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kellanswritingblog · 4 years

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Let Me Remember

During their stay at Mikaele Salesa's safehouse, Martin proposes to Jon with a ring he's been carrying with him for their trek through the apocalypse. But as they leave the oasis behind and Jon forgets their entire stay, he forgets Martin's proposal as well.

Inspired by this piece by @misplaced-my-notes and a conversation with @shorter-than-her-tbr-pile <3

You can read the whole thing below, but I’ll also be adding an AO3 link in the reblogs!

(Spoilers for Episodes 180 and 181)

Martin glanced over his old clothes. Mikaele had provided them clean outfits, food, showers, and comfortable rest, even if he didn’t yet offer up the cost of such amenities.

For now, Martin didn’t want to think on it. Instead, he rummaged into the pocket of his dirty, bloodstained jeans, and pulled out a velvet box. The ring inside still shimmered despite everything its carrier had been through.

It seemed like years ago that Martin had bought it from the small shop in the town nearest to the safehouse, nestled in the Highlands. When he came home, beaming, unable to stop smiling, he was sure Jon would figure something was up, even without any Beholding powers, given that the excitement radiating off of Martin was so tangible.

He didn’t plan much in terms of a proposal, just making one of the few mortal meals that Jon still enjoyed, then sitting on the couch after dinner and asking him if he would marry him. Even though Jon had risked everything for him over and over again, Martin couldn’t help but fear that the answer might not be the one he hoped for. All the same, he wanted Jon to know how much he loved him and that he wanted to spend every minute with him, whether as husbands, boyfriends, partners, or friends.

But when the world changed, so did Martin’s plans. And when he packed up bags for the moment Jon was ready to leave, to set things right, he glanced at the ring’s hiding place and tucked it into his pocket.

Once they fixed the world, then he could ask. After the apocalypse was averted, they would have all the time they could ever want, right?

The apocalypse was still going, however, and Martin had no idea what came next. Neither did Jon, bizarrely, and that did nothing to assuage Martin’s fears.

However, as he held the ring box in his hands and stared at the sparkling metal, Martin realized he knew what he at least wanted to come next.

“You alright there?” Jon asked as he reentered the room, hair still wet from a recent shower.

“Um, yes. I am. I…” Martin took a deep breath, then closed the box and held it out of view as he spun to face Jon. “This probably isn’t the best time, but… it’s not like time has really existed while we were outside of here, so…”

“Martin?” Jon stepped toward him, worry creasing his features.

“Jon, I… will you marry me?”

Martin was so mesmerized by the frozen surprise on Jon’s face that he almost forgot to get down on one knee and take out the ring. After he did so, the shock in Jon’s expression didn’t change, but instead his eyes glanced between Martin and the ring in equal measure.

“I know it’s not like marriage really means so much anymore, with the world ending and what not. But… I love you, Jon. I’ve waited ages to ask you, and I don’t know if there’s going to be a better chance than this, so…”

Jon stumbled over his words a few times, then wiped away a tear, and settled on a simple answer: “Yes. Yes, of course.”

They were both smiling now, grinning from ear to ear, and crying gleeful tears that washed away the sorrow that so often adorned their eyes. Martin stood again, then took Jon’s hand into his own and slid the ring onto his finger, before raising his knuckles to his lips and kissing them slowly.

After falling into an embrace for an unknowable amount of time, shuddering with tears for an occasion they never thought they'd be lucky enough to experience, safe in the arms of their lover, Jon pulled away just a bit to look at the silver band.

He chuckled. “Where did you find this?”

“I didn’t just find it on some Buried bloke and take it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Martin cried, and Jon looked away sheepishly, but said nothing. “I got it before all of this.” He gestured around them, to the maelstrom of terror outside the walls. “I had a whole little plan, nothing special, but… and then…”

“I see.”

