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Entry tags:
a friend to the friendless // for Jyn
[CW: attempted sexual assault and otherwise gross and creepy non-consensual behavior, please tread carefully.]
mid-July (TBD)
The thing about Harry being gone is that it bloody hurts, even after he's been over it with Zoe and over it again with John, it's still an absence like he hasn't felt in a long time. He'd known this could happen, he'd known and he'd always thought that would prepare him somehow, like he could just talk himself out of feeling the loss. For most, it would mean going home, going back to the lives they were meant to be living, and surely that would be a good thing. Difficult, maybe, but good.
But there was nothing for Harry to go back to. Martin knows this. They discussed it at length, and that knowledge presses down on him, inescapable. Harry hasn't been sent home. Harry is dead, and not the distant, painless kinds of death figures of history always seem to have. To Martin, Harry is no longer a name in a textbook. Martin knows the details, that he was backed into a corner, forced to do terrible things, and that he killed himself, miserable and cold and alone.
Martin doesn't want to talk about it anymore. There is nothing more to be said; especially not to John. John's feelings about Harry will always be complicated, and just as he felt a personal imperative to refuse forgiveness, he can't accept Harry's unexpected absence as being somehow let off the hook. Martin understands that, just as he understands that John is perfectly capable of setting all those complications aside to offer what comfort he can.
But Martin doesn't want him to; doesn't want to ask that of him. At least not tonight. And so he sends John home ahead, claiming he needs time to putter around The Archive, to have a spot of privacy. John can see through the reasons given — there's no avoiding that — but he doesn't seem inclined to press, so he leaves Martin to it. And when the walls start to feel too close and too familiar, Martin locks up and sets out, wandering a few aimless blocks before veering into the first bar he sees.
It's a bad idea. He knows it's a bad idea. He knows it's a mistake the moment he sets foot inside the place. Outside the sun has not quite set, but in here, it's nearly too dark to see. Music drowns out everything else, the heavy thump of some uninspired electronic beat thrumming uncomfortably in his chest. It isn't too crowded yet, which only means everyone near the door looks when he enters, and even if most of them turn away at once, he still feels caught.
It doesn't feel safe in here. It reminds him too strongly of the places he sometimes went when he was at his lowest, when John was in hospital and Martin thought he'd be gone forever. He went to places like this because he wanted to disappear, and the impulse cropped up like a bad habit, one which now holds no appeal.
But he's inside now, and people have seen him, and it is ridiculous and too bloody classic of him, but he feels too embarrassed now to just turn around and leave. As if he has anything to prove to these people, all of whom look at least five years younger and quite fit. He doesn't belong here, and yet it is with stupid, stubborn insolence that he pushes forward anyway, settling in at the bar. He orders a beer, pays at once, and resolves to drink it as quickly as he can without downing it outright. Then he'll get up and go home and just talk to John like he should have done in the first place.
He's only a third of the way in when someone sits down beside him, smelling thickly of vodka and cologne and sweat. A young man with more skin showing than Martin is presently prepared to deal with, drunk and overconfident and taking up too much of Martin's periphery — leaning far too close, the sort of huge that suggests he visits the gym three times a week. He could overpower Martin if he wanted to, and he knows it. This isn't the first time someone's approached Martin like this, and for a moment all he feels is frustration: it's just not fair, not now, not when he was planning to leave. Like recognizing his own error wasn't enough, and rather than let him undo it, the universe is now punishing him instead.
It isn't the first time, but unlike those dark days of miserable isolation, Martin has no self-destructive desire to play along. His fingers tighten around his glass and he looks for the bartender, who seems to have rather conveniently vanished. He keeps his gaze fixed elsewhere, his shoulders tensing as the man leans closer still, breathing directly into his ear.
"All alone tonight, cutie?" he says.
Martin flinches but maintains course, staring elsewhere, like he can pretend he hasn't heard, like he can just ignore him, as if the type of stranger who'll sit this close and ask something like that is the type who'll just go away.
"Aw, c'mon, don't be like that," he says, his speech not slurred enough to obscure the subtle bite in his tone. He lets his arm settle heavily around Martin's shoulders, not threatening, but friendly, projecting some outward appearance that they know each other.
