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The Boy Is Mine // for John
It's no small miracle, as far as Martin is concerned, that they were able to acquire a space for their would-be Archive so quick after the idea had come. While John secured what is still esoterically being called 'funding' (and Martin has every intention of following up on that despite John's constant evasions), Martin scouted locations. And now, not even a week since the inception of the idea, they have themselves a place. It's small, nothing on the scale of the Institute of course - this is just an Archive, after all - but it'll serve quite well. A former secondhand book shop, closed sometime ago and apparently so difficult to offload that the building agent had let them have it for next to nothing. As starts go, it's... almost auspicious.
John is still off doing god only knows what, so Martin is here alone, taking inventory of shelf space, working out vague layout ideas - all the boring stuff. It's comforting, really. Something concrete to work on, rather than wandering the streets in search of people with stories and willingness to tell them.
This is good, probably. It will be good. It has to be. He and John are both still barely scraping by, tired and worn. They need a - a place of power, he supposes with a little grimace. A base of operations. That sounds a little better. More like a spy novel or something.
It's quiet here. Peaceful. Martin loses track of time as he works, going over everything they'll need, making lists, drawing up budget plans... it feels like home. Working alone on mundane tasks with simple solutions. For a little while, he almost manages to forget where he really is.
It isn't until his breath fogs up his glasses that he realizes something is off. He shudders, sudden and violent, like he's being jolted back into his body and only now realizes how cold he's become. He reels back from the desk he'd been hunched over, the notes he'd been studiously scrawling. There it is, all around him, that... thick, cold fog.
"No," he blurts out, halfway between scared and angry. "No. Go away."
The Lonely has been making its presence aggressively known ever since he shared his Statement about the Spiral, and Tim - ever since he told John quite truthfully that it would be nice to work with him again. Martin's not an idiot; he's sensed that undercurrent of frustration, the entity grasping for him in this place it can't quite reach. It had never been enough to merit bringing it up to John, who'd only worry and likely find some way to do something rash. And he'd thought - well, the whole idea of building an Archive was, in part, to protect him, right? To protect others. Keep the Lonely at bay, unwelcome in the Eye's temporary domain.
Maybe it doesn't count without John here. Or maybe not until it's a proper Archive. Either way, it's seeped back in around him, and Martin didn't even notice.
He turns about sharply and finds the fog filling the area, hanging heavy and unnatural in the dry, climate-controlled space. He huffs in frustration and steps forward, making his way for the door. The fog grows thicker by the second, and he can barely see anything, but he remembers well enough where the door is. He moves through it, reaching out before him. He keeps walking and walking, until he's certain he's gone much, much too far. He's shaking now, whether from the cold or the horror of it - he doesn't know. But rising above the fear is bitter anger. He's tried to cling to the work he'd been doing; he's tried. Being punished for every perceived misstep is beginning to feel infuriatingly petty.
"Get out," he snaps. "You're - you're not welcome here. And I'm not leaving him, so you can just-"
The Lonely shivers around him, all the fog shifting at once, and it's enough to shut him up - not just the uncanny movement, but the way it changes, grows darker, heavier. He can feel it again, like in his dreams, dragging at his limbs. Pulling at him. He grits his teeth and tries to push through the haze, still reaching for the door, but it's so much harder than it was. He knows, then, deep in his chest, that there's no point looking. The door isn't there. Or he isn't. It doesn't matter.
"Let me go," he says, his voice trembling and sounding strangely muffled. "I - I'm not yours anymore, not here. You can't-"
The Lonely reacts as harshly as he's come to expect, lashing out like an impatient child. The mist wraps around him, so thick now that he can't see anything, can't hear anything but his own shallow, labored breaths. He tastes that same salt water taste when he breathes it in, straining for air that isn't seeking to drown him. He struggles, but it holds him; it's impossible, and yet he's stuck, pinned down in this empty, powerless building, utterly, overwhelmingly alone.
It could let him wander. It could let him loose in the emptiness, searching and finding nothing until the agony of isolation drove him mad. But it's never just about that with him, is it? It doesn't feed off his fear; after all, he's not particularly afraid of being alone. It just wants him, wants to keep him, and wants him to know that he's kept.
His hands fumble for purchase against the nothing that envelopes him, his fingers tracing down to one solid object he has on him, the one remaining connection to the outside. He's not sure how he manages to get the phone out of his pocket, his hands leaving slowly furling tracks in the murky air. He's certain that if he were home, where the Lonely could reach him unfettered, this would not be possible. As it is, he finds himself clutching onto the little device, bowing over it as if weighed down, fighting to get out any sort of contact. It feels exhausting, far more exhausting than it should; his fingers are starting to go numb, and in the end, he can't keep his hold on the phone any longer, and it slips out of his grasp. He doesn't even hear it hit the floor. He thinks he might have managed to send something, but he just can't be certain, and in a moment, it no longer matters. The fog pours in around him, and he can feel the satisfaction thrumming through it. Anger and fear seem far, far away now. There's no reason for any of that. He's where he belongs.
John is still off doing god only knows what, so Martin is here alone, taking inventory of shelf space, working out vague layout ideas - all the boring stuff. It's comforting, really. Something concrete to work on, rather than wandering the streets in search of people with stories and willingness to tell them.
This is good, probably. It will be good. It has to be. He and John are both still barely scraping by, tired and worn. They need a - a place of power, he supposes with a little grimace. A base of operations. That sounds a little better. More like a spy novel or something.
It's quiet here. Peaceful. Martin loses track of time as he works, going over everything they'll need, making lists, drawing up budget plans... it feels like home. Working alone on mundane tasks with simple solutions. For a little while, he almost manages to forget where he really is.
It isn't until his breath fogs up his glasses that he realizes something is off. He shudders, sudden and violent, like he's being jolted back into his body and only now realizes how cold he's become. He reels back from the desk he'd been hunched over, the notes he'd been studiously scrawling. There it is, all around him, that... thick, cold fog.
