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."