left over / for John

[loficharm]

"Good," John whispers in his ear. "Good."

It's dark. Martin can feel the mattress beneath him, as familiar as it is strangely unyielding, but he can't really see. Only the shape of John above him, a shadow slightly darker than the rest.

John pins him down with the weight of his own body. He holds Martin's arms at his sides, leans down heavily on his chest. John is straddling him, Martin realizes, and that seems wrong. But they must have talked about it. They did, didn't they? Perhaps he forgot.

"It's all right," John says, and he licks Martin's neck, the point of his tongue driving into the soft skin just beneath the hinge of Martin's jaw.

Something shifts in the mattress. The sheets twist in strange angles against Martin's back. There's an itch between his shoulder blades, distracting, trying to pull his focus away. He fights it. He wants to stay here. Just a little longer. He's close.

John's fingers skitter over him, prodding and pinching, and Martin tries to speak, but there's something covering his mouth. A gag? It doesn't feel right. John's hand, he thinks. Except that makes too many hands. This is getting too confusing. He wishes he could see properly. Did John blindfold him? He shakes his head against the obstruction around his mouth, trying to speak, to ask to see. He wants to see.

The itch is stronger now, less of an itch and more of a building pressure, as of something digging into his back. He struggles to move, to roll over or somehow allay the discomfort, but he's stuck.

"I've got you," John says. "Almost there."

And then the pressure breaks, and something bursts out from beneath him, seizing its freedom with violent alacrity as it surges up and wraps back around him. Martin can't see but he can feel it, eight hard curling lengths that snap tight around his body and start to pull, dragging him down, trying to fit him through that little paper door.

Martin gasps, breathless and muffled, struggling to get free, struggling to be heard. He wants to scream, to cry out for John to help him, but there is still something blocking his voice. He doesn't want this, he wants to go back, to rewrite himself back before he noticed that awful feeling at his back.

Even as Martin struggles, John remains calm. Martin sees the dark shape of him raise up a few inches, hovering over him, seeming to hesitate for an unearthly moment; then he sees the glint of his eyes, like a cat in near-darkness.

All at once the fear vanishes. John wouldn't let this happen; therefore it can't be happening. The pressure recedes as quickly as it came over him. There is nothing clutching onto him, no danger here. Only John perched over him, watching.

John continues to observe him in shadow, then leans down close to breathe in his ear: "Don't move."

He gets up then, leaving Martin weightless and unmoored, and he drifts out of their darkened bedroom.

Martin waits. He tries to imagine what might come next. He ignores the scratching suggestion that something is still wrong. He waits.

And then John does not return. Martin sits up eventually and wipes a hand across his mouth. It comes away with a sort of phantom sensation, feathery and faint. There was something there, but it is there no longer. John does not return.

"John?" Martin calls out, his voice still too quiet, smothered in the dark. He gets out of bed, bare feet touching the floor, and he feels his way toward the door, the hallway beyond. "John, where are you?"

The hallway continues, stretching on into darkness. Martin walks for what feels like far too long. His footsteps echo crisply around him though his feet are bare and he can still barely make a sound. Perhaps they aren't his footsteps.

Who was he looking for?

"Tim?" His chest tightens. He thinks he can hear laughter in the distance, sick and self-immolating, coiling endlessly around itself. The footsteps are still there, just a half-step disjointed from his, just around the next corner, or the next, or the next. Martin tries to hurry but something keeps catching at his ankles. "Tim?" He can barely hear himself, his voice swallowed up in that distant swirl of jagged-edge laughter. He tries again: "Don't leave me!" But it feels as though his own words are getting farther and farther away.

Then the laughter stops. The footsteps stop as well. There is still something clinging at Martin's ankles, trying to curl around them, too weak to find purchase.

He sees a shape in the darkness, coming out to meet him. A face he's meant to know but cannot remember. The wrong face. He shuts his eyes against it and opens them again. No; not her. Something else. A roiling mass, movement against the dark. This, too, familiar. The misshapen hive of Jane Prentiss slouches unsteadily toward him, thousands of tiny bodies spilling across the floor, rushing toward him like the tide. John and Tim went that way. She will have already met them, already overtaken them. He's the only one left.

Martin turns. He runs. His legs don't want to work right. He runs at a bizarre, uncomfortable lope, lopsided and awkward. He can hear the occasional minuscule crunch of a stray worm beneath his feet. He has to keep moving. Anywhere. Anywhere else.

Something catches him. First he thinks it's a net, something stretched from wall to wall to trap him, nearly invisible, sticking fast. He shakes that sensation away in disgust. No, it's hands. Hands fitting around his arms. Catching him, holding him fast. John? No, John couldn't possibly have passed this way. He looks up into angry eyes, and for a moment he thinks Elias, Elias was setting off the Co2, and Elias was looking for him, angry at him because he... because...