"No," he blurts out, halfway between scared and angry. "No. Go away."
The Lonely has been making its presence aggressively known ever since he shared his Statement about the Spiral, and Tim - ever since he told John quite truthfully that it would be nice to work with him again. Martin's not an idiot; he's sensed that undercurrent of frustration, the entity grasping for him in this place it can't quite reach. It had never been enough to merit bringing it up to John, who'd only worry and likely find some way to do something rash. And he'd thought - well, the whole idea of building an Archive was, in part, to protect him, right? To protect others. Keep the Lonely at bay, unwelcome in the Eye's temporary domain.
Maybe it doesn't count without John here. Or maybe not until it's a proper Archive. Either way, it's seeped back in around him, and Martin didn't even notice.
He turns about sharply and finds the fog filling the area, hanging heavy and unnatural in the dry, climate-controlled space. He huffs in frustration and steps forward, making his way for the door. The fog grows thicker by the second, and he can barely see anything, but he remembers well enough where the door is. He moves through it, reaching out before him. He keeps walking and walking, until he's certain he's gone much, much too far. He's shaking now, whether from the cold or the horror of it - he doesn't know. But rising above the fear is bitter anger. He's tried to cling to the work he'd been doing; he's tried. Being punished for every perceived misstep is beginning to feel infuriatingly petty.
"Get out," he snaps. "You're - you're not welcome here. And I'm not leaving him, so you can just-"
The Lonely shivers around him, all the fog shifting at once, and it's enough to shut him up - not just the uncanny movement, but the way it changes, grows darker, heavier. He can feel it again, like in his dreams, dragging at his limbs. Pulling at him. He grits his teeth and tries to push through the haze, still reaching for the door, but it's so much harder than it was. He knows, then, deep in his chest, that there's no point looking. The door isn't there. Or he isn't. It doesn't matter.
"Let me go," he says, his voice trembling and sounding strangely muffled. "I - I'm not yours anymore, not here. You can't-"
The Lonely reacts as harshly as he's come to expect, lashing out like an impatient child. The mist wraps around him, so thick now that he can't see anything, can't hear anything but his own shallow, labored breaths. He tastes that same salt water taste when he breathes it in, straining for air that isn't seeking to drown him. He struggles, but it holds him; it's impossible, and yet he's stuck, pinned down in this empty, powerless building, utterly, overwhelmingly alone.
It could let him wander. It could let him loose in the emptiness, searching and finding nothing until the agony of isolation drove him mad. But it's never just about that with him, is it? It doesn't feed off his fear; after all, he's not particularly afraid of being alone. It just wants him, wants to keep him, and wants him to know that he's kept.
His hands fumble for purchase against the nothing that envelopes him, his fingers tracing down to one solid object he has on him, the one remaining connection to the outside. He's not sure how he manages to get the phone out of his pocket, his hands leaving slowly furling tracks in the murky air. He's certain that if he were home, where the Lonely could reach him unfettered, this would not be possible. As it is, he finds himself clutching onto the little device, bowing over it as if weighed down, fighting to get out any sort of contact. It feels exhausting, far more exhausting than it should; his fingers are starting to go numb, and in the end, he can't keep his hold on the phone any longer, and it slips out of his grasp. He doesn't even hear it hit the floor. He thinks he might have managed to send something, but he just can't be certain, and in a moment, it no longer matters. The fog pours in around him, and he can feel the satisfaction thrumming through it. Anger and fear seem far, far away now. There's no reason for any of that. He's where he belongs.
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help
Oh, Christ. John fires off a few quick texts in response as he grabs his keys and heads out the door, but Martin doesn't respond. Because... what, because someone's taken his phone? Because he's lost consciousness? Because he's too injured to text? John isn't even certain where he is; he could be anywhere.
And he won't be able to find him, let alone help, if he starts hyperventilating before he even makes it out of his building. John pauses for just a moment, hands fisting in his hair as he forces himself to take a slow, even breath. He knows where Martin meant to be. He'll start there. And if Martin isn't there, he'll... he'll figure it out. If it requires cracking open that door in his mind, so be it.
The new Archive is a short enough distance from the Bramford that John doesn't bother with trying to flag down a cab. He just paces briskly down the sidewalk, occasionally breaking into an anxious trot, until he reaches the barren storefront. The door opens easily, both encouraging and worrying -- it means Martin was here, at least, but it also means anyone might have wandered in, or that he left and didn't lock up behind himself for any number of terrible reasons.
"Martin?" John shuts the door behind him and takes a few cautious steps inside. There's a desk with notes strewn across it -- the sort of disarray that Martin might tolerate while working, but not intentionally leave behind -- but no one calls back to him. There's no shuffling of footsteps, no rustles or coughs, nothing but a heavy silence laced with horrible finality.
He can't accept that. He won't. "Martin!" John lopes deeper into the space, peering between the empty shelves and around corners, not even bothering with subtlety or basic caution.
In the end, it's the dropped mobile he sees, first. It stands out starkly against the bare wooden floorboards, apparently abandoned halfway down a poorly-lit aisle. It takes an extra second for John to register the vague, human-sized blur less than a meter away from it, and then he nearly jumps out of his skin. "Jesus--" he starts, his first thought, absurdly: ghost? But then he realizes it's not really a blur, or a subtle distortion. It's not transparent, or not entirely.
It's fog. Thicker than any natural fog could hope to be, to the point where it almost looks like cobwebs, like the leftovers from some impossibly massive spider. But there's only one person the Lonely would claim like this, and a white hot bolt of anger lances through him as he marches up to what's become of Martin Blackwood.
