#cw flashback

Even so, it’s weirdly lonely. Not in a bone-crushingly empty soul kind of way; more in the way that he’ll do something, or find something, or think something and catch himself looking off to the side and seeing nothing. When he and Colt would go on their walks, Grace would think of some question, or some realisation and turn and Colt would be right there to listen, and question, and challenge but now it’s just Grace. Which is fine.

The Eridians understand things better than Colt. There’s no need to explain anything, no gaps of knowledge to bridge. Nothing to teach in the moment, not really. It’s all fine.

There’s been no visits in either direction. Given how things were left between them, he’s not surprised that Colt doesn’t want to visit. As for Grace going to 88, well that has a simple answer; he’s a coward.

When Grace thinks of their last conversation, all his brain can focus on is how ticked off Colt seemed. He doesn’t think it was aimed at him, but at this point Grace isn’t sure how much he can trust his memory. With no one else in-universe his mind has slowed way down and gone surprisingly quiet compared to how it was in the Clubhouse. Like the old family desktop that ran Windows 95 for years; it’s still going just much much slower.

It’s been a particularly lazy day today. Mostly just walking along the beach front and enjoying the feeling of the breeze the engineers had managed to figure out. It was glorious and almost made Grace homesick for Earth. Almost.

Grace is back in his home now and for the last ten minutes has been thinking about how they must have achieved it. The ocean was simple enough, a large rotating paddle to encourage the motion of the waves but moving air is much more complex. One wrong calculation and they could easily suffocate Grace. Geography had never been one of his strong points so he wasn’t sure how easy it may be to simulate winds. It’s hardly like they could install an a/c unit and move it around every so often. Maybe they were-

He realises he’s overthinking when there’s a knock at the door.

Confused, Grace rushes to it, tearing it open to see a familiar face, though not the one he’d expected.

A man about two inches taller then him with longer, darker hair brushed back across the top of his head stands on the doorstep. His facial hair frames his mouth, dark and well-groomed. His outfit is dated, a loud colourful shirt atop a white shirt, matched with cream corduroy pants; he looks like a cop from one of those old TV shows. It’s almost like he just walked straight out of the 1970s.

“Hello?”

The man stares at him, eyes narrowed before he turns to look back towards the beach. Grace isn’t so much confused as he is surprised.

“This isn’t 524 is it?” the stranger asks.

“452.”

“Shit.” he lifts his wrist, shaking the black watch on it, “You’d think after all this time I’d know how to use this fucking thing. Sorry to bother you,” he turns, about to leave when he pauses, looking to Grace again, “Have we met?”

Grace kind of stifles a laugh at the absurdity of the moment, “I’ve been told I have one of those faces.”

“That’s funny.” The stranger smirks, pointing between them “Because we have the same face.”

“That’s the joke, yeah.”

The stranger seems unsteady but there’s no smell of alcohol around him. Most likely he’s not adjusted to the elevated gravity that comes with being on Erid. Grace tripped over more than a few times when he first moved in. Even now he trips at least once a day.

“Holland March.” The guy offers out a hand in greeting which Grace takes. “I’m guessing you’re new to the club.”

“Fairly new.”

“And this is your place?” Holland gestures towards the house.

“I suppose.”

“I don’t like it.” he shakes his head awkwardly, “It’s maths-shaped.”

Seemingly satisfied enough to leave on that revelation, Holland turns towards the beach, ready to walk down the side of the cliff when a thought occurs to Grace.

“Wait,” He calls after him. March turns back, “Colt said you have ‘Dumb Luck’. Is that true?”

March’ll never win the lottery but he always ends up exactly where he needs to be and find out exactly what he needs to know. So maybe there’s a reason he’s here? It’s not an outrageous theory and definitely worth a shot.

“Maybe.” March half-shrugs. “He’s a smart kid.”

“It’s just there’s been a lot of crazy happening lately and I feel like I’m trying to do a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing.”

Pursing his lips, March holds a finger to his chin, tapping it gently as he thinks.

“You should try talking to Ken. He’s really good with that kind of stuff.”

“Really?” he tries to keep the judgement out of his voice but Grace can’t help it.

“I get you. The guy seems about as deep as a puddle but I’m telling you Ken has layers. I mean think about it, Ken’s a doll. Literally, he’s not human. And how do kids learn to process crazy shit?”

