loficharm | Regression // for John

Entry tags:

jonathan sims

Regression // for John

[cw: gross!!!]

Through all the many and varied subjects that vie for his nightly attention, there is always a special allotment for Jane Prentiss, for the memory of her, that sick drop in his gut when he first glimpsed her, the constant writhing motion of shadow where her face should be. It is almost worse, he thinks, that sense of motion in the dark, what could almost be his eyes playing tricks, than to see her in full light. The little pieces shedding away, pooling at her feet, wriggling toward him.

Some nights he is still there, trapped in his pathetic little flat, eating from cans, struggling to sleep. The persistent weight of her at his door, thudding and scratching and squirming to be let in, to burrow, to claim and colonize. Some nights he couldn't eat. Some nights he threw up what he could. Feels stupid to still be so haunted by something that ultimately never touched him. To feel revulsion so strong it frightened him, frightens him still. She is gone now, long gone. And he is escaped. Not just her, not just his flat, but all of it, that life, that fear, that danger. Gone now, but for his dreams.

He dreamed of that then. That none of it was happening. That he was safe somewhere else. Once, one particularly embarrassing night, he dreamed of John coming to save him, burning her away, breaking down the door. Stupid.

He wishes he wouldn't let himself dream like that.

The thudding persists upon the door, rhythmic and heavy. Not a knock from a fist but a revolting mass of colonized flesh just beating itself upon the wood in tireless motion. Go away, he wants to scream. Go away, leave me alone. Find someone else to pick on. Ugly things. Cowardly things. Childish, lonely hopes that he could just be invisible long enough to go unnoticed by her or by anyone else.

He wishes he wouldn't let himself think that.

He almost thought he was dreaming this. He almost thought it wasn't still happening right now, real as anything, the cold terror and nauseating dread gripping him from the inside and dragging him back down into a brutal, malicious reality where no one is coming to save him, probably no one's even noticed he's gone.

The door starts to crack, or did he imagine it? Did he imagine it giving at the hinges? Or is this finally it, one more strike and it's going to go, she's going to flood in, pouring across the floor, swarming over him, covering him and filling him up—

He wakes up with a breathless shout, nearly choking on his own spit as he kicks off the covers and stares, frantic, sweating, at the ceiling. Jesus Christ, not even free in his dreams, he thinks, until he realizes three things very quickly: first, that the thudding is gone; second, that there is a body beside him, startled awake by his own rough awakening; third, that body is Jonathan Sims.

"What—" he blurts, sitting up sharply and nearly cracking his head on the — the headboard?

This isn't his flat.

Did — did John actually—

Is he still dreaming?

"John?" he just barely manages to fumble out.

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John used to be a heavy sleeper. He doesn't know if he can still claim that description: not when any reluctance to wake feels less like a neutral human trait and more like a side effect of the Archivist's preoccupations, and not with an existence so rife with reasons — some real, some imagined — to bolt awake at a moment's notice.

Martin's nightmares might be the least objectionable of those reasons, if only because John has a solid idea of how to cope with them. Still, it takes several dragging seconds for him to regain full consciousness no matter how rude the awakening, and it's a testament to how common bad dreams are, with them, that he manages to push himself up onto his elbows and murmur some reassurances before he's even fully awake, himself. "Hey," he soothes on autopilot, reaching a little haphazardly across the rumpled bedsheets for Martin's arm. "I'm here, 's okay."

A tremor runs through him and he nearly recoils at the touch of John's hand, tensing instead, his back stiff against the headboard as he stares at his boss just... there, in a bed with him, sleepily reassuring him. For a moment all he can do is stammer noiselessly, then finally it all catches up with him like a runaway train.

"Wh-what are you—" He wants to pull his arm free, to get out of this bed, away from this... this, but he can't. Not yet. He's trembling. None of this makes sense. He doesn't think he'd even be able to hold himself upright. "Where are we, what—what's going on?"

Full consciousness fails to bring the situation into sharper relief, and John frowns, heaving himself into a sit with a drowsy grunt. Martin still looks petrified, tense and trembling against the headboard, and John twists round to turn on his bedside lamp before giving Martin his full focus.

"Christ, must've been a bad one," he murmurs, gently brushing some of Martin's sweat-dampened hair off of his forehead and feeling a pang of sympathy over the incomprehension still lingering in the whites of Martin's eyes. "You had a nightmare, love. We're safe."

Martin twitches, clenching his jaw as John looks at him directly, reaches out, touches him. Talks to him with a tone Martin has never heard from him. Calls him that. We.

"Stop," he snaps, so sharply it startles him distantly, that he actually possesses the self-righteousness necessary to hit those consonants so hard. He finally lurches back, staggering out of the bed, standing on shaky legs and pulling away as far as he can. "Stop it. Don't do that, why would you—"

It doesn't make sense. John doesn't act like this. He doesn't... doesn't make fun. He doesn't even know what fun is. He doesn't speak so softly. He doesn't look at Martin like that. He doesn't look at Martin at all, if he can help it.

And he isn't covered with scars, either, those awful pockmarks that make Martin's stomach turn, even if he can imagine where he might have gotten those, what might have transpired, he still doesn't know how he got from his flat to here, wherever here is. And it doesn't explain the rest.

"Look, I—I don't know what's going on here but I need to talk to you. I need to make a Statement. I've just been trapped in my flat for two. Weeks." He draws a shaky breath. Feels dizzy just thinking about it. "I've been held there against my will by an entity that I—" Even with all that he can't account for here, even with those scars covering John's face and neck, he still feels that old nervousness kick in. John's about to scowl and sneer at him. Can't even blame him, really. Steady as he can, he continues, "That I believe to be Jane Prentiss." He fixes John with a hard stare. "And I need you to tell me where we are and how I got here."

Edited 2022-01-19 00:30 (UTC)

There is a moment — one last moment of arguable normalcy — in which he can almost tell himself that he just took the wrong tack. Sometimes Martin doesn't want to be touched right away, sometimes he needs a few seconds to pull himself together before he'll consent to physical comfort. It's rare, but it happens. There is a moment where maybe the only thing wrong is John's own complacency, easy enough to correct.

But then Martin snaps at him, not just angry but with an undercurrent of baffling incredulity, as if John is horribly out of line. John snatches his hand back as if he's been bitten, watching in stunned silence as Martin stumbles out of the bed and puts as much distance between them as the room allows. As Martin then spits out a shockingly familiar list of demands. The only thing missing is a handful of dead worms flung onto his desk like a bloody winning card hand, and John flinches, as much at the memory of it all as at the unanticipated reprise, or the pressing steel in Martin's gaze.

Martin isn't stuck in the throes of a nightmare. Neither is John, though Christ, he almost wishes he was.

"For the sake of clarity," John says, every word now slow and deliberate, "the last thing you remember is being trapped in your flat by Jane Prentiss?"

Martin falters at that, some of his anger and indignation draining away under John's stare and his more familiar tone. He doesn't seem angry, and the lingering, baffling absurdity of the situation undercuts any nervousness that might otherwise crop up. And it's a relief that John doesn't seem to disbelieve him. And it is a good question, a fair question even, given his own confusion. He just doesn't see how anything he might have missed, or... blocked out, maybe, could account for all... this.

"Yeah," he says after a moment. "Yes. I... I don't remember... getting out. Or coming... here." He looks around the bedroom, taking it in for a moment. Nothing is familiar. It doesn't much look like a room he'd picture John having either, leaving aside the pure impossibility of John willingly sharing a bed with him. He looks down at himself, registering the pajamas he's wearing, which fit him perfectly but are certainly not his. He reaches out and touches the hem of his shirt, feeling the fabric as if to test its solidity. "Whose are these," he murmurs, and looks up, his tone taking on a beseeching edge. "What is going on?"

