loficharm | Escalation // for John

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Escalation // for John

[continued from here]

Well, shit. Martin sits in startled silence as John gets up, practically sneering at him. He hadn't fully anticipated this reaction, which probably makes him a fool, but - he was just trying to be up front. Even if it wasn't something John wanted to hear, at least it was honest, right? He'd thought perhaps they could be adults about this.

Doesn't really matter. It clearly didn't have the desired effect, and he can't really blame John for that. He's angry enough to leave, though he does take his meager and very late breakfast with him - that's something at least. For a moment Martin just stays put, staring at the door as John moves through it, dimly aware that everyone is now staring at him. Maybe it is better this way. Perhaps he deserves this. If John doesn't want what little he can offer, then it's just as well; the transition will be easier.

As soon as he suffers these thoughts, Martin grimaces and gets up quickly. He's being an idiot. He's been an idiot. Pushing John away has been awful enough without these extraordinary circumstances complicating affairs. Now, here, where they might have some kind of respite, where he might be able to actually tell John what was really going on, might even have time to make him understand... it's not as if John can rush into anything life-threatening here. Not related to the Extinction, at any rate.

He's getting ahead of himself. Right now the only important thing is he can't afford to let John slip away with no hope of finding him again, not easily. He doesn't bother grabbing his tea or food; doesn't want to run with them, didn't want them badly enough in the first place. He stumbles out of the cafe and spills down the street after John, who is easy to spot, tall and ungainly.

"John!" he calls, narrowly avoiding colliding with someone as he tries to catch up. "John, wait!"

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John would like to say that Martin's voice has no impact on him at all, that his steps don't falter, that his shoulders don't hunch. But it does, and he curls in on himself a little before resolutely shaking it off and picking up his pace. He's still angry, still -- despite how often it's happened and how expected it ought to be -- hurt by the way Martin had put him firmly in his place. A place that, as ever, lands well below whatever mystery project he's working on with Peter fucking Lukas.

Christ. Maybe it really is the Lonely behind all of this, after all.

Well, if Martin really wants to catch him, he can put a little effort into it. John's already made his implicit overtures. He's done.

"John! Dammit-" Martin grunts as he puts on a burst of speed. He's not in shape for this, and John has the advantage of a head start and considerably longer legs. A part of him is annoyed, can't believe this is happening, having to literally chase after him like they're a pair of, of bloody school children. But the harder John tries to keep away from him, the worse Martin feels, the more certain he is that what he just said was not the favor he wanted it to be at all, but something actively cruel. He wanted it to be a kindness, sort of - being straight with John, not stringing him along on the hope that things will improve. He never wanted to hurt him. It's a little horrifying to realize he not only did, but that it was easy. That he didn't even realize he was about to do it. He doesn't like to think he's changed so drastically.

John bolts across a street just as the light changes, and Martin swears under his breath and darts brashly between cars, flapping a hand in mingled apology and irritation as one of the drivers lays onto the brakes and the horn. The maneuver pays off; John wasn't expecting it, and it's easier to close the distance now. When John starts to turn a corner, and Martin seizes the opportunity, lunging in and blocking his path, stopping him in his tracks.

"For fuck's sake!" he blurts uncharacteristically, struggling to catch his breath. "Just stop. I'm - I'm sorry, all right? I didn't mean - I shouldn't have said all that. It was stupid and horrible and, I'm, I'm sorry, okay? I don't know how to - just - please, John."

He'd been doing well; even after giving John his Statement, he put his mind to maintaining the distance he'd cultivated, reinforcing the boundaries he'd been drafted into keeping. But he can't keep up with that, not now, not after watching John run like hell just to get away from him, from that. His shoulders slump, his breathing still strained, as a part of him crumples.

