Chapter Text
In the end, Jon thought of meadows and wildflowers.
Or, rather, he tried to. He really wanted to. It was hard to force himself to think of anything, not with the pain coursing through him. Not only with the pain, but with Martin’s arms clutching at him – with Martin’s desperate, panicked sobs – with the knife sticking out of his chest. Martin’s aim was good, getting him right between the missing ribs. Martin was good. Martin was so good.
Even with that difficulty, Jon dragged something pleasant into his brain. Something that wasn’t the sound of a burning building, or the love of his life’s heart breaking. Meadows and wildflowers were pleasant, weren’t they? There certainly were a lot of paintings and poems claiming as such. Jon didn’t have much experience with them, and certainly didn’t have any connections with Martin concerning them, but Jon nevertheless jammed meadows and wildflowers into his skull like that would make things better.
It didn’t help.
The only thing that made it one ounce better was Martin’s presence. Even that couldn’t last forever, though, could it? As the building blew apart under his feet, Martin was wrenched from his grasp. Jon grasped desperately for him and found nothing but air. They were blown apart from the fury of the blast, and Jon’s last panicked thought was no! No, he wasn’t going to let physics blow them apart, not after everything, this wasn’t how he was going to die -
And then there was nothing. Jon couldn’t feel pain. Certainly, he couldn’t feel the knife betwixt his ribs, nor could he hear Martin’s anguished sobs. And yet, he was still there. Aware, conscious, feeling nothing. If this was death, Jon didn’t want it. Where was Martin? Was he alone? No, he wasn’t meant to be alone.
That was the whole point of this. Martin had sacrificed so much, just so Jon wouldn’t be alone. Who was Jon to take that away from him? How more selfless could a last wish get?
But, regardless of what he wanted, Jon was alone. In the black void, he felt nothing. And so -
Meadows and wildflowers, meadows and wildflowers, meadows and wildflowers.
***
Martin woke first to the wind tickling his nose, tweaking the curls of his hair across his face. Was that … oh. That was birdsong, wasn’t it? He hadn’t heard birdsong in forever. Birds hadn’t really been a thing in the apocalypse, hadn’t they? And he was lying in the long grass. Oh, and that was a nice, floral sort of smell. Fresh air. None of the smog of the apocalypse – or London, for that matter.
Given that he’d been convinced he’d never see the sun again, Martin could only bask. There was no fire. No destruction. No end of the world, even. For the first time in a long, long time, Martin could take a breath of fresh air and pause. The sun fell across his face, warming him like a lizard on a rock. Here wouldn’t be a bad place to die.
Someone was holding his hand. Someone with calloused, scared fingers.
“Jon!”
Everything came rushing to a head. His blue eyes flew open; he rolled over to examine his boyfriend. Jon was lying motionlessly in the grass. The beautiful surroundings only seemed to highlight how wrecked Jon looked. His clothing was in tatters. Jon’s hair was spread out behind him. Every bit of his skin was smeared with soot. And Martin could see the ground turning dark with Jon’s blood.
Jesus.
It wouldn’t be fair. It just wouldn’t be fair, would it? Escaped the end of the world into this serene goddamn meadow only to wake up next to his dead boyfriend? Martin changed his mind – here would be a terrible fucking place to die. “Jon!” he repeated, hands going at first to Jon’s shoulders and then to cup his cheeks.
Jon felt cold. God, Jon felt so cold. A sob escaped Martin before he could help himself. “Oh, Jon,” he repeated for the third time. He crouched over Jon’s body and started to sob. They accelerated into howls of anguish. “No, no - god, Jon –!”
Martin didn’t want this. He’d been fine, dying with Jon. He’d made his choice and there wasn’t anywhere he would rather be. To have Jon dying in his arms, knowing that he was cared for – loved – even as he died? That was all he wanted to do for him. Now, Jon had died alone, because Martin certainly hadn’t been holding him when his heart stopped beating.
Martin threw his arms around Jon’s shoulders, just to cry. When was the last time he’d been given time just to cry like nobody could see him? He cried into Jon’s shirt, because his boyfriend had been so strong, and so brave, and so selfless, and now he was gone.