Even under closer scrutiny, it takes John a moment to suss out which direction Martin is even facing. The fog has obscured him to the point where he's only a vague shape beneath the coiling, twining mass of grey. At first, the fog's motion is slow and sated, but as John reaches for it, it twists faster, drawing away from him, pressing closer to Martin.
"No," John says, his voice tight and furious. "You dare...?" It's not just Martin's torment that he can't stand, but that it's happening here, where they're meant to be safe. In his Archive. Not that he's had the time to make his mark, yet, which probably goes a long way towards explaining this little stunt, but the point remains.
Well. He's dragged Martin out of the Lonely before. He can do it again. He reaches into the fog with one hand, scowling as it both writhes away from him and chills his fingers, pushing it aside like a curtain until he finally gets a clear-ish view of Martin's face. It's worse than last time. His eyes initially aren't even visible behind his rime-coated glasses, which John gently removes and places on the shelf beside them. When he reaches back in to clear the fog again, he finds Martin's eyes are thickly clouded, his skin a sickly pallor. The fog roils a hairs-breadth from his hands, and he can almost feel how badly it wants to roll back in and obscure what little he's revealed. Well, that's just too bloody bad for the Lonely. John's scowl deepens as he reaches in with his other hand, forcing the fog aside, embarrassment the last thing on his mind as he realizes the surest way to hold it off, away from Martin's eyes, is to frame his face in his hands, his palms against Martin's cheeks, his fingers pushing into his hair.
There. He can see him, now.
"Martin, look at me," he orders. There's no response to either his voice or his touch, and John's stomach lurches. Maybe he shouldn't be surprised; the Lonely has had much longer to work on Martin this time around than it had on the sidewalk. But this is only the second time this has happened, outside the context of that nightmare. He doesn't know what else to do. "Martin...?" he tries again, a note of anxiety creeping into his tone before the frustration sweeps back in, and he snaps, "Come out of there," as if Martin's being petulant on purpose.
This isn't working.
"I don't--" John starts, his breath hitching in his chest as several horrible scenarios present themselves, most of them centered around his own bloody inability to do anything, short of the increasing likelihood of him physically dragging Martin's fog-shrouded body back to his flat and hoping that gives him a leg-up.
But this... this is his territory, too. And if he can't make the Lonely leave here, then what is this whole bloody venture even for?
John takes a slow breath. Fine. Fine. If this is how the Lonely wants to play, he'll play. He's the Archivist. And the Lonely can't hide Martin from him if he Looks hard enough.
"Right," he murmurs, hunching a little to peer into Martin's eyes, Looking through them like windows to another world. Martin has to be in there, somewhere. And now that he's really Looking, he can see faint movement in what he'd initially mistaken for solid grey. He leans closer, until their noses are nearly brushing, his gaze sharp and unblinking.
And then the floor seems to drop from beneath him, and he's falling into the fog, twisting helplessly as he tries to reorient himself, to see, to See.
He tries to shout Martin's name, but he isn't sure he has a mouth anymore, or a voice. He isn't sure that he's anything but the Looking.
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The changes in pressure as the air shifts and breathes are so subtle that it takes him several long seconds to realize something is different - not just the slow, proprietary weaving of mist around him, but something else. A slight change in temperature, something warm around his face, firmer and solid. It's unsettling and unfamiliar, and he writhes back from it, or tries to, but it only seems to press closer, holding him fast. He can't tell what it is, where it's coming from, even if he's just imagining it. He opens his mouth to cry out, but there is no sound here, only choking, freezing lungfuls of air.
The Lonely, at least, seems equally perturbed, though the way it redoubles its efforts are hardly a comfort. The fog surges around him with a violence that shouldn't be felt, and yet it almost manages to hurt, the way the cold bites into him, the way it seems to be trying to pull him even deeper into itself. He wonders if it's trying to properly drown him, like 'if I can't have you, no one can' or something. Between the growing difficulty of breath and the tightening pressure around him, it feels like the Lonely might as well have handed him back to the Buried. Like a deal's been struck: if he won't live alone, then he certainly will die alone.
Please, he tries to say, not enough breath to speak; and even though there's no one to hear him, the words fight to escape all the same: Help me, please.
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Panic grips him for a moment, but only a moment before he stubbornly tamps it down. It doesn't matter how much of him is here. Martin is here. He needs to find Martin. He needs to focus.
He stops Looking at the fog whirling around him, the deliberately bewildering motion of it. Instead, he Looks through it, seeking out something stationary, something solid, some shadow beyond the whirling mist. Some constant that chaos is trying to hide.
His gaze is drawn by a strange ripple in the air, a sort of pulse, like a shockwave, something he might not have noticed if his focus was more narrow. It rolls out from a fixed point, expanding in all directions, but when it reaches John, he knows, somehow, that it's for him. That he's being called.
It's enough. He Looks for the center of that pulse, and a shape starts to take form. It's barely discernible as human, at first, just a shadow. But the more he Looks, the more details appear: a head, a torso, legs, arms. A familiar face. Martin. John has no means of touching him, no hands to reach out with, but he can See him, and that feels like a victory. The Lonely can't hide him, not now, and he Looks at Martin, taking in every detail and cataloguing them with the sort of obsessive thoroughness he might once have applied to his work. The color and weave of his shirt, the neat fold of his collar, the exact shade of his hair, his eyes, the shape of his eyebrows, the angle of his jaw. His gaze somehow remains fixed on Martin's face while also traveling down his arms to his hands, loose at his sides, and down his legs to his shoes, which are slowly dripping condensed fog onto the wooden floorboards of his Archive.
Yes. He has him, now. He still doesn't have the means to speak, but he thinks the words as loudly as he can: Martin and it's me and I see you.
cw for emotional manipulation and feelings of (figurative) violation
It is so much worse, isn't it? says the whisper at the back of his head. To be beheld.