"John," he says, quiet and plaintive, and he reaches up without any particular object, just a sudden and instinctual need to make contact. It's like something clears; like how he imagines it must feel suddenly needing a cigarette after months of studiously keeping away, only that metaphor seems backwards somehow. He catches himself mid-motion, realizing he has nowhere to go with it, and starts to pull his hand away. His voice is shaking when he says, "I-"

And then the fog descends. There's little else to it. He's standing there in the warmth of afternoon sunlight, and then, without even a blink, he isn't. The fog is thick and heavy and dark, almost more like smoke. There's a texture to it, a weight. It drapes around him, dragging impossibly at his limbs, wrapping around his throat. When he breathes, it fills his mouth with the taste of salt and damp. He can't see, can no longer feel John next to him, or anything. There is no sound. He knows, with horrible pinpoint certainty, that this is all there is, that it stretches for miles in every direction. He tries to call out to John, to scream, and no sound comes out.

There are no words; nothing speaks to him. And yet he feels it acutely, a whispered message that twists and insinuates its way into the center of him: Don't stray.

John keeps his pace swift, having no desire to make catching up easy. Given what Martin said to him back at the cafe, he's not sure he expects him to catch up at all. Maybe he'll ask himself what he's chasing John for and realize he doesn't have an answer to excuse the effort. Regardless, this -- as awful as it feels -- is still preferable to, what, another round of 'please don't mistake my pity for actual care'? John takes a wolfish bite of his pastry and dodges across a street on a yellow light, figuring that will buy him a little extra time.

Instead, he hears the screech of brakes and someone laying on their horn, and while he just barely resists the urge to turn around, he can't stop his steps from slowing. That gives Martin the opening he needs to finally catch up, cutting John off and puffing a little in a way that a spiteful little part of him finds satisfying.

His gaze hardens at Martin's first outburst -- as if John's the one being unreasonable for walking away from someone who just professed their desire to maintain a certain distance. The apology doesn't help: too little, too late, and far too hard to believe. It may have been stupid and horrible, but Martin doesn't say it was a lie. Because it wasn't. He meant it. And now it will always... be there, that kindly 'I won't do that to you.' As if it isn't already done.

And then Martin starts to crumple, and John hates the way his gut twists at the sight, the absurd urge he feels to acquiesce immediately, whatever it would take to get that godawful look off of Martin's face. His gaze softens a little in spite of himself, and then Martin lifts his hand, reaches for him. Catches himself. For a second, John forgets to breathe.

And then the fog descends.

Christ, he can See it. It's not a tangible thing; he's sure no one else walking around the obstruction they've made of themselves has noticed the way it wraps around Martin, coiling loosely around his limbs, his throat. Martin's eyes go grey and unfocused and terrified, and before John can move or speak or otherwise react, Martin's hand fists in his shirt front, just below yesterday's bloodstain.

"I--" John lifts his arms a little, the gesture somewhere between an instinctive recoil at the unanticipated physical contact and a desire to sweep the fog away, somehow -- the latter made rather more difficult by the fact that his hands are still full of tea and half-eaten pastry, respectively. He looks at both items in consternation, then gingerly sets the tea on top of a covered rubbish bin that happens to be within arm's reach. Half a second later, he ruefully deposits the pastry in said bin. Whatever the hell this is, it's become a priority.

Hands finally free, he finds himself hesitating. Just because he can See the fog doesn't mean he has the first clue what to do about it. The impulse to cover Martin's hand with one of his is briefly considered and discarded almost at once. Instead, he reaches through the fog to grip Martin's shoulders. "Martin?" he tries, giving him a little shake. Nothing. Bending to peer into Martin's eyes, and feeling a twinge of preemptive guilt over what he's about to do, he quietly orders: "Martin, look at me."

He's not even sure it works like that; Compelling honesty isn't the same as Compelling action. But it's the only tool in his chest that he remotely knows how to use.

Martin grasps at the nothing that surrounds him, feels the fog tangling in his fingers, but that is the limit of movement he has. He's rooted, or perhaps drowning. He tries again to speak or scream, and instead he chokes on that awful seawater taste. He feels the fog pressing in at his shoulders, like hands gripping at him, and he tries to pull away, but it holds him fast.

And then a voice cuts through it; John's voice, but reverberating with a strange, inhuman undercurrent. John tells him to look; so he does.

It's as simple as that. Like something being switched off, or like it simply hadn't occurred to him. He blinks, and the fog clears away, and it's John's hands holding him, John's eyes staring directly into his. It isn't thick, soft fog in his fingers, but the front of John's shirt.

