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janekfan · 4 years

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Growing Pains

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26567926

Jon pressed a lingering kiss on Martin’s hot forehead, checking his temperature and worrying when it didn’t seem any lower.

38.4. The Eye so helpfully provided. Which confirmed his suspicions, thank you very much.

“Good morning, darling.” There were so many things to worry about, especially when the fog took a moment to clear from his eyes, and Jon knit his brow, stroking back auburn curls and murmuring soft memories because his biggest fear was losing him again to the Lonely.

And not being enough to get him back.

“Jon.” His voice was raspy, cracked in the middle, and he turned away to cough weakly into the back of his hand.

“There you are.” Brushing away the remnants of clinging mist and wishing he was stronger.

“Where’d I go?” Martin blinked, languid and slow, face flushed delicately over his nose and hiding away the lightest freckles.

“Just been asleep, that’s all.” He groaned, turning his face into Jon’s thigh to rub his cheek against it and Jon wasn’t sure he could handle how utterly, heartbreakingly adorable this man was. “I know, not fun being ill.”

“S’stupid.” Laughing gently, he laid down beside him and wrapped him up.

“Is it?”

“Mmf.”

“I see, that is a powerful truth.” He tugged his head to his chest and kissed the top of it. “I’m going into the village to pick up supplies. Was there anything special you wanted, my darling?”

“Mmmf.”

“Two packages, then?” Martin smacked at his shoulder and missed. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop teasing, shall I?”

“Mf.”

“I’ll be back soon.” And when Martin gripped him harder, Jon soothed him to sleep, replacing himself with a pillow as he slipped away.

The weather was on the chilly side, the sky a bright and brilliant blue that contrasted with the highland cows dotted along the fence lining the walk and Jon found himself smiling as he paused and snapped a few photos for Martin, going so far as to take a selfie with a particularly friendly lad and not deleting it.

Unfortunately, approaching the village meant approaching people. People who were marked by numerous fears and experiences the Beholding wished so, so much to feed on. It pushed the ravenous, empty ache to the forefront of everything and Jon kept his gaze down near his feet so as not to frighten people with his hungry, unblinking stare. It was as though he could taste their proximity and swallowed back the urging, the longing, the yammering of the Eye in his head, wanting Martin to be proud of him for keeping his promise. Quick in the market, Jon packaged everything away in his rucksack and shouldering it, grunted under the weight as it seemed he’d gone slightly overboard. Never having been in the best shape, by the time he made it back to the safe house his leg was protesting and he was panting hard. Martin would always be worth it, no matter the cost, big or small.

Standing up from his stool, Jon swiped the last ingredients into the stock pot and gave it a stir and a tentative sip to check the flavor. It felt good to care for someone even if he had so little experience in it, basing it on what he thought might feel nice. What he'd seen in movies. Read in books.

He couldn’t blame that lack of knowledge on his monstrous transformation.

“Mm...smells good…”

“Hullo, darling.” He couldn’t help but smile when Martin buried his face in the space between Jon’s shoulder and neck, ticklish and almost deliriously happy over soup and the idea that, while he hadn’t cooked in forever and a day, he could do this for Martin now. Jon let himself relax back into Martin’s overwarm embrace when his arms wrapped around his thin waist, settling there like they belonged.

Dishes in the sink for tomorrow’s washing up, Jon plied Martin with a mug of herbal tea doctored heavily with honey and lemon for the cough, stroking along his arm when he listed sleepily into his side and cuddled into the knitted throw they kept on the couch.

“Jon?”

“Are you alright?” The edge of panic made Martin laugh and then cough and if Jon weren’t so worried he would have been insulted.

“I’m on the mend.” The Eye cheerfully confirmed this with a read of 37.8. “But. You feel warm, Jon.” Martin leaned away to cup his face. “You need a rest yourself after everything that’s happened.” Moved to his brow and frowned. “Are you feeling well?”

“I’m fine, darling.” He took them in his own and squeezed, kissing Martin’s forehead softly. “Your hands are cold, that’s all.”