It is, of course, it always has been. He'd rather be alone than this. Held prisoner beneath the all-seeing. Watched by the worms crowding around his flat and into the Archive, distant awareness of the distorted thing with the bones in its hands monitoring his wanderings in the endless twisting corridors. Elias' eyes, dark and cold and horrible, piercing through him, stealing thoughts from his head and filling him with truths he never asked for and never should have seen.
He screams, or he thinks he does, or at least he wants to. The Lonely seems to take pity on him, and it loosens its hold, finally allowing him to struggle against the presence that presses in unbearably from all sides. He begins to panic as he realizes there's nowhere to hide. Nowhere it will not find him.
He feels it speaking to him, catching onto him with the knowledge of his name. I see you, it says.
No no no no no. He still can't see anything but darkened haze, can't really feel anything but the cold and that horribly vivid sensation, but he tries to lift his hands, to push it back, to free himself. Let me go let me go let me go.
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There is so much more to See.
It isn't so much a plan as a desperate theory. The fog seeks to conceal, to hide, not just Martin but everything around him, the nascent Archive in which they're both technically still standing. So if John can just See it, See all of it, maybe that will be enough. Render the Lonely not so much powerless as irrelevant.
So he Looks.
His gaze crawls along the floor surrounding Martin's feet, tracing over well-worn floorboards and threadbare carpeting. It outlines every empty shelf, every dusty corner. The chair still askew from when Martin shoved it back, the desk covered in his notes. The bare walls, the light switches, the ceiling (there's a water stain in one corner, and some very distant part of John thinks that they'd better get that looked at). He Sees it all and holds it all, every chip of paint and splinter of wood, his head feeling like it might burst with the effort, the fog furiously trying to roll back over every detail he's exposed. But this is his: his Archive, his safety, and the Lonely can't, won't, obscure it from him.
And in the center of it all is Martin, his linchpin, no longer shrouded in fog to John's eyes. He Sees him with perfect clarity.
John snaps back into his body with a gasp, his hands dropping away from Martin as he staggers back a pace or two. His head is pounding, his legs weak, and he has to brace himself against the wall for a moment just to keep himself upright.
Martin is still shrouded in fog. For a horrible beat, John thinks all that effort was for nothing, but then he sees that Martin's eyes are still visible, and still clear, and that the fog's slow curl now seems sullen and defeated. "Martin?" John heaves himself back upright, stumbling towards him. "Hang on, I've--I've got you."
Once again, the fog recoils away from his hands. He hesitantly brushes them over Martin's shoulders, watching the fog dissipate. Then, brow furrowed in mingled concentration and irritation over the lingering mist, John sweeps his palms down Martin's arms, his fingers barely brushing against Martin's hands as he clears it away.
"Right, okay," he murmurs, mostly to himself, as he continues the work. A few brisk, almost business-like sweeps of his hands clear the fog still clinging to Martin's legs, and he edges around him to push away the fog at his back. Eventually, all that's left are the lingering wisps around Martin's face and hair, and... Christ, there really is no business-like way to deal with those, is there?
John hesitates, giving Martin an apologetic look. "Sorry, I just--there's just a bit more..." He endeavors to be both gentle and expedient, his fingertips ghosting over Martin's face and neck, then brushing through his hair as the last of the fog finally dissipates.
He has remarkably soft hair.
John drops his hands and takes a step back. "There. That's all of it."
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And then it's over; the tension snaps, and the watcher - John reels back. John. Martin can't move, now more because his body still doesn't feel right; he's still numb, so rigid he feels like something might break if he tries to move. He stares, his breath coming in just as shallow as before, as he realizes it was John all along, seeking, beholding, pulling him from the entangling mists. John who'd made him feel so exposed and raw and afraid.
He stands there, frozen and feeling sick and for the moment unsure why.
John breathes, and sort of lurches back toward him, and Martin can't recoil though the instinct is there. It's awful, that it's there. His head is so full of static and lingering horror, he can't parcel out which of it was real and which was planted in him. Perhaps none of it was. Perhaps there was some primal part of him that always feared John, feared what he represents, but he - he can't accept that, he can't, he can't. John reaches him, towering over him, and Martin can only look back up at him, the darting focus in his dark eyes, the silvering hair having fallen into disarray, the scars dotting up the side of his neck.
I've got you.
Martin shivers, but it's a small one, a little twitch up his spine; no longer the cold, but something far worse. Apart from that he doesn't move. John's hands are on him then, and it's a shock, the subtle weight and the hint of electricity between them, the warmth - the numbness is gone, just like that, and it's all Martin can do not to let his breath hitch audibly. At first he doesn't understand what's happening, why this is happening - there's only John, looking so terribly focused as he brushes his hands down Martin's shoulders, his arms, his hands, Christ - it's only when lowers himself partway to clear the lingering fog from Martin's legs that he understands. Martin follows him with his eyes, wordless, the static clearing from his head and leaving only emptiness. John straightens back up and meets his eyes, apologizing softly before he lets his fingers skate over Martin's face, down his neck, through his hair.
Martin can't breathe. For a terrible, terrifying moment, he stares up at John, at his eyes and his hair and the scars on his neck and his lips in that tight, concerned frown, and he feels like he might do anything if he wasn't very, very careful.
Then John takes a step back and declares the work done.
Martin feels as though he's awakened at last, and yet it's all terribly real, it's all happened, and he sways a bit before staggering back, catching himself against the empty shelves.
"Christ," he blurts, his voice shaky and almost unfamiliar to him. He reaches up with trembling hands and covers his face. "Bloody hell, it - it just can't leave me alone, can it?"
Oh, that's funny, isn't it? A hysterical laugh bursts out of him, and he sags against the shelves, his shoulders quaking a bit. "I - I'm sorry, John, I didn't think it would - not here."
