it was too much — that with Martin already inclined to blame himself for any and all pain John has suffered, the last thing he needed was to know just how long John has felt this way (even unbeknownst to himself).

John starts to pull in a breath, the beginnings of an apology already on his lips. But then Martin rises up to meet him, and John finds his lips otherwise occupied with an abruptness that startles a faint sound out of him. He doesn't object — Christ, there's no objection to be made — but he does spend a dizzying moment just reeling over the extent to which Martin is just— god, just going for it, coercing John's mouth open with gentle but insistent pressure, kissing him as if their bloody lives depend on it. It takes John half a second to respond beyond that initial little hoot, to kiss Martin back, and another second more to rally enough to decide he's not going to do it by halves.

John lifts a hand, his fingers sinking deep into Martin's hair as he cradles the back of his head, providing support as he presses back into the kiss. He hums, low and deliberate, his other hand drifting up over Martin's shoulder to caress his neck, his jaw, tracing over the soft edges of him as if he's only just discovered them. When he does break the kiss, it isn't to withdraw, but to wander; he remains close enough for his lips to drag over Martin's skin as he seeks other targets, close enough to taste the salt of the tears that haven't had time to dry, to feel the ricochet of Martin's pulse beating against him as he bends to kiss his throat.

[loficharm]

Martin has never kissed John quite like this before, never initiated it with such vigor and no preamble, but where he normally might crash back down in a heap of uneasy apologies and self-recrimination, this time he trusts instead. He trusts that John will accept it; he trusts that it is acceptable, that he is acceptable, that his wants are not burdens as John has so consistently tried to impress upon him. And this has less to do with his wants than it might seem. It's an answer and an instinct; he is desperate and he is elated, because John is alive and has with only a few significant words given him something he never even knew to need.

John is startled, of course, but he doesn't resist or object, and when he kisses back, one hand delving into his hair and the other brushing over his neck and jaw and cheek, Martin's lips twitch into a momentary smile, relieved and grateful and overwhelmed all at once. Every drawn breath and every subtle adjustment he makes is accompanied by a soft whine, as though he's trying to speak through it, only there are no words to it at all.

Once this may have had a short lifespan, the intensity like a sudden summer storm that is quick to pass, but now John answers in kind, his mouth wandering over Martin's tear-streaked skin, and when Martin tilts his head to allow him access, not sure if it's an expectation or a request, John presses in against his throat. Martin tips his head back further with a heavy, breathless cry, and the rest of his weight follows, seeking something solid to brace against. They've scarcely even moved since he locked the door, and now his back thumps softly against it, his hands sliding up around John's back to nudge him along. He is gentle; even amid his own urgency, he is gentle, still very much aware of the hole in John's shirt and the fresh scar on his chest. But Christ, he needs this, just a little while longer at least — he needs this outlet for the bloody flood of emotion in him, something that isn't that awful, miserable downpour, and he needs John close and safe and his.

[statement_ends]

John sighs softly as Martin's hands drift over his back in a belated embrace, arching into his touch like The Bishop would, like he's forgotten what shape he is. It takes him an extra beat to recognize Martin's backward sway for what it is, and then he steps forward obligingly, sticking close as Martin thumps against the door. John slides his hand down to curl around the back of Martin's neck, partly to brace him and partly to avoid his fingers getting pinched if Martin's head should follow suit and thud against the door as well.

The heavy noise Martin makes sets off a distant chime of déjà vu, and John remembers, with sudden acuity, having Martin pinned to the wall in the hallway, calling him perfect, recognizing the need that followed. So he returns to Martin's mouth, his hands shifting to frame his face in gentle, reverent symmetry as he kisses him. He knows this is about more than providing an outlet for all the emotions Martin had suppressed for the sake of being neighborly; he knows he needs reassurance as much as release. And after a few moments, he slows, easing away from that earlier intensity not because it's too much (though, Christ, it might be before much longer), but because there is no need for urgency. He's here, warm and solid and breathing against Martin's skin, his battered heart still beating in his chest, and he's not going anywhere.

"I'm here." He pulls back just enough to breathe the words, still so close their noses brush. "You've got me."

[loficharm]

Martin lets out a plaintive, keening sigh when John's hands cup delicately around his face, when his attention returns to his mouth. He recognizes the impulse distantly and answers it in kind, softening almost by instinct, settling by degrees and allowing John to lead, to bring him back down. When John pulls back, still near enough that Martin can feel the breath on his lips, Martin's eyes flutter open, his gaze heavily lidded.