"Don't—" Martin blurts, his voice almost too quiet to be heard. The man has his attention now but he still can't bring himself to look at him directly, keeping his gaze down at the bar, at the glass in his hand. There's adrenaline burning under his skin, energy that can't quite decide if it's panic or rage. Martin tries to shrug him off, but he's a fucking natural, isn't he, the way he takes the gesture and twists it around into something reciprocal, letting his arm slide down to wrap tighter around Martin's waist as if he was invited. The audacity startles an indignant gasp out of Martin, but it also tips the scales quite decisively, pitching him from the beginnings of fear into a hot rush of anger.
"I'm really not in the mood," he snaps, and he finally looks up.
The man is scarcely a day over twenty if Martin had to guess, attractive if you're into pricks, and he smiles, innocuous and pleasant and horribly chilling. He leans back in, his leg pressing up against Martin's under the bar, and he murmurs, "Bet I can fix that."
"Oh, fuck off, will you?" Martin starts to rise but the grip around his waist tightens a few degrees, effectively trapping him in his seat. It isn't so much that he couldn't fight against it, at least not yet; he might be able to wrench himself free, but he's not sure what would happen if he tried. Even if he did manage to pull away, he's not sure he's fast enough to get out, or what he'd do if this man tried to follow him. Perhaps he has friends here. Perhaps there's a reason the bartender so suddenly wandered off. Too many awful scenarios lay themselves out before him, and the anger he'd been so grateful to have starts to waver.
"Just relax." The man's breath is hot in his ear and his free hand reaches over, brushing down Martin's chest. "Let me show you a good time."
Martin can't move, even as he tries to imagine it. He's gripping his glass tight enough that his knuckles have gone white, and he wonders if he has it in him to smash that glass in this man's face, if he's strong enough to endure what might come next. If that would give him enough of a window to make a break for it, if he's quick enough to get outside, to call John or Daisy before his assailant catches up with him. He doesn't want to have to do that; he wants to be able to take care of himself. But he's alone here, and this man is bigger and stronger than he is, and if anyone around them has seen what's happening, they certainly don't seem to care.
"Leave me alone," he grits out, his fingers twitching as that wandering hand starts to toy with the hem of his shirt. He flinches, and fingers dig painfully into his side to keep him still. "Stop—!"
mid-July (TBD)
The thing about Harry being gone is that it bloody hurts, even after he's been over it with Zoe and over it again with John, it's still an absence like he hasn't felt in a long time. He'd known this could happen, he'd known and he'd always thought that would prepare him somehow, like he could just talk himself out of feeling the loss. For most, it would mean going home, going back to the lives they were meant to be living, and surely that would be a good thing. Difficult, maybe, but good.
But there was nothing for Harry to go back to. Martin knows this. They discussed it at length, and that knowledge presses down on him, inescapable. Harry hasn't been sent home. Harry is dead, and not the distant, painless kinds of death figures of history always seem to have. To Martin, Harry is no longer a name in a textbook. Martin knows the details, that he was backed into a corner, forced to do terrible things, and that he killed himself, miserable and cold and alone.
Martin doesn't want to talk about it anymore. There is nothing more to be said; especially not to John. John's feelings about Harry will always be complicated, and just as he felt a personal imperative to refuse forgiveness, he can't accept Harry's unexpected absence as being somehow let off the hook. Martin understands that, just as he understands that John is perfectly capable of setting all those complications aside to offer what comfort he can.
But Martin doesn't want him to; doesn't want to ask that of him. At least not tonight. And so he sends John home ahead, claiming he needs time to putter around The Archive, to have a spot of privacy. John can see through the reasons given — there's no avoiding that — but he doesn't seem inclined to press, so he leaves Martin to it. And when the walls start to feel too close and too familiar, Martin locks up and sets out, wandering a few aimless blocks before veering into the first bar he sees.
It's a bad idea. He knows it's a bad idea. He knows it's a mistake the moment he sets foot inside the place. Outside the sun has not quite set, but in here, it's nearly too dark to see. Music drowns out everything else, the heavy thump of some uninspired electronic beat thrumming uncomfortably in his chest. It isn't too crowded yet, which only means everyone near the door looks when he enters, and even if most of them turn away at once, he still feels caught.