“...through their toys?”

March taps his nose with a small smirk, “Bingo.”

The logic is wild but it tracks, and Grace is hardly drowning in ideas over here. Maybe Ken isn’t simply an emotions booster but an emotional augmenter. He visits Colt who’s excited to see him, Ken boosts it which makes Colt happier and so on and so on. It becomes an unending positive feedback loop that leaves you with this giddy sense of euphoria.

“That’s a good idea.”

“Any time.” March gives a two finger salute before taking his leave.

Ken. Huh.

Grace thinks about it as he closes the door again. He could visit the Clubhouse, find out which universe Ken’s in and maybe tempt Colt into going on a quest for some answers. Surely Colt would be intrigued at least, right? A good mystery, an excuse to leave universe for a short while. What’s not to like?

As he moves towards the bedroom, something collides full force with Grace, dragging him to the ground with a harsh thud. All the wind is forced from his lungs but he’s mostly okay, shuffling and twisting trying to break free of the grip around him.

“Get off me!” he yells, kicking and twisting. They let him go but not for long, fingers gripping tight to Grace’s hair and slamming his head against the ground over and over.

It stops. His glasses have dropped from his face. Everything’s swimming around him, head ringing, nausea rising in his throat. Disoriented, he looks up to see a blurry figure looming over him that bends down and Grace raises his arms to try and defend himself. There’s no blows, just fingers that grasp at his wrist, pulling his arm up as they undo the strap of his watch.

“Wait! Stop!” he shouts.

No! No Please!

He kicks out, trying push them away. Get away from him! He barely catches them, they barely move. The fingers let go and there’s a faint clatter. Grace wrenches his arm away, trying to shuffle away as he tries to look up.

No! Carl! Please!

Everything around him is wavering. He blinks and It isn’t one person attacking him, it’s several. People who chased him, tackled him, dragged him to the floor who are trying to hold him down and if he doesn’t get them off they’re going to kill him.

“Don’t do it! Don’t do it!” Grace pleads.

A wormhole opens but Grace barely hears it. It’s like it’s miles away. All he can hear is his own shouts and Carl telling him he knows who he is.

“Remember me? I kept people away from Raindrop, and tried to communicate with it using drawings?” It pulls the pup closer. Yawns, giving her a slow blink, which she returns.

Raindrop was at least able to be gentle with her, though not really calm. It trusted her to back off when it told her to, and would let her touch it if she kept her movements clear.

The pup isn’t Raindrop, but xe needs to be handled carefully too.

“I brought breakfast, if xe’s willing to eat.” And the button. The button is mandatory. Given the recordings she’s watched, the ones he kept, it’s no wonder Violet reported the pup getting distressed over xyr voice going hoarse and painful.

Mimicking is a natural behaviour, equal parts defense and self-soothing mechanism, and being forced to mimic for food on top of that….

The pup’s voice holds too much weight. The pup needs to learn xyr voice isn’t everything. Hopefully Remedy knows that, hopefully it can teach xem, because, as a human, she’s likely to fuck things up.

Raindrop tolerates her, but she still has to be incredibly careful with it. The pup doesn’t know her, worries about making humans mad, and is likely to pick up on signals she isn’t aware of.

Remedy presses the button, and spoonfeeds the pup soup until xe starts reaching for it. Murmurs something, and taps the button. The pup keeps xyr mouth shut until it presses the button properly.

Trembling hands wrap around the button. Xe stares at her. Presses the button constantly, trying to reassure xemself.

A pup who wants her to like xem is so much more intimidating than the openly hostile mimic who wanted everyone to fuck off. She could break xem accidentally.

This little pup doesn’t know her. Sure, she was there when xe was rescued, but she was more focused on evidence, on her recording, than on xem.

“You’re okay,” she murmurs. It doesn’t help.

Xe doesn’t know her, and she can’t communicate that she would never hurt xem.

All she can really do is try not to startle xem and watch xyr reactions.

Maria ends up looking as disinterested as she can, opening her notebook and writing potential names for xem (most of which are related to the bite Ben got trying to give xem a checkup). Glancing at xem, she writes down that looking disinterested helps.

“Do you want to introduce new buttons?” she asks, once xe’s done with xyr soup and a little less spooked. Shows xem the box of buttons.

