The Eye Blinks

The thing is, that Jonathan Sims is fine these days. Mostly.

Most of the time, he’s not in pain, barely notices his marks anymore. People have stopped openly staring when he’s in public and Martin doesn’t care anyway. As much as Jon hates to admit it, the fact that he’d known- had beheld that last part to be true before the eye had rejected him helped enormously.

Of course, there’s always the chance that Martin could have changed his mind, but honestly most days even Jon can admit that he doesn’t look worse than when they’d first come to Scotland. His hair isn’t wiry and coarse anymore for example, his skin no longer greyish and dry and, thanks to Martin, he no longer looks like a half-starved street cat. Both of them had been kind of surprised, that the bags beneath both their eyes and the haunted look they’d acquired over the last years had gone away after all.

On one of the first evenings after they’d arrived at the safe house Martin had told his then-boyfriend to know, what Martin saw when he looked at the former archivist, then still avatar of the beholding and that sight still is something that is probably never going to leave Jon.

That evening had been also been the first and only time, Jon had put an image into someone else’s head – and he’d been scared beyond believe when Martin’s eyes had clouded over and he’d only stared at him for a couple of minutes. At that point, not even a whole week had passed since Jon had followed him into the lonely and guided him back out and Martin had still regularly stilled, gone silent and absent back then. Even his body temperature had dropped when he had gotten into that state and Jon had not noticed straight away and snapped him out of it.

Many an afternoon had consisted in Jon brushing the tips of his fingers against Martin’s face or squeezing his hands in his as tightly as he could without hurting Martin to get him back, then sitting down with him and easing Martin’s upper body backwards until his head came to a rest on Jon’s lap. It had been a progress of trial and error until they’d found a routine that grounded Martin enough to relax and let go, come back to himself again and really, Jon would gladly take any excuse to run his hands through his boyfriend’s soft strands and wind Martin’s curls around his fingers while he hummed or quietly talked to him until Martin’s eyes cleared and no longer stared blankly into space.

But Martin’s face had not looked quite like that after Jon had returned the favour and shown him; he had not looked cold or absent, just still. Shocked, perhaps and Jon had nearly lost it; had barely managed to refrain from gripping Martin’s shoulders and shaking him until he showed any sign of life.

The memory of what Elias had done to his love in a similar way had come up unbidden and when Martin had finally moved, to wipe at his eyes behind his glasses of all things, Jon had been just about ready to walk into the ocean and never return- which had lasted about as long as it had taken his boyfriend to regain the ability to have a coherent train of thought and tug the former archivist into his arms, quietly sniffing as he’d buried his face in Jon’s hair and pressed his lips against any inch of Jon’s skin he’d been able to reach.

Really, the only downside of Jon no longer serving the ceaseless watcher and thus losing his powers was that they had only been able to do that once – which was more than everyone else got, sure, but actually looking through your loved one’s eyes and seeing- well, it had helped. A lot. Even the memory helps most days and it’s not like they don’t talk about this. If there’s one thing, they do it’s talking – which is both a lot harder and a lot easier than either of them would have thought.

But that still is only most days and Jon’s marks are still obvious and don’t go away, probably won’t go away at all, or even get less obvious. And really, that’s fine. Usually. Jon barely notices them anymore. He doesn’t go out of his way to search out shining or reflective surfaces but he hasn’t really done that when he still had more than an inch of intact skin and all of his ribs left, so that’s not that much of a change.

Some days though, he wakes up and his skin feels rough and just not right; the marks Prentiss’ worms had left behind standing out especially noticeably. It’s nothing, really, not compared to the weeks after Jonah’s failed ritual or Jon’s time at the institute in general, but it’s not exactly pleasant either.

On those days, the thought that perhaps Martin used to think him the most beautiful thing in the world but maybe no longer does, and that every other person on earth doesn’t think anything along those lines when they see him comes unbidden and settles down to stay.

“Are you okay?”, Martin asks on one such morning, both arms wrapped around his husband and hugging him closer when Jon’s body tenses up almost as soon as his eyes flutter open and his breath catches in his throat.

