Work Text:
A man stood in the waiting room of a hospital, pacing it lengthwise incessantly.
His clothes were worn to the point of becoming threadbare, and in the chilly November air the other occupants of said room – all in various stages of worry, but none to match the distress clear on the man’s face – shivered in sympathy, just looking at him. The curves and folds of his body were hinted at, if not clear, through those worn clothes that once upon a time must have been sturdy and fit to withstand a good hiking trip, or a week at sea. The grime and dirt caked in the fibers seemed to be the only thing keeping them from tearing apart, and the occupants of the room shuddered once more in disgust at the sight.
The man seemed to pay no heed to the reactions of his fellow men, nor to the state of his clothes, to his precarious dignity or to the scrapes running jagged on the skin of his face and hands. Concerned nurses, upon seeing him, had valiantly tried to drag him towards a room to clean the rivulets of dried blood encrusted upon his palms and shaking fingers, as well as the faint smattering of dust, possibly lime, coating the open wounds.
Their efforts were an exercise in futility, as the man struggled and protested until he managed to send them on their way until they had information on Jon.
The man – which the reader will readily identify as a possible version of the individual going by the name of Martin Blackwood – despaired as he paced, occasionally bringing each hand to claw at the opposite arm, fingers digging into the meagre bundle of cloth pleading for mercy and rest, and into the bulky flesh lying underneath, no doubt leaving marks to which Martin Blackwood, clearly, paid no mind.
“I’m such a fool” he mumbled without realising, as the grip he had on his own arms became more violent “such a stupid, useless fool!”
He was quiet for a few moments, shaking his head from side to side as his eyes belied the horror and misery of a man facing the consequences of his greatest sin.
To him, what had happened was exactly that.
“Please, just this once” he whispered fervently through clenched teeth, disgust and agony clear in his voice “just this once let us go.”
Believing Jon wouldn’t try to derail the plan would have been a rookie’s mistake; Martin, the (self-proclaimed) foremost and most dedicated expert in all things Jon, obviously didn’t believe that for a second.
The real mistake – the one he would never forgive himself for, the one he could have avoided had he been a little less bloody self-absorbed, what a prick he’d been – was not having given Jon enough support when, in the height of his godhood, he’d started to fray and tatter at the edges under the all-consuming guilt he carried on his shoulders. Had Martin been a little more receptive and a tad less barricaded in his righteous anger he would have been holding in his arms a conceivably serene Jon – if still bereaved at the state of the infinite possible worlds they would be sending the Fears to, because his Jon was unable not to start carrying at all possible occasions the weight of Atlas on his thin, scrawny shoulders – that fated morning forever and never ago, instead of being woken bright and early by the absence of that slight, battered body without a heartbeat under his palms and against his chest.
“We did what you wanted, you double-faced, conniving, scheming…” he cursed before inhaling sharply, on the verge of tears “let. Us. Go!”
When the dampness overflowed from Martin Blackwood’s eyes and started running down his cheeks, melting some of the caked dirt nestled on his skin and stubble to a fetid rivulet slowly dripping from his chin, the other occupants of the room did their best not to notice, and beyond a passing glare of judgment at the man in shambles still pacing the room and disturbing their worry, retreated each to their own heads.
If this was to be attributed solely to their worrying for their own loved ones being operated or otherwise patched up, or to their being hardened Londoners, is for the reader to guess.
Martin Blackwood and the other occupants of that slightly cramped waiting room were spared further agony by the squeaky sound of the doctor’s shoes on the cheap linoleum.
Everyone stood to attention, shoving books into bags and phones into pockets, backs unfurling from the hunched over positions they had gradually taken on. Martin Blackwood would have cut quite the intimidating figure if not for the unabashed hope displayed all over his dirty, tear-streaked face – though of course, Martin Blackwood wouldn’t have noticed changes in his appearance if someone had shoved his sorry state in his face: after all, his feverish, overwrought mind could do little more than sift obsessively through thoughts of guilt and Web and Jon, Jon, Jon–
“Mr Blackwood?”
Martin Blackwood flew to the edge of the room, where the doctor was standing, and then led him further into the corridor, for an illusion of privacy. In his distraction Martin forgot to grasp spasmodically at his own tattered clothing, which no doubt spared him the indignity of revealing far more skin than he’d be comfortable with a few minutes down the line, as it had been threatening to.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“I’m happy to inform you”, an impassive, bored expression was painted on the doctor’s tired face “that Mr Blackwood is firmly out of danger.” Martin deflated in relief at the news to the point that he barely could find the strength to willfully suppress the blush that hearing Jon being referred to as “Mr Blackwood” caused him.
No matter that he’d been the one to spin the lie, lest another version of Jonathan Sims lived in this London he had yet to explore the peculiarities of and found on his medical file at his next routine check-up – if a Jon that cared to drag himself away from his work enough to do such things existed in the multiverse – a history of stabbings and barely-healed, potentially-fatal scars.
“He needs to recover, so we have temporarily put him in a medically-induced coma.” the doctor drones on “We should let him wake up tomorrow at the latest. We’ll need to keep him under observation for a while afterwards, but he’s going to be just fine. He’ll probably need some physical therapy, a strict diet for his malnutrition, and some surgery on his… rib cage? So I’m told, at least.”
Martin barely registered the information trickling out of the doctor’s mouth, and promised to himself he would start studying religiously all they would need to do in order for Jon to recover completely in a few hours.