He pulls his hand back as though he's been burned, and John releases him instantly with much the same motion, drawing himself back up from that close, hunched position. Martin staggers back, nearly falls. He stands there, staring at the ground, breathing raggedly.

"Oh, God," he says, and looks back at John slowly, his eyes still wide with residual terror. "I... I'm sorry."

He's no longer sure what he's apologizing for. He doesn't know what else to say. He feels suddenly and very acutely like he might faint, and he sways a bit as if to prove it.

It takes an extra second or two, as if there's some delay between when John speaks and when the words actually reach him. Like they have farther to travel than the few inches that were actually between them. But then Martin blinks, and the fog dissolves.

The moment Martin comes back to himself, he releases his hold on John's shirt and yanks his hand back. John's just as quick to follow suit, stepping back and unconsciously tugging at his hemline to straighten things out a little, smooth away the evidence of Martin's hand fisted over his heart -- which, despite his outwardly collected appearance, is hammering away in his chest. For a lack of anything else to do, he recovers his tea and takes a careful sip.

Martin apologizes again, more uselessly this time. Less because John doesn't believe its sincerity, and more because that wasn't Martin's choice, the thing that just happened. It was the Lonely. There's nothing else it could have been. If the Eye can still reach him, there's no reason Martin should be conveniently and entirely cut off from his new patron.

John sighs quietly, frowning as Martin sways on his feet. For Christ's sake. Reaching out to steady him is distantly tempting, but John can't imagine actually doing it, can't bring himself to extend so much to him after what he's said. But he can't leave him to sprawl on the sidewalk, either, so after a moment, he tips his head in the general direction of the Bramford. "Come on, then. You need to sit. And we need to... stop doing this in public." He takes a few steps, then pauses, as if waiting for a small child or a distractible pet. "Can you walk?" he asks, a little uncertain.

Martin can't argue with any of those directives, much as he might like to. Now that he's thinking a little more clearly, it's obvious what just happened, what it signified, and most of all why it happened. The Lonely could have dropped this on him the moment he let Greta hug him, clung back to her like his life very suddenly depended on it. But it waited until now, until he was reaching out to John, trying to right the mess he's just made. Which, to the Lonely, isn't a mess at all.

Don't stray.

He shivers.

"I... I can walk." He draws a steadying breath and waits for his head to stop feeling quite so full of static before he stands up straighter. He shouldn't follow John anywhere. The message was loud and clear. But it was John who pulled him out of it, and he's not walking away from that. Not this time.

There's a lot he wants to say, or feels like he should say, but John was right: they can't do this in public. So he's quiet as he follows John along to his building.

John doesn't bother speaking as they walk to the Bramford. He's not sure there's any more to be said, really. But he does watch his pace, trying to keep it slow enough that Martin can keep up without straining himself. Given the way he'd jerked himself out of John's grasp, he doubts either one of them really want Martin to falter so badly that he requires physical support.

At least John's unit is on the first floor, sparing them the effort of climbing several flights of stairs or enduring an awkward elevator ride on top of everything else. He doesn't exactly feel better when they step inside the flat, but it's an undeniable relief to be someplace quiet, off the street. And while the flat is undeniably unimpressive, it's also not something that can be attributed to him.

Well. The bed is still conspicuously bare, but Martin wouldn't notice that unless he went poking into the bedroom, which seems rather unlikely.

John heads for the table, intending to pull out a chair for Martin, when he realizes his welcome packet has company. The tape recorder from the cafe is sitting there, too. As John blinks at it, it quietly clicks on.

"No," he says flatly, and after a considering beat, the recorder clicks off.

John sighs, then shuffles into the kitchen. He hasn't really explored the place yet, but has the vague hope that there might already be some non-perishables stocked. The sort of thing you might find at a hotel, perhaps. But the cupboards are largely bare, and in the end he just ends up fetching a glass of water, which he sets before Martin without a word.