“Yeah, I’m okay”, Jon whispers back, because it’s not really a lie. He’s a bit uncomfortable, but he’s snuggled into Martin’s chest and can just about make out Sappho sleeping curled up at foot of their bed, a tiny black ball amidst the soft grey sheets so that definitely counts as okay at least, “good morning, dear”

“Morning, love”

Martin is, still half-asleep, already rubbing slow circles into his husband’s side, careful and wide and just the way, that’s pleasant and not tickling. He tries his best not to sound wary, even as it takes Jon longer than usual to slowly relax into the caress and melt against him.

“I think, it’s my turn to make breakfast”, Jon finally says.

Perhaps moving about and having something to do will distract him - it sometimes does on those days - and Jon is willing to give it a shot if it just makes his skin stop feeling strange.

“I thought French toast perhaps?”

“We don’t have any milk”, Martin yawns, burying his face in Jon’s hair and showing no sign of wanting to let go anytime soon, “or eggs”

“I went by the shops yesterday evening”, Jon blindly reaches up, carefully feeling along Martin’s jaw until he can lay his hand against his jowl, smiling quietly when Martin nuzzles into his good hand. The other one balls to a first between them, fighting the urge to scratch at his scars, “got your rock sugar too, and pomegranates and those disgusting crisps you won’t eat before you try and kiss me”

“They’re just well-seasoned. It’s not their fault, you can’t handle spicy food”

“I just like my mouth not to burn five hours after I’ve had one bite that didn’t even taste of anything but pain”

“Potato, potahto”

“Yes, well they didn’t taste of that either”

Jon can feel Martin’s grin when he turns his head and kisses Jon’s palm, movements still sluggish and voice still muffled from sleep and the uncomfortableness lifts for a moment.

---

They end up having breakfast outside in the little sitting area behind the house, watching the waves crash against the shore. Sappho follows them outside and stalks the bushes around the house while they eat, before she returns to curl up on Jon’s lap and fall asleep with the former archivist’s fingers running through her soft black fur.

It’s surprisingly mild and sunny already; only a light breeze is moving the grass that surrounds the sandy footpath leading from their garden to the beach and guides the grass blades in lazy, elaborate dance moves. Despite the pleasant warmth, Martin wraps his arm around his husband’s waist at some point and just casually holds him close while they finish their tea, and watch the seagulls strut around the beach, crying out when they take to the sky.

“I think we should do this more often”, Jon eventually sighs, head resting against Martin’s shoulder at his point and body loose and relaxed in his husband’s embrace, the strange uncomfortableness from earlier that morning forgotten.

“Breakfast outside?”, Martin asks in a soft voice, still casting his gaze from Jon to Sappho to the sea and back, determined to drink in as much as he can, “I don’t see why not, with the weather getting milder. We could probably do with spending a lot more time outside in general”

“We could, if you wanted to, also finally actually do something with all of this”, Jon uses the arm he is not resting against Martin’s thigh to gesture broadly towards the whole yard, which is basically the entire grassy area surrounding their house until it gets cut off by either their driveway or the beach itself. They’re the only residents for at least a mile on either side and the closest things they have for neighbours are the two herds of glorious cows that are out on the close by grasses during spring and summer.

“Like plant some vegetable patches?”

Martin’s eyes have followed the movement of Jon’s hands and now they’re seizing up the overgrown lawn and the unbelievable amount of weeds between the grass and the handful of bushes and trees that had already been there when they’d viewed the little seaside cottage.

The mere prospect of their own home and not being surrounded by concrete and stone on all sides had excited them more than perhaps it should have, but they had not actually planned what to do with their outside space yet, other than scrubbing the ancient lawn furniture that had been stored away in the shed and returning it to the garden itself, once March had given way to April.

“I’ve never had a proper garden, but why not? It’s not like we don’t have the time to take care of it. Should probably get some flowerbeds too, don’t you think?”

“And an herb garden”, Martin nods, a slow grin spreading over his face as he slowly turns his head from one side to the other, “maybe some lavender too, and mint”

“For our very own tea-stash?”

“Why not?”

“Why not indeed”, Jon agrees, mirroring his husband’s smile as he tips back his head to look up into his face, “we should probably get rid of the weeds first, and make some kind of plan what we want to have and where”

“My classes don’t start till four”

“So, what do you say, weeds first or planning?”