Remedy pulls out two purple ones, and points at her and itself. Watches her put her name on a button, then puts its own name on the other one.

Taking a permanent marker, she writes the word for each button on the side. It takes the marker, writing on top of each button with careful, legible strokes in its own language. Sounds each word out for the pup.

Languages aren’t her thing—she knows some vocalizations, but it’s mostly body language and behaviours—but Elliot has been trying to figure out their language for years. He’ll be so upset he missed this.

He’ll be slightly less upset when he sees the script on the buttons.

Xe points at the red button. SNAPS xyr teeth, staring up at it with pleading eyes until it says something xe’s happy with, choosing to headbutt it affectionately.

“Gingersnap,” she says. “I’m naming you Gingersnap.”

They add new buttons. “Yes” and “No” and numbers up to ten. Parts of the body and the word “Hurt,” at Remedy’s insistence, which she should’ve thought of before it had to resort to charades to communicate.

Better it than her, though. She’s terrible at charades.

Pup can snap teeth. Pup can snap its teeth and click its tongue. It isn’t talking or repeating but it is sounds. Sounds it can make even when it’s broken.

It tucks itself into Rumbly’s side and stares at Not-Holder. They don’t want it to make sounds. But. But there’s so many things that aren’t sounds they could want, and it doesn’t know. It doesn’t know what they want.

And. And Pain hurt it when it didn’t do what they wanted. Which means they might be worse than Pain, even if they’re better, because if it can’t figure out what they want—

Holder gave it to them. Holder is gone.

It presses a hand to its neck, clamping its mouth shut, trying to keep all the voice-sounds inside. It doesn’t work.

The Bad sound leaks out, hoarse and cracking, and it tries not to flinch when Rumbly touches its shoulder. It still flinches, even though that hand was rubbing circles into its back before and it isn’t scared of thon.

It still flinches. It still can’t breathe right.

Thon isn’t Pain. Thon doesn’t look anything like Pain. Thon murmurs reassurances, and helps it breathe right, and doesn’t want it to do things for food.

Thon tells it to breathe through its nose, following thons count, and focus on all the things it can smell. It’s mostly Rumbly’s scent and the blanket scent and Holder’s scent, but Not-Holder’s scent is there too.

Its voice hurts. It hurt its voice more. It curls up around itself until Not-Holder tucks one of the really soft blankets around it.

Not-Holder puts the food button on the table next to the bed, and puts all the other ones in a row.

It clicks. It click-click-clicks, and Not-Holder starts clicking too.

It startles. Stares.

Pain never liked when it made random sounds, but Not-Holder, Echo, does.

Echo leaves, and comes back with a box. Shows it a picture it can put together, and a lot of small, colourful boxes. And a round thing that rolls away from them.

It points at the picture. Jumps off the bed, sitting down on the floor in front of Echo.

The picture is supposed to be of something it hasn’t seen before. It waves a hand in Rumbly’s direction until thon says, “Fish. That is a fish, Pup.”

Pup works on making the fish picture. Starts by sorting the pieces by colour while Echo helps.

Until they put a piece in the wrong group, and it hisses at them. Freezes.

It can hiss without its voice.

It can’t hiss. Hissing is bad. Hissing isn’t like the Bad sound, but Pain doesn’t like it, Pain tugs its chain harder when it does that, it isn’t allowed to hiss—

Echo clicks. It tips its head. Doesn’t move when they offer it the piece. It points at the right pile, and they put it there, and they start offering the pieces to it when they aren’t sure where they go.

When all the pieces are sorted, it starts putting similar pieces together. Echo taps at the box and traces the edges of the picture. It doesn’t want to make the picture from the edges.

Maybe that’s why Echo sorted the piece wrong. They do it differently.

Is that how they want it to make the picture? Are they going to hurt it if it does it the wrong way? No, they asked for its input. They asked it to show them how to sort the pieces.

They aren’t Pain.

Pain was impatient. Maybe they’re patient, and they’ll wait until the puzzle is done to hurt it.

It finishes the puzzle the way it wants. It finishes the puzzle with shaking hands, and looks up at Echo to see how they react. They click.

They click, tucking a piece of hair behind its ear. Take a second picture out of the box.

A picture without straight edges.