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"I don't think it'll try that again. Not here, anyway." He still wants to spend more time here, to... shore the place up, let his influence soak in. But whatever you'd call what just happened, it felt decisive. To him, at least.
He pushes his hands back through his own hair, doing little for its general state of disarray. His head still aches, and it takes him longer than it should to parse the implications beneath what Martin just said. When they do belatedly register, he blinks over at Martin, an indignant line forming between his brows. "Did--has this been happening? This whole time?"
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He looks away sharply, uncomfortable with this conversation, with all of it. "And you know what," he says, his breath quickening, "after that display, it bloody well has. I tried, you know? I've been trying. It was hard enough and now, it - it's bloody untenable. Peter always went on about how it had to be my choice, and now that I literally can't choose anything, it's behaving like a, a spoiled child. I don't belong to it. I never did. So it can just bloody well - sod off."
He stops, now a bit breathless, looking at John with wide eyes. "I, er," he says, embarrassment crowding in over the indignation. What can he say after all that? He takes in John properly, now that it doesn't feel quite so dangerous to look at him, noting how worn down he seems. "Are - are you all right?"
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Of course, the irritation has to compete with the deep satisfaction of witnessing Martin's little outburst. It's not just the content of said outburst that pleases him, though it truly is a relief to hear him declare that it's over, as if he's finally breaking up with a terrible partner. But it's also the familiarity of it: the emphatic cadence, Martin's voice leaping with indignation as he builds up a real head of steam. It's been ages since John saw him go off like this, and he has to rub at his chin to hide a ridiculous little smile.
When Martin turns to look at him, he schools his expression into something he hopes is neutral as opposed to plainly delighted. The question helps on that front, sobering him as he takes belated stock of himself. "Er. Tired," he admits, because that much is probably obvious. "Bit of a headache. Could be worse." That he doesn't have a nosebleed is downright shocking.
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He wishes he didn't sound so stilted about it. He can't hold John's gaze for very long, and it's not just the acute sense memory of John's fingertips tracing over his skin. He'd been so starkly terrified only moments ago, and that terror is still there, making his stomach turn whenever he catches John's eye. He knows it won't last - it's the same feeling as having a bad dream about someone, not being able to shake the residual discomfort no matter how irrational it is. It'll fade. But it's still here now, and it makes him angry.
"Do you want some-" he starts to say before remembering himself. No tea to make here, not yet. And anyway, the idea of making them tea now just feels tiresome and inadequate. He frowns about himself in consternation before finally noticing his glasses folded on the shelf beside him. He picks them up and puts them back on, forcing himself to look at John once again.
"Do you want a drink?" he says bluntly. "I think I could do with a drink."
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His mobile is still on the ground, actually, closer to John than to him, and he bends down to pick it up. It's a small miracle neither of them stepped on it, and he wordlessly passes it over to Martin right as the offer of drinks arrives.
John blinks, a little taken aback, though he's not sure if it's the offer or the delivery that surprises him more. John's spent the past few weeks operating under the presumption that Martin didn't want to see any more of him than circumstances required, with no evidence from Martin that said presumption was incorrect (recent outbursts notwithstanding). Christ, is that actually what it was: some part of Martin still trying to appease the Lonely? And now that he's finished with that, he's... inviting John out for drinks?
He knows alcohol won't do him any favors on either the exhaustion or headache fronts. He also knows that he can't even imagine saying 'no.'
"I think drinks are overdue," he agrees with a faint, crooked smile, backing up a pace or two before turning to amble towards the door. "Oh, and there's a stain on the ceiling back in that corner," he adds, flapping a hand toward it. "I don't know if you noticed already, but it probably merits examination. At some point."
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Actually, if it had been properly 'business as usual,' the instruction would have been curtly barked at him, would have carried the faint implication that this was his fault somehow, and there's none of that now. Just a little smile, like he's enjoying himself.
Martin decides, after a moment of feeling a bit unbalanced, that he likes it.
He's done a bit of scouting the neighborhood, wanting to know what's around them, and this presents them with a few options within easy walking distance.
"There's a sort of sports bar on the corner," he says. "But it's very... well, I guess it's not American, but it feels like it, you know? If you're hungry, there's a restaurant up that way." He nods, already heading in that direction. "Japanese, I think. I could murder some yakisoba right about now."
He tries not to think about how this is going to be the first time ever they've done anything like this. It doesn't matter, not right now. It can't afford to matter. John is all he has now, whatever that means, and he's bloody well going to make the most of it.
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He waits on the sidewalk for Martin to lock up, then keeps pace with him, letting him pick the direction. John's own scouting expeditions throughout the city have had less to do with places to grab a bite and more to do with places to discreetly commit fraud, so he knows little about what bars or restaurants might be in the area. But Martin seems to have a clear preference, and while one could argue that they've both been through something of an ordeal, Martin's was probably worse. If he wants Japanese, he should have it.
John should probably eat something, as well. He's not sure if his hunger is entirely physical, but if he can at least satisfy himself on that front, so much the better.
"That works for me," he says, just a bit carefully, like this is a script he hasn't referenced in a while, and he isn't entirely sure of his lines. With a bit more confidence, he continues, "I keep waiting for this place to just admit that it's America." In terms of accents, geography, and architecture, it might as well be, but the strange currency and bizarre local politics give it the air of an immersive theme park minus the rides.
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"All very... Webby, don't you think?" he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Really, what he's just described sounds more like the Eye, but he can't imagine why John's own patron would trap him like this. Hardly seems to serve its own interests. And the Web is a far greater mystery to them. "Everything just... working out somehow, nobody questioning it... at least, not much."
He's very aware that he's talking a lot. It's been a long while since he went on like this with anyone, much less John. He's still feeling a bit manic after all that, still staving off anger and fear in equal measure. Christ but he does need a drink.
"Here we are," he says as they reach the little restaurant, eager to get off the street. He holds the door for John, still not quite looking at him.
