And Maybe We're Both Damned

Canon Continuation Fic

There’s the sound of a whirring tape and the cacophony of anguish, then the sound of metal against flimsy plastic, and then the sounds stop. And they stop for a while, they stop for so long Jon assumes he’s dead.

And then there’s the sound of a body impacting the ground, and a very delayed

“Ow”

Jon thinks, well, knows, that when you die you’re not meant to make noise, or think, or feel the ground pressed painfully into your cheek, or hear, but then there's the sound of a knife impacting the ground, skittering along the floor and hitting a wall, and hurried, footsteps rushing towards him, two hands grabbing his face, and back, and pulling him up off the ground, pressing his face into a warm chest, it’s a bit scratchy. Martin had been taken to wearing a “weird fish” walking jacket, and the texture wasn’t ideal, but he gave it to Jon sometimes whilst they were walking through the hellscape, Jon- no, Jonah created, but it smells like Martin, and he can hear racking sobs above his head and into his hair, and a hand combing through his undone ponytail, and he thinks maybe they’re alright.

“Jon, I-“ Martins voice is hoarse with tears and scratchy to boot “- Jon I’m so sorry I-“

“It’s fine, Martin, I’m still, we’re still here, I’m still here, we’re, we’re okay” and god does his voice sound strange, the crackles are gone, the echo is gone, it’s just, him.

He’s shifted then, Martin is moving from whatever position they’re in on the floor, Jon assumes, he can’t tell, but he can feel himself being lifted, and one of his legs touching the floor, and then another, and his body is pressed against Martin’s, and the cold, soft texture of his cane handle is being pressed into his hand, and he leans into it, his fall causing him to land on his back, and a constant dull pain is left in its place.

“You’re bleeding Jon” Martins voice is right next to his ear, fingers having returned to his hair after Jon grabbed his cane

“It’ll stop soon” came his immediate reply, and oh, oh the pain that comes from realising you have an injury bursts like a flame and it almost sends him reeling back to the floor, really the only thing stopping that from happening is martin's arm clutching his waist like a lifeline.

The bleeding doesn’t stop, the pain in his stomach isn’t going away.

“Uh, Martin?” He can feel blood in his throat as he talks,

“Y-Yes? Jon?” Once again right in his ear, he can feel Martin’s breath move his hair a little as he exhales.

“It hasn’t uh-“ Jon clears his throat “- it hasn’t stopped bleeding Martin” and he can hear his own voice and it’s wet with blood and tears, and he can feel it leaking out of his mouth as he’s talking

“What do yo- OH, SHIT okay uh-“ and then Martin isn’t at his side anymore, and he’s careening towards the ground again, back and legs too weak to hold him up, his cane clatters to the ground next to him, an empty echo filling the room, and Martin is unzipping his bag, and the sound of cheap plastic rings against the floor, the shuffling of medical equipment until he hears a quick noise of, triumph? from the direction Martin used to be, and his own pained groan as he falls back down to the ground.

“I’m uh, going to have to take your shirt off for this Jon” they didn’t talk about it, boundaries past their initial conversation landing at the safehouse, tucked away in, in daisy’s bed, Jon’s very plain “I’m not interested in all of that” and Martin’s, more enthusiastic “that’s alright” before a kiss was pressed to his head and the two of them fell asleep.

He wishes he were back there now.

“Uh… Jon I don’t mean to, I just, can, uh, can I -“

“What? Yes, sorry I, go ahead”

The silence is filled with pained intakes of breath from Jon, the sound of scissors cutting fabric, and Martin’s quiet noise of guilt and he finally reveals the damage that he’s caused.

“Jon I-“

“Don’t. I asked Martin”

“I know I just” and there are tears falling onto his chest, along with the sting of alcohol and the terrible feeling of cotton against his skin. At one point it makes a noise, something like a squeak, and Jon has a full body convulsion, not from pain or anything, but the sound so loud in the silence, it sets alarm bells off in his head, and he feels Martin press his hand down onto his front, pinning him to the ground, the noise is bad but the pain from the knife wound and the feeling of the cotton is worse than that.