Martin doesn't mind the silence. It gives him time to think about what just transpired. Not even the Lonely's little greeting; that speaks for itself fairly well. But John's outburst, his reaction to Martin's attempted let-down, the vitriol with which he'd said the word charity - that, Martin can't quite piece together. He turns it over in his head. He'd expected John to be unhappy, perhaps even a little hurt by it; passive and quiet and frustrated, as he'd been during their scattered recent interactions. Not this. He didn't even react like this when Martin hissed Stop trying to find me. He'd just been sad.

On entering John's dismally bare flat, he spots the recorder almost immediately and looks balefully at it. He hadn't thought it take it when he'd run after John, but he supposes it's just as well it hasn't ended up with someone else. He is relieved when John brusquely denies it the pleasure of listening in on them.

He sits awkwardly. John manages to make setting a glass before him feel like a reproach. He stares at the glass for a while before he reaches out gingerly and takes a sip. He can't bring himself to look at John. Not yet.

"I..." he starts, and sighs heavily. He rubs at the bridge of his nose. "It isn't charity, John." It's difficult to just pick things up like that, but the accusation annoys him. That wasn't what he meant; that John assumed it feels borderline insulting, though he knows he has little right to feel slighted. "There wasn't - I didn't offer you any charity. I just wanted to, to explain, that I can't - this can't change anything if we get back. When we get back. I know that isn't what you want to hear, but that's the way it has to be."

It's no great surprise when Martin eventually tries to account for himself, but the attempt is so truly, astonishingly bad that John can't do anything but laugh at it. There's no trace of actual humor in the sound, it's not much more than a sharp, harsh exhalation. "Oh, and we're right back to this," he says, not bothering to temper the scorn that still comes so easily when needed. "Never mind that when is an awfully bold choice of words. Never mind that if we do return to the moment we left, you're presuming that I'm going to, what, sit in my office and twiddle my thumbs for a few weeks or months while I wait for the Buried to take you. In between field trips to the bloody arctic, of course."

He can't stand still; nervous energy propels him to pace, restlessly circling the combined dining and living room as he carries on. "And never mind how we're to get back, or how we're to survive here, or any of that, because the most important thing to you is making sure that I really, truly understand that we're not friends." He stops there, a few feet from the table, and glares down at him. "Well, message fucking received, Martin. You really don't need to keep going on about it."

Martin's expression shifts from stunned surprise to an actual scowl when John laughs at him. When he starts in on the possibilities of return, Martin wants to snap back at him, point out this isn't helpful, and what does any of that matter anyway, if the assumption is so bold?

But all that fades quickly into the background when John gets to his real point, pacing about the room like a caged animal and cutting harshly to what he perceives as Martin's intention. Martin sits there, caught between pure incredulity and outright fury at the accusation. How dare he, after all this, how dare he assume that Martin's goal is as petty as a rejection of friendship?

It's Martin's turn to laugh, equally bitter, a noise just startling out of him. "Is that what you think this is about?" he says sharply. "My God, you really have no idea, do you? Do you really think I'd be so selfish as to just, just leave all of you in the dark because I suddenly decided I didn't like you? Is that the kind of person you think I am?"

He doesn't know when he started shaking. He shifts in his seat like he wants to get up, but he can't do it; instead he grips onto the edge of the chair as if to steady himself, his breath coming in short and shallow.

"I waited," he says, his voice growing thick, "for six. Months. I waited, and I visited you, and talked to you, and begged you to wake up. I know you couldn't hear me, and everyone said, everyone said there was no way you were going to come back, but I - I couldn't - I had to believe you were still in there, that you were coming back. And all the while there was Peter, claiming he had some sort of plan and he just needed my help, goading, promising, assuring me he could make it all better if I'd just... if I'd-"

His breath hitches, and he realizes with some surprise that he's started crying somewhere in there. He wishes he wouldn't; it's so stupid and childish, and it always happens so easily. He wipes his cuff angrily across his face. "I shouldn't be telling you any of this," he says with a manic laugh that doesn't sound like him at all. "I'm not allowed to talk about it, right? Because that would ruin the whole thing. But to hell with that. We're here, and we might never get back, and if the Lonely's going to, t-to reprimand me like that, in front of you, then - then I don't care. It was all coming apart, John. Basira coming back alone. Tim dead, you, dead. Daisy gone. Melanie completely off the rails, and I - there was nobody left. I waited as long as I could, but somebody had to do something. And it had to be me. I was the only one left who could."