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"Well, speaking as a professional kidnapping victim, I would have expected the responsible party to have done some gloating or threatening, by now," he says drily. "Unless it really is the Web. I'm not sure any of the other entities could be this... subtle." Not that there was anything subtle about either of their arrivals here, but Martin's right about how oddly complacent the populace seems to be. And despite the horror stories he's heard and the odd site-specific details, the city has a ground-in normalcy that seems difficult to feign. It feels established, lived-in, right down to the bloody water stain on the ceiling.
... Then again, who are they to criticize complacency? They've just bought property, and aside from discussing the bizarreness of it all, it's not as if either of them have made concrete attempts to escape. They haven't sought the city's boundary with a sledgehammer in hand, or attempted to follow the train tracks out of town. Maybe the Web doesn't need to manipulate them into settling in. Maybe that's just what they want, deep down. What he wants. It's not as if things are so much worse for him here that he's truly desperate to get back to the status quo: reading Statements, fretting about people who didn't want to be anywhere near him, feeling his own humanity slipping through his fingers. Maybe it doesn't matter what this truly is, because it's better.
He nods absently as Martin holds the door for him, taking in the restaurant's interior with a sweeping glance. It's light and airy, pleasant in a way that feels more emotionally than culturally foreign. It isn't long before he and Martin are tucked away in a booth with glasses of water and menus sat before them. John picks up his menu like it's a relic from another time, looking it over and then huffing out a faint, bewildered laugh. "Christ. Been a while, hasn't it?" he asks, glancing across the table at Martin.
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It isn't funny to him, even in a dark-coping-mechanism kind of way, that John's been hurt so many times and that no one ever did anything to help, him least of all. It never will be.
He endeavors to keep these thoughts at bay as he slides into the little booth opposite John. He sips his water slowly, looking at the menu without really reading any of it.
"It has," he says, a bit awkward about it, not even sure what exactly John's referring to. Since what - he went out? They spent time together? He's eaten? All equally plausible, Martin thinks dryly. He'd like to not feel awkward. He'd like to relax, and perhaps to get a little drunk. But there's still air that needs clearing, at least on his end. There's still the way he can't quite meet John's eyes without wanting to escape them, and the fury that rises in him every single time.
"John-" he starts without knowing where to go, and is saved for the moment by the server, wanting to know if they'd like drinks. He orders his yakisoba and glances at John. "How do you feel about sake?" he asks. "Could go halves on that."
If he's going to get drunk with Jonathan Sims, he's going to bloody well do it right.
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The only problem with giving Martin an easy out is the thought of him taking it. Not because John's married to the idea of them staying in this booth and eating sushi, but because he doesn't know how long it might take the Lonely to rally and have another go at him. Uncomfortable as his own company might be, he doesn't want Martin out of his sight just yet. At least here, he can see that he's safe.
He's pulled out of his own head by Martin saying his name with purpose, and he replies, "Yes?" a little too quickly.
Cue their server arriving. Of course. John glances between the two of them, eyebrows rising a little at Martin's suggestion. "Sure," he agrees, as much to dismiss the server as anything else.
Once it's just them again, he hesitates a moment before carefully prompting, "Were you going to say something?"
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He swallows thickly. It's hard, talking about this. It feels wrong, like he shouldn't, like he'll be punished for it, or far, far worse - John will.
"He never did anything to make me scared. Or to hurt me. He wanted me to want to be alone, and now it can't have that, and I think it - it knew you'd... you know. Use your powers, or whatever, to get me back. It wanted me to see that, to feel what it felt like, to be... looked at, like that. It wanted me afraid. Of you."
He curls his hand into a fist, just resting on the table, tension with no outlet. "And the worst part is, for just a second, it worked. I know it - it manipulated me into feeling that way, it's not me, it's not what I feel. I'm not afraid of you, I'd never be - but it's still there, in me, and that makes me so angry, I could just-"
He shuts up quickly, pressing his still closed hand to his mouth, looking stiffly away as the server brings them their bottle of sake and two small cups.
Martin closes his eyes, taking two short breaths to steady himself, then reaches out and pours John's cup for him. "You always pour sake for your companions, not yourself," he explains in an unnecessary burst of casual pedantry. He just needs something, anything else to say. He sets the bottle down and sits back. "It's polite."
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He lets the rest of Martin's explanation spill across the table, hitting him with the same cold shock as an upended pitcher of water. It certainly casts Martin's behavior in that other place in a new light, doesn't it? It wasn't the Lonely he was afraid of, or struggling against, it was him. And whether he was manipulated into it or not, it wasn't wrong, either. John hadn't meant him any harm, but that doesn't make what he did less terrifying. Christ only knows what it looked like -- or felt like -- from Martin's perspective, whether John's attempted reassurances even made it through (well, clearly they didn't). If all he perceived was John's gaze crawling all over him, without understanding the purpose behind it... of course he would have been frightened.
And, of course, let's not forget the things he's capable of when he gets hungry enough. He scares himself; he can hardly blame anyone else for feeling the same way.
The sake arrives before he can even begin to come up with a response, and he blinks as Martin pours him a glass, the subject changing so swiftly that it takes him several dragging seconds to catch up. His hands are clenched together in his lap, and he pries them apart so he can pour Martin's glass. Then he folds back in on himself, making no attempt to drink.
"I'm... I'm sorry," he finally says. That's all there really is to say; he can guess how something like 'well, it's probably for the best' would go over. But after a beat of silence, he hesitantly adds, "It... I don't know if it's worth much, but... I wasn't, erm. Looking. I mean, I was, I had to just to find you, but I wasn't prying, I didn't... I didn't see inside your head or anything." He huffs once, without humor. "I suppose if I had, I would've known what was going on, but..." He lifts his shoulders in a slow shrug.
