This chapter is a follow-up to one of my previous chapters, "Fallout" which you will find published in this collection. That chapter is a follow-up to another story, published by my writing partner on AO3. You'll find the relevant links posted in "Fallout." Given that these three are a linear narrative and a divergence from Canon, you'll want to read those first before you read this one.

Enjoy!

It's been nearly two hours since they'd arrived home. Nearly two hours since Morgana had taken her patient behind the doors he finds himself standing before and nearly two hours since he'd dismissed Roxy and Eggsy to get some rest. Though he's not moved from this spot, he's hardly been idle—all the while Gawain has been bringing him updates on their progress in freeing Valentine's prisoners and securing the compound. They're all that's left. Of all the Knights, it's only himself, Gawain and Roxy who have survived V-Day. All the others were either sided with Arthur and killed or lost in the line of duty. Their bodies will need to be recovered and given a proper burial.

Harry will need to be recovered.

The thought makes his chest tight with the heavy weight of the emotion it incurs. First they'd lost James, now Harry, and unless luck is on their side, they stand to lose Merlin as well. The four of them have fallen back on each other so often over the years in times of hardship that Martin finds himself at a loss for what to do now that it's only him.

He considers himself a fine Knight, but the mantle of leadership is not something he had ever cared to consider taking up. (He'd left the path of taking over as head of his father's company to become a tailor, after all.)Harry or Merlin, he thinks, are far better suited to the task. Even within their little foursome, when things became particularly dire, he and James had always looked to the other two for direction. Harry and Merlin had been in the game longer than either of them, and that was part of it, but the pair always seemed to carry an air of authority that he and James never strived for.

Now, however, he finds himself alone; without Harry's strength, without Merlin's patience, without James's levity.

"Percival."

Martin's head twitches to the side at the sound of Gawain's gruff voice. Gruffer than usual, in fact.

"Here, Gawain," he responds smartly, tapping the side of his glasses.

"Any word?"

On Merlin, he interprets.

"No. Not just yet," Martin says, staring straight ahead at the doors before him. "How is the evacuation progressing?"

"Fine. All going very smoothly."

Martin frowns to himself. Something feels … off. Gawain is being evasive, stalling for time. Whatever he needs to say, it's not something he wants to.

"Alright, Gawain, out with it. What's gone on?" Martin asks.

There's silence on the other end of the line and as it stretches on, Martin has to wonder what could be so terrible that even Gawain is at a loss for words.

"Martin, I'm switching to visual. You may want to sit down, if you're not already."

Whatever it is, he's sure it can't be anything worse than anything he's already seen today. He's right on this count. It's not worse. It's simply that he's not sure how to process what he's seeing.

When Gawain switches to visual, Martin prepares himself for some sight of gore or the like, but what he gets is … James. At the very least, it looks like James. Haggard, yes; in desperate need of a shave and a haircut, yes; lacking his flamboyant attire, yes; but still James. Or perhaps just a very clever lookalike.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting, darling. The service here has been atrocious."

No. No, not a lookalike. Not with that ridiculously smug smile which … which seems to have frayed at the edges but is still very much the same as he remembers. He feels hot. His eyes sting. His knees wobble. Blindly, he gropes for the door, his fingers latching onto the handle just before his legs fail him. With a hand pressed to his mouth, he gasps in breaths which are more sobs than anything else as tears stream down his face.

"How?" he manages to say.

"It's … It's a very long story," James says, exhaustion weighing heavily on his features. "I'd prefer to only have to tell it once."

"I'm bringing him back now. Morgana will want to give him a thorough examination," Gawain supplies.

James groans at that, pulling a laugh from Martin that borders on hysterical. James has always been a terrible patient—every bit as bad as Harry—and it's appropriate somehow that even now he vocalizes his displeasure at the thought of a trip to the infirmary.

"Always such a terrible patient," Martin says quietly, his voice choked with tears.

"Martin …" James says softly, worriedly.

"Come home. Just … come home and we can talk," Martin says, wiping at his eyes. "Just come home, James."

"Gladly," James replies.

"We'll be back within the hour, Percival," Gawain informs him.

"We'll be waiting," Martin tells him.

The feed goes dark, but Martin does not rise. He knows he must, knows he has to tell the others, but for a few brief moments, he stays where he is and lets it all crash down on him.