Had Martin ever even had a chance to keep him? Had Jon known, all along, that there was no way he could live through the end? Jon had saved the world and nobody could ever thank him for it. Martin would be the only person to bear that knowledge.
Outside of Martin’s field of view, Jon’s hand twitched and rose from the dusty ground. It wasn’t a movement done easily. His fingers trembled with the effort, the entire forearm jerking every few inches. Slowly, as Martin sobbed his heart out on Jon’s torso, Jon reached out to touch Martin’s shoulder.
And Martin froze. He raised his head to look at Jon’s face. Jon had been so cold, so stiff, that he hadn’t even thought to check his pulse. Not with him bleeding out on the ground. Not because Martin had just stabbed him a few minutes before.
Jon’s eyelids fluttered, opening just a crack. He looked up at Martin hazily, but the glimpse he got of honey-brown irises were warm.
“You’re – you’re – “ Martin’s hands went still on Jon’s chest. Yes, there it was – the thump-thump-thump of the hardest-working heart that had ever existed.
Jon had lived. Jon had lived, Jon had made it, they had done it. Martin couldn’t help but smile crazily down at him. And Jon’s lips twitched. He wasn’t strong enough to move them, but Martin knew that Jon wanted to smile at him, too.
The hand on his shoulder fell off to gesture at the surrounding area. Martin didn’t break his eyes off Jon. Frankly, he didn’t think that he would ever be able to look away from Jon ever again.
Jon’s lips were moving, trying to find the words. When he finally spoken, it was too easily snatched away by the wind. Martin leaned down to hear him better; Jon’s lips brushed against the curve of his ear.
“Got …” Jon was doing nothing more than wheezing, was he? Like every word took a Herculean amount of effort. “Got it for you.” That fragment seemed to take the rest of Jon’s air, and he looked like he couldn’t make himself inhale again. Martin leaned back from Jon’s chest to see Jon’s eyes widen in panic, and then –
Nothing. Jon went limp.
Shit. Seeing Jon like that, even with hints of life in him, gave Martin more hope than he knew what to do with. In that moment, he would’ve burst his fist through his own chest to give his heart to Jon. His lungs. Anything Jon might’ve needed. Martin swung his arms around Jon and picked him up (too easily, too easily, Jon was nothing more than skin and bones) before looking around.
In all directions, Martin saw meadows. Bunches of wildflowers bloomed in yellow and green and purple, cheering him, but in that moment, Martin wasn’t sure if there was anything he hated more. Where the hell was he? Were they even – given everything, they could’ve been transported to some fucking wild Star Trek-esque planet made of only wildflowers!
No. Fuck that. Jon had been goddamn wrong when he said they were probably going to die. Jon had lived through it, and Martin wasn’t going to feel the last breath of his boyfriend in some idyllic meadow. He’d rather die with Jon in an explosive blast than watch him die in paradise. Fuck that.
Martin took another desperate glance around, watching butterflies and grasshoppers dance around merrily, and chose a direction at random. “We’re going to get you help, Jon,” Martin promised the limp man in his arms. Jon’s eyes were shut again, his mouth hanging open uselessly. The wind flirted with his hair.
It was hard to put his finger on, but Jon felt less powerful. Maybe that was because Jon wasn’t giving a doomsday speech about how he deserved to die, or maybe it was something else. An inherent weakness to his frame, now. Can you give us a break? Martin wanted to beg the Eye. Keep him a god for a few minutes longer, would you, after everything that he’s done for you? If you ever liked me at all?
What he would give for Jon’s perfect sat-nav ability. This could very well be the end of the world still, couldn’t it? Someone could very well feed off of Martin’s sheer terror here. No matter that it was beautiful and green. If Jon died, it might as well have been hell.
Jon was dead weight in his arms. Martin couldn’t let him die because he was strangled by choice. Picking one direction, Martin started to tramp through the great field. He didn’t let himself look down at Jon. If Jon passed his last breath, Martin didn’t want to watch it.
***
Jon was itchy. Everything was more or less itchy. His scalp was itchy. His shoulders were itchy. His arse was itchy. Except that something was holding his arms down, and Jon could only lay there. Very, very itchy.