It doesn't feel safe in here. It reminds him too strongly of the places he sometimes went when he was at his lowest, when John was in hospital and Martin thought he'd be gone forever. He went to places like this because he wanted to disappear, and the impulse cropped up like a bad habit, one which now holds no appeal.
But he's inside now, and people have seen him, and it is ridiculous and too bloody classic of him, but he feels too embarrassed now to just turn around and leave. As if he has anything to prove to these people, all of whom look at least five years younger and quite fit. He doesn't belong here, and yet it is with stupid, stubborn insolence that he pushes forward anyway, settling in at the bar. He orders a beer, pays at once, and resolves to drink it as quickly as he can without downing it outright. Then he'll get up and go home and just talk to John like he should have done in the first place.
He's only a third of the way in when someone sits down beside him, smelling thickly of vodka and cologne and sweat. A young man with more skin showing than Martin is presently prepared to deal with, drunk and overconfident and taking up too much of Martin's periphery — leaning far too close, the sort of huge that suggests he visits the gym three times a week. He could overpower Martin if he wanted to, and he knows it. This isn't the first time someone's approached Martin like this, and for a moment all he feels is frustration: it's just not fair, not now, not when he was planning to leave. Like recognizing his own error wasn't enough, and rather than let him undo it, the universe is now punishing him instead.
It isn't the first time, but unlike those dark days of miserable isolation, Martin has no self-destructive desire to play along. His fingers tighten around his glass and he looks for the bartender, who seems to have rather conveniently vanished. He keeps his gaze fixed elsewhere, his shoulders tensing as the man leans closer still, breathing directly into his ear.
"All alone tonight, cutie?" he says.
Martin flinches but maintains course, staring elsewhere, like he can pretend he hasn't heard, like he can just ignore him, as if the type of stranger who'll sit this close and ask something like that is the type who'll just go away.
"Aw, c'mon, don't be like that," he says, his speech not slurred enough to obscure the subtle bite in his tone. He lets his arm settle heavily around Martin's shoulders, not threatening, but friendly, projecting some outward appearance that they know each other.
"Don't—" Martin blurts, his voice almost too quiet to be heard. The man has his attention now but he still can't bring himself to look at him directly, keeping his gaze down at the bar, at the glass in his hand. There's adrenaline burning under his skin, energy that can't quite decide if it's panic or rage. Martin tries to shrug him off, but he's a fucking natural, isn't he, the way he takes the gesture and twists it around into something reciprocal, letting his arm slide down to wrap tighter around Martin's waist as if he was invited. The audacity startles an indignant gasp out of Martin, but it also tips the scales quite decisively, pitching him from the beginnings of fear into a hot rush of anger.
"I'm really not in the mood," he snaps, and he finally looks up.
The man is scarcely a day over twenty if Martin had to guess, attractive if you're into pricks, and he smiles, innocuous and pleasant and horribly chilling. He leans back in, his leg pressing up against Martin's under the bar, and he murmurs, "Bet I can fix that."
"Oh, fuck off, will you?" Martin starts to rise but the grip around his waist tightens a few degrees, effectively trapping him in his seat. It isn't so much that he couldn't fight against it, at least not yet; he might be able to wrench himself free, but he's not sure what would happen if he tried. Even if he did manage to pull away, he's not sure he's fast enough to get out, or what he'd do if this man tried to follow him. Perhaps he has friends here. Perhaps there's a reason the bartender so suddenly wandered off. Too many awful scenarios lay themselves out before him, and the anger he'd been so grateful to have starts to waver.
"Just relax." The man's breath is hot in his ear and his free hand reaches over, brushing down Martin's chest. "Let me show you a good time."
Martin can't move, even as he tries to imagine it. He's gripping his glass tight enough that his knuckles have gone white, and he wonders if he has it in him to smash that glass in this man's face, if he's strong enough to endure what might come next. If that would give him enough of a window to make a break for it, if he's quick enough to get outside, to call John or Daisy before his assailant catches up with him. He doesn't want to have to do that; he wants to be able to take care of himself. But he's alone here, and this man is bigger and stronger than he is, and if anyone around them has seen what's happening, they certainly don't seem to care.
"Leave me alone," he grits out, his fingers twitching as that wandering hand starts to toy with the hem of his shirt. He flinches, and fingers dig painfully into his side to keep him still. "Stop—!"