•••

Cedric silently follows after Captain Ash’val, his mouth dry and concern clawing it’s way through the depths of his hearts. If… Or more accurately, when it’s found out that he helped four teenage baselines out of the base, rather than bringing them to holding or to one of his older Cousins or Imperial Fist Brothers, he had no doubt that he’s going to be in more trouble. But the young apothecary truly felt that he’d done the best he could in a rather fraught situation. Even if Cedric had merely taken the four teenagers to holding, the fact that they were there would have caught Captain Petras’ attention, and…

The Black Templar Chaplain had a firm and heavy hand when it came to punishment, and while Cedric would like to say that he didn’t think that the older Black Templar would permanently harm baseline humans who had been born and lived on Holy Terra… Especially the young and adventurously foolish - 

Cedric was half-way through checking the inventory of the tertiary infirmary aboard the Sigismund when his vox was pinged. One of his fellow Primaris brothers was in critical condition and needed immediate medical aid, or it was likely that he was going to die. Considering the fact that the Sigismund was weeks from the last engagement and they had taken minimal casualties, the ping had startled the young Apothecary.

Dutifully he set down the medication he’d been counting, grabbing an emergency kit and sprinted out of the medication room, hearing the medication room door close automatically behind him. 

It took him five long, agonizing minutes to reach the location of his critically injured Brother, who continued to get worse and further injured by something. He’d also made sure to grab his bolter - they were flying through the warp and if the Gellar Field had weakened where the Brother was and had allowed a daemon or other sort of warp-predator onto the ship, they were potentially in much greater trouble.

Cedric skidded to a halt, staring in confusion at the entrance to the cathedral room, which was where his dying brother was. It was one of the most holy and sanctified parts of the entire ship, how could an agent of Chaos bear to stand in a place so entirely lit by His Holy Light? The young apothecary mentally shook himself and charged into the room to see-

Honorable Chaplain Captain Petras standing over the prone body of Alois, one of Cedric’s fellow Primaris marines, sneering down at the young marine, who had been stripped of both armor and clothing, and knelt before the older marine, head bowed low and arms crossed behind his back. Petras was wielding an electro-whip in one hand, the other was wielding a charged powerfist. The chaplain’s voice was full of disdain and wrathful fire as he thundered loudly “YOU WILL BE PUNISHED FOR YOUR MANY SINS, AND BE MADE TO BLEED AND CRAWL IN PENANCE!”

Alois was barely breathing, and was weeping silently but freely, shi shoulders trembling. He didn’t so much as flinch as Petras whipped him across the face, carving another bloody stripe from the younger marine’s body. 

The primaris Marine did go flying over the pathway between the metal pews, sailing towards where Cedric stood transfixed as Petras punched Alois square in the chest with his charged powerfist, a low wheeze of pain leaving Alois as the blow struck, and when he landed with a heavy, meaty thud on the metal plating of the deck.

The sound shook Cedric out of his shock-stillness as he rushed over to his brother’s side, his vitals worsening further. “H-Honorable B-Brother Chaplain Captain, this M-marine’s vital signs are d-dangerously close to death. M-May I suggest that you s-stay your h-hand of punishment until he is recovered enough to c-continue to endure the… The punishment without r-risk of dying?” Cedric asked, as his hands flew over his brother’s body, checking where Alois was most critically injured as he started to administer the life-saving medications and treatments that the other primaris would need in order to survive the brutal beating he’d endured.

“And what if I tell you that I have decided that he is Unfit to continue to serve as an Astartes, little Apothecary? What if I told you that I have decided that he should be culled for his weaknesses, for his sins?” Petras sneered, stalking down the walkway towards both primaris marines. 

Cedric didn’t dare take his eyes off of his patient, knowing that Captain Petras in particular saw direct eye-contact from an aspirant or a squire as a punishable offense unless he ordered them to look at him directly. “Th-there is a p-proper procedure for that, H-Honorable Chaplain Captain, that a-allows the Apothecarion to harvest certain useful critical organs from the to-be-culled marine so that those organs may be properly r-recycled sir.” He hated the fact that his voice was trembling, but was glad that his hands were stone-steady as he continued to tend to his barely conscious and badly injured Brother. 