"Don't move," a voice growls, and Martin's heart jumps in terror. Not Elias. Not Elias at all.

Jacob Riggs pulls Martin to him, holding him so tight he can't breathe. He should've known. It wasn't safe out here, John told him to stay put and he just didn't listen. Riggs has been looking for him this whole time. Martin had almost convinced himself that he was dead, but that isn't right at all. He's still here, and now he's found him. How could he be so stupid?

Martin tries to speak, to cry out, but Riggs is crushing him, too strong, impossibly strong. Martin strains against him but there's nowhere to move; he's locked in place, his legs, his arms, all of him, surrounded on all sides by a steady, solid pressure that is far too extensive to come from one man. Martin gasps for breath, and soft soil fills his mouth.

The earth constricts around him and then releases, just enough, just enough to let him breathe as he coughs up mud. He is alone here, entombed, drowned in darkness. How did he let this happen? How did he get so lost?

"John," he whispers, his voice barely audible even to him. "John—"

"He's not here," answers another voice in his ear, a dull lilt he can't quite place. He tries to twist around but the earth presses down on him again, keeping him still. The voice continues: "He left you. Remember?"

Something is crawling back up his ankle. He can feel it even here. Martin shivers and twitches, a new terror suffusing him, new and yet old, far older than this. Old and familiar. "...Peter?"

The earth suddenly crumbles around him, vanishing into nothing, and Martin falls. He falls and thinks frantically that he does not want to be falling; so then he stops. Something has caught him. That strange feeling he'd had earlier, faint and feathery, as of a substance so light he could almost believe it's not there. He's caught in a net, and only now does he understand it's not a net at all. It's a web.

For a moment he just lies there, letting himself breathe. This isn't so bad. He's not falling; nothing is trying to crush him or break him. He isn't even afraid of spiders. They mind their business, is the thing. They just want to live, to eat bugs and keep to themselves. He doesn't mind. He's never minded. In some ways it's nice, knowing there's a spider nearby. As long as you know it's there, you're never really on your own. Are you, Martin?

A little shudder passes through him over the thought he suddenly recognizes as alien, words in his head that are not his own. It's a strange fear, a remote fear of something not quite right. He can't identify it, exactly. It's so subtle. It speaks through him. And like the Lonely, it really only seeks to offer comfort. Isn't that right? Of course it is. You'll be safe here. You will not have to know fear, not ever again. You will be kept and held and cherished.

No, Martin thinks, no, that's wrong. And he already has that. He already has it.

Doesn't he?

Does he?

Martin's body jerks violently, a sudden shudder of resistance that finally forces him to realize he can't move. He's stuck, caught on the web that seem to stretch into infinite darkness all around him. And it's then that he sees John, standing impossibly on the edge of that darkness, balanced on a strand, so perfectly still. He is so far away that Martin should not be able to make out his eyes, and yet they are intensely visible, bright and piercing in the dark.

Martin starts to panic, tries to cry out to the Archivist, to John, and finds he can't make a sound; there is, again, something covering his mouth, that same sensation as before, only this time he understands what it is. It's spider silk, weaving its patient way around him, and it's been here all along. Catching at his ankles in the Spiral, crawling up his legs in the Buried. It wraps around him now, covetous and uncontested, pinning his arms back to his sides, keeping his legs locked together, coiling gradually tighter and tighter. It has clung to him as he passed through every other hand, the only power clever and patient enough to keep hold. It has won him now, and it has no intention of letting him go.

Martin tries to fight — he wants to fight — but then, does he? Isn't this what he likes? Being bound, being wrapped up tight and helpless? This was a nice dream, wasn't it? Isn't it?

Don't move, something whispers, gentle in the back of his head.

In the distance, so terribly far away, Martin thinks he sees John smile, a little flicker of approval that feels like nothing more than an indictment.

And then he wakes up. For no reason, really, after all that. No sudden violence to shatter him from the dream, no breaking point causing his consciousness to forcibly reassert itself. He just wakes, sucking in a sharp breath, soaked in sweat.

Comments

[statement_ends]

John has been roused by Martin's nightmares before, often in more dramatic fashion than this — to the point where he isn't immediately aware of what has drawn him back to consciousness. He drifts for half a beat, wondering if this is a feline intrusion that he can safely ignore. Then he registers Martin's ragged breathing, and lucidity lands like a slap.

John lifts his head, blinking into the dark. "Martin?" he mumbles, laboriously freeing one arm from beneath his pillow so he can bat at the bedside lamp. "All right?" The warm light that floods the room a moment later feels like far too much for whatever ungodly hour this is, and John shuts his eyes with a wince of protest before cracking them open again.