"Right," John breathes, lifting his hands to cover his face and pulling a slow breath between his palms. It could be worse. He has experienced this before. They both have, and in such dramatic fashion that this might almost be considered banal by comparison. That it's only struck Martin this time might even be considered a stroke of good fortune, if you really fucking squint. If John had been similarly diverted, they'd be truly insufferable — not to mention, once again, a problem for Eliot and Daisy to shoulder. Better that he be in a position to handle things, this time. He can handle this.

He doesn't want to, is the thing, and for a petulant beat he considers simply crawling back under the covers to see if this might resolve itself into a bad dream, after all. But he can't. Not with Martin sounding like that.

"Okay." John drops his hands and slowly swings his legs out of bed, then pauses, head bowed and shoulders hunched under the full weight of the realization that his Martin is gone, gone for an entire bloody week at the very least, and his second, ostensibly bracing 'okay' instead comes out sounding cracked and defeated. Shit. He already misses him.

But he can't indulge himself, not now. He levers himself to his feet, then turns to face Martin across the rucked-up ruin of their bed. "Prentiss is gone," he says, endeavoring to sound calm, to keep his tone even. "You're safe. But your memory has been... tampered with. That's why you're confused." He hesitates, then gestures wearily to the door before he starts to shuffle out towards the kitchen. "Come on. Might as well put the kettle on before we— before we get into it."

The Bishop is crouched halfway down the hall in self-imposed exile, but he rises to his feet when John appears, and lets out a raspy accusation of a meow. "I know," John murmurs, bending to scoop the creature up with one arm before using the other to fill the kettle.

Edited 2022-01-19 02:06 (UTC)

At first, John doesn't say much of anything, just sinks in on himself with a few muttered words like he's attempting to pull himself together, which doesn't make any sense. That's not an answer. None of it is an answer. He's never seen John like this, and it scares him, almost makes him feel angry, or at least impatient. What the hell could have happened while he was out?

When an answer comes, it really only brings about more questions. Not just the actual definitions of words like safe and gone, but the far more alarming tampered with. His fingers tighten around the hem of his shirt, equal parts defensive and afraid.

But he doesn't know what to say. He wouldn't say no to tea, at least, though he's not particularly accustomed to the offer coming this way. He follows John at an uneasy distance, jolting slightly as a cat makes itself known, watching with quiet disbelief as John picks it up, reassuring it with soft familiarity.

Martin stands outside the small kitchen, looking around the dark flat as though something there will explain this to him. It looks... nice. Tidy enough, but lived-in. Not exactly how he'd picture Jonathan Sims living. Though maybe he doesn't know much about his boss at all.

He looks askance at him now, cat in one arm, back hunched over the stove top. That is familiar. Looking askance, from the corner, where he won't be noticed. Looking, daydreaming, but nothing more.

He clears his throat and looks away. "I... I don't understand," he says at last, unable to make himself wait for the water to boil. "What do you mean tampered with?"

John is in no great hurry to fill the silence, though he can feel Martin watching him, the accompanying warmth he'd grown accustomed to now replaced by prickly suspicion. The enormity of what he needs to explain stretches before him like an ever-deepening mire, and there are none of the convenient shortcuts you might be able to use with a relatively credulous child familiar with the portal fantasy genre. Entities are one concept that has recently exited the realm of fiction, but there's still the rest of the mess of their own version of London, and then a bloody multiverse on top of that, featuring a potentially sentient city that kidnapped them for no conceivable reason and occasionally plays fun little jokes, like flinging them around in their own personal chronology.

And that's without even touching on the inescapable optics of them waking up in the same damn bed.

It's almost a relief when Martin asks a question. It gives him a place to begin. John pivots a little, glancing at Martin from around The Bishop, who is halfway to his shoulder and beginning to purr. "I mean that..." Christ, there's really no good way to approach any of this. If it were daylight, it might be quicker to just show him, to let the inescapable reality of the city speak for itself, but he's not going to drag Martin outdoors in his bloody pajamas at four in the morning. "We're— we are currently living in a, in an environment where things like—like forgetting several years of your life just... happen, sometimes. And yes," he hastens to add, "I am aware of how absurd a-and inadequate that sounds."

The kettle starts to roil, and John reaches over to flick off the burner before it can start whistling in earnest. Preparing tea one-handed isn't the most convenient way to go about it, but there's something grounding about the far more simple challenge it poses. Or perhaps he just has no desire to put down the cat, whose purring is the only comfort he can anticipate enjoying for the near future.

Edited 2022-01-19 04:45 (UTC)

Martin watches John struggle with the answer, not particularly encouraged by the apparent effort of it, but oddly taken with the sight nonetheless: John, sort of... floundering, choosing his words not with his usual precision but with... care. Is this what he's like out of office? Does he just... have a whole second persona when no one else sees?

Ridiculous to be fascinated by it right now, or to be thinking about where he woke up, John's voice and John's hand reaching so easily for his arm, his brow — the tender familiarity of reassurances that made no sense, that hurt more than anything. Christ, he feels like he's going mad.

"An... environment," he repeats slowly, letting his skepticism be heard before the rest of it catches up to him. With much more agitation, he says, "Wait, years? I—" He cuts himself off, unwilling to engage with it any further before he's had tea. "Okay. Erm... milk and three sugars for me, please." It feels stupid, approximating small talk, making an inane request like that at a moment like this. But it's grounding, too. A little distraction, however brief, from tampered with and years.

Edited 2022-01-19 10:48 (UTC)

John grimaces faintly; maybe he should have held off on the 'years' aspect until... well, 'until what?' is the inevitable rejoinder. The truth will not land gently no matter how carefully he lobs it. There is no way to package it that will make it less frightening or confusing or bloody maddening.

Or perhaps he's just telling himself that, because the alternative is admitting that the Martin now hovering at the edge of their kitchen is such a stranger to him that he lacks the ability to place the facts of their situation on a customized tolerable-to-catastrophic axis. That he can't make this easier, or more comfortable, because he doesn't know what this Martin would find comforting.

To say nothing of the absolutely abysmal odds of Martin being willing to accept any approximation of comfort from him, the hypercritical prick of a boss who bullied him into such a dangerous situation to begin with.

Given all that, he really has no right to be stung when Martin offers his tea preferences. It still needles at him: the awareness that there's no reason for this Martin to assume he would know; that for too long a time, he didn't know; that finally figuring it out was a small, silly source of satisfaction; that Martin no longer remembers, Christ, he doesn't remember anything but the worst John ever had to offer. "I know," John says, hurt sticking to the edge of his tone despite his attempt to sound calm and matter-of-fact. His hand shakes a little as he goes about preparing each cup, but that's a more familiar setback — mild tremors have accompanied exhaustion and metaphysical hunger on more than one occasion, so what's a little emotional distress, really — and he compensates. He doesn't quite trust himself to carry both cups to the table without sloshing hot tea down his own wrist, though, so he picks up Martin's first, holding it out to him with a quiet, "Here," before retrieving his own cup and shuffling over to the table.

He settles himself into his chair, arranges The Bishop in his lap (earning himself a feline grumble of protest until he once again sacrifices an arm for the cat to brace himself on), and spends a few moments staring at his cup before risking a glance at Martin. "There's... a lot to cover," he says. "It, er, it might be easier if you just... ask whatever questions you find most... most pressing."

Martin almost flinches when John says that, that he knows. It's not the quiet disbelief — why would he know? how could he? — it's the way he says it, almost... wounded. Martin feels strangely deflated, adrift at sea, and he accepts the cup in silence, seizing onto it as the only grounding thing he has.

