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The sudden silence was like a thunderclap. Jon rolled onto his back, panting, the buzz of spent magic still lingering in his fingertips.
Around him, the field was still. Smoke lingered in the air, drifting in faint coils over the ragged grass and small bushes that clung to the ground. Jon shot out his leg in a bitter kick at the bush nearest his foot; if it hadn't been for that tripping him up, he might have been able to finish his spell and dispatch with his opponent on his own without Martin-
He shot upright as the recollection hit him. The mannequin-thing that had been attacking him - not quite human, not quite object. He'd been backing up, giving himself room to strike against it, when his foot had caught on the bush. He'd gone down with it on top of him, its hands on his throat as he tried to crawl away, and he'd been sure it was the end for him. Then, out of nowhere, it was gone - swept away as Martin grappled it off him, and the two had rolled away, locked in brutal combat. Jon had been too dazed by the fall to act, but he'd heard the sounds of the fight - the grunts of effort and gasps of pain as his bodyguard laid his own life on the line to protect Jon.
He scrambled to his feet, sweeping his hat up from the ground where it had fallen beside him, and looked around.
Nothing moved. The low evening light made it hard to see the details in the scene around him.
"Martin?" Jon breathed softly.
There was no response. Jon set his hat back on his head, trying to ignore the way his fingers were shaking.
"Martin," he repeated, calling out a little louder into the gloom around him.
A cold breeze stirred, shifting the fabric of his cloak, and he drew it closer, shivering.
No, not his cloak. Martin's cloak, that the man had let him borrow indefinitely with a long-suffering patience for all the mage's little quirks and habits. Usually, it made him feel safer to wear a reminder of his knight's protection on his shoulders. Now, it just brought to light the stark, creeping dread that his knight was not here.
If something had happened to him-
Something shifted, a faint, metallic noise no more than twenty paces away, and Jon's heart stopped in his chest. He spun toward the sound, hands raised, half-prepared to run, half-prepared to strike.
"Jon?" The voice was faintly groggy, but so, so familiar. "Where are you? Oh, god - Jon!"
The sheer relief that swept through Jon was so powerful it nearly took him out at the knees.
"Martin!" He was already running when the name left his lips, heedless of the bushes in his way. A shadow lying on the ground moved, shifting and standing and becoming, by some magic beyond even the most powerful of spellcasters, Martin.
Whole, and unharmed. He didn't even have any dents in his armor.
"Jon!" The word had barely left him before Jon was crashing into him. Pure emotion drove him on; relief and gratitude and affection, such deep, deep affection for this man who had risked his life time and time again to keep Jon safe.
Martin's hands landed on the small of his back, an attempt to keep him balanced, and-
He didn't think; he didn't plan. Jon reached up with one hand, curling his fingers delicately around the hinge of Martin's jaw, and pushed himself up on his toes. His other hand came to rest on Martin's chest, brushing ever-so-gently against that necklace he'd gifted him so long ago - a token of appreciation, he'd called it, and Martin had never figured out just how much it meant.
Perhaps he would now. Jon pressed their lips together, thoughtlessly, fiercely, trembling from head to foot with the strength of everything he was feeling. He didn't know if Martin returned those feelings; in this moment, it didn't matter. He had to show him how much he cared: had to tell Martin, in the only way he could, just how much he was loved. Even if it was the only chance he ever got to do so.
Martin's hands tightened, ever so slightly, as he drew in a surprised breath through his nose.
And then...
Jon had no words to describe it other than to say that Martin melted against him. Whatever tension he'd been carrying bled out of him in a sigh; he drew Jon closer, leaning down into the kiss, tilting his head to the side so that his nose pressed into Jon's cheek and their lips slid against each other, soft and comforting.
It was hard to say how long they stayed like that, frozen in a perfect moment. But Jon's trembling had ceased when he finally pulled back, and Martin's armor - which carried a perennial, chilled-metal coldness - was warm where they were pressed together.
Jon's eyes opened slowly. Martin's were still closed; his lips were parted around a sigh, and his eyebrows were raised in an expression of gentle tenderness.
"Oh," he breathed, after a long moment.
Jon could only smile. "I'm, um," he said. "I'm glad you're alright."
Martin's eyes opened. For as long as Jon had known him, he'd never been one for intense expressions - always a little reserved and distanced from the world around him, more comfortable with a frown than a smile. Now, though, he beamed, and it was bright enough to defy the darkness falling around them.
"You too," he said, and leaned down to kiss Jon once more.