Work Text:
Martyn simply doesn't think before he moves, doesn't need to. Ren' ears are pricked and alert, but his head hasn't even begun to turn, so there's no time. Later — if there is one — Martyn won't know how he moved so fast. All he knows — all he needs to know — is that his king is in danger, so he shoulders a bewildered Ren aside and steps in front of him, arms thrown out to shield his liege.
The crossbow bolt meant for the king punches a hole into Martyn just as easily as anyone else, lodging there, and Martyn's attempt at shouting protect the king is cut off into a gasping wheeze, all the air forced out of him at the moment of impact. Martyn loses his feet, unable to keep himself up and sagging backwards against Ren. Ren, for his part, cries out, grabbing Martyn under the arms.
"Stop that man!" Ren bellows, making the knight and guards around them jump to attention and then promptly scatter. One of the knights grabs at Ren's shoulder, saying something about getting to safety and trying to hustle Ren along, but Ren doesn't look at the man. His full attention is on Martyn. Martyn's full attention is on breathing, honestly, which is only just barely coming along. With every ragged rise and fall of his chest, the bolt shifts in its place, sending new waves of agony through him and fresh blood gushing out the edges of the wound.
"Me Hand?" Ren's voice shakes in a way Martyn isn't sure he's heard before. Martyn looks into his king's face, sees his eyes wide and terrified.
"Go," Martyn chokes out in a wet, struggling breath.
"Not without you." Ren insists, stupidly.
Any further arugements are put on hold as Ren effortlessly sweeps Martyn into his arms, which God, it hurts even more, but Martyn's weak protests can't be heard over the growing chaos around them as the king flees for safety, flanked on all sides by knights with swords drawn. Martyn digs his fingers into Ren's silken shirt, holding on for dear life with his head tucked against Ren's shoulder. He clenches his teeth until his jaw locks, just to keep from screaming.
As it is, when they finally stop and Ren lets Martyn down, Ren may try to be gentle but there's only so much he can do. Martyn's vision briefly blacks out, and when it returns, he's laying flat bleeding onto some velvet chaise with Ren's worried face floating above him, still shouting, but now for the doctor.
Ren rips his kingly sash off and balls it up, arranging it around the crossbow bolt and putting pressure on the wound like they're on the battlefield. It does little to help Martyn breath, having Ren leaning on his chest, but the air isn't worth so much if he bleeds out, Martyn reckons.
"Why did ye do that, you should not have," Ren begs. Martyn's hands are slick with his own blood and he can't stop himself from grasping at Ren's hands anyways, dirtying them.
"I had to." Martyn says thickly.
Ren shakes his head. "No, Martyn, no."
"I had to." Martyn repeats. Better me than you, he would add, but he doesn't quite have the air.
"Where is the doctor?!" Ren looks around, at the faces of guards around them that Martyn can't quite see, frustration high-strung in his voice. "You must be strong, Martyn — stay with me."
"I will. Always." Martyn mumbles, the edges of his words beginning to blur together, the sentiment seeping through.
"Martyn. Martyn!"
It would be so much easier not to feel all this, despite his promises, and Martyn can't quite stop himself from beginning to fade.
Until, that is, a sharp slap hits him in the face so hard that his head whips to the side, a shock rattling him and a choked gasp ripped from his throat. Martyn's eyes fly open.
"Ren," Martyn wheezes indignantly, failing to stop himself from speaking the familiar name. "The fuck," He adds with a crack in his voice.
Ren sounds like he's crying. The king should not cry over him. "I order ye to stay awake!" Ren snaps.
"Fu-u-uck." Martyn groans. "Okay."
Things blur, but Martyn remains very unfortuantely awake if only to avoid getting smacked again, especially with Ren hovering. At some point, Martyn realizes that he's stopped feeling like he's actively dying, and it's enough to realize he's been moved again into Ren's fucking chambers, of all places. Not to mention that the doctor is sweating aboslute bullets, which can't have anything to do with Ren frantically pacing around the bed, wringing his hands.
Martyn's whole abdomen is swathed in bandages, and he feels like he's been put into a meat grinder — and he's certain his cheek is bruised from how tender it feels. But he's alive, improbably.
Buried beneath the quilts and down of Ren's massive four poster bed, the room vaguely smells of blood and potions. Martyn can't see much past the drawn bedcurtains. The mattress creaks, and something cold touches Martyn's face. He forces his eyes all the way open and there, both surprisingly and unsurprisingly, is Ren, gently putting a cold compress on Martyn's cheek with guilt in his eyes.
"I'm lucky." Martyn mumbles hoarsely. "The king himself, playing nurse to me."
"If the Hand himself is going to play bodyguard, I thought I'd branch out." Ren's tone is stiff. Like he's been crying, or yelling, or both.
Martyn makes a sound that's the verbal equivalent of a shrug, but it's hardly an argument he's going to win when he can't even sit up.
Ren fusses, pushing Martyn's sweaty hair away from his face where it was stuck.
"You didn't kill the doctor?"
The guilt clears and Ren becomes a little indignant — less kingly, more a man. "I would not." Ren objects.
"Looked like he was gonna piss himself." Martyn adds.
"And what were ye seeing, my Hand?"
"While he yanked a crossbow bolt out of my chest?" Martyn fires right back. He feels strange. Did he bleed that much? "What did he give me?" He aches, but he feels weirdly good. Especially when he had mostly been expecting to aspirate on his own blood.
"Potions, for the pain." Ren responds, adjustin the cold compress and fidgeting with the top quilt. Martyn belatedly notices that Ren's shirt is blood-stained. Oops. "He said it was very … lucky. The bolt landed dangerously close to your lung, but it did miss."
"I'm a lucky guy." That's absolutely a lie. "You got a little…" Martyn tries to point, but his arm comes up much more sluggishly than he expects. Martyn must have gotten the good stuff.
Ren glances down. "Ah." He sets the cold compress aside and promptly strips his fucking shirt right off, leaving him beautifully bare-chested. Martyn blinks.
"Sorry for — ruining your shirt." Oh, God, Martyn sounds so stupid, but he can't stop himself.
"A shirt is the least of my concerns." Ren puts the shirt aside and settles closer to Martyn again, running a hand through Martyn's hand.
"Was the shooter caught?" Martyn asks, eyes starting to close as Ren caresses his face.
"Yes. But that is not a matter for today."
"We need to know who he is … who sent him …" Martyn protests weakly, eyelids fluttering as Ren cups his face between his hands.
"Hush, me Hand. Rest. That is an order from your king."
"Yes, my lord." Martyn mumbles, basking in Ren's warmth. Just for today. Assassins can wait until tomorrow. "Okay."