At that moment Martin Blackwood merely basked in utterly complete relief.
“Where is he?” He breathed out, the picture of exhaustion himself.
“I’ll show you.”
A little bit of deceiving is performed, some pleading and acting and even the more than hardened Londoners that identify as medical personnel take pity on the distraught, confused man whose husband is in a medically-induced coma to recover.
So Martin obtains access to the Internet, calls upon a few skills he’d picked up from Sasha (the real one) more than a lifetime ago, sets camp at Jon’s bedside and starts preparing for his awakening.
He throws himself completely in his work, and manages to keep the panic surging as he senses his own connection to the Lonely at bay, reassuring himself that it is merely a suggestion of power more than the assurance of one, and that certainly he and Jon both will be dead and disintegrated to ash by the time it can be of real damage.
(He almost manages. But that will have to be enough for the moment.)
He spends most of the day in a plastic chair, hunched over the new cellphone he managed to get his hands on, in mostly-presentable thrifted clothes, a bag of equally presentable, thrifted garments for Jon lying on the floor and out of the doctors’ way.
So he researches the day away, methodically setting up what they need to begin a new life in a way that is at once disconcertingly similar to his time as a manager in the Lonely and completely antithetical to it, his left hand always on the bed, holding his sleeping partner’s limp fingers.
When it is time Jon awakens, weak and uncomfortable but alive and safe.
A tender, teary kiss later Martin looks at his scarred, sweet, perfect face and flounders, as all the things he wants to say crowd on his tongue so closely he cannot speak even one of them.
His efforts are truncated early on though, as a nurse comes in and checks on Jon, commenting amiably on how you have such a sweet husband, how he has barely moved from your bedside!
Jon, to his immense credit, takes it in stride.
As soon as the nurse gets out of the door Martin scrambles back to the chair next to Jon’s bed, words tumbling from his mouth unchecked, and hastens to clarify.
“I found that apparently we don’t exist at all in this universe,” he begins wringing his hands, and the fidgeting and pain help, if only a little “but I didn’t know that when they admitted you and I had to tell them something or they wouldn’t have let me be here, and anyway I didn’t want another potential Jonathan Sims to randomly discover your injuries in his file, and I guessed there wouldn’t be a Jonathan Blackwood that coincided with the rest of your anagraphic information so I –”
Jon feebly barks out a short, smug laugh, before settling on a smirk.
“So you did overshoot a bit with precautions. One could wonder if you might have ulterior motives.”
Martin is sure that the heart-attack he didn’t get on that horrid Vast ladder a little (a while?) before the end of the end or in Annabelle’s webs or at any other point of his life the past few years is coming exactly now, courtesy of his beloved “I mean –”
“Don’t worry, it’s fine.” Jon continues, airy to the point of nonchalance “You’ll just set the record straight once we’ve settled down properly in this universe.”
Martin’s blush is suddenly furiously intense.
“Jonathan Sims, are you asking to be proposed to?”
“And here I thought we were already married.” He has the audacity to say, mock-wounded expression and all.
Considering he also looks so painfully small in his hospital bed and covered in bandages, it’s apparently a perfect recipe to make something in Martin’s chest squeeze to the point of tearing.
He can’t decide whether he’s falling even deeper in love with Jon or if he’s mortally exasperated.
“I just told you we don’t even legally exist–”
He gulps down the stutter that threatens to come out as Jon’s smile widens with barely veiled schadenfreude.
“You know what? Fine, you win.”
Jon beams.
“Glad you see the error of your ways.”
And Martin hasn’t seen such a smile on his face in… maybe ever. Instantly he knows he’ll do anything to make it appear as many times as possible –ideally all the time, really – and decides that from time to time yielding unconditionally to Jon’s wishes is an excellent idea indeed.
That means that as he tries to sound annoyed he misses the mark so spectacularly that he can almost see the besotted look etched on his own face. “Jeez, just shut up, you horrid man.”
And he enthusiastically does not care.
Jon laughs quietly and slips his hand in Martin’s.
“So… we don’t exist.” Jon says pensively “Bit tough to live without paperwork.”
“The upside is that Peter Lukas does, though.” He rebukes immediately, with as much aggressive nonchalance as he can muster.
“Surely you aren’t suggesting–”
“I am sure whatever version of him exists in the multiverse is as worthless as the one I dealt with, and I have no qualms about taking reparations for the abuse.”
Jon smiles, pretending to be astonished.
“Incredible, I married a criminal.”
Martin sputters. Just a little.
Jon squeezes his hand, but the tilt of his lips remains wholly unsympathetic.
“Have you checked if you can actually get into his accounts?”
“Of course I have,” he answers, indignated “who do you take me for?”
The pantomime wins him a kiss on the hand.
“Of course. How could I doubt you?”
“Precisely. Have faith in my dubious morality and in a few days we shall have all the documents we need.”
“And a house?” Jon’s voice is hesitant and quietly hopeful and Martin wants to get him the moon, or the sun, or the whole bloody galaxy.
Since his cosmic powers are somewhat limited at the moment, he settles for whipping out his phone.
“I wanted to wait for you and get your input as well. I’m rather partial to a penthouse, but if you’d rather get a cottage I could be swayed…”
Jon beams again, and they start planning for their new life ahead.
In the end, seizing with both hands a happy ending seems to be possible, even for them. And Martin knows it will be reached through rows and fighting, but (he’s sure) it’ll be worth it.