Cedric mentally shook himself as he desperately tried to ground himself in the here and now. He knew of over a dozen Primaris Brothers who had been killed by the infamous temper of Chaplain Captain Petras and that was before he’d… Before he’d killed his own apprentice, Ramiel and had openly declared that he found all Primaris Marines to be heretical abominations unworthy of existence. He had reported the deaths of those primaris marines and who they had been kill-culled by to his mentor, who had responded by restricting Cedric’s movements on the Sigismund alone more and more until the near-schism had almost torn the Black Templar chapter apart. 

Cedric had never been able to save any of them, their injuries too severe and Petras’ orders absolute. The fact that Ramiel had actually been sent to Ancient Terra half-dead instead of actually dying was… Surely that had been an intervention by the God Emperor, as Cedric had been within hailing range and had been able to actually save Ramiel with proper supplies and firstborn brothers uninterested in seeing a Primaris brother slowly bleed out to death at their boots. 

Part of him silently hoped that he would be able to find more of his thought-dead primaris brothers having also been spared by Him on Terra and be able to patch them u properly, allow them to heal and prove themselves as worthy Astartes. 

Shit, Captain Ash’val was talking! Better pay attention. Cedric mentally reviewed what his ears had been hearing while his mind wallowed in past agonies. 

“We’ve been able to find a couple of older Black Templars who have expressed a desire to meet with you. Both of them also have bonds, and have been on Ancient Terra for at least a couple of years, if not longer.” Ash’val explained, a small smile appearing on the Salamander’s face. “You’ll be meeting them in the base, in one of the public rooms. They should be here relatively soon.”

“Yes sir.” Cedric responded with an obedient nod, making sure to stand in a spot that wouldn’t impede the foot traffic in the room. He briefly checked to make sure that the civvie clothes he was wearing was clean and in good condition. He felt woefully underdressed for meeting any of his older brothers, with no armor and not even a simple weapon on his belt… But he hoped that they would forgive him for that, as it wasn’t as if he’d wanted to be taken to Ancient Terra in his night clothes. 

The young apothecary immediately spotted the older Templar as he walked into the room, armor shining in the artificial light of the room. He was holding something in one of his hands, although what it might be, Cedric could only guess. The style of the other’s armor put his home timeline likely in the mid M-40s. Well before the rollout of the Primaris Marines. He nearly startled when the older Brother approached and spoke, offering him the sourdough loaf. “Thank you sir.” He murmured. It was slightly warm to the touch and it smelled delicious. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do with the sourdough loaf, and would either be told or ask Pyrus later. 

Cedric’s eyes went huge as one of the Emperor’s Champions walked over to the two of them. He could barely breathe, awed and incredibly intimidated as the well-known and revered Champion Arnault Wach walked over and actually talked! To him and Brother Roland! Cedric felt his ears go warm at the light call out of him being embarrassingly unarmed unarmored and managed not to squeak as he murmured a meek “Yes sir.”

The young apothecary briefly lost the thread of the conversation - especially when the two older brothers switched to one of the local languages - one he was unfamiliar with. But Cedric was well aware of the Rule among Black Templars that younger brothers were not to speak unless spoken to, and stayed quiet, still holding the loaf of sourdough uncertainly in his hands. 

The Emperor’s Champion looked at Cedric directly again, which froze the air in all three of Cedric’s lungs. It took him a moment to process what Arnault asked of him. 

His… Favorite food? “N…Nutrient paste?” The young apothecary offered, deeply confused. Ration bars were drier and tended to be chalky. Nutrient paste could be heated up and had a couple of different flavors to them. Not that he had a definite preference. 

Then Brother Roland asked “Have you been allowed out?” clearly referring to the base.

Cedric shuffled his feet a little. He refused to apologize for attacking the Slaaneshi bastard and didn’t think either of them would punish him for following his training… But with him on-base, anything was possible “No sir… I attacked a patient.” 

He would be happy to explain the full details of what happened, but a look of understanding passed between the Emperor’s Champion and the Battle Brother as they said together “Right, unbonded.” 

Was there really such a difference between bonded and unbonded Black Templars? Just what all was involved with these bonds? Cedric had tried to ask before, but the explanations he got were confusing and didn’t make much sense… They also boiled down to you’ll understand when you get a Bond yourself. 

