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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
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.