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Jon doesn’t immediately try to wake Martin, even though he can see the contents of his nightmares as clearly as he can see him sleeping in their bed. Martin had similar nightmares before the Change; about the Lonely or about worms or about other things that Jon, thankfully, was not privy to.
Of course, seeing them now is different, it’s more personal, more invasive somehow than it used to be when Jon would only see them within his own dreams. But, at the end of the day, it’s just a new hurt among hundreds of others, something that’ll scar over eventually. Probably. Either way, it’s hardly worth waking Martin from what little rest he might be able to manage in spite of the nightmares. It’s not like Martin’s going to be able to have dreamless sleep these days.
Jon doesn’t plan to spend much time in their bedroom as Martin sleeps. It’s bad enough that he’s intruding on his dreams like this, he doesn’t need to also be the more traditional type of voyeur. He’ll simply go back to the kitchen and listen to his tapes again. Search for that one link between all of them that will make their purpose clear.
He’s nearly at the door when Martin turns in his sleep, mumbling something so softly Jon doesn’t catch much beyond the fear in his voice.
And then he says it again, louder, the sound dripping with tangible fear, “Jon.”
He feels something in his chest break. Jon focuses his vision on Martin’s nightmare without thinking about it. He’s alone on the beaches of the Lonely as silver worms crawl onto him, burrowing into his skin and-
Jon shakes the sight away, concentrating on what’s real - or what passes for real these days anyway. Martin’s breaths are quick and he twitches slightly in places Jon knows worms are attacking.
He swallows thickly as he makes his way to Martin’s side. Jon knows deep down that he’s powerless in this, unable to be anything but an eye watching and drinking in others’ suffering. He knows this will just be another repeat of trying and trying and trying to dig Naomi Herne out of her lonely grave until his hands are cut up and bleeding. He knows this will be no less useless than trying to not look at Georgie in the dissection room he haunts her in.
Still, he grabs Martin’s shoulders, perhaps a bit more harshly than he ought to, shaking him roughly. It would easily be enough to wake him if everything were still normal, if he hadn’t gone and fucked everything up for everyone.
“Martin,” his voice is tight and desperate despite his best efforts to be calm, “Martin, wake up.”
Martin, predictably, doesn’t give any signs of consciousness, trapped deep in his nightmares where there is nothing but endless beach and worms eating at his flesh.
Martin gasps, tears falling from his closed eyes and down his cheeks, “Jon, please,” he begs. Jon’s grip on his shoulders tightens, “Where are you?”
Jon blinks tears out of his eyes and he lets go of Martin’s shoulders - it’s no use trying to wake him, Jon knows he won’t wake up until his dream has come to an end - taking Martin’s left hand instead. His palm is sweaty and warmer than his are. He grips it tightly, hoping that Martin can feel it in his sleep, a source of comfort in the middle of the terror.
Jon knows he doesn’t.
“I’m here, Martin.” He says, taking a deep breath to steady his voice, “I’m right here.”