“I can -“ Martin clears his throat, or gips, he can’t tell exactly, “- I can start uh, christ I’m sorry I, I can stitch this up, up now? If uh, if that’s-“

“Please, Christ on a Bike, do it quick” and god, is he really that delirious? Has the blood loss finally gotten to him? That he’s using phrases he swore off after going to Oxford.

The cold metal of the needle going into his skin burns like ice. And the next few minutes are awfully awfully silent and painful, the only thing breaking the silence is the occasional sniffle from Martin. A final tug, the sound is scissors scraping together as they cut the end of the thread, and the sound of a plaster being ripped open, probably one from a Tesco they, for lack of a better term, looted, on their way down to London.

“Did you say Christ on a Bike?” It’s the happiest he’s heard Martin sound in a while, exasperation and love radiating off his words. “I thought that was, like, a Yorkshire thing?” There’s a wet chuckle at the end of his words

Slowly, Jon props himself up on his arms, hoping he’s facing the direction Martin is in.

“Yes Martin. Surprising no one, my grandmother was not my only relative I stayed with in my youth.” And he can hear the roll of Martin’s eyes as he talks

“Are you a little Yorkshire boy? Is that what you’re telling me? I’ve been having fantasies about walking down the aisle with Jon Sims from Yorkshire?” He’s laughing now, amusement in his voice, his hands quickly having taken a hold of Jon’s after fixing him back up, their massive canvas bag propping Jon up into a more comfortable position.

“Yes Martin, that’s what I’m saying”

“I should have known -“ he makes a sarcastic tutting noise “- I should have realised it the second you called a bread roll a ‘teacake’, christ almighty I want to marry a Yorkshire lad, I've fallen from grace I think” and Jon can feel the soft press of lips on his forehead, and smile just threatening to split on Martin’s mouth.

“I’m very glad that after I almost died your reaction is to, and for no good reason because you’re from Cumbria of all places -“ Martin makes a noise of mock offence at that “ - you’re bullying me for living with my wonderful Aunt Andrea during my teenage years”

“Well. I’m glad you’re not dead” and there’s a hand on his cheek “I’m glad we’re both not dead actually, I don’t know where we are, but we’re not dead, and that matters most to me, at least right now”

He’s buried his head back into Jon’s hair, quiet sniffles from crying earlier and blocking his nose, and their shared breaths fill the silence. And it’s quiet, and for a while, Jon thinks, maybe he’s dead now, maybe whatever 40 minutes he just got with Martin for the last time was the beholding’s show of mercy, but then there’s a press of lips against his own and he can’t help but melt into it, tasting salt and iron on his tongue as he coaxed Martin’s mouth open for a second, shaking arms slowly coming up to wrap around Martin’s neck, playing with Martin’s ginger and white curls.

They part after a while, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same breath until Martin speaks up again, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Do you know where we are Jon?”

“I uh. I haven’t opened my eyes yet. I haven’t, if I can’t see I don’t really know what, I’m scared to look” and it hurts to admit it, admit he's scared to find out his fate.

He can feel Martin’s hand back on his face, the callouses from gardening, a habit he kept up for the brief period at the safehouse, and from writing and typing, feeling oh so prominent against his skin

“Could you open them for me?” It’s so quiet, barely above a whisper, shared into the space between them “I won’t be, upset or angry if you can’t see, we can work around that, I’d much rather you couldn’t see than the alternative”

“I’ll try.” And it takes him a second, his eyes squeeze shut since Martin plunged the knife into him, but he eventually opens them, taking a few seconds to blink dried shit from the corners of his eyes, and oh.

“I can see you Martin” and he almost cries

“Well, that’s good! It’s great!”

“Nono, Martin, I can see you, but I can’t, I can’t See you”

Martin’s face is slightly blurred, from tears coming out from Jon’s eyes and his general lack of glasses, but for the first time in a year, he can look at Martin and just see, Martin, no pounding headache as he’s overwhelmed with information, just Martin and his warm round face, and his toothy smile and tooth gap, the admittedly very long ginger curls, streaked with white, his warm brown eyes and the atrocious round glasses he Insists on wearing.

“Oh” it’s barely audible, and then Martin has launched himself at Jon, and they’re tumbling back down to the floor, his face pressed into Jons chest

Yeah, maybe they’re alright.