"John—" he murmurs in partial acknowledgment, though the reassurance is almost more than he can bear, and his eyes slip shut again as he tries to memorize the way this feels, John close and leaning over him and promising the reality of his own presence. He tries to speak again but can't quite manage it, the only noise that comes out a formless little whimper, and he leans forward to brush his lips against John's once, twice more, small and gentle and this time brief.

"I love you," he whispers, and when he finally relaxes it's almost more of a slump, sinking suddenly boneless into John's arms and tucking his head up under his chin. "I love you," he says again, like it deserves to be echoed, deserves to be reiterated and heard as much as possible.

[statement_ends]

"Oh," John murmurs, soft and startled — not by the sentiment, but by the sudden armful. But he adjusts quickly, curling his arms around Martin and tucking in his chin just long enough to press a kiss to the top of his head. "I love you, too."

He breathes slowly, his own anxiety easing, things slotting back into place. He'd known Martin was upset, and had anticipated some sort of meltdown, but Christ, not... not all that. He still isn't quite sure if he's relieved to have cleared the air, or appalled over the belated discovery of just what needed clearing: that Martin blamed himself for not being able to rouse him from the coma; that he was capable, even under great duress, of characterizing their admittedly fraught history as a succession of reasons Martin gave John to—to just give up. Jesus Christ.

Not that he's keen to prod at that tender bruise when things have only just calmed down. He just holds Martin close, letting things settle, until they've stood there long enough for The Bishop to walk over and start twining around their shins.

John exhales softly, somewhere between a sigh and a huff of laughter. "I ought to get changed," he says, though he doesn't loosen his hold or make any moves to go anywhere just yet. "Never would have guessed that archiving would end up being so hard on my wardrobe."

[loficharm]

Martin manages a weak huff of his own, holding onto John a moment longer before finally, a bit reluctantly loosening his grip and taking a small step back. He gives John a gently assessing once over before crouching down a bit shakily to greet their cat.

"We really ought to adjust the budget for that," he offers in a feeble bid for humor, which he thinks is near enough the mark considering the state of things. He takes a moment to focus on petting The Bishop, who answers obligingly by cramming his whole purring face into Martin's palm, and once he feels acceptably normalized, he looks back up. Now that he's lowered himself thus, he's not sure he can get to his feet again; the temptation to just sit on the floor is a bit appallingly strong.

Still, he doesn't like the idea of John being out of his sight for even a moment, and he raises his hand. "Help me up?" he adds rather unnecessarily, parts of him still very much on autopilot.

[statement_ends]

"We could put out a tip jar," John suggests, pleased that Martin is steady enough to play along a bit. It suggests that the worst is over, and that there's little standing between them and an extended cuddle on the couch. Besides the need for a new shirt, that is.

John steps back a little as Martin crouches to pet The Bishop, one hand resting lightly against the wall as he steps out of his shoes. By now, the pain in his chest has mostly faded, leaving behind a faint itch that might be psychosomatic — or even just a result of the hole in his shirt and the corresponding draft. He's not accustomed to being able to feel the bloody breeze on one relatively small portion of his chest.

He knows it'll help to just put on a fresh shirt. That doing so doubles as hiding the evidence is a slightly uncomfortable convenience, but perhaps it's just as well. Having the new scar on bloody display doesn't seem likely to ease Martin's mind, and he prefers to do his own morbid examinations in private.

He also knows now would be a bad time to just leave Martin alone, so he waits until Martin has finished greeting the cat, suppressing the urge to push his own fingers into Martin's hair while his head is at such a convenient height for it. When Martin offers his hand, John takes it with a faint smile, helping him back to his feet.

"Come on," he says, leaning down to kiss Martin's brow before leading him back to the bedroom, keeping ahold of his hand until he has to release him so he can undo the surviving buttons. Feels a bit ridiculous, the way his shirt sort of falls open as soon as the top two buttons are undone, and the way he still has to keep unbuttoning the damn thing below the hole — as if it forfeited any right to structural integrity once the blast hit, and has no business being so obnoxious now. Not that he has any right to complain when the alternative would've been him losing his shirt in the middle of the damn park.

He shucks the remains of the garment off and rolls it into a small bundle (the easier to stuff into the nearest bin), glancing over at Martin as he does so. He's made no real attempt to turn away — he's largely past that particular sort of modesty, and he thinks that attempting to hide things would be just as bad as overtly showing them off. But he does want to make sure Martin's okay, and if a hasty quarter-turn would help, he'll do it.

