#jon needs a statement

“Hm?” Martin waited until Jon was beside him again to take up his hand, press his lips to the back of it.

“You’ve been quiet.” Jon tucked himself up under his chin, nuzzling into his jumper and ignoring Basira’s scathing look. His head hurt. Filled with buzzing, humming, crooning static.

“Just thinking.” The crease between Martin’s brows deepened but there was no lie to suss out.

“Okay.” He kissed the top of his head and Jon melted, tangling their fingers together before following after Basira.

Jon was dragging his feet, slowing down more and more with each step further through this realm. He had yet to take another statement, too embarrassed to ask, and he walked with his eyes closed to block out the glare, following the tug of where to go without having to look. He felt flooded with fears, statements begging to be let out, be told, feed the Eye, and he ached for it, stumbling more than once. He didn’t notice Martin’s presence beside him until he spoke.

“Jon, it’s.” If he stopped, he’d never start again, but Martin was in the way. “Hey, it’s been a while since you’ve. You know?”

“Haven’t needed to yet.”

Liar!

He was miserable and unwell and his head was pounding in time with his heartbeat but he shouldn’t need to do this, it’s not human and he thought he was becoming okay with it because Martin was becoming okay with it but now. Now with Basira in the ranks each step was a constant reminder that he wasn’t. He wasn’t human and probably never would be again. None of them have gotten through any of this without being changed.

The Eye was deafening, shouting, shrieking, demanding he give in and he pushed away from Martin on shaking legs, staggering a few feet away to be sick and he hated that he was literally “vomiting his horrors,” as it had been so eloquently stated before. The bitter taste of ink blossomed on his tongue, splashed onto the thirsty ground, and black ichor appeared like a brush stroke on his arm when he scrubbed it over his mouth.

“Jon!”

“No, it’s. I’m fine.” He turned back to him to prove it, taking another step only to drop to his knees when they buckled. “Headache. S’all.” Covering his face with both hands to block out the eerie light, the sky like that before a bad thunderstorm perpetually, aware of the weight of that gaze, pushing him down, down, down.

“We need to keep moving.”

“Just wait a moment, Basira.” Martin shot her a sharp look on his behalf. “Jon. Tell me, darling. What’s wrong?” Jon flinched when she scoffed, just a moment, a moment with Martin, please.

“Nothing, n’nothing.” Martin pressed his forehead to Jon’s, surrounding him, murmuring.

“It’s okay, just you and me here right now.” Some of the tension slipped away, replaced by trembling need.

“Pressure. Jus’...I. Not sure. So much fear and terror filling me up, like it’s. It’s crowding against the door.”

“Jon--” But it was pouring from him in a rush now, all the insecurities he’d been trying to ignore and the pain in his head overwhelming.

“I’m s’sorry, I’m, I’m trying not to l’let it out. I know. I know you don’t like it and Basira--” That small burst of energy was all he had left and his next words were a hoarse whisper Martin had to strain to hear. “It hurts.” Martin’s hand came up to cup the back of his neck.

“Jon, I don’t want you to hurt yourself trying to stop whatever this all is.” Shivering, Jon swallowed audibly. “You’re right, I don’t, I don’t like it.”

“I’m sor--” This time he guided his face into the hollow of his throat and he hid there, arms snaking around his middle, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket and clinging for dear life to his anchor, his reason.

“Let me finish.” Gently, Martin stroked his hair, lessened the ache by the smallest degree and it was bliss. “I like it even less when you hurt like this.” Martin pressed soft kisses to the skin he could reach and Jon sighed. “Alright?”

“Alright.”

“Alright.” Jon held tighter, tears welling up at the thought of letting him go, at the thought of being so exposed when he was feeling this fragile with Basira just meters away. Maybe he could hold out just a bit longer but no, the headache was crescendoing and he felt his limited grasp on the nausea slip just that much more, the words on the tip of his tongue vying for a way out. “Jon?” Once he started it wouldn’t matter anyway, he’d be lost to it, cut off from everything except his statement. But he couldn’t let go, instead rubbing his cheek against Martin’s shoulder.

“Would you?” Stay? He wanted to ask. Couldn’t ask. It was too much to ask. “I m’mean.” He tried to pull away and found himself held fast.

“Until you start. Then I’m running.” He could feel the smile, hear it in his voice, so he sat back and Martin thumbed a stray tear from his cheek before taking his hands in his own and Jon gave himself over to the Eye.

His head was cradled in someone’s lap, Martin’s of course, with his slow, careful fingers carding through his messy curls and he would maintain later that the gutteral noise of acknowledgment he made was completely intentional.

“Hullo, Jon.” He blinked dumbly, fuzzy and thick. “Looked like a doozy, that one.”

“Don’t really remember it, f’I’m honest.” It was comfortable here with Martin and his soft touches, but-- “Basira’s itching to get going.” Martin leaned down and pressed a dizzying kiss to his lips, stealing all the breath from his body.