He draws a shuddering breath, feeling empty, dizzy, overwhelmed. Still bloody crying.

"And then you came back," he says, "and I realized it didn't matter. Because you'd already died once. And if I told you, if I told you why I was working for Peter, why I was isolating myself and pushing everyone away and acting like there was nothing to talk about, all so he wouldn't have the excuse to make them disappear - all because it might save you, you'd have done something rash to try and stop me. You know you would have. And I - I couldn't, John. I can't lose you again. I won't."

Finally, as if the floodgates have abruptly been slammed shut, he stops. He stops and sags and nearly slumps down onto the table in a wave of exhaustion. He stares at the glass of water, breathing heavily. Maybe there's more he should say. But he has nothing left.

Edited 2019-08-10 06:42 (UTC)

There's a strange satisfaction in having Martin snap back at him. Perhaps it's because, as harsh and messy and stilted as it all is, it's true. Not in the nourishing manner of a Statement, but not entirely unlike one, either. So John doesn't interrupt, though there are several points where he'd like to. He lets Martin spill as much as he pleases.

But the bitter pleasure of finally getting something out of him doesn't last very long. There's guilt, of course, well-worn and familiar. Martin had needed him, and he wasn't there; that's the only reason Lukas was able to get his hooks into him in the first place. He knew that already, but the guilt is refreshed and heightened by the sight of Martin weeping over it all, over the memory of him lying in hospital, unresponsive. It makes him shift uneasily where he stands, knowing he has no comfort to offer and no right to the attempt.

And then there's all this... he can't even call it information, just vague inferences about Peter's plan. How it was ostensibly meant to save him, apparently? Not that Martin goes into the how of it all, or why self-imposed isolation should be so vital to the task. His brow furrows as he tries to parse it. What in the hell did he think he was doing? What had Peter given him beyond vague assurances?

More to the point, how did Martin expect 'pushing him away at every opportunity' to somehow result in keeping him? Did he think he could squirrel himself away, save the world somehow, and then stroll back into the Archive and just... pick everything up where he left it? Especially after his repeated insistences that things had to be different, and that if John didn't like it, he could jog on?

John just stares at him for a few long moments in the ringing silence that follows his outburst, a small part of him belatedly regretting switching the recorder off. Then, abruptly, he turns on his heel and crosses over to the WC. He just... needs to move, needs to do something. There's a box of tissues on the counter, and he brings it back out, setting it, a little gingerly, within easy reach. Then he steps back. Clears his throat.

Has no idea what to say.

Well, no, that's not entirely true. There are dozens of questions ready to fall out of him. But he knows that if he isn't careful, he'll Ask them, and that doesn't seem... he doesn't want to do that. Not now, on top of everything else. So he takes a slow, careful breath, making sure he has a proverbial lid on it, before asking, "What was the plan, then? What were you doing?"

He half-expects John to yell at him some more, and when he doesn't, when there's just aching silence, Martin feels like he just wants to disappear. He pulls himself inward, trying to get smaller. John leaves the room, and for a horrible moment Martin wonders if he's just going to leave him here, stewing in his own pathetic feelings. Then a box of tissues is set lightly down in front of him. Martin stares at it like he doesn't understand what it is.

When the questions come, they're just questions, no more venom in John's tone. Martin blinks up at him, the words taking longer to parse than they should, and then reaches out an unsteady hand to take a tissue. He takes his time wiping at his face before balling it up and holding onto it.

"That's just it," he says with a whisper of a laugh. "I don't know. He wouldn't... he wouldn't tell me anything." Well, that's not entirely true, is it? He dips his head down, weighted by heavy, unbearable shame. He shouldn't be telling John any of this, that was the whole point of what he'd said in the cafe, but it's far too late for that now. "He was having me read Statements about... I don't know, some other entity. Trying to convince me there was a, a fifteenth that we needed to worry about. I wasn't even sure I believed him, but I... He promised you'd be safe. You, Basira, Melanie... Whatever he was planning, I needed to isolate myself, to... become part of the Lonely, I guess. I didn't like it, that he wouldn't tell me. I know it was stupid, all right? I know I couldn't trust him, but I... I just... I wanted to do something. I'm so sick of being safe, sitting outside it all while everyone else gets hurt."