It takes him a moment of standing there watching John handle the cat before he lets himself sit at the table, his hands braced around his cup for warmth and steadiness.

The offer John puts to him is a bit disconcerting, for all it seems fair. His gaze fades into the middle distance as he tries to think, to figure out where to start. What is most pressing? What isn't pressing?

"When you say..." He wavers for a moment and then takes a fortifying sip. It's comforting. Sweet, just how he likes. He tries to focus. Years, tampered with, gone. He latches onto that last one, despite the building dread in his gut over the spectre of forgotten time. It feels immediate. It doesn't feel like years have passed. It feels like moments ago. "Sorry. When you say she's gone, what do you mean? How did I... get out of there?"

It's almost a relief that that is his first question. Maybe it shouldn't be; there isn't much comfort to be had in how immediate that long-since-dispatched threat feels to him, further confirmation of how wrong things are. At least the answer is easy, almost impersonal — though that is its own kind of damnation, isn't it? That it all worked out without John having to do much of anything.

"She let you go," he replies. "You came back to the Institute, threw a handful of dead worms on my desk, and gave me your Statement. I know it-it feels like it's only just happened, but we've been through all this already." For a beat, he considers remarking on the similarity of the speech Martin had given him at the time and the one he spat out just a few minutes ago, but even the driest humor feels like an unearned indulgence.

He sighs softly, reaching for his cup and turning it a few degrees before looking up, meeting Martin's gaze squarely. "I'm sorry, Martin. I-it was a long time ago, but I— there's no excuse for how I treated you. You never should've been investigating on your own." It feels feeble and inadequate, apologizing for a version of himself who never would have stooped so low as to acknowledge what a colossal fuck-up he'd been, certainly not to Martin's face. But they're already off-script, and he has no desire to play that role, even if it might be an easier one for Martin to stomach, less of a departure from the norm.

The first thing he wants to do, reflexive and impatient, is object. There's no way she'd just let him go, not after all that. How could he forget something like that? It was just happening.

But even with the impossibility of it all, it is getting progressively harder to deny the mounting evidence that he is missing time, and to argue against it would just be petty now. It does sort of sound like something he'd like to do. Just... take the evidence and slam it down. Proof positive, in the face of all that snide doubt. But it's all turned on its head now. Now John, of all people, is trying to convince him that things aren't what they seem.

There are other questions brimming, but before any of them have time to form John throws him even further off with an apology. Meeting his gaze directly, fumbling a bit but... sincere. Martin stares at him, his lips moving wordlessly for a moment. It's so unexpected, so out of character, he feels like he ought to be waiting for a cruel punchline, much as that doesn't seem like John's speed either. It's also... kind of nice. If he can allow himself to believe it.

Christ, he supposes if John did learn what had happened to him, that might well have softened him up a bit. And maybe this apology was something overdue, too difficult to make until now, while he's unawares.

He nods, hesitant and tentative, accepting the apology like it's something fragile that might break in his hand, that might cut him.

"O-okay," he says softly, and takes another sip of tea. "I mean, it... it's fine."

And it's really beside the point, he thinks, eager to push away from this unfamiliar territory. "But... but if she's still out there, she could— Sorry, I think I'm going to need more clarity on that years thing? How—how long has it been?" Another thought occurs to him before he can even let John answer, and he adds hastily, "Can I hear that Statement I made?"

His apology is met with open-mouthed shock, and while that's the only response he had any right to anticipate, it still makes his gut twist. It's one thing to understand how awful he was to Martin at the time, to regret it, even to imagine things being different; it is something else entirely to be sat across from a version of Martin Blackwood that he has never deserved less, and watch in real time as his pathetic attempts at decency bewilder him.

It is certainly not 'fine.' But he can't bring himself to belabor the point. The basic facts of their situation are already a hard sell; he won't make it more convincing if he leans so hard into his own self-recrimination that Martin decides this has to be a bloody fever dream.

"Oh, sh-she's not," John says. "Still out there, I mean. She, er — she attacked the Institute a few months later, but we were able to— well, Elias activated the fire suppression system, and that killed her. The Co2."

He finally lifts his tea and takes a sip, aware that he's stalling, and not just because the mental math takes him a few moments. Christ, Martin really isn't going to like this bit. "That was, er... 2016, wasn't it? So... not quite six years ago."

Martin listens as attentively as he can, though it is a struggle not to interrupt, to ask for more, more details. He's not even sure what they'd be. The question of how long it's been, how he could possibly have lost his memory so completely, and what all he's missed — they're all crowding in on him, making it hard to focus. And some of it scares him a little bit. There are some questions he's not sure how to ask. Can't even think about them.

Then John recalls the year, and it takes thought, there's uncertainty about it, which is awful enough before he utters six years.

Martin's stomach turns unpleasantly and he almost pushes back from the table, stopping himself only because he doesn't know where he'd go. He stares at John, at the cat on his shoulder, then at the tea, the table, his hands gripping the edge of it.

"What?" he manages eventually, shrill and scarcely above a whisper. "Six... Jesus Christ." He drags his hands up over his face, breathing hard through his fingers. He takes a moment, struggling to align this new information with everything else. Struggling to accept it, even though it's ridiculous. It's impossible. How does something like that happen, why would it happen? Why does he even believe it?

"How?" he pushes out finally, his voice muffled in his hands.

"I know," John says softly. His fingers twitch with the instinct to reach across the table — a desire that now, with the memory of Martin flinching away from him still fresh in his mind, feels presumptuous at best. He keeps his hand on his cup. Martin takes the information in, and while a part of John is surprised (and not ungrateful) that Martin has yet to start accusing him of outright lies, he also knows credulity can only strain so much before it snaps. He glances over at the clock on the microwave, wondering if they might make it until daylight before his word ceases to be enough, and more concrete evidence is called for.

"Well," he continues, his proverbial footing feeling more precarious with every step, "a few years ago, we were... we were taken from London, to another city called Darrow. That's where we are now. A-and, look, you—you saw Prentiss, you know that thi— that reality isn't as, as straightforward as we thought it was. Darrow is... it's stranger than London was. It does things. And sometimes the things it does are, er..." he winces, not without sympathy, and indicates Martin with a flex of his fingers, "targeted."

It's so strange hearing John talk like this, all... soft and understanding and reassuring. Martin's heard him speaking softly, even gently, but it's usually through the closed door of his office while he records. Never... like this, and certainly not to him.

A lot must have changed, he thinks, though it's not a thought he trusts. This is absurd. It can't really be happening, can it? And before that doubt even has time to percolate, John's already stammering onward, all but pleading with him to accept that strange things are possible. The very thing John himself has only ever sneered at.

The idea he's trying to sell, though, is a bit too much even now. Martin wrinkles his nose, and it's almost a relief to let that doubt come, to let skepticism flood in. Anything instead of awful credulity. Believing it is too much, and the moment he lets go of the pressure of having to try, he feels a certain sort of weight lift. It doesn't make him feel safer, or any less confused — if anything, it's worse on those counts — but at least he doesn't have to look at this kind, soft-spoken John and just believe him.

"That's... Okay." He presses his fingertips to his brow, rubbing out the beginnings of a headache, and has another sip of his perfectly made tea. "Do you realize how insane that sounds? I mean, even with what I've seen, and you're right, of course, things aren't as straightforward as we—well, as you thought. But this..." He sits back, gesturing around the flat without really meaning to indicate it. It's a gesture meant to encompass the situation more than anything. But the flat can come too. "This is ridiculous." A laugh bubbles out of him, suddenly, his shoulders shaking with it. "I mean—why would I believe any of this? Why should I, because you... you could be anyone, you know? How do I know you're who you say you are? If Prentiss is real, then... then why not anything else, something that could mess with my head, or make me see things. I've seen enough Statements to give me plenty of ideas, and if that's what this is, you're doing a piss poor job of it, mate."