Truthfully, Jon was knackered. But who wouldn’t be having gone through what they’d just fled from? That’s all. He was tired and hungry and stressed with worry over Martin and how quickly he’d fallen ill and how high his fever had risen and Jon didn’t know how to care for people, how to help because he was made to harm and to hurt and mygodhewasgoingtoruinthis.

It wouldn’t help Martin to focus on himself or the starving sensation buzzing in the periphery at all times.

“Jon, I’m really feeling better.”

“It’s quite cold outside and your cough--” Martin held his hands, rubbing his thumbs over the backs of them.

“Okay, okay.” Jon was relieved and he could tell Martin was amused by all of his fussing, but he frowned just slightly, looking down at their tangled fingers. “You’re trembling, love.”

“Mm. I’m.” Looking away out of shame and embarrassment, Jon took his hands back as well, wringing them together nervously. “I’ve b’been. Hungry.” He couldn’t actually remember the last time his hands hadn’t been shaky and said so, catching the flash of guilt in Martin’s eyes because he hadn’t been there to know and oh, how could he have abandoned Jon to that all on his own.

And, horrified, Jon kept that thought to himself because he’d accidentally plucked it out of Martin’s without permission and rather than see the disappointment that would surely be there, he leaned up on his tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

Jon hadn’t meant to hide that he wasn’t feeling well. Truly. And because he felt so brittle and stretched thin much of the time, it wasn’t always easy to parse out what were symptoms of an illness and what were just normal pangs. But Martin still wasn’t one hundred percent, a low grade, persistent fever clung to him like the fog Jon had to scare off on occasion.

This time, it was a bad coughing jag when he came in from the out carrying an armload of firewood, the temperature change sucking all the air out of his lungs and replacing it with cement. It almost sent him to his knees and he heard Martin get out of bed from where he’d been napping and of course, Jon, can’t even let him get the rest he needed.

“Jon-darling?” His palm was on his back, fingers tipping his chin so he could get a good look at his face but his complexion was dark enough that a flush would be harder to see. Once Martin was better, then he would relax. Just a bit longer. “That sounded painful.” It had been and the tightness in his chest made it difficult to speak.

It didn’t stop his lying.

“I, uh. Had a smoke.” Martin’s attention was disapproving now, instead of investigative. So that was. Good. That was good, right? “I. Didn’t. You know how powerful your disappointment is.” But he hadn’t smoked in a long while, and didn't need it when the real cravings were the statements walking around in the nearby village. People. People walking around who. Who had statements.

God, Jon.

He was tired.

He was cold.

“I’m sorry, Martin.”

Jon didn’t know what time it was but knew he should get out of bed and get the tea started. It was good to start with tea because it helped with the congestion and the coughing and he’d finally become somewhat capable at actually making it thanks to Martin’s wonderful tutelage. So he slid out of bed, limping to the kitchen on a stiff and sore leg to put the water on to boil.

He only closed his eyes for a moment.

Martin woke with the sun falling across his face, lighting up the room in a soft apricot glow, and a cold, empty bed. Where had he run off to? Martin knew he wasn’t feeling well and for some reason thought he had to hide it from him, but that was a conversation for another time. With his luck, Jon had wandered off into a field somewhere in only his pajamas.

Instead, he found him curled up on the kitchen floor swallowed up in one of Martin’s jumpers, a tea kettle full of water on a cold hob, and he knelt beside him, unfolding him enough to get a hand on his brow. Not surprisingly, he was burning up, the flush he couldn’t see before now present, highlighted with pallor and a sheen of sweat.

“Oh, Jon.” Most definitely down with Martin’s flu if the chills were any indication. “Good morning, love.” Lashes parting like a moth’s fluttering wing, Jon looked dazed and disoriented, blinking up at him as Martin maneuvered him into his lap. “Why’re you on the floor?”

“Jus’ lai’down for a minute.” He breathed out and in as he spoke his slurred words. Exhausted. “Dunno...dunno what happen’d.” Martin was sure he didn’t.

“I have a few guesses, love.”

“M’yeah?”

“Yeah.” He was quickly losing him to the pull of feverish weariness and decided to put off his teasing until he could at least defend himself properly. “Let’s get you back to bed, hm?”

“Bed.” The right fool. Martin lifted him, holding him close, and kissed him softly when he threw skinny arms sloppily around his neck with a contented hum. “Warm.”