Technically speaking, nothing was holding his left arm down. He felt a strange weight on it, though, like someone had attached lead fishing line to the inside of his elbow. Best not to wobble that too much, was it? Now, the right was well and truly stuck. Something warm was enclosing it.
Oh. Upon opening his eyes, he saw that Martin was holding his hand.
He could take that. He could certainly take that. Some of the itchiness vanished from his body at the sight of him.
Martin’s head was propped back in the chair. His mouth was wide open and he was snoring loudly, and honestly, if there was ever a man that deserved to sleep in the world … it was Martin K Blackwood. Most of Martin’s lower half was covered in miscellaneous plant matter. A grasshopper leapt off his calf and onto the hospital room floor.
How the hell had he gotten here?
He remembered having a dream about a meadow – or perhaps that hadn’t been a dream? It certainly hadn’t felt real, and there’d been no pain. He’d been too close to death for pain. Jon’s eyes fell away from Martin to look around the rest of his room. There was no indication as to where in the world he was. Well, except for the BBC being on. He looked up at the news, trying to glean some information, but the sound was muted and the video a little blurry. It was quite early in the morning, though he could tell that from the darkness outside the window.
Jon was hooked up to a few different machines. The one in his left arm seemed to be an IV. He must’ve been given a few painkillers on top of it, because when he shifted himself up to a proper sitting position, he felt no pain. He had never imagined what life would be like outside the apocalypse, but he knew there ought to have been pain.
A peek down the front of his hospital gown indicated a row of angry stitches down his side. That’d be the stab wound, then. Jon tried to use his right arm to poke at them, maybe see how tight they were, before the little voice of reason piped up and said that might not be a good idea. The stitches, it reported confidently, were keeping the blood in. Best not to tempt them to take a break.
He ignored them to stare blankly at the front of the wall.
They had lived. They had lived. They may had been transported to another dimension, another universe (whatever they meant). But they had both lived, and the world was alive.
Jon couldn’t feel the Eye any longer. It didn’t feel like the bond was blocked, either. Hell, it didn’t even feel like it had been severed. A severance would leave some useless nub of power, a ghost of a memory of an echo of what once had been. There was nothing at all. The knowledge hadn’t been scrubbed from his brain, but it was just that – knowledge with no power.
After a glance aside proved to him that Martin was asleep, Jon wept for it. It was the only time he would allow himself to have a selfish cry over the power that he had lost, how brilliant it had made him feel. How connected it made him feel to the world at large. That had been a world of his own making, and destroying it – because, in the end, he’d always known that he’d have to be the one to destroy it – had been like killing his own child. His own self.
It was like he’d been dropped into the middle of the ocean with no welcoming shore in sight. He could swim and swim and swim, but he would never be able to find safety. Never be able to find the land under his own feet. And while he knew it had been the right thing to do, that there had been no other option, Jon would never be able to forget that sense of loss. Powerlessness, even if it was human, was jarring.
His heart monitor beeped merrily all the while. Jon didn’t want to know what the medical staff thought of his body. He was confident that he couldn’t stand. Even shifting himself up to sit had caused him to feel breathless. Scratching his own arse might as well have been a marathon. Not that it had anything to do with his health, but god, his hair felt like it was full of pollen. It was nearly matted to his own head; he’d prefer to shave it rather than work out that little dilemma.
Jon never let go of Martin’s warm hand. The only shift he made was to press his thumb right over the pulse point on Martin’s wrist. He let him sleep.
It had started to occur to him – that Jon could let Martin sleep. That Martin could sleep for as long as he wanted, because they had forever. They weren’t hurtling towards their inevitable deaths. Jon had no idea what they were going to do, but they weren’t waiting for the next horror to come knocking upon their heads. Jon wasn’t fighting down the urge to spill out another statement. All of his thoughts were his own.
How nice it was! How beautiful. Just to watch Martin sleep. Jon loved how unflattering it was. He could see right up Martin’s nostrils. The snoring sounded like someone ripping paper up. Martin’s fly was down. Jon had never been filled with more love in his life than staring at his boyfriend, utterly human and completely relaxed.
