Chapter Text
There was a ringing sound. High-pitched and continuous. Martin couldn't tell what it was really. Probably it was only in his head- his brain telling him that his ears had been subjected to much too loud music for too many years.
That would make sense, but... Martin was beginning to feel something... moving as well. Just across his skin, gently. It puzzled his groggy mind until he realized it was the wind. The... wind? The wind was whistling, making the sound that he thought was ringing just a moment before. Such a familiar sound warped so easily by drowsiness...
It sounded just like the sea wind in his hometown in Devon. It was so long ago, his childhood. He had, of course, been back for a weekend when his mother had died. Of course, he wouldn't have missed her funeral- even if she never believed he was a good son. Tossing dirt over her casket, he could hear the ocean. Now that he didn't have to worry over his mother's wellness... Martin thought he might like to move back to the sea. With Jon of course, if he would join him-
Martin's eyes shot open and he sat up, hitting his head on something overhead. He rubbed his head, grimacing, but it didn't matter. Where was he? Where was Jon?
They had been in London. Of course, they'd been in London, they had spent ages getting there, just him and Jon! Just... what? Where were they?
"Jon?!" He called out. He was surprised at the bad taste in his mouth and the way the skin on his face smarted as he moved his jaw to speak. He raised a hand to feel what was wrong but noticed it was dark and dried with blood.
"Oh fuck- JON!" He shouted. His voice cracked and his head hurt but a headache could be addressed later. His hands were covered in blood. Jon's blood.
He scrambled up, careful to duck his head. "Jon, where are you?!" He turned around to look at his surroundings. Apparently, he had banged his head on a caved wall that he was lucky to not have been crushed by. Standing, he had a better view- a clearing, or rather an area in a forest where most trees were entirely flattened. Large masses of crumbling architecture decimated swaths of them. Stone bricks, wooden railings, and splintered furniture littered the ground.
This was the Panopticon's crash pad. This is where they had landed after the Eye's banishment.
"Jonathan Sims, where the hell are you?!"
Martin began rummaging, tossing pieces of debris, lifting slabs of sheetrock and remnants of staircases. He hardly noticed when tears began to fall. His breathing began to choke up, each breath rasping as he fought back sobs.
"No, Jon. No, please no, Jon, please you've got to be here! Please, Jon, you said we'd be together, you promised me we'd-"
A flash of reflected sunlight caught his eye a few feet away. A knife.
The- the knife Martin had held when he'd ended it- the Eye, armageddon, his partner- everything.
He gritted his teeth and the strangled and ugly sounds of crying tore their way out of him.
"No, Jon, please-" Martin threw garbage, wreckage, all of it within reach, as far and fast as he could, away, searching beneath it all.
He found the crumpled figure not far from where he'd awoken. Just a few feet from the knife. Jon was on his side, his arm and legs pinned beneath an old desk. A laugh of relief and terror escaped Martin and his hands shook as he heaved the desk up and off of Jon.
Jon made a sound, it might have been a cry of relief. More likely it was a moan of newly conscious pain. Jon was certainly in pain.
A broken leg and bruised arms were the least of his visible injuries. Martin faltered at the thought of internal bleeding. He scanned the prone body that was Jon and winced at the sight of his eyes- his eyes.
Martin froze momentarily before scooping Jon up and moving him a few metres to a flatter patch of ground. Jon whimpered, but Martin doubted he was actually conscious. Nonetheless, the sound broke his heart. It was so quiet.
"Jon?" Martin wiped his clammy and bloody hands on his pants. He didn't know what to do. Was he supposed to turn Jon on his side so he didn't choke if he vomited? What about his broken bones?
He settled on propping him onto his right side- the arm he was most worried about was on his left.
The thought that Jon might lose use of his writing hand, which was his left hand, crossed Martin's mind, but he pushed it away. That was an absurd worry that paled in comparison to the other more immediate problems. Martin needed to focus. Jon would be lucky to find a piece of paper in this new universe let alone see his hands hold a pen to write on it with. And of course, Martin amended, Jon wouldn't be able to see again. It wasn't possible, and it was also for the best that the Eye would never again have access to Jon.
The image of that dimly green-washed from and the knife- oh, Martin could still feel it in his hand.
"Oh my God, Jon, how did I do this to you?" His eyes stung. "I-I'm so sorry, Jon, I've got to check your wounds."
Martin was anxious at the idea of taking Jon's clothes off. He wasn't sure if Jon would be comfortable with it- but of course, comfort wasn't the priority. Martin steeled himself and scanned Jon's arms, body, and avoided looking at his eyes.
