Your hand in mine we walk the miles (TMA, Jon/Martin)

[Frick]

If the sun refused to shine,
I would still be loving you.
When mountains crumble to the sea,
There will still be you and me.
~ Led Zepplin, “Thank you”

 

 

This isn’t a world where you can trust…  tea? Comfort.

Jon’d spoken those words to Martin once, how long ago he didn’t know. Time, as he’d also said, didn’t work the same here. In the After. Not that it mattered. But he found himself wishing, not for the first time -- and also probably not the last -- that he was wrong. Because at the moment… well, at the moment he just could use some tea.

He didn’t need to glance behind to See Martin slogging along in his wake. Keeping up but also keeping some distance. Because even though he never said… never hinted… about Jon… still, he said about the others, Not!Sasha and Oliver and Michael… Monsters. Evil. Not innocent bystanders. Which Jon knew he wasn’t, either. A by-stander. Or innocent. By any stretch of the imagination. But… the rest? Martin had asked him not to Know, and he didn’t want to Know, either, what Martin really, truly, deep down felt about the Archivist. Because was there even any of Jon left?

He rubbed his hands over his eyes, his mind was wandering. Needed to focus, if they were going to make any progress. Felt harder than usual, though. He sighed and coughed a little on the exhale.

“Jon?"

He startled at Martin’s hand on his arm. Hadn’t heard him close the distance. “S-sorry. Wool-gathering.”

“You all right?” Martin was frowning, the little line between his eyebrows speaking concern rather than fear.

He considered for a moment. Was he?

“And don’t say that nothing is all right or some sort of vague non-answer.” Even though Martin’s tone was firm, his lips were quirked in a little smile.

Jon snorted a laugh, then immediately regretted it as a sudden urge to sneeze sent him shuddering forward to hide his face in his elbow. “Heh-idshheww! … Sorry,” he said. “Excuse me. I… I think I’m a bit…” but before he could say what he felt a bit like another sneeze shuddered through him. “Isshew!” A breath. “Oh, again?” Ugh, yes, again. “Isshew!” He sniffled, waited to see if he was done. Apparently so.

“Bless you,” Martin said, a tinge of teasing incredulousness brightening his voice.

“Yes, thank you.” He patted his pockets, even though he knew he didn’t have anything to blow his nose, even a scrap of toilet roll.

Another touch at his shoulder. Martin held out a handkerchief. He took it with a small smile of thanks and as he blew his nose, Martin reached out and pressed his hand to Jon’s forehead. Almost against his own will, Jon leaned into the touch.

Martin’s eyebrows went up. “You’re feverish. Didn’t think that was… something that… happened?”

Jon sighed. “Me, neither.” As if Martin’s comment had given his body permission, he suddenly realized how he ached - muscles, bones, joints. He hadn’t been so aware of his body in… ages, it felt like.

“Let’s stop here, for a bit.” Without waiting for Jon’s response, Martin dropped his rucksack, dug inside for the tea kettle, the small propane stove. As the water heated, he set up their tent as Jon just watched, eyes heavy-lidded. Jon knew they should keep going, keep moving, but he couldn’t find the energy to argue. And if he told the truth, he didn’t want to argue or find the energy or even keep going. Because with his nose still tingling and his head aching, he felt more human than he had in too long.

So he let Martin make tea, and wrap him in a blanket, and read a truly terrible novel he’d picked up somewhere. And when they continued on their way, they walked together, hand in hand.

[RavenWatson]

I love this. This is read seven billion, I think