And – and – and he was hungry! God, he was hungry, and his throat was so dry, but Jon could’ve very well traded both of those for more sleep. Proper sleep. The sort of sleep that had been studied, the sort of sleep that was normal. Nightmares or wet dreams or pipe dreams alike – Jon could have that, if he so wanted.
He could have a nightmare full of things that could never happen in a thousand years. He could be upset. He could roll over and have Martin tend to him. Martin could throw his arms around his neck and whisper sweet nothings and it would be fine! It wouldn’t feel like Jon was being selfish, like he was play acting in a dollhouse. Play acting in being human.
No more Elias. No more Peter. No more Annabelle. No more pitting himself against monsters. No more slow, creeping destruction of himself.
Jon didn’t know how many things he thought of. They ranged from the grand scale – what his being alive meant from the universe – to the unbearably small minutiae (he hadn’t had a fucking Jaffa Cake in three goddamn years). Either way, the hours ticked away until the sun rose again. Jon had begun to feel an uncomfortable stiffness in his hips. To rectify this, he shifted to roll onto his side. That small movement caused Martin to snort himself awake.
Martin looked down at him like he’d never seen him before in his life. And Jon was terrified for one horrific moment, because what if Martin had lost himself?
And then the sleepiness passed, and Martin started to cry.
Jon had had enough time to think on his own. Frankly, he was feeling too thoughtful to burst into tears. Too introspective. Besides, he’d just cried, he was rather all cried out there. And the sight of Martin crying from happiness was enough to make Jon beam.
“Alright, I know I need to clean up,” Jon joked. In response, Martin got out of the chair and onto his knees next to the low hospital bed.
Martin’s doughy arms wrapped around his neck and Jon was pulled against Martin’s front. Thankfully, he was able to stifle the squeak of pain such jostling gave him. He didn’t want to give Martin any reason to pull away. With his right arm, Jon reached up and tousled Martin’s hair in the way that he remembered he liked.
Even that little act had a different flavor, now. In the cabin in Scotland, Jon had tousled Martin’s hair as a precautionary measure as much as an affectionate one. He’d been worried of Martin disappearing down into the fog. Now, he just wanted to touch Martin’s scalp, to provide soothing, beautiful comfort. “You did so good,” Jon cooed breathily against Martin’s head. Martin continued to heave great wordless sobs against the side of his head. “You did so good, Martin. You did so good.”
Martin likely knew how they ended up here. In hospital, specifically. He wasn’t so lucky as to just magically appear in hospital. Jon wasn’t going to pepper him with how. All that mattered was their wellbeing. Their lives, completely their own and intertwined together. No creeping rot from the Entities distracting Jon from what he wanted to do, which was just to keep on.
“I didn’t think – I thought you were just – “ Martin sniffed hard. Not like it would do much. When he pulled away, Martin’s face was covered with snot and tears already. “Thought you were just trying to – to take it easy on me. When you said that we would - “
God help him. Jon laughed and reached forward to press his scar-roughened palm against Martin’s cheek. “You really think that was taking it easy on you?”
“You were always really shit at being nice.” Through his tears, Martin’s lips widened into a watery smile. Jesus. Jon hadn’t seen Martin smile at so long. The tip of his thumb lovingly crossed up and down Martin’s cheekbone. Martin had a little scar there. Jon couldn’t even remember what it was from.
After a moment, Martin seemed to catch himself on something. “Oh, hell, how are you – how are you feeling? Should call the doctors. You’re, by the way, practically a medical abomination, so expect a lot of – “
Jon moved to snatch up Martin’s hand. “Wait. Can you … just a few minutes?” His voice sounded soft and weak to his own ears. It wasn’t due to any sort of pain in his body, though he was starting to get that in ample supply, but …
Well, he knew they’d have to call the doctors. After all, it felt like he’d been shifted into a really shitty new body. All the parts were breaking down. Held together by hope and duct tape. But in the moment, Jon just wanted to be alone with Martin. Share their time together, as best as he could. Martin hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek, before relenting. Just like that, Martin seemed to slump forward, his chest digging into the edge of his bed. “Just a few minutes.”