He's getting manic, saying more than he should, with more bite than may be wise. If this is some sort of trick, if he's swapped one sort of captivity for another, one that wears some scarred-up version of John's face and acts nothing like him, then it's probably not in his best interest to piss it off. He looks down, back at his teacup, fiddling with it as he trades his slight hysteria for a sulky frown.

"John doesn't... John doesn't even like me, much less know my bloody tea preferences," he mutters. Then, with sudden added steam, he says, "I mean, what is all this? Whose flat is this supposed to be, in this... strange city that 'does things'?" He can't resist a rather mocking bit of scare quotes on that.

Edited 2022-01-22 21:10 (UTC)

There it goes. He can see the moment Martin changes his mind, bucking off the weight of John's piecemeal explanation. He can't even blame him, really; if their roles were reversed, John can't imagine himself just accepting all of this with any kind of grace. Especially (Christ) if it had been coming from Martin.

But the dismissal still stings, and the arguments are all the worse for how hard they are to counter. What is he supposed to say? That if he'd really been replaced by some kind of Not-John, it wouldn't matter how out of character he seemed, because Martin wouldn't be capable of remembering the difference? That it will be years before another avatar targets him with such single-minded deliberation, and with a far more effective approach? Even the 'I'll tell you something only you could've told me' avenue is closed to him, because the secret truths he knows about Martin are too delicate to bluntly repurpose in such a way. Even as a part of him bristles at Martin's tone, he refuses to consider stooping that low.

Still, the gentleness he'd maintained starts to buckle under the strain. "I'm not the one messing with your head," he replies, an edge to his voice. "And if I had any interest in lying to you, I'd need to make things convincing, wouldn't I? That's what's so unfortunate about the truth. It doesn't care about being plausible, let alone convenient."

He makes himself pause, take a sip of tea, but it's not as steadying as he wants it to be, and he sets the cup down with a more forceful clunk than he intends. Unearned hurt has him shying away from the more direct answer to Martin's last question, and his lips twist in a frustrated grimace before he finally speaks, clipped and raw. "Considering the circumstances, I suspect you could hazard a guess as to whose flat this is supposed to be."

That's better. Even a flicker of familiarity feels better; that little bite to John's voice, that's as it should be. Martin purses his lips tightly and looks at the table, fighting the instinctive urge to get defensive in turn, as though he has any position to argue here. His suggestion is every bit as far-fetched as what John is telling him, he knows that; and as John's reinforced point takes hold, burrowing in past his desperate wish to deny all this, he knows it wasn't an argument he'd had any hope of winning anyway. He'd pushed so that John would be forced to push back. So that he wouldn't have to accept this in such soft and gentle terms. So it's better, and it's worse; that it has to hurt more for him to accept it. And that, maybe, if he's not very much imagining it, he just managed to hurt Jonathan Sims' feelings.

That last point, though. He shuts his eyes against it, takes a deep breath and opens them again. "And why are we sharing a flat?"

Yes, he can hazard a guess. It's been there, itching horribly under his skin, since he woke up here, John beside him, murmuring affection and comfort. But he isn't going to just say it. He can't. He doesn't dare believe it, much less breathe any life into it. It's stupid, but this might scare him more than anything.

His breath hitches slightly at Martin's question, a bubble of humorless laughter he couldn't fully suppress. Several unkind answers present themselves — because I've adopted you, Martin, why the fuck do you think? — but these, he more easily swallows. He didn't miss Martin's response to his own sharpening tone: the too-familiar, defensive hunch of his shoulders, his gaze firmly fixed on the table. Just like old times. But John does not miss the version of himself that this Martin might find the most familiar, and he won't pretend that leaning into it would comfort either one of them.

Which still leaves him with how to answer the question. One leg is starting to bobble restlessly despite the comforting weight of the cat against his chest. The blunt truth of it still feels unutterable, like it could only land as some sort of cruel joke no matter how carefully he speaks the words. Or maybe he's the one who doesn't want to draw more attention to it, because it's a truth that started to crumble in his hands the moment Martin flinched away from him in bed, and addressing it now will only give Martin the opportunity to decisively finish it off.

John looks away. "It was my flat, first," he says at length. A more distant, neutral truth. Maybe if he places enough of those around the edges of the puzzle, Martin won't need him to spell out the shape of the negative space in the center. "Assigned housing from the city. They put you all the way across town." A dry huff of laughter does rattle its way loose, then, at the memory of all those interminable cab rides, and how the inconvenience never managed to stop them. Certainly not when it mattered, and often even when it didn't.

"We got tired of the distance." He swallows, risking only a brief, furtive glance at Martin before he softly admits, "We got tired of being apart."

"Jesus Christ, stop beating around it," Martin snaps, another wave of bitter hysteria rising up in him. He pulls back just as sharply, drawing and releasing a decisive breath before slumping again in defeat. As if he hasn't been doing the very same thing. "S-sorry," he mumbles in the deafening wake of his own petulance. "I... this is... a lot."

He's terrified, is the thing. He wants to accuse John of fucking with him. That's not funny, he wants to say. Why would you say that? Why are you doing this?

John can't have known how he feels, and if he does, this isn't how Martin would ever have expected him to react. Not with... understanding. Or even — he can't even think it's reciprocation, he can't allow that thought in him when it feels so bloody impossible. More than the whole absurd story, this he finds irreconcilable. Even with it staring him down, where he woke, the state of this flat, John's reaction to his awakening and the way he is now. If he lets himself trust, or... is hope even the right word? He doesn't know what he'll do if he's wrong, which feels too believable even in the face of all this evidence.

"A-are we—" he tries, and his voice actually breaks, and for a gut wrenching moment he actually wishes he were back in his own flat, held prisoner by Jane Prentiss. He can't look at John, too wretched and pathetic to even try, going to pieces over the mere idea at some sort of unthinkable intimacy. This was supposed to be a stupid little secret. Something of his, to keep the days interesting. Safe and dismally comforting in its impossibility.

"Are we... friends?" he manages finally, grimacing at his own cowardly half-measure.

John tenses when Martin snaps at him again. The Bishop lets out a soft sound of protest, and John forces himself to relax his grip on the creature, though actual relaxation is out of the question. Even as he resents Martin's almost absurd refusal to put two and two together, he can't fully blame him, either. Would he have believed this, absent the years of context and growth and mutual bloody pining that made it possible?

He wouldn't have, because he wouldn't have been able to comprehend the monumental shift in his own attitude towards Martin Blackwood, his most useless archival assistant. And Martin can't believe it for the exact same fucking reason.

"We're together," he finally replies. "We're... well," he drops his gaze to the table, cheeks prickling, "'boyfriend' was never my preferred term, but it isn't... inaccurate. We've been— i-it's—" another humorless gust of laughter is shaken loose as the bloody timing of all this sinks in. "It'll be two years next week."

It's as if a weight has lifted off his chest and dropped, instead, into his stomach. A relief to have it said aloud making way for a maelstrom of confusion and bitter resentment. He sits there, stammering noiselessly like an idiot, and the only thought that rises to the surface is that it's not fair. It's so terribly unfair that everything he'd thought was utterly immovable has shifted so profoundly that he almost can't recognize the man before him, that he can't even imagine the paths that have been taken, that he seems to have awakened to a future he might have daydreamed about only to have forgotten how it all happened.

"What the fuck," he finally blurts out, soft and a little watery. Christ, please don't start crying. "Why—"

He doesn't know where that question is going. Why did this happen to me? maybe, which feels useless and self-pitying, and probably unanswerable besides. He pushes a hand over his face and through his hair, gripping it for a moment as though he might stabilize himself. "How did that happen?" he finally allows with might've been a touch of wry humor if he could just sound less broken. If it really has been six bloody years surely John will forgive a bit of incredulity on this point.