Of course, they end up pulling up weeds first and it takes forever. By the time they’ve cleared most of the garden and heavily sit down in the last bit of shade that remains in the grass, their shirts are damp with sweat and their trousers stained with green and brown. Jon’s hair has come undone from its knot of course and it’s sticking to the back and side of his neck, despite the bandana he’d tied around his head to keep it at bay.

On their last flea market-adventure, Martin had bought a light straw-hat on a whim and when he finally takes it off now, his curls are plastered down beneath it; he’s vaguely sure, he could wring them out with his hands if he tried but he really doesn’t feel the need right now. Not with the dark half-moons beneath his arms and the dirt caked beneath his nails – which seems kind of unnecessary with them having used garden gloves while they’d worked.

But the area they have managed to clear looks a lot better, and they have already mounted up a rather sizeable heap of discarded weeds and stones which they will have to figure out what to do with at some point, or at least how to get rid of. Right now though, they’re done for the day, faces pink, arms propped up against the grass behind them and hands buried in the blades as they lean back, legs stretched out in vague v-shapes in front of them and, for once, no parts of their bodies touching.

“You know”, Martin eventually starts around a yawn, turning his head to see his husband’s face, or at least make out its vague outline, “I don’t think, I’ve done anything gardening-related since I was three and my grandma still lived”

“Mine only had window boxes with herbs and you couldn’t really do any gardening with them, except watering them from time to time. Believe me, I tried”

“Which was not greatly appreciated, I gather?”

At this point, Martin does feel around for Jon’s hand and place his own over his husband’s fingers when he finds them in the overgrown grass and Jon smiles softy at the touch. 

“Not exactly”, Jon sighs as he closes his eyes and hooks his thumb around Martin’s hand, brushing the smooth skin of the back of his hand, because Martin has softest, most gentle hands he’d ever touched while even Jon’s good hand always ends up dry and rough,  “perhaps I should borrow a book or two on gardening next time I’m at the library”

Martin hums in agreement, lids heavy in the gentle breeze and with the warm ache in his limbs and back which will surely bloom into full-blown soreness overnight.

“Tomorrow, right?”

“Right”, Jon agrees, fighting the urge to yawn himself, and trying to gather the will to get up, “love, I think I have to go inside and shower now, or I’ll never get up again”

“Yeah, me too”, Martin sighs.

He squeezes Jon’s fingers one last time before he lets go and climbs to his feet, stretching out his hands towards his husband and pulling Jon to his feet as soon as he stands upright.

“I’ll go upstairs, kay?”, Martin suggests when they amble back inside, fingers still interlaced with Jon’s because that’s a thing that’s just never going to get old and he only lets go at the foot of the stairs, after he’s already made it a couple of steps upwards. To his credit, Jon isn’t exactly fast to let go either.

The cottage has two bathrooms, one upstairs, next to their study, one on the ground floor, which usually serves as a guest bathroom. The location within the house is the only main difference between the two, that and the fact that the downstairs bathroom features a full-length mirror the previous owners had attached to the back of the door, for reasons neither Jon nor Martin can quite fathom.

It’s not the only reason both Martin and Jon usually opt for the other bathroom, but it’s also not like they wouldn’t take it down if they weren’t afraid of damaging either mirror or door. Today, neither of them is particularly eager to wait for the other to finish up quickly though and right now, presented with the choice of either climbing up the stairs or not doing that, Jon isn’t exactly mad about staying on the ground floor.

That is of course, until he’s finished cleaning up and, still clad in nothing but a towel, since he’d forgotten to bring a change of clothes downstairs, finds himself stood in front of the huge mirror, staring at his reflection.

When showering on his own, Martin likes his water temperature about like he likes his tea - which is to say nearly scolding and while Jon appreciates the idea of a hot shower, he usually opts for a more humane temperature when given the choice. This does not mean that Jon would pass up the opportunity of having his hair washed and Martin pressing little kisses against his shoulders for anything. Even if it does go hand in hand with feeling like he’s being boiled.

