so you’re telling me that hershel lost everything close to him throughout the entirety of his life including his original name and threw out his original self to carry pieces of his loved ones with him like dead weights to his ankles. he lost his parents and his brother AND his original identity all under the age of 10, lost his closest friend at 17 by his own hands, lost his girlfriend in his 20’s due to random unfortunate events, AND HE STILL LETS HIMSELF GET ATTACHED TO LUKE??????
jon taking some bullets for martin in the slaughter realm?? cue jon defending the action with his healing powers, cue martin being VERY upset about this assumption
https://archiveofourown.org/works/26688478
I hope you like it :) It kinda got away from me ^^’’
Jon gripped Martin’s hand harder, squeezing for all he was worth as he dragged him through the twisting, turning, twining constructs of rusted, rotting, ruptured metal bursting at degraded seams.
Left, left, right, left, straight, right.
runrunrun
Follow the path. Follow the route the Eye has chosen. It’s all he can see.
The path. The way. The route.
Death may not be a permanent thing here but Jon wasn’t going to allow it to happen. Wasn’t going to allow Martin to hurt more than he’d been hurt. He would protect him.
“Jon” Gasping, breathless and he’s sorry, sorry, sorry but this has to be done. We have to keep moving.
Slavering, hungry, greedy mouths stretched wide in horrific grins and sporting too many teeth.
And they are closer, closer, closer.
Shots ring out, instinctively they duck, hunch, Jon pushes them faster, they are close, almost to the border, and they can make it if they run.
Knowing lances through his mind like a lightning bolt and he almost trips, instead shoving Martin forward, in front of him, and he feels it like a blow to his shoulder, pushing him forward, over the threshold and the hyena laughter fades behind them like it never was.
“Jon.” Panting, bent forward. “Wh’what was that?!”
“Sorry, I’m, I’m sorry, Martin.”
The adrenaline is fading and the pain is beginning to blossom in his back, radiating in all directions but Martin is so shook up and Jon is pretty sure despite the blood running down his spine that he’s already healing. The strap on his pack is digging into the wound, chafing and tugging and pulling. It’s like a white hot burn and he ignores it in favor of checking Martin all over for injuries.
“A’are you hurt?” His hands are shaking and he folds them into fists to hide it.
“No, no, I’m fine. Are you? Did--”
“I’m alright.” Not a lie. He will be. He is. “We. We should get going.”
Their pace was slow. After their mad dash through that place they were both tired and despite the hole in his shoulder having healed over, it still hurt. Jon was exhausted. Beholding like that. Running like that. The horrible fear for Martin. It had taken a huge toll and while he wanted to sit down. Pass out? They had to keep on.
“Jon?” He jumped, bit down on his tongue to prevent a whimper. “You’ve been so quiet.”
“We can rest if you need to.” But Jon shook his head and pressed forward, Martin’s hand in his.
It was becoming a chore to put one foot in front of the other, like he was struggling through mud, or his bones were made of lead and his rucksack weighed more and more with each passing second. Slipping a finger into his collar he tugged on it, stretched it out from where it was choking him, and he could barely breathe, keeping his eyes on the horizon line as it dipped in and out of focus
“Hey, you. Hey--” Martin pulled him up short and Jon shrank under his scrutiny. “You’re slowing down. We need to take a break. Have some water. Here, here, let me.” Jon let him help him to the ground and pass him the bottle. Despite not being able to really feel thirst the water was blissfully cool on his dry and scratchy throat. Jon ducked his head between his knees, dizzy, the adrenaline was, it had worn off (hours? ago) that’s all, just a little woozy. It didn’t even hurt that much anymore. But now that he was down here he didn’t think he’d be able to get back up. “Jon, please tell me what’s wrong.”
“N’nothin’s wrong, Martin. M’alright.” Jon lifted his face, tried his best to dredge up a smile for him. Judging by his expression it didn’t work.
“Please. You, you need to trust me.” It almost broke him, how earnest he was, how he cupped his chin in both hands. “You’re burning up. You’re sick, or, or something.”