Martin, once he's brought into focus, looks a wreck. John rolls onto his side, brow furrowed. The instinct to reach for him is difficult to resist, but he doesn't want to risk anything until he has a better idea of what sort of state Martin's in. "Hey," he murmurs gently.

[loficharm]

Every so often, Martin wishes it weren't so easy to stir John awake. He usually likes the close comfort after a bad dream, even if he feels embarrassed, even on those occasions where the Archivist is a part of the proceedings. He doesn't want to make John feel any worse about it. But sometimes it's just too much; sometimes he feels overexposed and sensitive, like a single touch will crack him. He wants to turn away, curl onto his side in an unfriendly ball. He won't do that to John, but it's a difficult impulse to resist.

He's hard. Jesus Christ, he's hard. He whimpers softly as the light comes on, flinching away from it, tugging the covers up to try and hide himself. Not this. Not now.

His breath shudders as he tries in vain to steady it. The dream is all in pieces in his head; he can't remember the order of it, left only with a blur of awful sensations, fear and sick desire. He's flushed and he knows John can see it, and it's only a matter of time before he sees, too, the state that Martin's in. No hiding it, really. Martin lifts an arm to cover his eyes, trying at least to avoid having to see his reaction.

"Fuck," he says softly, barely audible but for the quiet click of the final consonant.

[statement_ends]

Reading Martin's body language is something that John has become rather adept at over the past few years — a skill that he is grateful for even (especially) when presented with as miserable a proverbial paragraph as this one. The way Martin tugs up the blanket as if to submerge himself but makes no suggestion of a move towards John tells him that he was right to keep his hands to himself for the moment: Martin does not want to be touched. His flushed skin and the arm flung over his face suggest an unusual degree of embarrassment. And the way the aforementioned blanket-tugging incidentally highlights one specific aspect of the state Martin is in gives John a plausible explanation for why the poor man might be more mortified than usual.

Perhaps it would be best to just... give him a moment. Not that John has any intention of just wandering off sans explanation. He clears his throat quietly, then offers, "Can I, er, get you some water?"

[loficharm]

Martin winces, gritting his teeth. The question seems like a reasonable one, and yet it grates at him. It's like John's trying to step around the whole thing, which would make sense if not speaking about it were a more often utilized maneuver in their playbook. As it is, it just feels like avoidance, delay of the inevitable. A pattern they may have too easily fallen into once, but have long since left behind.

But perhaps he just feels guilty. Perhaps he wants to step away for his own purposes, to have a moment to himself.

Or perhaps he's uncomfortable with what he sees.

"N- Sure," Martin mutters, curling up a little after all. "Yeah."

[statement_ends]

It's harder to parse Martin's hesitation, or the way he seems to change his mind mid-word. There's a part of John that wants to pry a little — just a little, just enough to understand — but that would feel both unkind and a bit patronizing. He has his marching orders. Just because they weren't enthusiastically given, that doesn't make them unclear.

"Okay," John says, sliding out of bed and padding out to the kitchen. He neither hurries nor dawdles, caught between wanting to give Martin the time he probably needs to collect himself and not wanting it to seem like he's the one craving a bit of distance. He winds up pouring a glass for each of them, following the vague suspicion that he might want something to fidget with, or an excuse to pause. Then he returns to the bedroom, sets Martin's water down within easy reach, and retreats back to his side of the bed. He perches there a little gingerly, back against the headboard, and takes a prudent sip of his own water before letting the glass rest on his bedside table.

Only then does he risk a proper look at Martin, still curled on his side exactly the way John had left him. Still projecting do not touch like a bloody poison dart frog.

"Can I help?" he asks at length, carefully, deliberately vague.

[loficharm]

John doesn't make him wait, exactly, but it still feels like ages for him to return, set the water down, and return to his side of the bed. There is a palpable tension brewing, only Martin can't tell if it's brewing within him or without.

The question, gentle as it is, finally feels like the last straw.

"Why are you asking like- like you weren't there?" he blurts out, miserable and muffled in the sheets. "You saw it, didn't you?"

It wasn't meant to be a proper question; he meant it rhetorically, but something catches in his voice at the last moment, his pitch shifting up as he realizes that maybe, maybe he can't actually be sure.

[statement_ends]

"I—" John blinks, briefly stymied. He'd expected some degree of prickliness; he hadn't anticipated such a specific accusation. But there's no need to pause and consider whether he might potentially deserve it: he cannot imagine the Archivist dropping in on one of Martin's nightmares and not deigning to remember it. If he'd been there, he would have logged away every miserable detail.

