Martin sat by Jon’s bedside, mesmerised by the rise and fall of his chest. Now a hospital gown covered that horrible wound that Martin had seen after going through the gateway, somehow miraculously stretched across by angry pink scar tissue, fibrous and almost web-like… though that didn’t bear thinking about. Martin reached to take Jon’s hand, but stopped, shivering at the memory of another time he had sat by Jon’s bedside. But it wasn’t like that now. Jon was breathing, his heart beating normally, the doctors said. When Martin took his hand and squeezed, he sometimes squeezed back. Sometimes pulled it away, which Martin tried not to take personally. Sometimes murmured things that didn’t sound like parts of statements, didn’t sound like anything much at all.
“Martin?” Jon croaked.
“I’m here,” Martin said, springing to his feet.
Jon was staring straight ahead with a panicked expression.
“Where – I can’t -”
“Right here, I’m right here,” said Martin, reaching for Jon’s hand. Jon flinched and raised his hand weakly as if to defend himself.
“It’s me, Jon, you... recognise me, right?” Martin said, his voice cracking.
“Yes, your voice, it’s just, everything looks…. Everything looks…. It’s not…” An edge of panic was creeping into Jon’s voice.
“Try closing your eyes, maybe,” said Martin.
“Oh, that’s better, it’s almost… Almost…” Jon lapsed back into unconsciousness.
“Jon? Oh… alright, that’s, that’s progress, I suppose,” Martin said with a shaky laugh.
But would there be more progress, he wondered? Judging by when they left Salesa’s, Jon could barely function without the Eye. Martin thought about a life of nursing a half-conscious Jon, and dread settled in his stomach, immediately chased by guilt. He had gotten what he wanted – Jon, alive, with him, and out of danger. And if he had to devote the rest of his life to caring for as much of him as had made it through, that was what he would do – the fierce, burning devotion within him never wavering. Was he selfish to want more? Would Jon have wanted this? To live trapped on the edge of consciousness? A lump formed in Martin’s throat at the thought of losing Jon again. A soft knock at the door interrupted his racing thoughts.
------
“I must say the scans are not exactly like anything I’ve seen before, and it’s hard to say without knowing more about what happened, but the symptoms are consistent with an acquired brain injury. That’s an injury that happens to the brain without an obvious knock on the head, maybe from oxygen deprivation, internal damage, several things. An explosion, you said?” the doctor looked at Martin quizzically.
“Well… yes. It’s… yes.”
“And you’re still not going to tell me anything else about it? What caused the explosion, what might have caused the brain injury?”
“No… sorry.”
“Well, the good news is there doesn’t appear to be internal bleeding, but there do seem to be some parts that are just…. Missing,” she said, frowning. “Mostly in the visual cortex, which would explain why he couldn’t see you, even though his eyes are fine. But there’s damage across the whole brain.”
“Ok. Ok,” said Martin, struggling to keep his breathing even. “So, will he get… better?”
The doctor took a deep breath. “Ok, so. Brain injuries can be complicated,” she said gently. “The brain can be amazing at adapting and reconfiguring itself. I would expect to see some improvement over the short term, and have him awake and up and about. But it’s impossible to say in the long term what the effects will be. The most likely outcome is that there will be some permanent effects, and some that will lessen with time and therapy.”
“Alright,” said Martin, letting out a long, shaky breath, “I can do this. We can do this.”
-----
Having discovered that his bank card wasn’t working, their names didn’t show up in any medical databases, and his phone hadn’t had reception since they arrived, Martin surmised that this London, though familiar, was probably not their London. They had taken cash with them to the safe house, and Martin had divided it into their wallets before leaving, just in case. He hadn’t thought of it once during their journey, but thankfully they had both still had their wallets on them out of habit when they went through the gateway, more due to forgetting they were there than actually choosing to bring them. There was enough to secure a motel room and food for a couple of weeks. As they left the hospital for the motel Martin still asked the taxi driver to try Georgie’s address in the satellite navigator.
“I don’t use that thing,” the driver said gruffly.
“Humour me? Please.”
“Alright,” he said.
Address not found. Stomach sinking, Martin relayed his own address, where he had lived for years.
Address not found.
“There’s not even a Queen Street in that borough,” said the taxi driver.
“Are you sure? Comes off Northern Road, after Smith Street, before Church Street,” he said.
“Northern Road, yes. No Church Street, no Queen Street. Trust me, mate. I’ve been driving London since before you could read,” the driver said irritably.
“Oh, er, sorry, I must have gotten mixed up. Haven’t been to London in a while…” he said with a nervous laugh. “And, er... The Magnus Institute?” he said, barely able to squeak out the words. Jon, leaning against him, stiffened but stayed silent.
“Never heard of it,” the driver snapped. “Probably in Edinburgh or something. Now where can I take you? In London.”
“Oh! Right. Sorry. At the hospital they recommended a motel...”
