Leaving the Lonely didn't fix everything. Even when John could no longer smell the salt and sand of the Forsaken beach, the fog still clung to Martin like a heavy miasma, threatening to smother all the light that made Martin Martin.
John couldn't let that happen, but he didn't know how to fix this. He broke everything he touched and hurt everyone he cared for. It was a miracle that John hadn't started the apocalypse on accident by now.
"You…" You're wonderful and far more than I could ever deserve. John swallowed and restarted. "You said that your flat is down this street, yes?"
Martin nodded, but he didn't say anything. Everything about him was still muffled, even if the echo was gone. The two of them continued down the street to Martin's flat, and as Martin fumbled with his keys they, too, were muffled. The jingling noise as he tried to find the key to his flat was damped, like they were metal plated instead of actually metal like John Knew they were. He Knew that Martin's landlord used cheaper keys made of aluminum instead of a stronger material like brass, even though the landlord could afford to use a stronger material. Considering that the landlord had once had an encounter with the Slaughter, he really should have used better keys.
John squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them, he focused on the color of the door so his mind wouldn't wander with unwanted thoughts. It was a mulberry color, a very un-yellow that John felt was comforting for a door. It wasn't a door that wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't sure what he would do if the Distortion showed up right now. Helen had refused to help, and John still didn't know why. He just wanted Martin to be safe, and even though Peter Lukas was dead, Martin wasn't safe. Hopefully Martin wasn't afraid of John.
John hoped that Martin enjoyed the color of his door. John didn't ask, though, he just let Martin push the door open and lock it behind them.
A lock wouldn't be able to stop the Hunters. It could at least stop Elias, no, Jonah, based upon the tape that John had listened to. He had listened to it over and over, just to listen to something Martin had said that hadn't been part of a Statement.
"I'm going to go change," Martin mumbled as he walked towards a hallway. "Get the sand off my trousers."
John didn't want to let Martin go, but he did anyways. Martin was speaking without an echo, which was good. And besides, why would he want to be around John? John had been a prick before, and now he had killed someone in front of Martin. Killed him to save Martin, sure, but maybe there was a better solution to the problem that was Peter Lukas. A solution that Martin would approve of. A solution that John hadn't thought of. He hadn't really been thinking of anything, not even whatever plans Jonah may be even in this very moment winding around John's hands and legs like puppet strings or strands of webbing. All that John could think of was saving Martin. He hoped he had done that properly, at least.
John walked through the kitchen, noticing the layer of dust on the counters. Martin likely hadn't been back to his flat in the past two, three weeks. Had he even left the Institute before today? John grabbed the kettle and rinsed it out, throwing out the stale water, before putting it on the stove. He had honestly expected Martin to have an electric kettle, like the one in the Archives, before he walked over the tea and investigated the boxes. There was a loose-leaf Earl Grey that John immediately passed over. He wasn't sure what to do with a loose-leaf tea; he had only stopped microwaving his water with the tea bag in the mug when Martin had begged him to stop. John still couldn't taste the difference between microwaving the water with or without the tea bag, but, well, John wished he could say that he had wanted to be in Martin's good graces. At the time, though, he had just wanted his subordinate who actually had archiving experience to stop whining and lecturing John on yet one more thing John was unqualified for compared to Martin and all of his expertise.
The two boxes of tea bags that Martin had were a mostly full green tea and a mostly empty rose tea. John couldn't remember which of the two Martin had more frequently drank, back when he was still in the Archives. Was the green tea mostly full because he didn't drink it often, or because he often resupplied?
The Eye wasn't giving John any helpful answers, just the knowledge that Martin used to keep one oolong tea bag that he just in case his mother ended up coming home because something had happened to the care home. Even after she died, he had kept it up until he had agreed to work for Peter Lukas.
Out of the corner of John's eye, he saw steam. That was odd; it was too early for the kettle to be ready.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh no. What had he been thinking?
John barely had the sense to turn off the stove – because that would be just their luck, to survive Prentiss and the Unknowing only to die in a house fire – before rushing to where Martin said the bedroom was. The fog in the kitchen had been warm, but as John got closer and closer to the bedroom, the fog grew colder and thicker. It clung to his skin and hair, muffling even the sound of John's breathing.
And the sound of sobbing coming from within the bedroom.
"Martin?" John pushed the door open and knelt by the cloud sitting at the foot of the bed.
Are you okay? Is everything alright? John didn't need to compel Martin to know that the answers to both of those questions would be no.
Slowly, scared of accidentally sticking his arms inside of Martin's body, John wrapped his arms around the fog. He Knew that the last time that Martin had been hugged had been an awkward side-hug from Melanie.
The time before that had been before the Unknowing.
John had been the second-to-last person to hug Martin. It felt so wrong to think that – John had never been a person good at comforting people. And yet, it also made too much sense. He wasn't good at comforting people, but he was what little that Martin had.
"I'm here," John found himself saying in a voice so soft it was just barely above a whisper, or at least that was how the fog made him sound. "It's going to be alright. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you." He didn't know if time would prove him a liar, but John would try his best anyways.
"But for how long?" the fog said back.
"Forever, if you'll have me."
"You can't promise forever."
"Then for as long as I live." That was apparently the wrong thing to say, because the fog began to shudder. John made soft shushing noises as he stroked where he imagined Martin's pearl-white hair to be. "It won't come to that, not any time soon. I'm getting increasingly hard to kill."
The fog huffed in annoyance. John hoped that was a good thing, that Martin was coming back to himself.
"I won't leave you. Not again," John said. "For better or for worse, wherever you go, I go. Deal?"
"Deal," Martin said, a distinct echo to his voice. He wrapped his arms around John, gingerly at first, like John was still as fragile as he had been when in the coma. After a moment, he squeezed John more tightly, the fog fading away. His fingers dug into John's shoulders with desperation.
"I'm here," John said. "I'm here, and I love you, and I'm sorry I ever left you."
They stayed like that for several minutes, John murmuring promises as he rubbed Martin's back. Eventually, Martin's tears subsided, and he pulled away. "What you said earlier," Martin said, voice still hoarse from crying. There was still sand on his trousers. "That sounded a lot like a wedding vow."
"Well, how do you feel about eloping to Scotland?"