Edited 2022-01-23 20:07 (UTC)

The incredulity was half-anticipated, and doesn't cut as sharply as it might have done. That Martin seems on the verge of tears is much harder to simply brush aside, and John sits stricken, the urge to do something jostling uncomfortably with the awareness that all the usual measures would probably strike this Martin as terrifyingly foreign. Can he really bear to offer his hand across the table, knowing how likely it is that Martin would either ignore it or meet it with the same manic disbelief as the rest of this?

He draws his hand back, instead, curling his fingers into the cat's fur and blinking rapidly at Martin's question. "I-I— I don't know," he answers, balking at the enormity of it. How, he asks, as if one of them simply pushed a button or flicked a switch, as if the answer couldn't fill a bloody book. "It just... happened."

Martin tips his head down, his hand slipping to his brow as a shrill, humorless laugh escapes him. "It just happened," he echoes. "You—you've always hated me, how..."

Maybe it's pointless to pursue this line of questioning. Maybe it's every bit as unfair to John as him. He shuts his mouth, taking a moment to try and pull himself together.

"I need the loo," he says abruptly, and sits up straighter. He can't keep staring at John, or not staring at him, full of questions he doesn't know how to ask, or that John doesn't know how to answer. He needs... he just needs to be alone, even for a moment.

John pulls in a breath, compelled to argue or elaborate but not entirely sure how, what he can say. That four years is a long time? That things change, that he changed? Something else that might be true, but is too vague and dismissive to mean anything or convince anyone, the equivalent of telling an inquisitive child because I said so?

But then Martin saves him the effort, and John sits up a bit as well, unthinkingly echoing his posture. "Oh, r-right. It's just, just back down the hall." It feels ridiculous to be giving directions, not least of all because it's too small a flat for Martin to have not seen all of it by now, if only in passing. But he doesn't know what else to do.

Martin takes the directions with a distracted nod as he gets up, roaming back the way he came, feeling a bit in a daze. He doesn't allow himself to think much of anything until the WC door is shut behind him and he can sort of collapse back against it. He draws a few short, ragged breaths and stares around at the space, the pair of towels hung on hooks, the two toothbrushes in a neat little holder on the sink. He hesitates before going for the shower, pulling back the curtain and looking in at the contents. Only one set of hair care product, but that probably isn't too surprising, given how little he thinks either of them would fuss about that sort of thing. The brands are odd, looking nearly familiar but slightly wrong. He pulls the curtain shut and twists away to brace on the sink, staring at himself in the mirror.

He looks older. Not by much, certainly not as drastically different as John, but it's noticeable all the same. The hint of bags under his eyes, the subtle contours of his jaw — his face looks a bit thinner than he remembers, but at the same time he feels like he's a bit heavier. He's aged. His body seems to remember, even if he doesn't.

He looks at himself, then at the pair of toothbrushes, then down at his unfamiliar, perfectly fitted pajamas. When he looks back up, he greets himself with tears spilling down his cheeks.

Christ, get a hold of yourself. He pulls away in disgust and ends up sat upon the closed lid of the toilet, his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with the effort of crying silently. He hates this. He hates how pathetic he is and he hates this whole bloody situation. How he's so miserably fixated on the status of his apparent relationship with his once-prickly boss he's barely even granted himself time to dwell on the rest — that they're supposedly in an entirely different city, 'taken' there, John said. Whatever that means.

No, all he can think about is this shared flat, and John making him a perfect cup of tea, and the cat, and the bed, and the sound of John's voice as he tried to offer comfort, the way it trembled and softened under his own dawning realization, the slump of his shoulders and the hurt evident in his entire being. The word boyfriend. The word love.

An entire sob almost escapes him and he covers his mouth tightly, curling over like he's trying to compress himself back into the right shape. Going to pieces over this, over something he might've dreamed about. What an idiot.

But it isn't anything like being given a gift. It's like being cheated. Something's been taken away from him. Six years' worth of something, the bad, the good, whatever the hell happened to land them here. He feels like he's grieving, like he's lost something he never knew he could have.

But he knows he can't keep wasting his energy on it. He needs to get his head round the rest of it, this memory loss and this... 'environment,' and all that's happened between Prentiss and now. He can't just stay here trapped and crying in the loo.

So finally, shakily, he gets up, regards himself with disapproval in the mirror, and washes his face. He realizes quickly he has no idea which towel to use, and the idea of getting it wrong is so mortifying that he almost physically flinches away from them. He ends up using his sleeve, dampening it noticeably, but he's beyond caring.

Finally, he comes back out, trying to look composed as he finds John again. "Okay," he says. "I, erm... I believe you, I think." He tugs nervously on the hem of his shirt, willing his voice not to tremble. "S-so, erm... this... Darrow, was it? You said we were taken here, wh-what does that mean?"

The bathroom door shuts, and John remains stiffly sat for a beat or two before getting to his feet. He can't sit still; he feels as if he ought to be doing something.

But, of course, there is nothing for him to do. What, does he think Martin would welcome it if he had the temerity to knock on the door? Does he even have the right to presume to offer comfort to this Martin, who never heard a kind word from him before tonight?

His restless pacing carries him into the living room before he decides that standing was a mistake, and settles heavily onto the couch, depositing The Bishop on the cushion next to him and hunching forward to bury his head in his hands. He doesn't have a right to the lump in his throat or the weight in his chest. He's being dramatic, teetering on the edge of some truly inexcusable self-pity. Whatever this is, it'll sort itself soon enough. Things will return to a normal he recognizes. Martin, his Martin, will wake up one day soon and be just as he's supposed to be, and they'll look back at all this from a comfortable distance away, and it'll be fine.

All he has to do is just... be decent to him in the meantime. That's not a tall order. Fuck, it's literally the least he can do.

John fists a hand in his hair, and the recriminating sting feels right, a non-verbal get it the fuck together. He sniffs once, his other hand smudging away the few tears that managed to fall. Christ, this'll be hard enough for Martin without him having to worry about John's feelings, as if their distress is even remotely comparable. He's being ridiculous.

The faint sound of running water emits from the bathroom, and John pushes out a bracing breath before getting back to his feet and returning to his chair. By the time Martin emerges, he has his hands curled around his cup, and... well, there's really nothing he could do to achieve the kind of 'normal' this Martin would anticipate. Too changed for that, in more ways than one. He hopes he's erased the evidence that he'd been crying, if nothing else.

He risks a glance up at Martin, the corners of his mouth twitching back in an expression that's more acknowledgment than smile. It's some small relief to be believed. At least it means they can probably wait until daylight before introducing Martin to the city itself.

Physically, at least. John sucks on his teeth for a moment, relieved that the topic has shifted to more neutral territory, though he isn't sure the explanations he might offer on this front will be satisfying, either. "We just sort of... appeared here," he says, hitching his shoulders in a small, helpless shrug. "Not like we were kidnapped or something, more like a— like a portal fantasy, like stumbling into fucking Narnia. It's happened to others as well — hundreds of people, all told. As far as I understand it, it's another universe. Close enough to our own that you can almost mistake the two, but not quite identical."

Martin almost laughs over fucking Narnia. That's both a somewhat helpful comparison and a comfort, in a sort of gallows humor way — that acknowledgment that this is ridiculous.

But he supposes there's some small novelty to be enjoyed in John just embracing the otherworldly, even under duress. He'll take what he can get, in the face of the facts being laid before him, which are rather terrifying. "O-kay," he says slowly. "That's... a lot. Is this something to do with... everything?" He makes a vague gesture, not sure how to expand on that idea. "I mean, with whatever we were getting into at the Institute? I mean, are those hundreds of other people like... other people who've made Statements, or something? Oh, are the others here? Elias, and Sasha and everyone?"