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John apologizes. Martin looks at him, blinking in surprise, and like a light being switched off, that remnant fear is gone. It's just John before him, the John he's always known, always cared about. Struggling to offer reassurance where it isn't needed. When he trails off, Martin can only sit there for a few bewildered seconds.
"I... I know," he says. "I know you weren't. And if you had, I - it wouldn't have mattered. You saved me, John. Again. That's worth everything, it - Christ, don't apologize." He pushes his hand up over his face and into his hair, lifting his glasses up along with it. He breathes for a moment, then resets his glasses and seeks out John's eyes again, this time without any lingering unease. "I didn't - I just wanted you to know what it was doing, why it chose there. And why I - why I was acting... like that."
He's not sure how much of his desperation to get away from John came through in the moment, but going by John's reaction, it was enough.
"John..." He leans forward a little, his hands resting on the table. An impulsive, pathetic part of him wants to reach out, reach for John's hand, and he tamps it down tightly. "I trust you. All right? I know what you can do, I've seen it, but it doesn't make a difference, because you're still you, and I - I trust you. The Lonely can try to tell me different all it wants, but it won't change a, a goddamn thing."
He grabs his glass and downs the sake like it's a shot, like some sort of... 'mic drop,' as they say. It burns his throat a little, very dry and just a little bit sweet, and it's most assuredly going to hit like a truck. Suddenly and acutely sheepish, he sets the glass back down with great care.
There's more he wants to say, so much more, too much; but all that comes out in the end is, "Th-That's all I meant to say."
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And then the apology gets brushed off. That, too, is typical, and it's what he initially assumes is happening when Martin offers a bewildered 'I know' -- that the particulars, as ever, are immaterial. But then Martin goes on, insisting that it wouldn't have mattered even if he had been doing something worse than what he did, and that's enough to pull John's gaze from the table and back to Martin. He just stares at him, wide-eyed, struggling a little to process the turn things have taken.
You saved me, John. That's worth everything.
Christ, he wants to bury his face in his hands and laugh, except he isn't sure it's laughter that would come out of him. He wants to ask Martin if he's sure about that, about trusting him, because it's been so long since anyone has that he hardly knows what to do with it but ruin it, somehow, sooner or later. (And won't he? Martin hasn't seen everything he can do.)
He wants to be worthy of it. It's so hard to believe he could be.
Martin knocks back his sake conclusively, and John swallows past the inconvenient lump in his throat before reaching over to refill his glass with a slightly unsteady hand.
"O-okay," he finally manages, his voice a bit hoarse. "I..." Christ, what is he supposed to say? He wants to thank him, but that would sound a bit pathetic, surely. He takes his own glass, turning it between his fingers and staring into it for a moment before looking back up at Martin, meeting his eyes. "I trust you, too," he says. It hasn't always been easy; it's not a thing that comes naturally to him, anymore, but a conscious choice he kept forcing himself to make. But it's a choice he's made so often that it doesn't require as much thought, anymore, and that's... something. "I'm not... I'm not always good at it, just... generally speaking, but I... I do trust you."
For lack of anything else to do, he knocks back his own glass, and then looks at both it and Martin in some surprise. "... Christ, you're not really supposed to drink it like that, are you?" He coughs out a laugh, releasing some of the tension that had built up inside him, then sets his glass down with a quiet, dry, "How quickly you betray me."
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For a moment Martin feels like he could burst. Into tears, into an inappropriate grin, into a flood of ill-advised admissions. He opens his mouth, but he's not sure what to say. John, who once went through the bin looking for evidence he was a murderer, who stalked Tim to his home, who even recently couldn't seem to accept that he know what he was doing... John trusts him.
It's an even greater relief when that tension breaks. Martin's laugh is a bit startled but genuine, and he settles into a warm smile as he reaches out to refill John's glass.
"No going back on it now," he says, hoping that's the right kind of rejoinder. This is wholly uncharted territory, cracking jokes with John. Basira had told him once that John was funny and he hadn't believed her, or rather he'd resented that she'd seen something he hadn't. It's nice to see it himself.
"Nobody's stopping us from drinking them that way," he adds, picking his glass up again. "I mean, they are shot-sized. I just didn't exactly take you for a shots type of person." His smile shifts into more of a faint smirk, and he lifts the glass. "Cheers, then. Or... kanpai, I suppose."
He takes a reserved sip this time, and glances back up in sudden embarrassment. It's hard not to feel a bit punchy after all that. "I - I guess I'm not sure what I'm toasting," he admits sheepishly.
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"I suppose not," he agrees, picking up his own glass. His eyes narrow a little at Martin's assessment, hearing the implicit challenge, and also gripped by that discrete subset of indignation that comes of being accurately pegged as a bit, well, boring. "I could do shots," he insists. He has never done shots. But that doesn't mean he couldn't. Hell, he's done one already; how hard could it be to keep going? So he lifts his glass, hesitating for only a moment when Martin, for some reason, repeats 'cheers' twice, and then downs it, gamely setting his empty glass back on the table. "Best not to overthink it," he replies. Whatever they're toasting, it's... it's good.
Twenty minutes later, John is pleasantly tipsy -- which is to say well on his way to pleasantly drunk, but trying to be at least somewhat dignified about it. He's also in possession of a half-devoured plate of sushi, which he is currently neglecting in favor of using his chopsticks to make loosely emphatic gestures.
"We need a name for it," he says apropos of nothing, waving his chopsticks as if trying to pluck the specifics of 'it' out of the empty air. "The new Archive." There it is. "Needs a name. We can't just call it the Magnus Institute, or the Magnus Archive or whatever. City's already got a Magnus, and he's weird. Got the weirdest eyes. And that's coming from me." John snorts, then looks down at his plate, and--hey, sushi! He makes a pleased little hum of discovery and picks up a piece of sashimi, dipping it into his little bowl of soy sauce and popping it into his mouth.
