Escalation // for John

[loficharm]

[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!"

Comments

[loficharm]

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.

[statement_ends]

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?"

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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.

[statement_ends]

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?"

[loficharm]

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."

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

"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."

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

"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.

[statement_ends]

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."