Right, see? This isn't so bad. Just like... like explaining things to a new arrival, not that he has any notable experience on that front. Martin — any iteration of Martin — is a far cry from Norah. He's even feeling good about the direction things are headed in, the inevitable comparison between the madness of home and the madness of Darrow, until Martin mentions Sasha, and John twitches in his seat as if he'd been kicked beneath the table.

Christ. He doesn't know. Not about Sasha, or Tim, or what the Institute really represented. How in the hell is he supposed to get into all of that?

John pulls in a breath, easing back from that proverbial ledge. He hasn't been asked to get into all of that, yet, and he is both tired and cowardly enough to take the easy exit, to focus only on what's been put before him and not the sea of implications beneath it.

"It is a lot," he says first, taking a sip of tea to buy himself a few seconds of breathing room. "But, er, not related to anything we were investigating. We thought it might be, at first, but... I think it's just a coincidence that we went from one strange place to another." He takes a slow breath, schooling his expression. "The others aren't here, though. Well— Daisy is, Daisy Tonner, but I-I don't believe you've met her, yet." He gestures, a bit weakly, towards the ceiling. "She's just a couple floors up, actually."

Martin's fairly certain he doesn't know anyone called Daisy, and would remember if he did. He shrugs, not sure how to feel about that — just another thing he doesn't remember.

"So... is it regional, at least? There must be some sort of connection. Some sort of... portal in London, maybe?" Maybe it's stupid to think he hasn't already looked into this, but Christ, speculating is better than just standing there in dumbfounded horror. At least it feels marginally useful. And it's... nice, kind of, in a distant way, to just... theorize with John Sims. Certainly nothing he'd ever have guessed he'd get to enjoy.

If Martin notices the slight start Sasha's name had given him... well, he must not have done. He plainly lacks the necessary context to spare John's feelings, even if he wanted to. A bullet dodged, then, at least for the moment, and John tentatively relaxes by a few scant degrees.

The theorizing is rather stale, and feels a little like a waste of time for reasons Martin, of course, wouldn't understand: that it doesn't matter how it works. That they have no interest in escape, or reverse engineering the circumstances of their own arrival. That it's better here; that they're better here. That this might be the only home their circumstances would've otherwise afforded them.

But it's easy, too, and far less fraught than several alternatives they might otherwise stumble into, if John's not careful. He even manages a faint snort of real humor at the idea of it being regional. "If only," he responds dryly. "Going by the geography, and the accents of the local population, I'd place us somewhere on the eastern seaboard of America. It's still off; the currency is... something else. But it's the closest match."

Martin frowns, growing a little more confused with each bit of information he gets. "Okay, but... you said this has happened to hundreds of people, right? Are they all from London? I mean, someone's bound to notice, regardless, surely there's..."

He trails off, losing steam almost as quick as he picked it up. The whole thing suddenly feels a little hollow. Even if a mass disappearance were noticed, if this is really... another universe, what would anyone do about it? Does anyone even know how it all works, or are they all just getting by? His answer is laid out around him, it seems.

"I have no idea what I'm talking about," he says quietly. "I mean, we've probably been through all this, haven't we? If it's been years and we're just..."

He gestures vacantly at the flat. He can't really imagine just going with this, but Christ, he supposes it must have eventually seemed better than just railing against an unsolvable problem. At least it seems they made something nice out of it, however far that is from him now.

He wonders what he's supposed to do now. Can't just go on standing here while John sits at the table, all this distance, like they're strangers to each other. Thought right now, they might as well be.

"You said this sort of thing... happens sometimes," he says. "The... tampering. Does it..." He fidgets, the question making him nervous for some reason he's not keen to look closely at; not enough not to ask. "Does it ever... go away?"

Edited 2022-01-24 01:29 (UTC)

John hums in acknowledgment, soft and sympathetic. He can't say he necessarily minds retreading such familiar ground, given that it's firm enough beneath his feet. But Martin isn't wrong. They've already been as far down this road as they care to go, and if this Martin doesn't want to go further, John can't bring himself to drag him.

"It does," he says. He has to watch his tone again; he's wary of sounding too preemptively relieved by the prospect, as if Martin's a nuisance he can't wait to be rid of. "Things like this usually don't last much more than a week." He almost adds that it's happened to them before, both of them at once, and that he even has the photo album to prove it, but he's not sure it would be any particular comfort. Another staggering, life-altering experience he no longer remembers. More concrete evidence of what he's missed.

Instead, he looks down at his cup, fidgeting with it as he considers the practicalities, unable to meet Martin's gaze when he speaks. "Look, I-I understand how... how uncomfortable this must be for you. A-and I don't want you to think that you owe me anything, so if y— if it would be easier for you, I can— I can stay someplace else until things a-are back to normal." There's the cot in the Archive, and Daisy would let him sleep on her couch (though she might use the opportunity to bully him into more yoga, knowing her). Neither option is particularly appealing, but then, neither is the prospect of navigating around the awkward gulf that's reinserted itself between them. And Martin's comfort matters more than his.

Well, that's... something. He's not sure how to feel about it, actually. It seems like it should be a relief, but he has no frame of reference, nothing to miss, only wild imaginings and a sort of resentful feeling, like he's been cut out of his own life. It's good that these sorts of things aren't permanent, he supposes. Makes it... manageable. He wonders if anything like this has happened to them before.

John's carrying on before he can ask, and Martin blinks at him, momentarily stymied by the stammering as much as the content of it. It's... considerate, but also fairly absurd under the circumstances.

"Wh- no, that's ridiculous," he protests. "Technically I'm the one who doesn't belong here, I'm not going to put you out. I—I'm fine with the couch. Honestly, it's all the same to me."

He feels himself flushing faintly, embarrassed, though he's not sure why. Is he being childish? Is it reasonable to expect John to hold him at arm's length, any more than it would be fair to expect him to roll with all this? None of this is particularly fair to either of them, but he's not sure what he can do about it. He feels like he doesn't know this John — truth be told, he really doesn't know his John, either. Clearly. He thinks he'd like to. If only he had any idea how to start.

Not by standing here and fumbling all over himself, that's for certain. He needs more time to think, on his own. Ironic that after what feels like weeks of forced isolation, he just wants more of it.

He clears his throat. "I don't think I'll be able to sleep any more tonight, though," he says, faintly apologetic. "Though, erm... I could maybe do with a shower? Just..." He shrugs, not really sure he can put into words how unclean he feels right now, his memory still itching with crawling, wriggling worms. "I didn't really feel... safe doing that in my flat. I know it was a while ago, but..." He shrugs again, looking at the floor. "Would it be okay if I...?"

John sits up with a sharp frown, half-formed objections about Martin still belonging here and how if he refuses to see himself as a resident he at least qualifies as a guest (one that John isn't about to relegate to the bloody couch) clogging his throat. But he can't quite voice them, balking at the bedrock of his own reasoning. Is he supposed to tell Martin that he doesn't need as much sleep as a normal person, anymore? Because of what they were unwittingly doing at the Institute, and what it made him?

Christ, this is all too much for four in the morning.

Martin clears his throat, changing the subject, and John gives his head a short, self-recriminating shake, as if he should have anticipated this. "Y-yes, of course. Um. Let me get you a fresh towel." He levers himself to his feet. "And there are clothes in the bedroom; you can just..." he gestures, vague and embarrassed, in the bedroom's general direction, "pick whatever you like."