Finally, he in healed sharply and mumbled again, "I'm sorry Jon, but I've got to check your wounds."
Martin flinched as he picked the knife up. Gently, he cut down the back of Jon's jumper and shirt, peeling them forward, cutting the sleeves from Jon's bruised and wrongly bent arm when he saw that Jon was wearing his binder.
Martin cursed. He knew that the mand was at least five hears post-op, but he would still wear that old binder from time to time when he was feeling nostalgic or stressed- both more often than not. Martin should have expected him to be wearing it, but it was such a ridiculous thought, Jon wearing a twenty-year-old ratty binder- Jon putting it on beforehand!- to leave the tunnels and trek up the Panopticon stairs to kill Magnus. The whole of it spelled doom. Jon even smoked prior, he seemed to be determined to destroy himself- or the monster inside him. But now they were here, the monster in him was destroyed and Jon was here, broken and struggling to breathe.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Martin couldn't stop apologizing as he cut the binder also from Jon. He hoped to find a way to sew the clothes back together eventually.
Once the binder was off, Jon groaned. Air rushing back into his lungs started Jon coughing dryly. Martin restrained a smile. Jon was going to be okay, but not anytime soon still. He needed patience and focus.
Martin unzipped his own hoodie. The air in this forest was cool and slightly damp, so he took his regular shirt off and zipped his jacket back on. Jon would be cold, but he needed to be bandaged right now. His shirt, he tore into strips. They weren't the cleanest, nowhere even close to the sterile plasters and gauze he needed, but they were better than nothing.
He wrapped a few scratches and cuts on Jon's left leg. The leg was not broken, Martin thankfully found, just battered a bit. His arm and shoulder, however, were in worse condition.
Martin gently felt Jon's shoulder with just his fingers hovering across the skin. The shoulder was definitely bruised, but an odd angled joint in his collarbone was something Martin knew shouldn't be there. Martin sighed, this shoulder and arm were going to give Jon trouble for a long while.
Before he attended to the shoulder, he folded a few of the strips of his shirt up into squares, gently laying them on the places where Jon's eyes had used to be. He allowed himself to inspect the wounds closer now, forcing himself, even, to observe his own handiwork. This was his fault.
"No, no," he chided himself, "Jon won't be having any of that when he wakes up. If he hears me thinking poorly of myself it will only make him sad. And he'll certainly have enough to deal with without me making him sad. I'll need to be better than that. We- we've only got each other now."
He hadn't any time to wash the blood from Jon's eye cavities, nor water to use for it, so he settled for sopping a bit up with the bandage strips and then stoppering it up with the folded squares. He then took a few longer lengths and wrapped them around the back of his head and his eye sockets, tying them at the side of his head, gently lifting Jon'd head onto his knee to make the process smoother.
Martin nearly jumped when he heard Jon say, "Did... I hear you say... you were thinking poorly of yourself, M-Martin?" His voice was low and weak, but Martin heard it so clearly. There was hardly any sound in the clearing other than the wind across the treetops.
"Jon!" He cried. "Oh shut up, won't you? I can think however I like about myself. Or- no, please don't shut up. Keep talking, it's such a relief to hear you!"
Jon began to laugh, but it really wasn't much. His smile was more of a wince and the sound was more like a cough than anything. Martin didn't care. Jon was awake and alive.
"Shut up, or don't? W-which one... do," he paused to take a shakey breath, "you want me... to do?"
"I want you to do anything you like, just keep breathing, please. I- Jon, I'm so sorry." Martin looked closer at Jon's shoulder and measured out a length of fabric to set it in position, calculating how to wrap it.
"Sorry? Martin, please... don't apologize. You did what... had to be done. It's... my fault m-more than anything-"
"No, not about that, this." Martin placed his hands gently on Jon's collarbone and under his arm.
Jon winced. "W-what are you doing? Wait, Martin, slow... down!"
"I have to set this bone, your collarbone is broken. If I don't, it won't heal for a long time and your body has... enough injuries to deal with..."
"Alright." Jon clenched his jaw. "Do it then."
Martin gripped beneath Jon's left arm and pulled it, pressing on his collarbone at the same time. He shifted it and Jon shouted at the sharp pain. Martin felt the break in the bone grind a bit until it was in place. He grimaced and Jon was trembling once it was finished.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Jon."
"Sh-shh, it's okay, Martin. I-I'm fine. You did it just fine."
"But you're not fine!" Martin exclaimed. "I cut out your eyes, Jon! Don't you get how insane that is? And then we got sucked into another universe and you almost were crushed by a chunk of Elias's office!"
