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By this point, follow-up doctor’s visits have become such a large part of Martin and Jon’s lives that it is rather important that the two accept them to the best of their ability. Jon goes in for a follow-up visit. It is mainly to check his weight (he'd gained a few pounds, which was a very good thing for how small he was), vitals, and ensuring nothing had gone horribly wrong. Ask about the pain, soreness, etcetera. Nothing unexpected. And really, the only thing keeping Jon calm as he walked in with Martin was the cat plush he carried from home in the free hand, the other holding his cane. The cat plush was a comfort thing. Sometimes he would get weird looks for it--okay, most of the time--but sometimes people would ignore it or even kindly ask what its name was. Another comfort includes how he was dressed: somewhere in the past months, he had decided the dress code for leaving the house was stupid, so whenever he was feeling poorly, he didn't particularly mind leaving the house in pajamas with a coat on top. He did at least make sure his hair looked somewhat decent and that his pajama pants had pockets for the handouts they would inevitably send him home with, containing tips on the importance of nutrition during recovery, his exercises, etcetera. The usual.
The appointment was nothing unordinary. The usual lecture about eating more, Jon grumbling that if he eats as much as he is being recommended to, his stomach hurts and he has to stop, and the doctor chiding that the feeling is simply his stomach stretching. The same old, same old questions Jon has answered over and over and over. Then of course being asked to change into a gown, and grumbling to Martin about how stupid the whole thing is, why does he need to change, what, do they want to look at his worm scars again?
Later, the doctor made some notes, then asked if they had any plans directly after this.
"Well, no, not really," Martin smiles, putting on his small talk tone. "Perhaps we'll go get something to eat, I--"
"Johnathan needs to have blood drawn sometime soon, we could do it right now to save you the trip back. It's on floor four, here, let me find the room number, it's C-something…" The doctor began clicking lots at the computer.
"Oh.” Jon picks angrily at a piece of dead skin beside a nail. “You--You didn't tell me that earlier," He lets out what is hopefully read as an pissed-off scoff and not a panicked breath. Better to be angry than pathetic.
"Oh, yes, well, I've only just now seen it marked in your file," The doctor says, looking at the computer, unconcerned. "It won't take more than ten minutes, you should get it out of the way right now if you can,"
"Right," Jon spits. "You really should have told me earlier."
"Well, there's nothing we can do about that now, can we?" The doctor says, and stands easily from their stool. So easily. Like standing up doesn't give them any trouble at all. They just spring right up, and their legs support all of their weight, and they step to the door, no waiting for the blood to flow back, no bending and straightening a leg to get the stiffness to die down, no holding onto the table while wishing for their vision to stop going black at the edges…
Jon knows that on some level, he is being petty and really should suck it up and go get the blood drawn right now, save them the Tube trip back and all the struggle that both of them have on the stairs at the stations, but… How can a doctor treat him like this, so thoughtless, so nonchalant? How can a doctor tell you to "Well, keep doing your exercises!" or passive aggressively remark that you aren't trying hard enough to get better, or ask why you still need that cane, you technically can walk without it, whenever their body works. Whenever they have no goddamn idea what the pain and stiffness and dizziness is like, and their closest experience would be the morning after spin class.
Jon is absolutely fuming. He clenches and unclenches his fists, nails digging into his palms. He would really like to sit on the floor, rock, cry, scream into his balled up coat, and pull on his hair until he feels better. He genuinely considers doing this for about two seconds after the doctor leaves, when he is to be changing back into his normal clothes, before he comes back to himself.
Untying the gown himself has never been a problem for Jon. His hypermobile shoulders are not at all inconvenienced by the stretch of reaching and fiddling with the strings.
"Are you okay, mój drogi--? I know y--" Martin starts.
"Fine." Jon says, shrugging off the gown reaching for his clothes. "Let's do it now, I don't want to have to come back here again."
"Are you sure you're okay to, because--"
"Fine." Jon pulls on his coat and stands slowly, bad leg first, then the worse one, leaning against the table in case he gets too dizzy. He reaches for his cane, and says, "I'm okay. We can go. It's covered, right?"
"Um, I think so," Martin says, opening the door and holding it for Jon, who pulls the cat plush closer to his chest. "I think there's like a $20 copay,"
Jon shakes his head. "What, we have to pay them to have my blood taken out?" He scoffs.