"I wasn't," he insists, still sounding a bit bewildered by the suggestion, but not at all uncertain of himself. "I-I— I didn't."

[loficharm]

John's bewilderment shouldn't surprise him this much. It should've been obvious to him: why John was behaving as though this were a routine, unshared dream. Why John didn't wake as sharply as he did. Why he has been waiting, kind and patient, for Martin to make the first move. The obviousness of it now feels like a smoking gun evidencing Martin's brutishness, as if he has just seized upon malicious assumption on purpose.

"But—" He finally rolls onto his back, lowers his arm and looks up, meeting John's eyes even as his own sting with the threat of tears. When he speaks again his voice is even more hoarse than before, a faint, miserable, almost plaintive whisper: "But I saw you."

He's not stupid. He understands. He isn't even trying to argue, not really. His gaze slides away, his mouth hanging open slightly as he tries to pick his way through this fresh new wave of guilt and shame. It shouldn't be such a cold shock. He certainly didn't believe the John in the first part of the dream was his John. This is how dreams are meant to work, after all.

But the realization that he just cast John alongside all his worst monsters is somehow too great to bear, and a small, broken sob escapes him before he can stop it.

"I just dreamed it." His breath hitches and he raises his hand to cover his eyes. He doesn't turn over again, can't bear to turn away from John, especially now; but he wishes he could hide all the same. "I put you there. Jesus."

[statement_ends]

"Oh," John breathes, pivoting towards Martin in dismay. Pieces are beginning to slot into place, though he can't say he likes the bigger picture they reveal. It is only the Archivist who can linger in Martin's dreams for any significant length of time, so it must have been the Archivist that Martin dreamed of, aloof and unhelpful, observing whatever other torments his subconscious was inflicting on him without interfering. As if the usual fare isn't bad enough on its own. He almost wishes he had been there, on the off chance he might have been able to wrest enough control over the situation to stop it. Too late now.

A distant part of him frets over the muddied portions of the picture, the details that don't yet make sense. But it feels inescapably crass to wonder where the erection fits into things (for lack of a better phrase). Hell, it could just be a deeply unfortunate coincidence. Insult to bloody injury.

"It's okay," he gently insists, risking a light touch to Martin's shoulder. "I mean, it— Christ, it's not like any of it was on purpose."

[loficharm]

"No, I—" Martin flinches under John's touch, then grits his teeth in self-recrimination. He wants to calm down; he wants to be able to accept contact, to meet John's eyes, to let himself be touched. Still out of reach, for now, much as the imagined damage to John's feelings might hurt him more than his own discomfort.

He draws a shuddering breath and lets it out in a huff. "I know. I know. It's just..." He drags his hand down his face to cover his mouth briefly, staring up at the ceiling until a laugh bubbles out of him, startling him somewhat. "Christ, it would've been easier if it'd actually been you. Not to mention a bloody... buffet. Shame you missed out, really."

Manic humor is doing very little for his nerves, or, he imagines, John's peace of mind. He needs to stop lying here letting it wash over him, at least. Shake himself out of it by any means necessary. He grunts as he forces himself to sit up, pulling his knees up to his chest to try and hide himself. He still can't make himself look at John, but every struggling inch toward wakefulness helps.

"It was a bit of everything," he mutters, staring into the darkness of their room, its dimensions so much more solid and sensible than they'd been in the dream. "And it... it started in a very different place."

He looks down at himself, sighs heavily, then rests his head on his knees, arms wrapped around himself. Only then does he tip his head to the side, finally letting himself peer at John from within the curled fortress of his body. "As you might've already surmised."

[statement_ends]

Too soon for touching, apparently; John draws his hand back at once, keeping his face carefully composed and trusting the low lighting to hide his chagrined blush. It isn't until Martin lets out a slightly alarming laugh and describes the dream as a buffet that John allows himself to frown, directing his gaze down at their rumpled comforter and pinching a crest in the fabric with his fingers.

He certainly isn't sorry he missed it. However sentimental Martin might manage to be about the Archivist's intrusions, John is never proud of the supernatural nourishment he gains from them. And, perhaps more to the point, he's too freshly stung by Martin's earlier accusations to feel any inclination towards... what, playfully agreeing that it would've been easier if he'd deserved them? He knows that isn't what Martin is going for, and resentment isn't helpful, but this still isn't a thread he has any real interest in following.

So it's a relief when Martin abandons it in favor of pushing himself into a sit. John shifts back a bit to give him more room to move, settling more decisively onto his half of the bed. He retrieves his water, largely to have something to do with his hands besides attempt any other premature touching, and rolls the glass slowly between his fingers as Martin begins to portion out more details.

Well, that explains one thing. John hums in acknowledgment, then offers a quiet, "That... does track."