He looks at his hands, the crumpled white tissue he's clinging to like some sort of token. He feels cold, unnaturally cold; it isn't particularly chilly in John's flat, but it doesn't need to be. That's not where the sensation's coming from.

Edited 2019-08-10 17:25 (UTC)

As Martin explains, John pulls out the chair opposite and sinks into it. He's tired, and looming over Martin was starting to make him feel like an arse. He frowns sharply at the idea of another entity, a new one, and he shifts a little in his chair with the effort of not immediately demanding specifics. But worse than that is Martin's eventual admission that really, aside from the vague possibility of another entity, Peter had given him nothing.

It's just as well that Martin saves him the trouble of pointing out how incredibly stupid it all sounds, otherwise John would've been hard-pressed not to start shouting again. It's still tempting. Christ, the grand revelation that all of this, this confusion and isolation and misery boils down to something as fundamentally meaningless as Peter promised makes him want to overturn the fucking table. What the hell was Martin thinking?

Well. He's already told him. He was thinking the same thing John thinks all the time: better me than them.

John buries his face in his hands with another dry, humorless little huff of laughter. "Christ, Martin," he says, with the sort of helpless amusement that often accompanies complete exhaustion. "You just--you just wanted your piece of the 'idiotic self-sacrifice' pie?" He drops his hands. "Did I really make it look that good?"

Edited 2019-08-10 19:02 (UTC)

Martin meets John's gaze and lifts a shoulder in a hesitant half-shrug. "You made it look awful," he says. "I just..."

He trails off, losing what little momentum he had left. He's already said enough on that. He stares back down at his hands for a while before finding John's eyes again.

"I'm sorry, John," he says softly. "I'm sorry I... that I kept you in the dark, and pushed you away. And for what I said back there, I... I never wanted-" He cuts himself off again with a tired sigh and lowers his head again, pushing a hand roughly through his hair. "God, I just wanted to do something, and now it's - even if we do get back, I think I've pretty well messed it all up, now." He shrinks even further under the full weight of the realization, both hands now covering his face. "Christ, I couldn't even make it one day without letting it all go to pieces. It might've been a stupid idea but it was the only one I had."

He knows it might not matter. He knows, with increasingly sharp clarity, that he and John may be stuck here for a long time. He knows that in the long run it'll be far better that this came out now, that it won't be something that keeps them apart when all they really have here is each other. That thought is not comforting. Being alone with John after everything, all they've been through and all that's just happened over the past hour, it's... it feels like a precision targeted torment, just for him.

He can still feel that ever-present icy chill. He shivers involuntarily, and his breath fogs a little. He knows John can see it.

"I don't think the Lonely is very pleased with me right now," he murmurs, wanting to sound wry and falling incredibly short.

John isn't the least bit sorry that it's finally come to light. His relief goes well beyond the simple satisfaction of knowing, that little bit of sustenance for an ever-hungry Eye. If Martin's really ruined himself for whatever purpose he was meant to serve, then good. He shouldn't have taken that risk in the first place. He shouldn't have clambered up onto the chopping block just because no one else had the temerity or the presence of mind or the desperate foolishness to volunteer themselves in his stead, presuming this sacrifice was ever even necessary, and not just some torment Lukas concocted for the awful, inhuman joy of it.

He should have known that he was the best of them, just as he was.

Not that he felt he had much choice, and John sighs quietly, whatever remaining fight that was still in him draining away. "It's... it's all right," he finally says, meeting Martin's eyes. "I'm sorry I wasn't... there." Maybe it only rings hollow to his ears; it's not as if he had much of a choice, either. Or, rather, the presence of mind to choose without being told he had to.