“Well, little battle brother, you’ve got Brother Roland and myself, Brother Arnault in the area to keep you company.” The Emperor’s Champion declared, a smile on the older brother’s face “Now let’s enjoy the brot that Bruder Roland brought.” He ordered, silently gesturing for Cedric to follow him.

Cedric nodded and followed after the two firstborn Black Templars, staying a respectful two and a half steps behind the others as he had been taught, surprised and honored beyond words when Brother Roland and Brother Arnault invited him to walk alongside them, as if they were equals. “I… I haven’t had sourdough bread before, sir.” The young apothecary admitted shyly, holding the item in his hands “How do we enjoy it? It smells delicious.”

“Have… Have you never had brot before? How long have you been on Ancient Terra?” Brother Roland asked, blinking a little in surprise. 

“About six months or so? The Older Brothers and Cousins have been keeping me busy in the base. Occasionally they supplement my meals with local fruits and vegetables, which has been a fascinating experience so far, sirs!” Cedric answered earnestly, careful not to look either of them directly in the eye. He didn’t want to seem as if he was challenging either one of them.

“What have you tried? What have you enjoyed most? Brot can be enjoyed a number of ways, but here, hand the brot over and I’ll tear off chunks for each of us to eat.” Roland instructed Cedric, who immediately complied.

The bread had a more intense scent when it was torn open, and Cedric took a cautious bite. The savory-tangy flavors were almost overwhelming to his senses, but in a very good way. He found that he devoured the piece of sourdough within seconds “This is really tasty, sir! Thank you for bringing it. I very much liked the pink apples and the little green tree-vegetables. They have a subtle earthy taste and take all kinds of spices really well.” 

Quiet.

Peace of solitude, silence, loneliness has always been a bit of what Martin has missed from his life. He needs it as much as the sun, as much as the breath in his lungs. Sometimes the lingering ache of it all leaves him hurting—hurting over the fact that he shouldn’t want this; he should want to be, not to fade. He should be over this by now.

But, Jon. Jon understands. He understands that need for something you do not want better than just about anyone. So when Martin needs to disappear, or begs for quiet, or takes time to meditate and drift away, Jon always keeps his worry under what he surely thinks to be a careful façade. Martin sees right through it, of course. And loves him all the more for it every time.

Days like this should build up his reserve—the quiet days, where Jon is either gone, or busy, or engrossed in a novel Martin would never dream of picking up. But something about this is off, and Martin knows it.

He knows it by the way that Jon has barely shifted positions at his desk for many hours, other than to unfold and refold his legs under himself. Surely they must be aching—Martin knows they must. So many hours in one place tend to make Jon restless, his muscles cramping and his mind running wild. Sometimes in a good way—Martin is now accustomed to listening to very excited, lightning-fast monologues about whatever Jon had found himself fascinated by that day. But sometimes...sometimes, in other ways as well. Other ways not altogether pleasant.

Martin is certain this is one of the latter type.

From his vantage point in the kitchen, Martin can see the screensaver on Jon’s laptop running across it. Jon is working on nothing at all—has not been working on anything for nearly an hour now, and yet has not moved. It sets Martin’s teeth on edge, this sort of thing. When Jon appears as himself, is present as himself—and yet, not quite. Never quite there, not really. It reminds him of the early days after they had put the world back together, coming up on five years ago now. Days when Jon was drifting…and Martin had never been sure if he would come back.

Stop thinking stop stop

Don’t go there. Not now. Focus.

His head feels heavy with fog when he stands, as it often does—and he makes his way over to Jon, careful to step a bit heavier than usual so as to give some warning of his approach.

“Jon love?” he murmurs, keeping his tone as light as possible, much lighter than he feels. “You alright?”

The tiniest of jumps, barely noticeable. Jon freezes in place for a moment, before attempting to turn his head to look at Martin—and coming to a sudden stop with a groan, and a hand pressed into his shoulder.

“Hmm. Martin.”

His voice is rough from disuse, and he lets out a dry cough as Martin kneels slowly beside him.

“What are you working on?” he asks, trying the gentlest approach he can think of—and trying not to feel affronted when Jon flinches against the fingertips brushed against the back of his arm.

“I-I—erm—I was just…” He trails off as he realizes his laptop is asking him to enter the password again. “Ah. Well. Nothing at all, it seems.”