-----
The next week in the motel room Martin remembered little of, just a haze of worries and plans about what he was going to do, how they were going to live without records or friends or family, punctuated by hopeful periods of Jon’s lucidity. He sometimes spoke clearly, and seemed to know where they were. Other times he woke disoriented, trying to see – or trying to See, maybe, it was hard to tell. Each day he slept a little less, and spent more time simply sitting upright, staring straight ahead with unfocused eyes, responding hazily to Martin’s questions. Martin had to coax and gently bully him into eating, showering, getting changed. He had bought a prepaid phone on one of his shopping trips, quickly stealing away while he thought Jon would stay asleep. In between trying to get food into Jon, and then himself, he looked for a job, realising they would need a place to live, furniture, and trying not to panic about it all, trying not to let himself spiral into thoughts about what they had escaped. Who they had left behind.
“Martin? Where are you? What - where am I?” Jon’s voice barked from the bed.
“I’m right here, Jon. Close your eyes, listen to my voice, I’m right here,” Martin snapped grumpily, by now used to the routine.
“Martin… I’m sorry…” Jon’s voice was uncharacteristically small, hurt and confused.
“Oh, no, Jon, no, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean-” he strode to the bed and took Jon in his arms, freezing guilt flooding through him. “I wasn’t thinking, I’m so sorry,” he said miserably.
“No, no, it’s fine,” Jon murmured, his eyes still shut tight but now fully aware. Jon slid his hands up Martin’s upper arms, around his back, feeling the tension in his body.
“What’s wrong, Martin?” he asked.
“Nothing, really, it’s just… ever since you, since we got here, it’s been… a lot. It’s been so much,” said Martin, his voice wavering. “And it shouldn’t be, without the, the monsters, and the hell domains and saving the world and everything, it should be easy, just normal life, but somehow it’s just… too much for me,” said Martin, tears welling up in his eyes. He swiped at them angrily. “I know you can’t understand all this right now. I shouldn’t be bothering you with it.”
“Oh, hey, no,” said Jon, pulling Martin towards him, “I understand what it’s like with, ah, a lot in your… in your…” he reached up and touched the back of Martin’s head, tenderly. “In here.”
That gentle touch was enough to pull the held-back sobs out of Martin. He hid his face in Jon’s shoulder and gave in to the sobs wracking his body, as Jon rubbed his hand slowly down Martin’s back, soothing him quietly, patiently.
“I’m here, Martin. I’m here.”
The wave of despair subsided at last, settling into a more manageable trepidation. Martin drew back, sniffling. Jon leaned forward, and planted a kiss beside Martin’s mouth. Martin realised with a pang of longing that they hadn’t kissed, properly kissed, since… well… He didn’t want to think about that. He longed to press his lips to Jon’s, kiss him hungrily, forcefully, but he could feel the weakness in Jon’s body, the effort it took to even sit upright.
“You lie down. Get some rest,” said Martin, his lips aching.
“You too. Rest,” said Jon, trying to sound firm.
-----
The second week, in some ways, was even harder, though full of small miracles. Their money was not going to stretch to a third week, Martin knew. Somehow he stumbled into the job in the community centre, for which he was not especially qualified, and who didn’t miss a beat when he claimed to be “between leases”, and even gave him leads on finding a flat nearby. It did mean he had to leave Jon alone during the day, and although he was now alert most of the time, Martin worried what would happen if Jon woke up alone.
“I suppose I could, er, leave a note for you?” Martin wondered aloud.
“I don’t know if I could… you know… see it well enough to…” Jon trailed off.
“Oh, right, of course, silly me,” fretted Martin.
“I’ll be fine, Martin. Go out and be the breadwinner,” Jon said with a sardonic smile.
Jon was still asleep when Martin was ready to leave the next morning. He thought about waking him, but decided against it. He grabbed one of his jumpers from the pile of unwashed laundry accumulating beside the bed, balled it up and pushed it into Jon’s arms. Jon pulled it towards himself without waking.
--------
On their last night in the motel, Martin bustled around, tidying and checking every crevice, although they had few belongings to worry about. The flat they were moving into was a sad and dingy little thing, but Martin’s heart was buoyed by thought of it.
“Martin – when you have a moment, could you come here?” Jon said from the bed.
“Yes, love?” Martin sat down beside him. Jon, eyes open but unfocused, reached out gingerly to Martin’s face, finding his cheek and cupping it. Jon slid his thumb to the corner of Martin’s mouth, and purposefully closed the distance between them, kissing Martin’s lips unreservedly. A tingling warmth swept through Martin’s body, and he let out a long “Hmmm” of relief as he settled into the kiss, feeling for a moment completely at Jon’s mercy and desiring nothing else. When they parted, Jon’s hand was still on Martin’s cheek.
“I didn’t want to miss your mouth this time,” Jon said breathlessly.