“Better than the floor?”

“Hm.” Jon was clingy, whinging when Martin pulled away to retrieve medication and finish the tea he’d almost started, but stilled when he buried fingers into his wild salt and pepper hair for a quick second. He took pills and drank fluids when pressed, but mostly wanted to sleep and cuddle up wrapped around Martin’s leg. And he let him, content to work on some spare verses and rub Jon’s back as he alternated between sleeping like a stone and coughing up a lung.

Martin was overjoyed when Jon cooked for him, even if the man himself hadn’t been able to eat much, and he reheated it on the stove, returning to their room with a mug of broth and a bowl for himself.

“Martin?” Bleary and congested, he needed his help to sit up against the headboard, Martin providing himself as a support when he threatened to fall over again. He passed him the mug, making sure Jon’s shaking hands could hold it. His decision to fill it only halfway proved wise.

“Jon?” Fever glazed and half lidded, Jon’s eyes looked for answers in the bottom of his mug.

“Feel better?” Martin tapped the side, encouraging him to sip instead of speak.

“Much better, thank you.” He pressed a kiss to his temple and Jon leaned into his touch even more. “You took very good care of me, love.” Martin could almost hear his self deprecating thoughts, spiraling round and round. “Will you let me care for you?”

“Shouldn’t h’have to, to, to care for me.” Martin lifted the broth away, setting it on the side table. “You n’need.” He curled closer, his arms drawn tightly around himself, shivering.

“Need what, Jon-darling?”

“Bet’ter.” It hitched in the middle.

“Than you?” He was like a brand where they touched and Martin knew from previous experience that Jon was prone to weepiness when sick. “Impossible. Come here, love, shh, hush now, hush.” It was nice to dote and fuss over Jon now that he would let him. “You can’t help falling ill.” And Martin held him through his nonsensical rambling until he finally dropped off to sleep.

Jon’s fidgeting woke him up close to dawn just as the sun was beginning to burn away the fog on the horizon. It was satisfying, watching it disappear, torn apart by light and warmth, and he smiled softly before laying a hand on Jon’s shoulder.

“Everything alright?”

“Sorry.” He breathed, turning to face him. “Din’t mean to wake you.” Martin pushed a few flyaways back behind his ear, pleased that his temperature was markedly lower and his eyes clear if still full of sleep. His face twisted up into a wince and Martin cupped his cheek, stroked his thumb over the bone there.

“What’s wrong?”

“N’nothing.” He was a horrible liar and he knew it, the way he was glancing away and purposefully holding still.

“Jon.” Martin was firm, wanted to help if he could.

“Just. Having a difficult time getting. Uh. Comfortable.” Shame colored his face and his admission was mumbled into his pillow.

“Oh, love.” With shadows still thick beneath his eyes and far too warm, it seemed he’d passed the point where Martin’s presence was enough. “Can I help?” He watched Jon stare at the headboard, likely following the patterns in the wood grain, and while Martin had his suspicions he wanted him to to feel like he could share this with him. He gave him patience. Watched him war with himself.

“Do. Do you get. Aches?” Martin ran a hand down his back and watched him settle. “When. With fevers?”

“I do, I was really sore with this flu.” Jon leaned into his touch like a cat. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

“Mm. But I can. I’m sorry, I can be still.” And he could, save for the delicate tremors. “M’leg.” When Martin wouldn’t look away. “That’s all.”

“Can I try?” Jon didn’t say no, just shifted with a rough, cut off groan. The muscles were tight and rigid when Martin swept his fingers down just to see what was hurting, and Jon whimpered involuntarily. He focused on the old wounds from Prentiss in his hip, worked his way gently to his knee, soft and careful, letting his hands warm everything up and Jon was almost a puddle by the time he’d finished because, despite all that happened and all he tried to pretend otherwise, he loved to be touched, especially by Martin. And he may have used it to his advantage a time or two. He watched Jon unspool under his hands, relax deeper into the mattress, breath even and slow, seconds away from finding sleep again and Martin had done that, brought him some peace and relief. This time, he curled up around Jon, not wanting to move him in case it made him hurt again, and kept watch.

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