With a long sigh, Jon tips his head against the back of his chair—or rather, he tries. The motion seems to pull something uncomfortably in his neck, and he hisses painfully as he replaces his hand over the angle between his neck and shoulder.

“Alright, love? Can I help?”

“Ah, it’s—it’s fine, I-I did this to myself, I—”

“Jon.”

“—should get back to work—”

“Jon.”

Something of it seems to cut through his downward spiral, and he manages to meet Martin’s eyes at last—the shadows beneath his eyes outlining the exhausted desperation bubbling just behind them. For what, or who, or when, Martin cannot be sure—but he is sure that he needs to coax Jon out of whatever space he’s found himself in today.

“Does your neck hurt?” he asks, creasing his brows together when Jon attempts to shake his head, and winces instead. “Right, stupid question—how bad is it?”

“It’s fine—it’s nothing, it’s my fault anyway.”

It drives Martin mad how much Jon still wants to blame himself for everything, even the mundane, even things that require none. Especially things that require none. But, instead of putting a voice to this unsolvable frustration, Martin softens for the moment, stretching out a hand to cover Jon’s own where it still rests on the side of his neck.

“Want to try a little massage?” he asks, pressing a small kiss to Jon’s temple. “Maybe it’ll loosen you up enough to turn your head, at least.”

“Hmm,” is the only reply Jon gives, eyes falling closed against the gentle warmth of Martin’s hands.

“I’ll take that as a yes then.” Chuckling lightly, Martin stands behind him and gets to work.

He rests his fingertips lightly on the sides of Jon’s neck at first, being sure to always remain toward the back and away from his scar. Slowly, he begins to work his fingers a bit deeper into the muscle, traveling from the nape of his neck and down, as Jon unbuttons just the top of his shirt and shrugs the material off his shoulders. It warms Martin’s heart immeasurably to see him beginning to relax under his hands. And more importantly, gives him a wonderful idea for how to make this even better.

“One moment, love,” he whispers next to Jon’s ear, pressing another quick kiss to his temple before stepping away to root through his desk for the massage oil he’d been given by a friend. Sure, maybe he’s never used it, but…lavender certainly sounds like a relaxing smell, and god knows that Jon needs as much assistance with that as he can get.

“Alright, here we are.” He uncaps the bottle and holds it in front of Jon for him to smell. “What do you think?”

Jon blinks in surprise at the new smell, then furrows his brows.

“Wh—what is this?”

“Massage oil. I’ve never used it but—well, now’s as good a time as any, right?”

“I-I…I suppose so.”

The hesitance in Jon’s voice sends up warning flags in Martin’s mind at once—and he steps to the side to get a better look at Jon’s face. A bit glazed, vacant, as he turns the bottle of massage oil over and over in his hands.

“Is something wrong?” Martin asks, cocking his head to one side in confusion. “If you don’t like the smell, I won’t use it.”

“No no, it’s not that,” he assures, closing his eyes as if to clear some picture displayed in front of them. “I don’t know. I—erm. You can try it.”

“Jon…”

“Try it, please try it. It—it should be nice.”

For all that he insists, something about this gives Martin pause. Something in his voice, his body language doesn’t sit right at all—

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, setting a gentle hand on his knee as he crouches to his eye level. “What’s going on?”

A few tense moments go by before Jon responds, the knee beneath Martin’s hand beginning to bounce with an all-too-familiar surge of anxiety. Face going ashen, he attempts a strained, awful sort of smile.

“S-sorry, I—sorry, it’s fine, just—ah.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, love—is it the smell that bothered you? Can you tell me what’s happening?

His leg bounces harder, the other one beginning to join it. As he meets Martin’s eyes again, it is with a particular brand of shock and horror that tells Martin he is barely hanging on to his surroundings. It twists as a knife in his gut, pulling at his insides as his new task shifts to keeping Jon with him.

“Alright, love. You’re here with me, okay? Here, take my hand—”

He extends his own trying to pull Jon’s away from the white-knuckle grip on the arm of his chair—and Jon takes a gasping inhale, clutching at his neck in panic.