Martin can probably tell he's angry and is a small inconvenience from genuinely losing it, however he also knows that if he brings it up in public, it often ends with Jon getting even more upset. So changes the subject. "I feel like I've read that in a statement before," They turn from one hallway into another. "Like, doctors taking more blood than they need to, and doing something shady with it.” He exhales, then adds, “I swear, Trevor Herbert mentioned it,”
"That's not funny," Jon states firmly.
They walk in silence for a few moments.
Martin says, "It's kind of funny,"
Jon snorts. "Shut up, I'm trying to send subliminal fuck you messages to that BMI poster with my mind powers," He lifts his free hand to his forehead and scrunches up his face, as if engaging a superpower.
Martin smiles fondly, then in a more serious tone, asks, “Jokes aside, are you really okay to have blood drawn today? I’m really sorry they didn’t tell you sooner, that was fucked up,” He stops; they are a few feet from the elevators. As much as elevators make the two of them nervous, there is no way you could get either of them to use the stairs if another option was available. They’d both have a flare-up if it were more than two flights and be incapacitated for an undetermined amount of time.
Jon sighs his signature, I’m very angry but I’m showing restraint, sigh that he used to do quite a lot after recording a statement. “No, but I’m willing to try,” Jon steps forward and presses the CALL ELEVATOR button, then opens his bag (a cross-body one, tote bags and anything similar are hell on his shoulders on a good day) and pushes the book he’s reading, his keys, and his wallet around until he finds some of the stim toys he carries around.
He really, really misses his old ones from the last world. The ancient calipitter that makes a nice clicking sound whenever you move it that Georgie’s friend gave him when he was 21. The tiny pop-it with five pieces on a keychain that his English teacher gave to him at the end of his first year of uni. The chewy necklace Tim got him after taking care of a regressed Jon for a few hours, and finding him chewing on the hem of his shirt. The fidget cube he actually bought for himself whenever he was promoted to Head Archivist and wasn’t sure how to handle the stress. (Sure, he bought it online, and he got the most inconspicuous color they had--solid gray--but it was the bravery of doing something like that for himself that counted.) Hell, even his old ace ring, the plain, solid black one with a silver interior. He loved to fidget with that one, the ring still on his right middle finger, picking at it with his right thumb, even after his right hand was all scarred and curled into itself. The stim wasn’t suspicious at all, and it only occupied one hand.
There are different stim toys now. He has a different type of chewy necklace that he keeps in the bedroom for whenever he gets very upset and needs to take it out on his teeth. This one is shaped like a single army dog tag, and not like the moth shaped one Tim bought him. (It was actually a butterfly, but they pretended it was a moth because it made Jon happy.) There was an infinity cube as well that Martin actually liked--Jon often let him borrow it--and a new pop-it. This one was bigger than the old one and is brown instead of green, but good Lord, does Jon miss the old, beat-up one with the bubbles that were too small for his fingers.
Jon manages to be okay until they get home. He eats the biscuit Martin offers him, who is telling him about how replacing lost sugar from getting blood drawn is extra important with POTS, which Jon knows very damn well, but he still appreciates the gesture. Martin actually baked these cookies from scratch; they have banana in them and are really quite incredible.
Jon signs, ALONE + NOW + I LOVE YOU = You know how sometimes I get really drained after going out because I’m autistic? I’m going to go sit alone now and indulge in my special interest until I feel better. Bye, I love you.
Martin signs back, I LOVE YOU + THERE = I love you, I’ll be in the living room with Earl if you need me. Or want company.
-
Jon swallows a few painkillers from the bottle of knock-off Advil pills they keep in the bedroom, and thinks about how ridiculous their lives have become that they have painkillers in every room of the house. Going out always makes him hurt more, even though it’s pretty sure part of it counts as making “progress” because he definitely doesn’t hurt as badly as he used afterward. It sucks either way. He washes his hands with the antibacterial soap in the bathroom, then looks for one of the books he’s currently reading. He changes only his pajama pants, reasoning that his shirt technically didn’t touch anything outside because of his coat. (He would really like to lay in bed for a while, but knows that wearing outside clothes while in bed will make Martin nervous.)
It takes some shuffling to find a comfortable position, but he eventually finds something between laying down and sitting up that is sustainable, and he reads until he feels okay again.