[loficharm]

Martin chuckles softly at the idea of a tip jar, comforted more by the return to humor than the humor itself. He pulls himself up with John's help, manages a little smile at the quick kiss to his brow, and allows John to guide him to the bedroom. He stops near the doorway when John releases his hand, as though without that lead he has nowhere to move, and watches rather indirectly, gazing more in John's general direction than athim, as John begins to undress. He doesn't intend to watch per se, certainly not to stare, but he feels a bit lost. It wasn't that long ago that they were in much this same position, comforting one another in the entryway, walking each other to the bedroom as though they could simply draw up the covers and protect themselves from all their worst fears.

They aren't too far from that, from John breaking down over the near loss of him, the very thing that engineered this situation. And that isn't all Martin remembers, as his eyes wander momentarily to the bed, where he'd lain afterward with John's arms around him and admitted how frightened he'd been. Where he'd realized as if discovering it for the first time that John needs no admission; that he simply knows. And it's with a sudden, unusual clarity that Martin remembers thinking of his fear as sustaining, more so than his love.

He thinks, now, that he was wrong about that. It can't survive under the weight of what John's just told him. His fear might sustain John in that the Eye requires it of him, has twisted him around so that it's become imperative to his survival. But that isn't John. And John...

John needed an anchor. John needs him.

He barely notices John's body language or the glance over his shoulder. He moves without thinking, coming close and touching his arm, his thumb brushing over the rough scar John once tried to pass off as a kitchen accident. Martin just leans against him for a moment, not entirely sure what he wants, just needing to be near him.

"Does it hurt?" he murmurs.

[statement_ends]

Martin drifts over, his fingers brushing against John's arm, and then the comforting warmth of him pressing up against John's side. It feels like second nature, now, to lean back into him, to turn his head and nuzzle into Martin's hair in brief, silent acknowledgment before the question is even asked.

John lifts his head, his fingers tracing over his newest scar for the first time. It's smaller than he thought it would be — smaller than it felt — and tidy, almost, in its symmetry. A near-perfect oval, no larger than the bottom of a pint glass. Still, it isn't pretty: the skin is a sullen pink, puckered and gnarled from a healing that was about speed and utility and not aesthetics, a healing that had to occur around the give and stretch of painfully drawn breaths as John lay gasping in Martin's arms.

But it healed.

"Not anymore," he replies, letting his hand drop. "A little tender, maybe, and—" He draws in a deep, experimental chest breath, wincing at the way it sort of... tugs, at the end. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind him that it's there. "—weird," he continues, "but there's no pain."

He hesitates there for a moment, feeling as if something is missing — as if it would be almost perverse to just throw on a fresh shirt and carry on. That would require stepping away from Martin, firstly, which isn't something he's terribly keen to do just yet. And then he feels like a bit of an idiot, because it's obvious, really: Martin's acknowledgment of John's scars has never been limited to polite inquiry. Granted, they've never dealt with one quite so fresh before, but now, with it on such blatant display and with Martin right next to him, it seems silly to not just... allow for that. For the sort of acknowledgment Martin seems to prefer, that is.

"Here." John reaches for Martin's hand, squeezing it lightly and then guiding it up to his chest, where the scar sits just a little off-center over his sternum. He doesn't force the contact, only drawing Martin's hand up enough to make his intentions plain, so that Martin could complete the journey easily, if he wanted to. "It's all right," he says quietly.

[loficharm]

Martin stays close, watching from his periphery as John traces over the scar and gives the question due consideration; watching and hiding a grimace over the way it looks, the way the skin stretches when John moves. It is horrifying — burn scars have always been horrifying to Martin, and although he's certainly grown used to the one that grips John's right hand, this one feels... different. Perhaps because it smelled the skin burn; he was there when it happened, and it happened to save him.

He shakes those thoughts loose as best he can. John's already said enough to put any guilt on that subject to bed. And Martin doesn't want to treat this as different, as somehow worse than all the rest, simply because he was there for it. He's had the benefit of time, perspective, and practice to grow used to John's other scars, to reframe them as beautiful or striking, to love them as a part of him. This one is fresher, and it feels more personal, but it is no different in the grand scheme. John is still standing, still breathing, and this, too, is now a part of the tapestry of him.

In some way perhaps picking up on all this, on Martin's desire to acclimate, John takes his hand and draws it gently up, inviting him to touch. Martin balks slightly, his fingers twitching, but the reassurance settles in and he softens at once, his expression somber but calm as he lets his hand rest gingerly against the waxy, puckered skin.