It had taken some doing to convince Roxy that he hadn't snapped under the pressure of the day's events and gone completely mad. In fact, even after he's talked her down, he thinks she still believes him to have cracked right up until James appears. Wearing a lopsided smile and nearly being carried by Gawain, he's a pale comparison to the James they all know and love, but he's James none-the-less. It takes all of ten seconds for Roxy to rocket down the hallway and nearly crush her uncle with her embrace.

"Ooh, ooh, not so tight," James complains, still looking to be in good spirits all the same.

"They said you were dead," Roxy sobs into his shoulder. "You've been gone for months. There was a funeral and mum was beside herself and you just … "

"I'm sorry," he says, patting her hair. "I'm so sorry, Roxanne, if I could have come back a minute sooner …"

Martin has inched ever closer while this scene has unfolded, his steps tentative, as though James were a mirage, destined to disappear should he draw too near. But then he's standing before him and those green eyes are boring into him and it's all he can do not to fling himself at his longtime partner as their niece had done. Still, his embrace is likely not as gentle as James might have liked; though he hardly seems to mind when Martin kisses him hard enough to bruise. All the same, getting him sat down and drinking a glass of water is something of a priority, given that he looks dead on his feet.

The tale James spins them is a simple one, though judging from the tight look of control on his face, Martin is certain a great many details have been omitted.

He'd come close to dying—had his reflexes been a hair slower, he'd have been sliced in two. As it was, Gazelle's strike had sliced him open nearly from sternum to navel as he'd twisted to meet her. By all means, he was as good as dead, lying on the carpet soaked through with copious amounts of his own blood. But instead of finishing the job, as he was sure she would have liked, she made the curious decision to have him removed. He doesn't know how he managed not to bleed out before receiving medical attention, but when he next awoke, it was in a hospital bed, the garish wound stitched and stapled and patched up quite neatly.

That was when he'd met Valentine. He was a charismatic man, to be sure, but James knew a threat when he heard one. They'd kept him alive because they wanted information; who he was, who he worked for, how he'd found them. Of course, he didn't give it to them. He was a Kingsman, after all. Oddly, Valentine didn't seem especially bothered by this.

It was only later, after he'd healed significantly enough to be transferred to a regular cell, that he understood why. If Valentine couldn't get what he wanted by asking politely, he had Gazelle to get it for him through … less than gentle means. For the next few months, he served as her plaything. Usually she only visited his cell to try and get information from him, but there were other times when he was certain it was just out of boredom. Sometimes it would be days in between her visits. Sometimes only hours. Always, always, they would patch him up when she was through, making sure he would be alive and well when she next paid him a visit.

"Until today when, apparently, you lot saved the world," James concludes. It's only now that he seems to have noticed Eggsy at all. "I'm sorry, you are …?"

"Eggsy," Roxy mumbles into his shirt.

"Eggy?"

"Eggsy," she repeats, with a watery laugh. "He was Harry's proposal for your title."

Martin takes that moment to make a slight addition. "He's Lee Unwin's boy."

"Unwin? Really?" James asks, incredulously. He looks back to Eggsy, his countenance serious as he studies the young man. "I knew your father. He and I were the final two candidates for the title of Lancelot. He was a good man." He pauses, nodding his head firmly before repeating softly, "Good man."

"Yeah, well, guess failing the final test runs in the family," Eggsy says, shrugging one shoulder awkwardly.

"Ah. Couldn't shoot your dog," James says, nodding sagely. "You're a man after Merlin's heart. Speaking of, where is the old goat, anyhow? After all this, I suppose we're going to have to pry him out of Control with a spatula."

The mood in the room takes a sudden nosedive. Martin nearly curses Gawain—who had ducked out immediately—for failing to bring James up to speed, but given the circumstances, he thinks it may be best coming from him.

"Merlin's in with Morgana," Martin says tightly. "He's in a bad way, James. The reason she hasn't seen you yet is because she's been with him for the past three hours."

"Three— … What the hell happened to him? He's supposed to be in Control, I don't understand," James says, looking completely bewildered by the concept of Merlin coming to any harm.

"Arthur happened," Roxy says venomously. "Merlin had something—some code of Harry's—and he had Gazelle try and work it out of him."