Having, however, not used boiling hot water has the side effect of not stepping out of the shower base and into a room filled with so much steam one can barely make out the sink or walls ahead. All of which would be fine if it weren’t for the huge reflective back of the door, which annoyingly has not even fogged over fully but has enough clear panes left, for Jon’s scars to reflect.

His skin is still flushed, which makes the pale lines and circular marks stand out all the more – and Jon knows, he knows that he should just pull open the door and get out, not even look at his reflection, but his eyes have already fixed on it, and he can’t look away.

There’s barely an inch of skin without some kind of scarring or mark; round bitemarks are scattered around his joints, trailing up his limbs and sides, his neck and chest. Even his face is not free of them, although the left side’s a little better off than the right one.

Back then in the tunnels, in the end, he and Tim had held as tightly onto each other as they could, burying their faces in the other’s shoulder to keep the damned worms off as much skin as they could, which had worked to a point. The bruises and scratches Tim’s fingers and nails had left on Jon’s skin had stayed with him for days, and Jon’s pretty sure, Tim had not fared much better in that regard. At least most of their faces had been spared.

Still there are pale marks trailing up both sides of Jon’s jowls and almost framing his face until they fade into his hair. Weeks, months after Jane Prentiss’ attack, he had still woken up in the middle of the night, in pain and covered in cool sweat and raking his fingers through his hair after he’d dreamed of pale, legless shapes wriggling through it. He’d been this close to shaving his head during those nights until he’d remembered that he would have nothing to at least partially cover the skin of his face and neck if he cut his hair.

There’s his burnt hand, the jagged line on his thigh he has Michael to thank for, the not-quite-right shape of his ribcage where his missing ribs would be, the white line across his throat, his almost entirely grey hair. More wormscars, which prickle and burn, the longer he stares at them until he can’t bear it anymore. He barely notices he’s started scratching at them, raking his blunt nails across his skin and leaving new, angry red lines on his arms and thighs, his stomach and chest.

Jon’s eyes sting and he can’t bring himself to look away, fighting the urge to start crying. It really is like looking at a car crash and not being able to tear one’s eyes away. His throat brings forth a strange sound, meander between laugh and sob at the thought.

This is ridiculous, Jon is aware. He’s so, so very aware of that and he knows he should be grateful for being alive at all after everything that had happened during the last years but- but it’s not fair. He had never asked for any of this, had had no idea what he’d gotten himself into by working at the archives and still-

There’s a soft knock at the door, and Jon starts, face hot and eyes brimming with tears he refuses to shed as Martin asks whether he’s alright through the door. Jon has to pause and think for a moment, before he goes with the truth; “No, I don’t think I am”

Mostly because Martin would be able to tell it by his voice alone, and not answering or pushing past him like this wouldn’t do much good either. He doesn’t say another word, doesn’t even notice he’s still scratching at his marks when Martin opens the door and steps in, hair still wet from his own shower.

He doesn’t ask what Jon’s doing or what’s wrong, only closes the distance between them and places his own hands over his husband’s, closing his fingers around them when Jon keeps scratching. Jon’s direct line of sight of his reflection is blocked out by Martin, and his shoulder’s sag as he lets his head fall forward and it comes to a rest against his husband’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry”, he croaks when Martin engulfs him in a tight hug and his t-shirt and jeans brush against the angry red lines, “I just, I just”, he breaks off and simply buries his face in Martin’s chest, hands trapped between them. He’s shaking from head to toe, but not from the cool air that’s wafting in through the open door but hopeless, desperate frustration.

Martin casts a quick look from his husband to the back of the door, before he soothes Jon, “I know, my love, I know”

And the thing is, that Martin does know, which helps to some extent. Only, it doesn’t actually do anything to make things better. The former archivist tries to shove that thought away as soon as it has finished forming behind his red eyes.

“I know it’s stupid”, Jon sniffs, trying to control his breathing because he’s making an absolute fool out of himself. At least his eyes stop stinging once the tears drip down his cheeks.

“Doesn’t matter”, Martin kisses the top of his head and holds him tight – and Jon honestly didn’t know, that there was any capacity left of falling in love with Martin but here it is.