“Thank you. And you’ll stay here, when they come in?” Jon tried to interject some levity. “While they poke me with all sorts of things?”
Martin gave him a look that was nothing short of scathing. “Oh my god, they couldn’t rip me out of here, Jon. Honestly. I’m going to ask them if they can surgically attach us at the hip.”
“You’d drag me around like a dog on a leash.” At the very least, Martin had stopped actively sobbing into him. There was still some shakiness to the way he spoke – their small talk, their shared jokes, seemed awkwardly stilted – but Martin wasn’t falling to pieces any longer. Jon didn’t care if he ripped every stitch or opened up every scar on his body while doing so, he would’ve put Martin back together if Martin needed it. “I … It’s good to see you again. I thought I’d lost you, back there.” In that moment, between pain and death. Jon had forgotten how much Terminus relied on people being alone.
Was The End even here anymore? Oliver Banks? Any of them? It was too early to consider. Jon wouldn’t force himself to think on it. He was too weak to go toe-to-toe with any of them, and would be for some time longer. They weren't actively after him. That was something.
For a moment, he thought Martin might very well burst into tears again. “I never – I – I – I thought … did you know, Jon? That you wouldn’t be able to survive?”
Jon had had enough of lying, even if a part of him still wanted to. After all, the truth would only hurt Martin more. Did that make it wrong? Did it being wrong matter? “I thought I’d be able to get away with not telling you,” Jon admitted quietly. “And it would be all over before you even realized what had happened. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you, Martin, it was just that – I wasn’t going to make you walk around with the knowledge that I had to die.”
“Like I wasn’t thinking of it already.”
“You were clinging on to your bit of hope, even towards the end.”
Martin went silent at that. Jon knew he had caught him out. He knew that he wasn’t in the right here. He was in the soft, the comforting, the loving – which didn’t always coincide. Jon reached to cradle Martin’s cheek again. “Tell me what you’re thinking?”
There wasn’t even the threat of being able to Know, anymore. Martin knew that when he looked up, met his eyes. “I think I’m in shock, still.” That was a fair enough sensation. “That you’re alive, that we’re alive, I just … I don’t know what I’m meant to be feeling.”
“Considering we’re the only two people in the entire existence of the universe who have done it – as far as we know – then there’s not really any precedence. Anything, really, is fine. Nothing is fine.” Jon couldn’t imagine what he was feeling, either. Excitement. Love. God, so, so much love. But dealing with what had happened? Not a chance. “Do you know where we are?”
“England, up north. I don’t know where, exactly, didn’t recognize the village. I didn’t think we’d be able to find a hospital, but … I carried you out of a meadow, a-and nearly got hit by a car. They took us here.”
Ah. So that was where he had woken up. The dream, it seemed, had really taken place. Shame. If he had known that was how it worked, then he would’ve chosen somewhere a bit nearer to civilization. Thought about smoggy old London when he thought he was going to die. Perhaps he could return to that meadow, when he was feeling better. It would be nice to figure out what all the fuss about those were about.
A picnic. Lord. He couldn’t imagine.
They drifted into silence, just staring at one another. Martin still looked dead-tired, even given how long he’d slept. Jon didn’t doubt that he would need looking over by the doctors himself. He would force that man to get seen by the doctors when the time came to it.
But for now, Jon felt like he could’ve very well stared at Martin forever. There was still evidence of what had happened – the edges of Martin’s face were dark with soot. His clothing was covered in god knew what, the grime of their entire journey serving as an unwelcome memento.
Eventually, though … god, was that what real pain felt like? Proper pain? Normal pain? It seemed to collect in his joints and shoot up the rest of his body. Jon withstood it as long as he could, not wanting to break the moment. He winced and suffered through a particularly bad spasm of pain.
“Right. Doctors.” Martin turned to search for the call button – and then stood, ready to get the doctors himself. “Lay back down, love.”
