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Entry tags:
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.
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.
no subject
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.
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"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.
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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."
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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.
no subject
"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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
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."
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"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."
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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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
"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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.