“Every time we entered a new domain and you went off to do a statement and I waited… I would take out the ring and just look at it,” Martin continued. “I told myself each time that there was no guarantee of safety, not even for you, and that I might as well ask you while I still had the chance. But then you came back, and I put the ring in my pocket and insisted there would be another, better time. And now… I don’t think there’s going to be any better time than this. I hoped that if – when – we fix things, then I could propose, but I don’t want to wait that long.”

Jon smiled up at Martin, fresh tears glimmering in his eyes.

“I love you, Martin. I love you so much. And I can’t wait to be your husband. The state of things being as they are, maybe such titles don’t matter, but it matters to me. And… I’m grateful. I love you.”

They fell into another embrace, and Martin teased, “Who knew this is what it would take to get you talking about your feelings.”

“Are you complaining?” Jon asked with a wry smile.

“Not at all.”

“Good. Because I want to say it again: I love you.”

“I love you too. God, I… Yeah. I love you.”

With a giggle, Jon commented, “I suppose we should go find out what Annabelle and Mikaele have planned for us?”

Martin sighed, but he still couldn’t stop smiling. “I suppose so.” He paused. “Wait; wasn’t Salesa a captain of a ship? Doesn’t that mean he can perform marriages?”

“Talk about a quick engagement,” Jon joked. “I’m not sure it applies if his ship is destroyed, though.”

“Can we still ask?”

Jon leaned up and brushed his lips against Martin’s, grinning as he did so. “Of course, my love.”

Hand in hand, the fiancés headed out of the room, ready to face whatever came next, so long as they were together.

Martin wanted to stay longer in Mikaele’s oasis from the apocalypse. Of course he wanted to stay longer. Who wouldn’t?

It wasn’t as if he’d forgotten about their quest or set aside the knowledge that he and Jon were the only ones that could set this whole thing right for the sake of a warm bed, as tempting as that might have been. But Martin craved to rest for a few more days – actual, real days – and enjoy some simple meals, to relish in mortality and humanity, to be at peace for a few moments with Jon at his side.

But he couldn’t deny that Jon was getting worse. He zoned out in every conversation and practically seemed to doze off at times. When Martin shook him and he didn’t immediately awake, Martin knew that Jon had to leave there. Martin had complained at first, and a bit of him still wished the situation was otherwise, but, for Jon’s safety, he would lead the way out the door.

Whatever Jon’s connection to the Beholding meant for him in a potential future that wasn’t inhabited by the fears, that didn’t have the Eye staring down from the sky and drinking in all the terror… they could deal with that later.

For now, Martin and Jon left Mikaele’s house behind and headed back into the wasteland.

Jon immediately began to perk up the farther they got from the Eye’s blindspot. Martin, meanwhile, didn’t feel any such dramatic change in mood or health, but he could feel the fear soak back into him, as if the air itself was tainted with it.

As they walked and Jon’s sight returned to him, telling him the right directions, Martin filled him in on their time with Mikaele as he was unable to remember it. Hopefully, Jon couldn’t see how Martin’s hands shook as he thought of how heavily Jon relied on the Beholding; and how heavily it relied on him.

The tale of their quick vacation soon came to a close, but then Jon stopped in his tracks.

“What is it?”

Jon raised his left hand to examine it.

“Since when have I been wearing a ring?”

It felt like Martin was kicked in the chest and he couldn’t help but let out a shuddering exhale as he realized that Jon remembered nothing of his proposal either.

“I… I guess part of me hoped you would remember that,” Martin admitted quietly, then stepped back towards Jon and took his hand in his own. It’s not like it was Jon’s fault that his memory failed him, so he took a deep breath and explained, “I, well, I proposed to you while we were there.”

“You did what?”

Martin chuckled at the shock on Jon’s face, the same expression that he’d worn when Martin pulled out the ring the first time.

“It seemed like the best chance we would have, given the state of the world. We’d gotten cleaned up and were about to head down to talk to Mikaele and then I found the ring box in my dirty clothes and…” He shrugged, hoping he’d said enough that Jon could remember for himself.