"Shh," Jon hushed him. He raised his good hand, reaching, searching, until he found Martin's jaw, then face, finally resting his hand on Martin's cheek.
Jon started: "Jonah M-"
"Jonah Magnus's office, yes, Jon." Martin laughed in spite of himself. Jon laughed along with him and a layer of tension was blown away in the whistling wind above them.
"Martin."
"What, Jon?"
"Neither of us are 'fine'."
Martin started to interject, but Jon cut him off, smiling painstakingly as he moved his hand over Martin's mouth from where it had rested on his cheek. He continued, "But that? Is... so much better... than we could have hoped... g-given our cir-circumstances. I-I was... going to die, Martin. You were going to die. Or the world would have ended entirely, with us and everyone else-"
Jon began coughing again. Martin wasn't sure, but it seemed like Jon was crying. Just without the tears. Martin wondered if tears were possibly being produced in Jon's eye sockets or if he had ruined that function as well.
"God, I'm in pain." Jon's teeth were gritted and he was trembling, shaking with silent sobs, except with his broken collar bone it was more like one arm being jerked around and the other tensed in pain.
Martin sighed deeply. "I- is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable? I'm afraid I'm not finished wrapping your shoulder... and your forearm is broken as well."
Jon frowned and sniffed. He took his hand from Martin's face and wiped his nose and mouth. "We should finish addressing injuries. But when- wait." Jon paused, rubbing his chest with a hand, shivering. "Where are my clothes, Martin?"
"Oh, um, I had to get your shirts off to access the broken bones properly."
"I see." Jon paused. He let out a harsh but amused laugh. "No I don't! And it's great! Or well, I supposed it's not wonderful, but it means I'm... I'm done with the Beholding."
Jon sighed and the shrugged with his good shoulder. After a moment he smirked. "So... about my shirt?"
"It's um... right here-" No it wasn't. It was in blood-stained pieces and the jumper as well. "Oh, well... actually, they're pretty beat up..."
"You... want me to stay sh-shirtless?"
Martin's eyes widened and he was so glad Jon couldn't see his blushing. "No! I mean, yes, but no, that's not why I- I mean your jumper was all bloody and the shirt- well I had to cut it off of you to fix your shoulder- oh, and don't get me started on your binder! You were hardly breathing until I got it off of you, I mean, seriously!"
"You're blushing." Jon smiled.
Martin stared at Jon in horror.
"You don't... Know that... do you?!
"No," Jon chuckled. "I h-hear it in your voice. I know you, Martin... I don't have to see into your brain to know your mannerisms."
Jon smiled as sweetly as a half-dead person with nearly bled-through eye bandages could.
"Jon!" Martin exclaimed, trying to gain ground. "You are injured! And you also have a cold of some sort, I have decided-"
"You've decided-?" Jon was smirking.
"Yes, I've decided. And you're clearly not in your right mind or else you would be screaming in pain."
"Screaming?"
"Yes, that's what I said. Now shut up and-"
"I'm not saying anyth-"
"Shut up and let me finish dressing your wounds!"
There was an amused silence before Jon sighed and said, "Okay."
"Yes, that's right. I'm going to set your arm now."
"Alright then." Jon's humored demeanor disappeared and let show his pain again. "Patch me up, Doctor Blackwood."
"Mmhmm," Martin nodded and began the process of setting Jon's arm.
Once temporarily remedied, Jon agreed to get up and move under the coverage of trees, and a bit away from the clearing. Jon was wobbly on his feet, knees shaking while he stepped gingerly and arm tightly around Martin's shoulders. It was clear that Jon was genuinely ill and he mentioned it once the two of them were well established seven metres from the clearing.
Martin cut branches from old spruce trees and arranged them to create a small lean-to against two crossed-standing trees. Jon was bundled atop a patch of leaves and soft fir needles. Martin searched the Panopticon wreckage, finding a coat that belonged to Jonah Magnus probably, some towels, and table runners in a closet. Jon was wrapped up in these when he spoke again.
"Martin?"
"Jon?"
"I believe I... have a f-fever."
Martin stopped messing with the branches atop the structure and ducked down beneath it. The roof was too low to stand, so he shifted a bit on his hands and knees, reaching across to place a hand on Jon's forehead.
Martin frowned. Jon was a bit warm.
"You're probably right," Martin said and crawled up next to Jon. He sat next to Jon, scooting up behind him, between Jon and the tree. Jon leaned back against Martin and Martin shifted gently so that he could wrap his arms around his partner.