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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
"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.