James stares at his niece, silent and unmoving. No doubt hearing that his tormentor had nearly killed one of his good friends has rattled him. Martin watches as his eyes light up with a sudden thought.

"Where's Harry?" he wants to know. "If Merlin's in that sort of state, the poor fellow's got to be in knots."

It feels like a punch to the chest—blunt, radiating pain that steals his breath away. Martin can't find the words to explain. Or perhaps he just doesn't want to have to say it. Silently, he reaches out and rests his hand atop his partner's. His lips are drawn into a thin, angry line as he swallows thickly and shakes his head. James can only stare. He stares at Martin as though he's got three heads. Harry Hart? Dead? Ridiculous.

Or at least, it always seemed that way.

"Christ, Harry," James breathes out.

He slumps in his seat. Whatever emotion he'd kept at bay, whatever he'd managed to keep locked down, it's all gone to shit now. James had been hurting when he'd arrived, but he'd arrived thinking he would be coming back to his friends. Perhaps that's what had kept him going all those months. The reality of the situation is far less kind.

"Christ, Harry," he echoes, softer this time.

James doesn't want to break down here. He's the sort that always has to maintain that vibrant, gung-ho persona. No, giving in to emotion here simply won't do. Martin can see he's fighting it with everything he's got, but when you've got nothing left it's really not much of a fight. Watching tears fill his eyes prompts a similar reaction in Roxy. They've each got one of his hands and as he bows forward, shoulders bunched and trembling, he squeezes them with more strength than Martin thought he'd have left.

Martin leans in, pressing his lips to the former Lancelot's temple, running his fingers through shaggy, greying hair. He'd fantasized about James coming home hundreds of times since they're pronounced him dead. But not like this. No, never like this.

"I'm so sorry, James," he says, his tears evident in his voice. "I'm so sorry we didn't come for you. I'm so sorry we didn't find you. I am … so, so sorry."

"Here you all are."

Morgana's voice pulls them from the moment. Exhaustion is the theme of the day as she stands in the doorway, eyes taking in the scene wearily. Her expression is bone-tired, but difficult to read.

"How's Merlin? He's alright, yeah?" Eggsy asks hopefully, shooting up from his seat.

"I've done everything I can," Morgana answers stiffly.

Martin feels his heart sink. Coming from Morgana, a statement like that is dangerous. If she's done everything she can, but won't say a word about Merlin's condition either way, that doesn't bode well for their wizard. She crosses the room slowly until she comes to a halt before James. Her expression eases into something gentler as her hands reach out to frame his face, her thumbs brushing against now-tearstained cheeks. She gazes down at him like a mother seeing her son returned home from war. They aren't her children, no. She never knew them as children. But in the softness of her eyes, Martin knows she's remembering just how young they had been when first she saw them.

"Let's take care of you, James," she says.

Martin doesn't need to be prompted; he rises from his seat, ready to assist. With Morgana at one elbow and himself at the other, they slowly guide James out the room and towards the infirmary. There's no protest, no joking, not even the barest hint of a smile. James walks silently between them, his expression hollow and vacant, and that, Martin finds, frightens him more than anything.

It's late when Morgana finally allows him in to see James. He'd spent the wait coordinating with Gawain and watching over Merlin. Even now as he pushes the door to James's room open, he can't shake the image of the unnatural rise and fall of Merlin's chest with each breath mechanically pumped into his lungs. Even now he feels a prickling sensation at the back of his neck as though that rise and fall will cease if he's not watching. Roxy and Eggsy had insisted on seeing Merlin for themselves, though he's not sure what good it's done them. Roxy had sat at the wizard's bedside, wringing her hands anxiously while Eggsy had hovered in the doorway as though he might invite death in with him were he to come any closer.

They've finally gone off to bed after he'd dismissed them—again—and with the added incentive of Morgana's decision to allow only Martin to see James. For a brief moment, Martin had seen hurt flash across Roxy's features, but it was quickly tucked away and replaced by an understanding nod of her head. Catching Morgana's gaze, Martin knows that there is no pressing medical reason behind this—it's something that James has requested himself. If James doesn't want Roxy to see him, then Martin knows it's bad.

Still, when he enters the room, the former Lancelot seems calm enough. He perks up considerably at the sight of Martin, sitting himself up in bed, and even in the midst of such a horrible situation, Martin can't help but smile.