Martin shivers, his breath ghosting in front of him, and John frowns. It's not like before, the fog is less visible, but he can still just about See it: a faint haze curling around Martin's shoulders. "No, I suppose it isn't," he says, once again caught with the question of what to do about it. It's not as if he can just turn on a fan and expect that to whisk it away.

But he also doesn't like Seeing it there, doesn't like it being there. Aside from how unpleasant it must be for Martin, the sight of it stirs up some deep-seated, personal ire, almost... territorial. This is his flat. He doesn't care if tape recorders want to manifest on every horizontal surface, but he feels no such obligation to tolerate this sort of intrusion.

"Wait," he says, rising to his feet with an idea half-formed, instinctive and unexamined. He walks into his bedroom, retrieves the suit jacket he'd left there last night, haphazardly draped over a chair. His. And, by extension, the Eye's. He carries it back out to where Martin is still sat at the table, and drapes it over his shoulders without letting himself think about it. Then he steps back, examining Martin with a pensive frown. He can't See the haze anymore, though it was never that clear to begin with. "Better?"

He's not expecting the the reassurance or the apology, and for a moment he just stares, waylaid by it. He wants to brush it off. It's not necessary; John has nothing to apologize for. But it feels good to hear it all the same, so he just hums softly and manages a small nod.

When John gets up again, Martin feels a confusing mixture of bereft and relieved. This is so far from where he expected to wind up today, for multiple reasons. He's working to keep his frustration locked down and hidden away, where John can't see it, but it's constantly threatening to crawl up his throat. It had become easy to avoid John. It had become comforting. So uncomplicated, to just consign himself to being separate, to stop wasting energy on the effort of connection. It had been lonely, of course it had been; he'd missed John, he couldn't help that. But it was so much easier to embrace that loneliness than to just... torture himself with it.

He's utterly unprepared for John to return carrying his jacket and to actually, unbelievably, drape it over Martin's shoulders. There's nothing particularly tender about it, it's practical and perfunctory, but there's still an unavoidable connotation to the motion that freezes Martin in place before filling him with a rush of indignation.

"I-" he starts, struggling to find a tone that isn't incredulous, words that aren't derisive. This isn't an ordinary chill, surely John can see it'll take more than a jacket to warm him.

And yet, before he can put his thoughts in any sort of acceptable order, he realizes that it's working. It is better; he doesn't feel warmed, exactly, he just feels normal. Room temperature.

"Y-yeah, actually," he says, not bothering to hide his bewilderment. "I... I'm quite surprised that worked, to be honest."

John hums, his mouth pressed into a satisfied line as he surveys the rest of the flat, as if checking the corners for cobwebs. Everything seems clear enough, now, no lingering fog waiting to swoop back in the moment he lets his guard down. Good. Part of him is already wondering if there's some way he might... shore the place up, but he's not quite sure how any of this works. The Institute was a stronghold well before he came to it, and it's one thing to just sort of marinade in the Eye's power and another to try to exert it, not on a person or a mind, but on a space. He doesn't even know if it can be done on purpose, or if it's some accidental but inevitable side effect of his presence.

Regardless, it seems as if he's helped Martin, at least for the moment. "I thought it--" he starts, before realizing that's rather generous phrasing. "Well. I didn't think too hard about it, actually, I just..." he gestures toward the jacket. "It's mine, which means it's the Eye's, which means..." his shoulders hitch in an awkward shrug. The two entities might be able to occasionally share space, but that doesn't mean they'd coexist peacefully.

"Right," says Martin hesitantly. That makes sense, at least, though he's not entirely certain how he feels about it. So John's - what, laying some sort of claim to him? Marking him as Property of the Eye? There's a bitter part of him that wants to ask - has always wanted to ask, in fact - just why that's so much better than being the proverbial property of Peter Lukas?

But he has no desire to make things unpleasant again. He doubts John is happy about belonging so completely to the Eye that it's become as matter-of-fact as this. And in any case, it's a very temporary solution. He's not about to wear John's jacket everywhere like some sort of ridiculous armor, if that would even work. He's uncomfortably confident that when he returns to his own flat, jacket or no, all that fog will have room to come swirling back in.

He'll just have to cope, he supposes.