Once Martin is settled and he can hear the water running, John wanders back out into the dining area. He regards the table and the two cups of tea for a few moments, thinking that perhaps he ought to clear them away. Instead, he gravitates over to the couch, collapsing onto the cushions in a bone-weary sprawl. The Bishop leaps up onto his chest a few moments later, and John sinks his fingers into the cat's fur with a quiet sigh. "It's fine," he tells him, as if fine is an idea he's taking for a spin. Kicking the tires, and so on. "It'll be fine."

Whatever you like feels like a bit much, but Martin doesn't have the energy to ask for more specific directions. He just nods his thanks and wanders back to the bedroom while John fetches the towel.

It's easy enough to tell their clothes apart, anyway. Once he's found what seems to be his part of the dresser he fishes out a reasonably comfortable pair of joggers and a t-shirt. It takes a bit of digging to find a jumper that seems to be the right fit; with all this in his arms, he goes back to the WC to find the fresh towel waiting for him.

He feels like he ought to hurry, and has to remind himself this is technically his shower and he's presumably entitled to take as long as he likes. And he needs the time. The heat helps him feel a little calmer; for a little while he can close his eyes and just switch himself off. It doesn't last very long. There's too much to think and wonder about, ranging from enormous questions about the world he's apparently found himself in to hopelessly granular, embarrassing inquiries about himself. This... relationship.

Christ, he's really in a relationship with John. It doesn't feel real. And, well, it isn't. He isn't. He hasn't earned any of it. He hasn't done any of the growing necessary to become appealing. It's hard to imagine what that Martin must look like. Hard to imagine how John could have softened on him to this extent. Only to be saddled again with him as he is now.

He sighs and tries to focus on washing. He's just about finished when his fingers skate over something on his waist, and he hesitates, looking down through steam and blinking away water.

There's... a line on his waist, long and thin and... raised. A scar.

He shuts off the water and towels himself off as quick as he can, twisting at a slightly awkward angle to try and get a better look, waiting impatiently for the mirror to clear.

It's definitely a scar. He has no idea what from, though. It doesn't look like a surgical thing, it's... a little bit too rough for that, he thinks. And not really in the right spot for it to be his appendix or something.

He stares at it until he starts feeling cold, then he gets dressed in a hurry, pulling the jumper on while he steps back out into the comparative chill of the flat.

"John—" he starts, stopping short as he rounds the corner and finds John sprawled over the couch with the cat curled up on his chest, both dozing. It's sort of startling to see him like this; it almost feels like something he shouldn't be seeing. He looks comfortable, almost... relaxed. It's...

It's nice.

"S-sorry," he says, and tries to speak a little louder despite his increasing sense of wrongfootedness. "John?"

He wouldn't have thought he was capable of drifting off, given the circumstances, but between The Bishop's purring and his own desire to turn his brain off for a few minutes, he manages to sink into a light doze. The sound of Martin's voice startles him back into full wakefulness, and he blinks owlishly up at him for a few moments as his brain stutters like a recalcitrant engine.

Martin's wearing one of his jumpers.

It's an easy mistake to make, he thinks. Certainly not one he has any intention of correcting. But he still feels a tug in his chest at the sight of him. Stealing John's jumpers is something Martin still occasionally does, often with a cheeky sense of purpose: as much because he knows John likes it as because he needs the extra layer. Knowing it was a complete accident, in this case, doesn't entirely diminish the charm.

John clears his throat, then pushes himself up a few degrees. His progress is hampered by the cat, who shifts to cram himself a little more decisively beneath John's chin, and he huffs out an exasperated breath before sheepishly meeting Martin's gaze. "All right?" he asks.

John takes a moment to fire up, as it were, blinking at him for just a hair long enough that Martin feels almost scrutinized, though there's not really any scrutiny to speak of in his gaze. Then John starts to sit up and is treated immediately to the cat impeding his progress with unspeakably adorable stubbornness. Christ, this is weird. It's cute, and that's so bloody weird.

"Er..." Martin gives his head a little shake, more to stir himself than in reply. "I... I have a scar, just here?" He touches the spot delicately, though he can't feel anything through the jumper. "Do you... know how that happened?"

It isn't the only scar he could ask about. But for it being on him, it wouldn't even be the most pressing. John is covered with them, he feels like he spots a new one every time he looks, and that's just what he can see. But this is the only one he has a right to knowing about; the one, comparatively simple little line on his side.

"Oh," John says, a perplexed furrow appearing between his brows. "Really? I mean—" he winces over how easily that might be misconstrued, and lifts one arm to support the cat as he uses the other to bully himself upright. "Sorry, I-I do know how it happened. I'm just surprised it's still there." Last time anything like this occurred, it was a physical transformation in addition to a mental one (and thank Christ for that, given that 'mental transformation only' appears to be an option). He'd assumed that was the case here, as well, and that any subtle physical differences between his Martin and this younger one were just lost in the shuffle of his own hazy memories and the recent trauma Martin had been through.

But apparently not. He considers how to answer the question for a moment or two before deciding that vaguer is probably better. "We were, um... attacked, a-a couple of years ago," he says. "You wound up needing some stitches."

John's initial confusion is a bit disarming, only more so when he explains himself. Does he expect Martin to have reverted physically in addition to having his memory altered? That seems considerably more far-fetched than all the rest, and yet his surprise is so matter-of-fact, Martin's not sure what to think.

The explanation for the scar itself is little better, though it does take immediate precedence. "Attacked?" he repeats. "You mean here? By what?" The next question is already forming before he can stop himself, though he hesitates slightly, awkward and uncertain. "Is that... is that the same thing that... did all that to you?"

Not particularly graceful, and he winces immediately. "S-sorry, I just... you look... like a lot's happened." Right, because that's so much better.

It's a testament to Martin's recent ordeal that he goes with 'by what' instead of 'by whom.' Or perhaps the apparent presumption that John sustained all of his scars at once makes 'by what' the inevitable question. Christ, he can barely even imagine what sort of thing could have done all this to him in one go without killing him outright.

"Ah. No," he says, dropping his gaze to the cat in his lap. "I, er, I got most of these back in London, actually. And not... all at once." He considers the possibility of a full recounting with a frown; aside from his own disinterest in going over every misadventure, he doesn't want to upset Martin with such a miserable load of exposition when he's already reeling. Here's what you have to look forward to, and it starts with more bloody worms. Christ.

"I do have a scar from that particular incident, too," he says instead, lifting his gaze and nodding subtly at the spot where Martin's fingers rest against his jumper. "But it's... well." He drops his gaze again, and breathes a soft, sardonic gust of laughter. "A bit lost in the shuffle, I suppose. At any rate, it was, erm. It was just a man. And he’s gone, now."

"Oh." He supposes he hadn't really assumed all of them were sustained within a single incident, but then again, attacked could have meant anything, considering what he's seen. Knowing 'most' of it happened in London is... perhaps not surprising, but disheartening to say the least.

And all that he has to show for it is one little mark, sustained here. From 'just a man.'

He wants to ask more about that, but something stops him. Something about the tired laugh, the way John is speaking around it... whatever happened, it was probably bad, and his own curiosity doesn't feel like enough of a reason to force John to revisit it.

He stands there a moment, awkward but not so much that he wants to pull away. He ends up taking a few steps closer, not sure where to go, saved from having to make a decision by drawing the attention of the cat. It stares up at him until he comes nearer still; he ends up settling down on the floor, and it leaps down from John to sniff at him, instead.

"Hullo," he murmurs softly, lifting a hand gingerly. The cat instantly shoves its entire head into his palm, and he chuckles. "Guess I must smell about the same."

It seems like a weird thing to say the moment after he's said it, and he's quiet a moment longer before looking back up at John. "What's his name?"