They don’t say anything for a while, and the only sounds in the bathroom are the slow drip drip drip from the showerhead and Jon’s soft sniffles and occasional apologies.

“Jon, you’ve nothing to be sorry about, you realize that, don’t you?”, Martin eventually asks in a soft voice.

“Well, you don’t really need me crying about my looks on top of everything I’ve already put you through, so…”, Jon points out, casting his eyes downwards, “and you don’t complain about anything ever”

“Now that’s bullshit”

“Compared to me”

“Compared to you, I had to deal with one ancient fear trying to take me over, not fourteen and Elias giving me crap”

“Everyone had to deal with Elias’ shit”, Jon snorts, then adds in a softer voice, “’specially you”

“But I didn’t have him literally feed me to the other avatars and-“ Martin cuts himself off, but Jon finishes with a bitter smile;

“Turn you into a monster?”

“That’s not-“

“Not how you’d said it, I now”, Jon moves his free hand back into Martin’s, brushing the pad of his thumb across the palm of his hand and wrist, “still true. And at least that part’s been taken care of”

“Can I try something?”, Martin eventually asks softly, and Jon shrugs in his embrace, “you’ll just tell me to stop if you’re uncomfortable, okay?”

“Okay”, Jon whispers as he pulls back, voice still thick and eyes red and puffy from crying, “go on”

He keeps his eyes trained on Martin when he takes his hand and lifts it up to his lips. It’s his right one and before long, Martin has kissed his way up from the tips of Jon’s fingers to his wrist, wherever Jude Perry had burned him.

“Good?”, Martin asks, when he brushes his lips against the first bitemarks on Jon’s wrist and forearm.

“Yes”, Jon whispers, muscles tensing up despite himself as Martin makes his way past his elbow, up to his shoulder, not missing out a single scar.

“You know”, the words start up between the kisses Martin presses to Jon’s mangled skin and they don’t stop as Martin moves along Jon’s shoulders to his left arm, down to the tips of his fingers and up again, “I really don’t think these”, Martin’s hands are on either side of his husband’s waist, holding him as he’s brushing his lips down Jon’s chest and stomach, taking a little more time when he reaches the area where Jon’s missing ribs should be, “are ugly at all”

Jon’s teeth sink into his bottom lip as he’s watching the back of Martin’s head in the mirror in front of them. He doesn’t make a sound when Martin drops to his knees in front of him, and kisses along the long, jagged scar on his thigh, then follows the trail of marks down to Jon’s ankle, until he switches over to his other leg, pausing from time to time to ask his husband whether he should stop.

“Not if you think about it. This, all of this is just a record of everything that failed to get you, of everything you were too strong and too stubborn to let it be the end of you”

Even as Martin makes his way up Jon’s leg, past his knees and still chasing the pale bitemarks, he keeps his touch featherlight, doesn’t linger near Jon’s thighs or hips and before long, Jon’s whole body is trembling, but he doesn’t tell his husband to stop. This is new, but not bad. Warmth unfurls within Jon’s chest as Martin’s fingertips and lips touch- worship his body, not avoiding, but searching out everything Jon hates about it.

“I know, this is probably going to come out wrong”, Martin tells the pale line across Jon’s throat and Jon tips back his head to give him better access, “but I really barely notice them anymore. I think that goes for most people and anyway”, he’s reached the highest mark on Jon’s left temple, turns his head and kisses down the scars on the right side, “I’d rather have you like this, than not have you at all, or have some horrible, empty shell of you or anyone else. You know that right? I only ever wanted you, and I’ll only ever want you, Jonathan Blackwood-Sims”

“I do”, Jon whispers against Martin’s lips, before he’s slinging his arms around his husband’s neck again and hugs him so tight, he can feel Martin’s breath catch, “thank you”

He can still fell the soft brush of Martin’s lips against his body when Martin hugs him back, arms tight around his waist and back.

“A record, you said”, he muses when they finally pull apart and his gaze flicks back towards the mirror. He’s probably imagining it, but it almost looks, like the scars are less obvious now. His skin is probably less flushed.

“Either that or an enormous fuck you to all of the fears”, Martin suggests casually and jumps just a bit when Jon bursts out laughing, slapping a hand in front of his mouth.