He fidgets a little, the jacket shifting around his shoulders, and he has to resist the instinctive desire to pull it around himself. It's far too big for him, of course. He wonders idly if it would be the same size as those clothes Greta loaned him, and then banishes that thought, along with all that it might imply, with abrupt mortification.

"Well," he says a bit stiffly, "th-thank you."

He looks at John without any idea of where to go from here. His head feels empty, and when a thought does arrive, it surprises him in its unceremonious obviousness.

"I... I think I need to buy groceries." He says it as if it's a foreign concept. "And... a change of clothes?" He looks around John's barren flat, already exhausted by the idea. He's in no position to go about building a life from the ground up. "If this place can provide us with bank accounts and, and impossible bloody photo IDs, you'd think they could at least include toothbrushes or something."

The implications of his temporary solution belatedly start to trickle in. That, aside from a practical way to deal with the issue, it might come across as... weird, at best. At worst, possessive in a way that John has absolutely no right to, his flat or no. But he can't bring himself to feel sorry about that when it seems to be working.

And besides, it's not like Martin's going to go about in his clothes all the time; that would be ridiculous. They both know that this was all rather slapdash. If a more permanent solution becomes necessary, well... they can burn that bridge when they come to it. "You're welcome," he replies, voice carefully even.

John sighs heavily when Martin mentions shopping. "So do I. Who could have guessed that getting dragged into another universe would be so mundane." He sits back down, dragging his welcome packet over and belatedly sorting through its contents. The debit card goes into his wallet, and he sets the map aside for later perusal. The photo ID gives him pause, though, and he stares at it for a few long seconds before muttering, "Christ," and shoving it into his wallet as well.

Edited 2019-08-11 03:32 (UTC)

"Right?" Martin is almost relieved at something so simple to grasp onto as a shared petty irritation. "I've been thinking that all day, the- the inanity of it. It's just so bloody... normal."

He watches John shove the ID into his wallet and huffs out a half-hearted laugh.

"Well, apart from all that, of course."

He sits there a moment, then gets to his feet, slipping John's jacket from his shoulders and draping it with perhaps unnecessary care over the back of his chair. He tries to ignore the subtle return of that same chill. It's much more distant now, like it was the action, not the clothing itself, that really made the difference - but it's definitely there.

"I suppose I'm off, then," he says with marked uncertainty, unbalanced by how blunt and sudden it is. "Unless you'd... care to join me?"

It's an awkward question. He can't decide if he wants that - John accompanying him on something so... so simple and friendly and, ugh, domestic. Or if he just wants to get away from John right now. If he wants to be alone.

He doesn't feel safe or comfortable making such an assessment about himself. So he leaves it in John's hands.

John huffs quietly, both relieved and a bit startled by the sudden return to... well, 'normalcy' isn't really the word for it. But some of the ambient tension has drained from the room, and that's a hell of a thing.

"Until it isn't," he says, remembering that book that had spilled glowing runes down the library steps. And that man's -- Anduin's -- referrals to some of the things the city has apparently done. He'll believe it when he sees it, but he also not about to get lulled into a false sense of security. He's not even sure he knows what security feels like, anymore.

Martin rises, draping John's suit jacket over the back of the chair with more care than John had shown it last night. John remains seated, most of his initial focus on keeping his expression neutral, betraying neither surprise nor disappointment over Martin's intention to leave. It had to happen sooner or later. They're not bound to the Institute anymore, forced by circumstance to share physical space. And after snapping that he didn't want Martin's company out of pity, he can hardly act bereft over him going off on a wholly necessary shopping trip. Not looking pathetic is the point, pathetic feelings aside.

But then Martin invites him along, looking about as uncertain as John feels. John blinks up at him, unable to mask his surprise at the offer. His pride urges him to refuse, but he doesn't really want to. And, though he blinks a few more times just to be sure it's not a trick of his faulty human vision, there does appear to be a faint... blur there, across Martin's features. Nothing as bad as the haze or the fog, nothing so well-defined, but... not nothing, either. And the thought of Martin making it two blocks before the Lonely grips him again is enough to make John push back his seat.

"I... yes. If you don't mind."

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Escalation // for John

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