Martin, mercifully, doesn't ask him to elaborate. There's still something sort of awful in his silence, though — in the way he slowly picks his way across the room without any real direction, eventually settling on the floor as if it would be too presumptuous to use the furniture. John shifts a little, half scolding himself for not offering Martin a seat more explicitly, and half appalled by the sudden awareness that he might need to. But before he can say anything, The Bishop jumps down to give Martin his full attention.

John smiles faintly at the picture they make, even as part of him aches over the uncertainty that suffuses Martin's body language. "That's The Bishop," he says. "He was your cat first, actually." He watches as The Bishop plasters himself against Martin's side, then adds, "He's always like this after a shower. Probably thinks you don't smell enough like him."

"The—" He doesn't get very far with his surprise over that name, as The Bishop immediately stands up in his lap, his forepaws braced on Martin's shoulders, and starts nuzzling under his chin. Martin lets out another soft laugh, indulging the cat with more vigorous pets, receiving a low, persistent rumble of purring in turn.

"Never had a cat before," he says. "Or any kind of pet, really." His attention stays on The Bishop, the odd comfort inherent in that animal recognition. This cat doesn't know Martin's forgotten himself; just loves him all the same. It's reassuring, in its own way.

He's quiet for a while, just petting the cat, not certain what to say next. Which of the many questions still buzzing around in him take precedence. Which ones he's brave enough to ask.

In the end it's not a question at all: he lifts his head to peer at John still sat there on the couch and says softly, "You're so... different."

Edited 2022-01-28 18:11 (UTC)

John hums in quiet acknowledgment, the response that sits tidily between a tiresome 'I know' and an embarrassing (and, despite the morning they've already had, a bit too outlandish) tangent about the inciting incident that steered him towards getting The Bishop in the first place. Neither would be helpful — certainly not more than the simple, grounding pleasure of petting a cat. John watches The Bishop lean into Martin's touch, and feels an almost desperate gratitude that there's such a convenient source of uncomplicated comfort and reassurance in the flat. However Martin might feel about everything else, the affection of a small animal isn't a difficult thing to accept.

He's edging towards wallowing over the realization that The Bishop will be doing some comparatively heavy lifting in that regard over the next few days when Martin looks up at him again, his expression difficult to read, and says that. John blinks, a little thrown. It's not an insult, and Martin's willingness to voice it might be more surprising than the sentiment itself. But he didn't anticipate having to... what, account for himself?... and he shifts a little on the cushions.

"Erm. Yes. I-I... I suppose I am. I mean," he rubs the back of his neck, cheeks prickling, "I know how awful I used to be, t-to you in particular. And there's no excusing it. You— you always deserved better." He brings his hand around so he can half-bury his face in it, sighing quietly. He really doesn't know where he's going with this, how much his apologies are even worth to a Martin who remembers the awfulness so clearly, and who hasn't even really met the John who worked so hard to deserve him. There's an undercurrent of bitter amusement in his tone as he looks down and adds, "Frankly, I don't know what you saw in me."

He scarcely has time to regret the remark before John is answering it, fumbling and awkward, and Martin ends up staring at him, his hands going still even as the cat continues to nuzzle and purr at him. Even having said something to this effect once already, it's odd to hear it again; but none of it quite compares to the next remark, coming out dry and slightly bitter.

Martin feels himself flushing, his mouth dropping open even though there are no words set to come. Christ. Christ. He knows — or knew? Has since learned? Whichever it is, it feels abruptly mortifying, regardless of their alleged relationship status. Martin wishes suddenly his hands were not so occupied, so he could bury his face in them.

"O-oh, er..." he stammers, and quickly redirects his attention to the cat. "I, erm... well—"

Christ, say something, don't just babble like a frantic idiot. He swallows and mumbles sheepishly, "I-I mean, it seems like I was right, in the end."

That feels appallingly forward, but it's out now, and he doesn't disagree with it. He just keeps his head down, petting the cat with undue concentration. At least The Bishop seems to love the attention.

It takes him a beat longer than it should to understand why Martin looks so poleaxed: that as far as this Martin is concerned, John just casually let slip something he wasn't meant to know. Maybe it was a closely guarded secret at the time, or maybe it was something Martin just assumed that John, specifically, hadn't realized — the utter obliviousness he'd suffered at the time makes it difficult to hazard a guess. And while it feels a little absurd to get hung up on it now, given that it's the sort of information you might expect your partner to know as opposed to an outright bombshell, John still feels his blush deepening.

He stammers out a few formless syllables, caught between the instinct to apologize and the inherent ridiculousness of the accompanying implication that Martin's crush is something he should have treated like an illicit secret, circumstances notwithstanding. And then he gets caught up in the fresh realization that this Martin — even this Martin! — has a crush on him, one that John hasn't even begun to deserve, as far as the temporal technicalities are concerned, and is almost overwhelmed with a desire to stroll calmly into the nearest peat bog. Christ. How is he supposed to handle this?

Martin saves him from any real contemplation of that question by making a startlingly pointed remark, and John resumes stammering for a few beats before he finally manages a flustered, "W-w— yes, eventually. I was still— I-I hadn't..." He lifts his other hand, the better to properly bury his face, the strained, pitiful conclusion leaking out from between his palms. "I haven't earned it, yet."

Martin keeps his head turned down, but there's something undeniably... adorable? about the way John stammers around this. Not to mention the utter absurdity of his final assertion. It's almost enough to let him forget his own overwhelming embarrassment; almost. At least he's not alone in it. There's something nice about not being alone in it.

"W-well," he says, a little uncertain, "I mean, you... you're you right now, just because I don't remember doesn't mean you... haven't..."

He trails off in the mortifying realization that he was about to imply John has earned his feelings for him, which, even if that's exactly what John was saying, still feels like far too much for him to say.

"Er—I mean—" His shoulders hunch a little tighter as he grows more and more obviously flustered. He can feel a progressively hotter flush spreading all the way to his neck. "Sorry, I—I don't know what I'm saying." Not entirely true, but it seems like a preferable exit to veer into rather than just sinking further into the hole he's dug himself.

John peeks out at Martin from between his fingers, lips twitching in a hapless, sympathetic smile as Martin attempts some sort of... reassurance? The whole tangent is fundamentally ridiculous, and he feels more than a bit foolish over his own part in steering them here. All he owes Martin is basic fucking decency, and Martin owes him nothing; there's no reason for them to be sat here stammering at one another, as if the current state of their bloody feelings needs to be excused on either side.

"Christ," John breathes, the consonants just audible enough to distinguish the word from a sigh, before dropping his hands. "It's fine," he adds more bracingly, though he's not quite sure if it's Martin he's trying to convince, or himself. "It'll just be a—an odd week, that's all. We'll survive."

He levers himself to his feet, thinking that he can surely find something better to do than lean into how hideously awkward this all is. "Would you like more tea?" After a beat, he adds, "And I suppose I could, er, give you a more comprehensive tour, if you like. Show you where things are." Still awkward, probably — the flat isn't that large, and there's little John could show him that Martin couldn't find himself inside two minutes — but in a more bearable sort of way.

"I—sure," Martin says haltingly, excusing himself from the cat's attention as he gets to his feet. "That'd be nice."

More tea is certainly in order, despite the hour, and much as he's not used to John making it for him. Almost as if anticipating that, the first step of the tour is John showing him around the kitchen, ensuring he'll be able to make it for himself as needed. Just that is enough to put Martin a bit more at ease. That is odd in itself; it's confusing, feeling so comfortable with John, feeling like... like John knows him, cares about him, all these things he never imagined were possible and never dared to expect. It's confusing, and terrifying, and it feels like something he shouldn't be allowed to enjoy.

But John's right, of course. It'll be an odd week, but... they'll survive. They have certainly survived much worse, it would seem.

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Regression // for John

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