"Roxy?" James questions.

"Gone off to bed," Martin assures him.

"Good," James says with a slow nod. He looks up. "And Eggy?"

"Eggsy, James," Martin corrects him.

"Mm. I like 'Eggy' better," James hums.

"Yes, I suppose you would," Martin says fondly. "He's gone off to bed as well."

"Separate beds?" James fishes.

Martin rolls his eyes, sitting at the foot of his partner's hospital bed. "They're not in that way. Roxy is, to quote the man himself, his 'bruv.'"

"Well, either way, she knows what she's doing," James says. He hesitates, his hand rubbing the opposite forearm. "And Merlin?"

"I don't know," Martin sighs tiredly. "Morgana says it's a matter of waiting now."

What determines whether he makes it or not at this stage, he wonders? Morgana had done everything medically possible and he's still here, if only just. So what else is there? Is it willpower? Is it some stretch of the consciousness that science doesn't yet understand? At the back of his mind, he wonders if they're enough for Merlin to come back for or if the shattered remains of Kingsman are less enticing than chasing Harry into whatever comes after this.

"Tomorrow may tell us more," Martin says, in an effort to change the subject.

He doesn't make mention of the flight which had brought them here, when he'd been stained up to his wrists in Merlin's blood as he'd desperately tried to keep as much of it in him as he could. The first time he'd seen Merlin injured had been Martin's first assignment and Merlin's last. There had been a lot of blood then, too. More this time. Enough that he had to wonder how there'd been any left in him at all. James reaches out, his fingers plucking at the cuff of his shirt sleeve—he'd given himself time to change, at least—and tugging minutely towards him. The motion cuts through his thoughts, through the weary shroud draped over him, and reminds him that he has James again. Here, now, alive.

Although not built with two people in mind, Kingsman's hospital beds are a bit roomier than what one might find in a standard hospital, and so it's not terribly difficult for the two of them to lie together. James tucks himself in close to Martin's side, fair to clinging to him like a limpet on a rock. There's no worry now of Arthur walking in and finding them like this—small comfort in the face of the day's events, but a comfort all the same.

"I kept thinking," James says suddenly, "about how we never went to Bora Bora."

"I did, too," Martin admits. His eyes wander to his partner's chest, to the clean, vertical scar visible from the deep neck of his pajama top. He rests his hand there, feeling raised scar tissue beneath his fingertips. "You always talked about going and all I could think was that we never did. And never would."

"We could now. We should now after all of this gets sorted out," James says.

"We will," Martin says, his hand sliding along the left side of his partner's chest, under his shirt. He stops when he feels the rhythmic thud beneath his open palm, feels a soft sigh from James as he counts heartbeats. "I promise you that."

James loops an arm around him, squeezing tightly. He buries his face in the crook of Martin's neck and inhales deeply. Martin relocates his hand to his partner's hair, stroking gently as James lies silently pressed against him.

"I missed you," James says suddenly, the words somewhat muffled as they're spoken into his shirt. "I would wake up and I would roll over and it would always occur to me that the pillow didn't smell like you. It was … rattling. I know we never spent the night with each other often, not with Arthur, but the smell of your aftershave always lingered when you did. I started to forget what that was like. And I thought, even if I ever made it back, you'd've thought me dead for god knows how long and I couldn't assume you'd—"

"James," Martin says, cutting him off. "There wouldn't have been anyone else."

"You can't say that with certainty," James murmurs. "People … People move on from those sorts of things, in time."

"There wouldn't have been anyone else," Martin repeats, firmer this time.

James just holds him tighter, quivering silently.

"Martin."

"Yes?"

"What do we do?"

He's never heard James sound so … small. So frightened and unsure. Martin doesn't know what they'd done to him over the course of the months that he'd served as Valentine's prisoner. Part of him doesn't want to know, burns red hot at the mere fact that James had suffered so long. This damage—for he is damaged—will take time to fix. These hurts will take time to heal. Even then, he knows James will come out on the other side of this a different man. After all, this sort of thing changes you irreparably. But he's here now and Martin has faith that James will find a way to move forward, just as they all must. It won't be easy, but none of them are exactly the quitting sort.

So he doesn't know precisely what they're going to do. But when he presses a kiss to the top of James's head and holds him in his arms, he believes every word when he says, "We'll think of something."