Instead, Jon looked down at their clasped hands and said nothing for a long moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m trying to remember, but…”

“It’s okay. This just means I get to propose to you again,” Martin replied with a comforting smile, but Jon still stared at their hands, tears forming on the surface of his eyes.

“No, I… I should be able to remember this. I want to remember everything about you.” He met Martin’s gaze as the first tears began to fall. “And that I could forget something so important…”

“You sure you want to remember everything about me?” Martin teased, wiping away Jon’s tears and gently caressing his face. “Even when I ran around the Archives in my pants? Or when I accidentally put ramen in the microwave for thirty minutes instead of three and didn’t notice until it was actively on fire?”

Jon chuckled despite himself and pressed his cheek into Martin’s hand. “Yes, even those bits. Every part of you.”

“Well, I can do my best to help jog your memory,” he suggested. “I’ll tell you what happened, and maybe you’ll remember something? But first-”

Martin knelt down in the muck, holding Jon’s bedecked hand, and looked up at the light radiating off of him.

“Jonathan Sims, will you marry me?”

Beaming, Jon cried, “Yes, Martin, yes, of course. I love you.”

“I love you too. And I will say that however many times I have to so that you remember.”

“Now, that I could never forget.”

Martin rose to his feet, then lifted Jon’s hand to his lips and gave a quick kiss to the ring finger, then another, slower kiss to his palm.

Before either of them could say anything more, the echoing sound of applause came from one of the tombs in the near distance, and Jon and Martin glanced at each other with confused smiles on their faces.

“Seems the individuals trapped here are alright with our nuptials,” Jon remarked.

“First they interrupt our jokes, now our proposal; this is just getting out of hand,” Martin joked, and Jon let out a laugh. After a few more moments, Martin sighed. “I suppose we should be going? Got to save the world and all that, so that I can properly marry you.”

“Yes. But first…” Jon wrapped his arms around Martin’s shoulders and kissed him, passing so many memories and hopeful futures between their lips. “Now we can go.”

“Works for me,” Martin replied, beaming, just before the same applauding tomb-goer offered up an enthusiastic cheer. “Besides, the audience participation is a little much for me.”

Jon laced his fingers through Martin’s and began to lead the way to their next destination. As they walked, he asked, “So, tell me about this ring, and how you proposed the first time. Tell me again, and again, so that there’s no way I’ll forget.”

Martin relayed the story of how he purchased the ring in the village during their brief stay in Scotland, how he held onto it each time Jon gave a statement, and how he haphazardly asked Jon to marry him as they’d gotten cleaned up in the relative safety of that oasis.

But as Martin spoke, he realized that, despite the horrors around them, his oasis was wherever Jon was. And as long as he was with him, the fears could only do him so much harm.

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #tma spoilers #tma5 #tma 180 #tma 181 #memory loss cw #Sky showed me art of them wearing wedding bands #and I lost my mind lol #tma

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foulserpent · 4 years

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only human

long character analysis + fan fiction hybrid involving critically acclaimed worst best game of all time The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion! martin is in a mental and emotional hell! ned and martin resolving unresolved sexual tension after like, 100000 false starts! being mentally ill with the bro’s! "fluffy" ending!

cw: brief depiction of violence, ptsd, implications of past relationship based trauma, borderline explicit but not really sexy sexual content (nothing p*rnographic but 18+ pls)

On some nights, Martin was in hell.

The world was on a slow death march towards ruin outside the walls, this much he knew. Not even the strongest fortification could shield him from it. Every night from his gilded cage, he heard the screams, breathed the foul smoke and burning flesh and disemboweled gut, see the daedra drag the near-dead into the shadows to be torn apart, still crying out as they were devoured. His hands wet with blood, shaking in vain as his healing failed him and the survivors were pulled apart by their own wounds. The long walk out of the doomed Kvatch, past swarming flies and hundreds of blank eyes looking into the unforgiving sun. The revelation that all this was for him.