“Martin!”

“What? It’s true”

Martin is smiling as well, when he wraps his arm around Jon’s waist and guides him upstairs to dress.

“Martin?”, Jon asks over his shoulder as he’s pulling Martin’s favourite jumper over his head.

“Hm?”

“I”, Jon starts, then pauses in search for words, “is it okay for you, if I’m still not… not alright with it?”

It. His whole body. At least the eyes were gone.

“For me?”

“Well, you’re the one who has to deal with me having issues”

“That doesn’t mean, you have to pretend to be alright”

“Since I’m so great at that anyway”

“Oh yes, what a shame”, Martin says dryly, “of course it’s okay if you’re… self-conscious?”

“More like annoyed”, Jon mutters, then adds, “maybe a little self-conscious”

“And that’s perfectly alright”

“Can you turn around for me?”, Martin asks and can’t help himself but breath a stupid little ‘hi’ when his husband complies and sits down next to him on their bed.

“Hi”

If anyone had told the Jonathan Sims that had taken on the position of head archivist a couple of years ago that he would turn this sappy, with Martin Blackwood of all people, he would have probably pulled a muscle form frowning at that person before he’d thrown them out of the archives. The current Jonathan Blackwood-Sims who, on his part, can’t keep from returning Martin’s grin however doesn’t even think about not scooting closer to him and letting himself fall into his embrace once he’s close enough.

“I just have one condition”

“You can’t have conditions after the fact”

“Watch me”

“Okay”, Jon says as he rests his head against his husband’s shoulder and watches his face, “go on then”

“You tell me when you need anything. None of that toughing-it-out-bullshit”

“Martin, I’m the least equipped person of all time to try and tough anything out on my own”

“Of course”

Sarcasm drips of the two words.

“Just promise, okay?”

“Okay”, Jon relents, reaching up and cupping Martin’s face in the palm of his hand, “I promise. There, happy now?”

---

Later that day, Jon curls up with Sappho on the sofa next to his husband when Martin’s classes start.

Normally, Martin would take his laptop up to their study and return downstairs once he’s finished for the evening while Jon cooked or, when Jon was at the library, he would spread out across their dining table. Tonight though, Jon’s legs are stretched out between them, socked feet resting on his husband’s lap while he’s snuggling their kitten and Martin keeps smoothing one hand up and down Jon’s calf and shin as he’s taking notes. Jon only leaves the room for a couple of minutes to order dinner and feed Sappho, and when he returns to their living room Martin lifts his left arm again and wraps it around Jon’s waist once he’s sat down next to him, knees pressing against Martin’s thigh as he lays his head against his husband’s chest.

His attention drifts between Martin’s heartbeat and the geography lesion currently in process, although he quickly loses the threat. Martin smells of lime and basil and before long Jon’s eyes start drooping, breath slow and even. He barely notices when Martin powers down his laptop and pushes it closed.

“Hey”, he says softly, as he pushes Jon’s hair back and lets his hand linger against his jowl, “don’t go to sleep yet”

“’m not”, Jon mutters into his husband’s shirt, half asleep.

“I can see that”

Martin’s chuckle is interrupted by their doorbell and Jon sinks down against the cushions as soon as he’s gotten up to answer it. In the end it’s the smell of about half their favourite Thai-place’s menu that persuades the former archivist to push himself up again and clear the coffee table in front of the couch until there’s enough room for their plates and food containers.

Neither of them has really eaten anything since breakfast and before long most of the boxes are emptied and stacked onto each other while Jon and Martin give up all pretences and just curl up around their overfilled stomachs on the sofa. At some point one of them had switched on the telly and only by the time the first of three successive episodes of Midsummer Murders has wrapped up, has Jon regained the energy to suggest to just retire to bed. As comfortable as the sofa is, he’ll gladly pass on the sore back and neck sleeping there would entail.

When they have finally made it to bed, and Sappho has finished her mandatory walk down Jon’s side and legs to curl up at their feet, Jon lays one hand against Martin’s cheek and pulls him into a deep kiss.

“I love you”, he tells Martin when he lays his head back against his husband’s shoulder.

“I love you too”, Martin whispers back, “always and forever”