"Jesus," he whispers, more sympathy than horror, but he doesn't pull away. Instead he shifts his position so he can face John more directly, his fingers cautiously tracing around the edges. He takes his time, learning the texture, the size and the shape. Gently revising his expectations of what John feels like.

Just on the edge of this new scar is another one Martin knows intimately well, though he has never touched it. His eyes slide toward it inevitably, to that small jagged mark centered over John's heart. His eyes linger there for a beat before looking up and drawing a breath like he wants to speak.

He isn't sure what to say. His eyes fall back to the scar instead, and after a moment's hesitation he starts to lean in thoughtlessly, moving as if on instinct. He catches himself before he makes contact, hovering a few scant inches from his unconsidered objective, from pressing a kiss to John's chest.

"Can I—" he murmurs, not sure he can ask it aloud, reasonably certain John can see his intent.

[statement_ends]

John doesn't know quite what he was expecting from Martin. More lingering caution, perhaps. A less thorough exploration. He is careful, of course — Martin is always careful with him — but he also takes his time, his fingers tracing over every ripple of scar tissue and the immediate surroundings. It's as if he's committing it all to memory, as if he intends to recognize it even in full darkness, even in his sleep.

It could have been too much. But John can easily recall a hundred little microshocks, that inner lurch he'd feel when washing or changing clothes, when his fingers would run over a patch of skin and not immediately register why it felt like that, where that bump or ridge or divot had come from, until he remembered afresh. And the thought that Martin might be trying to... to avoid that, to forestall some later flinch, strikes with enough force that John has to blink quickly to keep his vision from blurring. Christ, he can't have a bloody breakdown now, when things are finally starting to settle. And he especially doesn't want Martin to think he's hurt him, or done anything wrong.

Fortunately, he's mostly recovered himself by the time Martin looks up. Martin seems as if he might speak, but then he lowers his gaze again, and John realizes it's not the newest scar that has his focus, but rather the one between his ribs, where the knife had rested. Martin sways forward a little, and John blinks again, breath hitching as he realizes what Martin intends. God, it's like he's trying to make him lose his composure.

But he can't refuse — he doesn't want to refuse him this — and he swallows thickly before managing a slightly hoarse, "Yes."

[loficharm]

Martin does not miss the thickness of John's voice, the slight shudder of his breath, and it's almost contagious, a little hiccup of emotion building in him as well, but he stays his course, his eyes falling shut as he leans the rest of the way forward and brushes his lips against the scar left by the knife.

The reverence of it is not incidental. Martin has never done anything quite like this before, never kissed John's chest, never acknowledged that near death with such clear intensity of focus, and he takes his time with it. He lingers, his breathing steady and slow, his hands settling lightly at John's arms, and when the moment finally feels complete, he doesn't pull back, only tips his head forward to let his forehead rest against John's chest, his eyes still shut.

"Thank you for coming back to me," he says, and it is about more than today and more than after Riggs was through with him. It is both those scars and more, the ones that tell less obvious stories, the pockmarks, the shrapnel. Martin can't elaborate any further, not verbally; there is only the slightest hitch in his breath, but it's enough to give him away as tears start to well up in his eyes once again. This time, at least, there is no despair; he is still very shaken and he is beyond tired, but the tears are of gratitude, and of relief.

[statement_ends]

John barely breathes as Martin's lips gently press against his chest. Martin has kissed his scars before, but not that one, and not with such... potency. On paper, he might have worried about the physicality of it, the relative sensitivity of his chest and the odds of it provoking an unwanted reaction, but now, such worries seem absurd. If it's too much, it's not because of how soft Martin's lips are, or the warmth of his breath ghosting over John's skin. It's because it's so goddamn tender, the gesture imbued with so much love and care and bloody reverence that John has to look away, gaze fixed on the wall and lips pressed together tightly so they won't wobble. There is no risk of him enjoying this too much. It's all he can do to endure it.

It isn't until Martin shifts into a more familiar, less fraught lean against him that John resumes breathing properly, as if he's finally been given permission. He swallows again, his arms lifting to curl around Martin's back. The thanks that follows is enough to put paid to his tenuous composure, and John lets out a rather damp huff as he pulls Martin closer.

"Always," he murmurs into Martin's hair. "Every time." He knows it's not a promise he can keep; he also knows he might keep it better here than anywhere else. "I love you so much," he adds in a damp, self-conscious rush. It's too genuinely meant to be ridiculous, but Christ, it feels close to that line. He needs a shirt and a bloody drink, but for now, he stays put, pressing a kiss to the top of Martin's head.