Work Text:
By the middle of August, most of the wounds from Prentiss’ attack on the Archives had healed enough that he didn’t need to pay them any special attention. The pain was still there, yes, but it had significantly lessened. Perhaps it was true that he still couldn’t walk without a limp, but that was of little consequence. As soon as he was at his desk he wouldn’t need to stand up again for hours at the very least, so what was the point in staying at home wasting valuable time?
In retrospect, Jon really should have expected the nightmares to be particularly intense that night. Of course his mind would latch onto the events of that day after he’d made the decision to go back. Inconvenient as it might be, it was a natural result of the brain processing trauma and as much as he wanted to pretend otherwise there was no denying that he’d been left with more than just physical scarring from the experience. It wasn’t going to deter him.
Jon hadn’t realized how much of the past two weeks he’d spent being inactive until he found himself somewhat exhausted by the time he stepped out the door. The extra minutes he’d given himself to make it to the tube were, he discovered, not enough, and attempting to run on a leg that was still unable to entirely hold his weight was not his finest decision. As he picked himself up from the ground he could feel an unpleasant dampness in several places. Splendid. He’d most likely opened up a few of his wounds from the impact with the concrete. At least he’d chosen to wear a light jacket today over his clothing, despite the heat. It would serve to cover any stains.
It wasn’t until he was wavering in the underground car, trying to keep himself upright on the way to the Institute, that someone’s reaction clued him in to the fact that his leg was bleeding again and had, in fact, bled enough to stain his sock. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, the seat that was hastily offered to him and the sudden space despite the crowds were nice.
Rosie was more surprised to see Jon than he would have expected, but that was fine. It must mean that Tim was still off. He didn’t really begrudge the man all that much; they’d both been given a lot of leave after the incident, and unlike his own position there were others to pick up Tim’s slack. Sasha had managed to escape almost entirely unscathed, probable nightmares notwithstanding, and Martin...well, Martin at least didn’t need to sleep in the Institute anymore.
The closer he drew to the Archives, the more he found his mind racing with thoughts of Gertrude Robinson’s murder. His leg was killing him by this point, and he could feel a sheen of sweat on his face making his wounds itch infuriatingly. Everything would be fine once he could just sit down. And...perhaps make use of the office’s first aid kit to re-dress a few injuries.
Jon took a moment to compose himself as best he could before stepping into the Archives. He’d genuinely expected to be left in peace, and part of him wondered if he would have succeeded if his leg didn’t decide to give out on him right as he was in sight of the assistant’s workspace.
“Jon?! What are you-what are you doing here? Oh my god, Jon, you’re bleeding-” Whatever hope Jon had of being allowed to just work was lost at Martin’s frantic voice. Moments later the other man had his hands under Jon’s arms, helping him up.
“Sasha, can you get me a chair please?” The anxious tone in Martin’s voice set Jon on edge, and he tried to wrench himself free. That only served to send another jolt of pain through his body, and he bit back a whimper.
“Martin, please, I just want to-” he attempted, but was silenced by a surprisingly stern look.
“Don’t try to tell me you want to work. Y-you can’t! Sit down, I’m going to call a cab…” Martin helped him into the chair, fixing him with that same look so at odds with the way his voice had cracked, as he hurried over to his desk to grab his phone. Reception was spotty down in the Archives, but the man managed to get service long enough after a bit of roaming. That handled, he took the first aid kit back with him as he knelt in front of Jon.
“I’m starting to wonder if I shouldn’t take you to A&E instead of home…” Martin muttered, brow furrowing as he caught sight of Jon’s bloodied trouser leg and sock.
“That is quite unnecessary, Martin. It’s just a bit of blood, I can-would you just give me that? I don’t need you to do this for me, I’m quite capable-” Jon cut himself off, his head spinning once he made the mistake of leaning forward too far. Martin’s hand was on his chest, then, gently moving him back to rest against the back of the chair.. When had his breathing gotten so ragged? The painkillers shouldn’t be starting to wear off already, and he wasn’t as fit as Tim but surely he wasn’t so out of shape after a few weeks that simply descending into the Archives should have winded him…
The desire to push back against Martin further was still there, but Jon found that he just didn’t have the energy for it. He’s really quite gentle for such a large man, his mind supplied in lieu of anything actually useful. Martin’s hands were soft and cautious as he stanched the bleeding before re-bandaging Jon’s leg. Once that was done, he stood, wiping his hands before sliding Jon’s coat off of his shoulders to expose several bloodstains on his shirt. It was only after Jon made a startled sound that Martin stopped, fingers halfway through unbuttoning the top of Jon’s shirt, and flushed deeply as he seemed to realize what he’d been doing.
“Are you quite done fussing now?” Even if he wasn’t flustered and in pain, he still probably would have been harsh with Martin. There wasn’t any need for the man to treat him like he was incapable of taking care of himself. However, the amount of venom that seeped into his voice surprised him.
Something twisted unpleasantly in his stomach when he saw the way that Martin’s face fell. He felt even worse when Martin stammered a series of weak apologies as he backed away. Jon wanted to say something, but came up blank. An unpleasant silence lingered until Sasha finally spoke up.
“Jon, you really shouldn’t be trying to come back so soon. I’d like to help you back out, but Martin’s a bit better suited for that than I am…” They both startled a bit at her words, but Martin seemed like he’d been snapped out of whatever had been on his mind as he stood up.
“Right, yes. We should probably wait outside. Put your weight on my arm like this, okay? Be careful of your leg…” Jon bit his lip hard enough that it would be swollen later as he reluctantly accepted Martin’s offer of help. He hated the idea of relying on anyone, especially someone he couldn’t even be sure he could trust. The prospect of trying to make it back up the stairs by himself when his leg was this bad, though, felt even worse. He allowed Martin to put his coat over his shoulders, opening and closing his mouth several times before he finally managed to speak.
“...thank you, Martin.” The words came out as though they physically pained him, and all Martin gave him in response was a wordless sound of acknowledgement as they began to make their way back out of the Archives. Jon tried to convince the other man to leave once he was outside, pointing out how much work still needed to be done, but a small part of him was grateful that Martin refused until he was safely in the cab. It would be another couple of weeks before he would try to return to work again, and the limp he still had would never fade.
The incident would be mostly forgotten in the following months, buried under the crushing weight of paranoia and fear. It would only resurface by chance, years later, and Jon would finally try to apologize for his behaviour. Martin would simply shake his head and tell Jon to leave the past in the past the way he so often did when Jon tried to bring up his regrets about how he used to treat him. Occasionally Jon wondered whether he would be able to walk normally if he had just followed the instructions he’d been given and stayed off of his feet until he’d healed, and at some point the Eye helpfully told him that yes, he would have.