“No--”
“Don’t lie to me!”
“I--” The hurt in his eyes stopped him. “I. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to.”
“You don’t need to protect me. I want to know, I want to know these things so I can help you.”
“Help me up?” Martin scowled but held out his hand to haul him to his feet and Jon’s vision blacked at the edges. His hands went to his head and he blinked fast, unable to clear it.
“No, no statements or whatever right now.” And Jon couldn’t find the words to tell him what was happening. “You’re not getting out of this, you need to talk to me.”
“It’s.” Tongue clumsy, mouth numb.
“You need to tell me things.” He staggered forward a step.
“S’s’...not…” The ground was painful against his knees. He didn’t feel it when he fell forward into the dirt.
Shitshitshit.
“Jon?” Martin kneeled beside him, hands fluttering uselessly, mind infuriatingly blank. “Jon, Jon, okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” First thing’s first, he unbuckled the straps and lifted the canvas bag off him and nearly dropped it again in surprise. “Oh, Jon.” Blood soaked his back, stiff fabric the color of rust outlined a muddy ruby stain and his sides expanded raggedly with each shuddering breath.
He should have packed a larger first aid kit.
While cutting away Jon’s ruined clothes Martin could feel the intense heat coming off him in waves, the shivering echoing through his skin into his palms. Palms now soaked red like the bare expanse of Jon’s shoulders. He scrubbed away the worst of the mess, desperately looking for the source of all the blood, fingers ghosting over the dips and valleys of his back and any other time this would be a gift, working out the tension he could feel knotted in his muscles, touching him like this.
There was nothing. No wounds, only scars from the worms, other nicks and scrapes and cuts from the times Martin hadn’t been able to be there for him.
“Jon, love.” He lifted his head, smudging his cheek with a whisper of blood, and slipped a pillow of folded cardigan beneath it. “Jon, come back to me.” And finally, his nose wrinkled up, eyes struggling against the weight of his lashes.
“M’in” Slurred badly and Martin rested the backs of his fingers against his cheek.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“S’m’thin’s…” His tongue ran between chapped lips. “W’wrong.”
“It’s alright. I’m going to fix it, you’ll feel better soon, darling.” He pressed his lips against his forehead. “Where does it hurt?” A whine rose in Jon’s throat.
“Shoul’er.”
“Okay, I’ll take another look.” Martin pushed against the flat of his scapula and Jon cried out. Hotter here, sore, there was something hard dug into the bone under fingers, flesh. “You’re alright, love.” Martin had a feeling he knew what had happened and when, the memory of Jon shoving him in front of him. A bullet. How mundane. Okay. A deep breath. Two. Three. Martin poured alcohol over his hands, over Jon’s shoulder, letting it dry, trying to take some of the heat out of him. He swiped down the blade of their pocket knife, the tweezers, sick with what he had to do.
He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready to hurt Jon.
He swallowed.
Again.
Pressing down over the bullet lodged in him, thankfully shallow. Blood welled up under the blade, oozed around it, and Jon’s writhing beneath the steel almost made Martin ill, but he held him down, pushing on until he could slip the tweezers in alongside because his body kept trying to heal around the infection it had unwittingly trapped. It took a solid minute because Martin had trouble getting a grip on the bullet, everything slippery with blood and when he finally grabbed it he chucked the damn thing as far away as he could, flushing the wound with water and letting it bleed freely until it bled clean before finally letting it close.
“Hush,” he soothed, wiping away stray tears after he wiped Jon’s blood off his hands.
“M’sorry...thought…”
“We’ll talk about it later.” He pulled Jon into his lap, covering him with the jumper and relieved that his fever already seemed lower. “I want you to sleep for a little while.” Teasing fingers through his curls, he untangled the worst of it until Jon relaxed, rubbing his cheek against Martin’s thigh.
Fabius Bile's greatest trick has got to be the ability to just switch to a fresh body when his current one gets sick. He doesn't have to deal with a blocked nose or coughing or anything just "oh look at the time, it's 'switch my fleshy container' hour" and then he can just get on with his day.