“Woah woah, Jon—”

“STOP stop stop please stop—”

Reeling from the sudden shouting, Martin pulls his hands away from Jon as if they had been burned, falling backwards from his crouch and onto the floor in alarm. The lavender oil in Jon’s hand skitters away across the floor as it slips from his hold. Pounding, pounding, pounding is Martin’s heart in his chest, adrenaline overpowering his thoughts for a few moments before he can really take action. What had happened? What had he done to make Jon feel so unsafe?

“Mm—ha—ah—”

“Hold on love, hold on,” he soothes, reaching out a hand of comfort, before thinking better of it. “I’ll be back, just hold on.”

Lifting himself as quickly as possible from the floor, Martin strides quickly towards their refrigerator, yanking open the freezer door and grabbing an ice cube for Jon to ground himself with. Or at least, so he hopes.

What happened?

What did I do? Did I say something?

Did I—

Oh.

Oh god, no.

Heart twinging with guilt, he hurries back to his husband’s side, gently slipping the ice cube back into his palm with as little skin contact as possible. If he feels like he’s back there, back with the clown, with unfamiliar hands of plastic and metal touching him, preparing him, readying him for the harvest—then Martin knows even his own familiar hands will be lost among the noise of the others. Interpreted as a threat.

God, Jon. What have I done?

“Here, sweetheart. I’m right here. You’re here with me.”

The words seem unable to reach him in this state—he blinks rapidly, staring into something unseen, unheard—his entire body trembling with adrenaline, fear, anticipation…and god knows what else. Aching, aching is Martin’s chest as he watches it all unfold, knowing that there is nothing to do but wait for the flashback to end and hope his suffering is as brief as possible.

“N-no—Nikola—”

“You’re here with me, Jon. You’re safe.”

“S-stop, don’t—touch me!”

Oh, Jon.

A few more seconds of true unawareness—before a bit of movement from his right pulls Martin’s gaze down towards the hand which holds the ice cube. As he begins to roll it around, Martin prays the sensation of it will be enough of an anchor this time, that this will be the end of it. That nothing will launch him back into the panic, just as his breathing begins to slow.  As a precaution, Martin grabs the small vial of lavender oil from the carpet, shoving it into his pocket and out of sight.

“Jon? You back with me?”

“…mmm,” he hums, after a few moments’ delay. His eyes slip closed as he attempts to control his breathing, still running the ice between his fingers while his entire frame trembles.

“Alright,” Martin murmurs, coming to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of him. “I’m right here. I’m not gonna touch you, but I’m right here.”

Eerie stillness hangs heavy in the space between them, all silence save for the shuddering of Jon’s body against the chair and the scant air moving through his lungs. And oh, how Martin wants to reach for him—but knows of course he cannot, not until it’s passed a bit, not until Jon remembers where he is. When he is. It cracks in Martin’s chest, spidering through his heart and lungs the longer the silence holds.

Come back.

Come back.

Come back.

I’m not going to leave you.

“Mmm,” Jon echoes his earlier hum, leg beginning to bounce again, stocking feet curling into the carpet. “I’m—here. Here.”

“Yes, you’re here. Here with me,” Martin breathes, nearly crying with relief as tears begin to slip down Jon’s face. “Do you know where?”

“Home.”

His voice cracks in the middle, forcing a shuddering inhale; a broken sob of an exhale as at last he leans forward, bracing his head in his hands.

“Martin.”

“I’m here, love. Home with you.”

“I can’t—” He breaks off to inhale sharply. “Can’t feel my legs, Martin, please—”

“Okay, alright, love. Head between your knees—you’re gonna be alright.”

Jon obliges at once, sinking lower, deepening his breaths, following Martin’s careful pattern toward some semblance of calm. Not quite there, and will not be for some time. The knowledge of it sits heavy in the back of Martin’s throat, and he swallows angrily at it. This is his fault; he should have seen this coming, should have spared a single thought for the wellbeing of his husband and now he cannot even comfort him—

A trembling hand suddenly brushes against his arm, searching. Asking for him—searching for his anchor. After all this time…after everything.

Martin can no longer keep the tears back—and does not want to.

“Oh, darling,” he whispers, pulling Jon into his chest at once, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his hair. “I’m here. I’m so sorry, love. So sorry.”

“Martin.”

“You’re safe. I’m here.”

Jon buries his face into the soft knit of Martin’s jumper at his shoulder, slackening so deeply into his hold that Martin nearly topples over.