On the worst of these nights, staring into the ceiling of Cloud Ruler Temple as the sun began to creep over the horizon, he would wish he had just died.

This time last year, he was on track to live out the rest of his days in obscurity. Probably in Kvatch, probably remaining a priest, where the only weight on his shoulders was giving people their assurances that the Divines would look out for them and hoping he would finally taste truth in these words. It would be better than this. Those who held the reigns of the Empire were even more deluded than he'd thought, if they believed that his noble blood would divinely grant understanding of what to do, some inborn ability to keep collected and strong and sane trapped here as his friends faced death at his behest.

He would be called "lord", shone and polished as a commodity, loved and utterly devoted to, and never, never known. His feelings did not matter. This message had been thoroughly beaten into him. None of it mattered to whatever hand kept him guarded as preciously as the helpless king on the chessboard, behind a line of pawns to the sacrifice. Xikeel bringing him little gifts from gods-know-where (some teeth, a ring, a few spoons), slithering down from the rafters to visit him in the late night hours. One of the blades- bewildered - walking in on them dancing, without rhythm or music.

Long conversations with Ned, who would never treat him like an emperor, who barely even seemed to want to be there but had become doggedly devoted to Xikeel and himself. Bringing him wine, face softened into a smile in anticipation of an evening sitting outside in comfortable, quiet company. Tired and spiteful, but so warm.

He did not know when his feelings had turned to want. There was never an astonished realization, no moment that had changed everything. The first time he consciously acknowledged it was not as a revelation, but as an observation. Ned had cut his hand, a simple, foolish mistake that left Martin wearily healing him, in spite of the bosmer’s protests. Martin had held onto his hand longer than the spell needed, feeling the pulse in his fingers and wanting to entwine him in his own. Wanting to pull him in closer. Noticing that he wanted this, and noticing that it did not surprise him.

It was one of many things to think about, significantly less distressing than every other aspect of his current existence to say the least. He wondered if it was the day he had returned from his nigh-suicidal mission to cheat a god, haggard and shirt bloodied and yet with the softest eyes Martin had seen in the man, cracking a weak smile (a flash of teeth) that said "I've done it, and I hope you can forgive me". He wondered if it was Ned's unwavering devotion to leaving his shirt half-unbuttoned, the burn tearing through his chest on display like a trophy. The necklace would fall across the older man's breast while he laughed and joked about stupid things with Martin as if they were old friends. He was not above simple things.

Perhaps this was a test of the temperance he had spent years cultivating, hollowing out a part of himself to nurture the seed. After all, he had not been with anyone for a long time.

---

He had loathed the existence of the arena in Kvatch, drawing in men and women from all around in what amounted to mass suicide. There was little honor in it, just desperate people consuming themselves for just to grasp a thread of glory, dying in the mud as the crowd roared. But Martin was only human. He had found himself looking on the men as they passed through town, all muscle and scars and fiercely alive. He had found himself drawn to one who had come into the temple for a blessing of protection. The man never said why, though Martin knew where he was bound. It was never hard to tell.

The man was tall and rather handsome, with a muscular frame and dark hair and looking to be only a few years younger than himself, (this had to be around when he was forty-one or forty-two. Had it been that long?). They'd spoke first as strangers do, running through the motions of a blessing under a thick smoke of incense and flowers burnt in offering to the Dragon. Martin averted his gaze from the sword at the man's hip as he prepared the oil. Its hilt glittered in iron filigree and unmistakable rust of dried blood struck gold by the afternoon's dying light. His eyes wandered to the man's face instead, moving to begin the anointment. The dark haired man swiped his tongue over his lips and glanced away, and Martin's heartbeat spiked.

For gods sakes.