Well. That was strange, wasn’t it? Jon loved Martin more than he could ever express. He didn’t have the creative ability or the emotional intelligence to really put it down into words. But …
He had been the one to protect Martin, through most of everything. Certainly, Martin was an essential reminder to his humanity. That he was capable of loving someone. That he had something he desperately needed to fight for. Even without all the sentimental faff, at his base level, Martin was brilliant company. Jon would never have been able to get as far as he did without Martin’s ever-warm presence or gentle nudging. But, he’d also been an all-powerful god. He hadn’t relied on Martin for protection. To take care of him.
Hell, that had been true, even before the end of the world. He’d been the one to take Martin out of the Lonely, he’d been the one to lead the charge. Jon didn’t feel like Martin was beholden to him (god, certainly not), but Jon had comfortably fallen into the practice of being Martin’s sentinel. That was the obligations that came with your soul being sold to a fear god.
And now, here he was! Weak and suffering in a bed, while Martin stuck his head out of the room and called in an annoyed voice, “Hi, yes, we’ve hit the call button? Could we –? You? Yes, thanks, right!”
Role reversal, that was. Jon watched Martin appreciatively, knocking his feet from side to side against the railing of the bed. Very unusual. But really kind of appealing, in its own way. Jon had lived alone for ten years and then he’d been a god. He hadn’t exactly gotten used to people taking care of him. Well, more than a cup of tea that felt like a bribe as much as it felt like sustenance. He didn’t think he would ever be fully comfortable with it. But … he could do without people constantly looking to him for guidance, couldn’t he? He could do without having to make all the decisions all the time. Level out the playing field. So to speak.
Martin ghosted back towards the bed. Jon could see that his cuticles were bleeding. Oh, the poor man. The nervousness in his eyes, like the doctors were going to rush in and tell him that Jon was terminally ill and had exactly twenty minutes to live, made Jon frown.
Given what they’d been through, Martin’s issues with Jon Permanence weren’t precisely unfounded. He couldn’t confidently say that things would improve, that it was all over. That they would be able to … well. Grow old together. But god, he could sure as hell try for it.
Jon took his hand. “Hey.” Jesus, Martin really was a small mountain when viewed from lying down, wasn’t he? Martin raised an eyebrow. “Everything is fine, sweetheart. Okay?” He squeezed him. “Hard part’s over. We’re going to be fine.”
Of course he didn’t know that. Martin knew he didn’t know that. But the world was brighter than it had been yesterday. And Jon wasn’t keen to stop fighting – he would never be content with relaxation. He wouldn’t know who he was, without the fire burning within him, without giving into the urge to make things right-side up. It just so happened that ‘make things right-side up’ had shifted from ‘fix the apocalypse’ to, simply, live peacefully with his boyfriend.
Martin looked down at him with a smile that spread from ear to ear. He didn’t call Jon on it. He didn’t make a teasing quip. Instead, his shoulders just relaxed and Martin repeated, as if settling it into fact, “We’re going to be fine.”
Before the doctors came in, Martin bent at the hip to kiss him. It was soft – Jon knew that Martin was holding himself back. That was alright. More than alright. Jon could do with a bit of soft. He strained his neck up as high as he could regardless. Martin smelled of wildflowers, and … well, maybe people weren’t being excessively dramatic when they said wildflowers could be relaxing. It certainly flooded Jon’s brain with the most pleasant chemical it could devise.
Martin straightened up when the doctor came into the room, though he remained protectively by the edge of Jon’s pillow. Oh, Jon could get used to that, couldn’t he? Martin was not pleased with the man who had to take more of Jon’s blood out of his body.
The doctor was a young looking-fellow, his eyes practically glued to the clipboard. “Alright, Mr. Sims,” he remarked. “Looks like you … uh.” He seemed to flip through a few pages, but whatever was written on them, they didn’t clear things up for the chap. “Um.” Another flip.
Jon shared a look with Martin. Martin, clearly, was not yet in a good place to find Jon’s extensive medical history amusing. Well, fine. Jon could smile enough for himself. From his spot on the bed, he snuck one hand out of the blankets and held onto Martin’s index-and-middle fingers with his own. Warm, subtle. Thrilling. A gentle sort of reminder that he was there.
And he had nowhere else to be.