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Entry tags:
Aftershocks // for John
[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.
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.
no subject
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.
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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.
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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.
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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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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.