The man talked compulsively, glancing around as if something stalked him in the shadows between the stained-glass-light. Martin had silently hoped he would grow bored with the old priest and be on his way, if only so that he'd have time to himself to contemplate what the hell was wrong with him. So, naturally, the man kept talking long after the ritual was complete and the candles extinguished. About where he had come from, (all the way from High Rock, it turned out), the unusual rains lately, family. Partners. Lovers. The conversation turned here, and had fallen with such a speed that he barely realized what was happening. The man had found Martin beautiful, and Martin, exhausted with penitence and enthralled by the stranger and aching to just be human again, had found himself quietly slipping out with him.

Martin's home was truly tiny when occupied by two, an unfamiliar claustrophobia that was quickly dragged into the mire and drowned in a little too much wine. It was cheap and burned his throat with its sweetness, but he didn't care. They'd stumbled and fallen into his bed.

"For good luck," the man had said, as they kissed rough and far too clumsy.

"For good luck," Martin had kissed into the man's neck.

The man was a bit fumbling, all muscles and scars and fierceness. No matter how close their bodies pressed, no matter the grip Martin had - his fingers marking new trails over a scarred back - there was that distance. Two magnets repelling, even as they forced themselves together. These men going to their deaths couldn't be touched. And neither could he, no matter how he tried. There weren't even the barest roots of love here. Just body on body, flesh on flesh. It wasn't bad, though. Martin was only human.

He didn't know what to say in the morning, as the man collected his belongings to go off to the fight. "Good luck," Martin said again, feeling stupid. The man had said "thank you" with his eyes distant. He bent down and out the door, and walked out into the humid morning air, leaving Martin with a strange emptiness in his gut. He never saw him again.

It shouldn't have impacted him so badly. He'd had a one-night stand that was, frankly, pretty good. He'd given another man some comfort, something above and beyond his duty as the Priest-Healer-Penitent. It wasn't really against any vows. His lungs still breathed the smoke of offerings to the Dragon, a shrine to Dibella was dutifully kept at the foot of his bed and given a clumsy offering before the main event. He had not fallen back into the snares of that damned daedra. It wasn't a betrayal of those he'd lost. So why was he guilty?

---

And yet here he was now, on the precipice yet again. Really, he was long into the fall.

Him and one-of-two Heroes of Kvatch had slept together for a week now. Nothing more than the sharing of a bed and body heat, their day to day lives much the same as the world crumbled around him. They had kissed a few days ago, slightly dizzy with wine and the memory returning only in a haze. They'd kissed again the night before, sober and beyond any deniability as the bosmer was making his way out on errand. Ned had blushed and flicked his ears back, leaving him with a soft smile and a quiet "See you," as he slipped into the night.

Now, Martin found himself kneeling as if in prayer at the foot of his bed, his companion sitting up before him. Ned was half naked, body all muscle and scars and an exhaustion that ran far deeper than that. Martin had been healing a wound on his stomach- sliced open by a nasty (and thankfully, poorly aimed) dagger. The Mythic Dawn long since knew what he looked like, though they had hardly been this bold before now. They stalked the base of the mountains like jackals at the edge of a kill, waiting for an opening to lunge in and tear off some scrap of flesh. Ned hadn't wanted to talk about this one. His hands shook as he'd taken off his bloodstained clothes, and he scoured them with a washcloth long after they were clean.

"I'm fine." He had said. "I'm just tired."

Martin was tired too. That first night together, he had this romantic notion that being held by his friend would keep away the nightmares. They had come as they did most nights, crawling out of the depths of his subconscious with the worst of him they could offer. He'd woken up, breathing hard as terror dripped down his body. There was one difference. There was a warmth pressed to his back, and it breathed a half-snore as it moved in closer, nuzzled into his trembling neck. Ned hadn't woken. He had just wrapped Martin up into strong arms, and settled back into a deep sleep. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but even as the last traces of the nightmare pulled out its spurs, Martin felt safe. All he wanted was to return the favor.

Now, Martin leaned to kissed the gash across Ned's chest, the one that the man would wake up in terror clutching at, eyes somewhere far away and breathing hard. He trailed kisses down the line of skin warped by fire and blade, and Ned laughed. "I can barely feel it."

"Really?" The sword and its burns had probably damaged a nerve. Or done something worse, something that cut deeper. It was a daedric weapon after all. Martin would later ask where exactly he had sensation, to see if anything could be done about it. Later, perhaps. Now, he was tired of being the Priest-Healer-Penitent.

He leaned back in, close but just out of reach. His lips hovered down over the soft hair down his middle, making a glancing contact below the wounds. Even there, the skin seemed to have been broken and healed many times over a long life. How could someone live like that? He kissed him, just below the lower scar.

"How about here?"

"S'better"

Ned was definitely feeling something. The man's breath caught just slightly at the touch. He overcorrected, shifting in his seat a little and clearing his throat. Uncrossing his legs. Martin moved further down, just a little past his navel, laying another kiss on the recently healed wound. He wanted nothing more than to taste - touch the man before him, and to wake up with no guilt, no loneliness- he kissed him again.

"Or here?"

"Little better," the man's tone was flirtatious. "I mean, it'd be lot more sensation if you went just a bit low...er."

Ned had trailed off in the last word and froze at his own indiscretion. He was tensed like one with a hand raised against him, expecting a blow. As if he could have misinterpreted where this moment could go, alone and naked with his friend kneeling before him. As if Martin would be mad.

"Sorry, I didn't mean-uh." Ned flailed, pulling his knees shut.

"No, no, I'm sorry. I'd like to, if you would."

Ned's breath hitched. He looked utterly bewildered.

"OH- yeah, sure? Uh- Yes. Yeah." He sputtered.

They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment that lasted an eternity. Neither man dared to even take a breath. Ned cracked the tiniest fraction of a smile.

They both laughed, pulling apart. The tension had snapped, and the ache in his gut relented, put itself to the side. Martin hoisted himself back up onto the bed, sitting to his friend's side with a chaste several inches between them.

"It's... Been a while." Martin sighed. "Look at me, acting all nervous."

"Me too man, me too." Ned laughed, covering the blush on his face and utterly failing to hide the red of his ears. "’Promise I'm not usually like this, I have no friggin' idea what my problem is."

"Well, this'll just have to do." Martin made a show of shrugging and frowning in mock-resignation.

Ned let out a 'ha!' and leaned back, all muscles now relaxed as he smiled up at his companion. His words and smile were casual, but he was looking at Martin with such soft eyes, as if this tired old man was the damn moons and stars.

"Can I kiss you?" Martin asked.

Ned nodded.

He leaned over him, and went in for another kiss. And another. This time, it was as if a dam had burst. All lips and tongue and teeth and breath and hands moving on skin with a practiced clumsiness that spoke to years of experience, and spoke to one treading a ground that was brand new and wonderful for it.

As they pulled apart, Ned smiled and squeezed Martin's hands, and he squeezed back. They guided each other downward.

Now, Martin's lips were at a precipice below deniability. His hands held ready at the man's waist, a few fingers interwoven with his, beyond caring if their palms sweat or if their arms shook. He looked up to meet Ned's gaze, who cracked a smile and looked away, threading his other hand into Martin's hair in spite of his sheepishness.

"Can I keep going?" Martin asked.

"Yeah," Ned answered, still smiling. Eyes closed. "Please."

Ned's thumb brushed his cheek, a gentle encouragement. A 'thank you'.

And he kissed him.

#you can tell i literally just think of my interpretation of martin as an oc at this point. literally COULD NOT even dream of writing this #if i didnt #also i gave this one a title which is absolutely insane of me #martin septim #nasty ned #my writing

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lymazhu · 4 years

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Attempted Denial

rating: PG

cw: blood, mention of injuries

set between 40 and 41

written for Day 5 of TMAHCWeek with the prompt hiding pain/injury

AO3 link https://archiveofourown.org/works/26169892

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.

#TMAHCweek #tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood

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