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By the time John is gesticulating drunkenly, Martin is nearly finished with his mess of noodles and quite drunk himself. He probably hasn't been this drunk since... well, at least three years ago, probably one of those early holiday parties before everything went so wrong. Tim egging him on. Nothing of his own accord, nothing like this.
Martin can barely follow what John is saying, and not just because it seems to come from nowhere. His eyes track John's hand as it lazily draws the chopsticks about, making out like a very lackadaisical conductor. It takes him a few seconds to snap out of it, refocus on John and what he's saying.
"Really," he says with a loose smile. Seems so unbelievable, that Darrow has its own weird Magnus, but really, nothing ought to surprise him. He watches John enjoy a bit of sashimi and props his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his hand.
"Hadn't thought about what to call it," he says. "Could call it Magnus, and Mr. Weird Eyes would just have to deal. That'd teach him." Teach him what, and why, he doesn't know. Easier to just babble unexamined. "Although-" He pauses to scoop up a bit more of his stir fry, chewing thoughtfully before he continues: "Dunno if we want to associate directly with the Eye anyway. S'all a bit underhanded, innit? I mean does the Eye benefit from this, or..."
He waves it off before John can answer. "Actually. I don't think I care. S'long as it works for you." He studies the middle distance, squinting in consideration. "S'pose it were like... The Jonathan Sims Home for Weird Stories. Right on the tin. Sounds like a children's book." He snorts, then notices John has refilled his glass from their dwindling supply. When did that happen? He takes another drink.
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He hums around a mouthful of sushi roll in response to Martin's question, intending to say that some association with the Eye is probably unavoidable... though how direct it might be is harder to judge. God knows how they might even determine such a thing; it's not as if he can do what Martin's done and--and extricate himself. But before he can respond, Martin flaps his hand dismissively and announces that he doesn't actually care so long as it works for him, which is...
The word that comes to mind is sweet. John dismisses it with a little mental shake.
Martin's suggestion is so absurd that it startles a burst of laughter out of him. "Christ," he says, still laughing helplessly, keeling forward over his plate. "It might be nice if people took us a little bit seriously." He indicates as much with his chopsticks, holding the tips a fraction apart. "Just a bit."
Recovering himself a little, he peers thoughtfully at Martin. "You've got the better name," he realizes. "Blackwood. Sounds mysterious."
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Christ, what is he doing? Declaring himself broken off from the Lonely just like that, burning the bridge out from under him without a thought to the possibility of getting home. What's going to happen if they do go back, and he's completely undone all of Peter's work?
Then John looks at him, peering close, and remarks upon his name. It's so ridiculous that it shakes Martin loose from the creeping dread, back into the lull of the moment, and he snorts over the word 'mysterious'. "I dunno about that," he says, and finishes his drink. He's lost track of how many he's had by now. He sets the cup back down gingerly, and reaches out to top John off.
If they do go back, he can pick up where he left off, and Peter will simply have to cope. Peter needs him, after all; this isn't really a job security issue. Even if Peter is concerned about him... relapsing, so to speak, Martin knows he'll to do what needs to be done. That isn't negotiable. The worst of it won't be that he'll have failed due to unforeseen circumstances; it's how much the return to that form will hurt John.
It doesn't matter right now. It literally can't matter. He's been over this all - Christ, nearly a month already. These are desperate times, and John is all he has, and he went out to drink and have a good bloody time for once, and now that he's having it, he refuses to let the inherent unfamiliarity ruin it all. That's a feeling for tomorrow, when he's sober again.
"An' - and anyway," he says, "you're the..." he gestures for a while without purchase, not sure of the word he's actually looking for, "...guy. Got to have your name on it. The Sims Archive. Or... or something."
Actually, that does sound pretty bad, but he elects not to say so.
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John takes a sip of his current glass of sake -- he's long since lost count, it's hard when someone else is pouring for you -- and then slumps to the side, elbow on the table, palm braced against the side of his head. "'The Sims Archive' 's rubbish," he pronounces unselfconsciously, punctuating it with a jab of his chopsticks. "'The Blackwood Archive' just... sounds better." He snorts in amusement as an absurd thought occurs to him, which obviously needs to be shared with the class. "We could just swap surnames. Haven't been here that long, hardly anyone'd notice. Jus' let me have the--the spooky one. Jonathan Blackwood." God, that's good. Almost a shame, really. "An' then 'Martin Sims' sounds..." he swishes his chopsticks pensively, before concluding, "plausible."
Sobering a little -- figuratively speaking, of course -- he adds, "Your name should be on it somewhere. 'S your thing, too. We're like... business partners."
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There's too much to account for here, and Martin's left grasping at the remnants of his composure while John babbles on. For his part, he seems innocuously delighted at the idea of 'swapping surnames' - how quaint, &c. - oblivious to any lateral connotations the idea might bring to bear. That, and he uses the word spooky of his own volition.
That, and plausible.
There is nothing worse, Martin thinks, than that pause as John considers the sound of 'Martin Sims', the strangling tension of wondering if he'll wake up to what he's unthinkingly implying and things will take a sharp plummet for the unbearably awkward; nothing worse than that until the word plausible.
Christ. He drinks his just-refilled cup a little too quickly and buries his mortification in the resulting cough, which also conveniently accounts for the heated flush in his cheeks.
Apart from all that, John's insistence that his name be on this venture, that they're... business partners, it's, well, it's sweet, sort of. Insofar as sharing this burden constitutes anything sweet.
"I... yeah," he says with a loose smile. "S'pose we are." He rubs at his face, bringing himself the rest of the way back down. The alcohol helps. "Sims an' Blackwood," he offers, still with a twinge of nervousness, as though saying it will have him caught out. "Mmnh. Not right. Blackwood an' Sims? S'better like that. The rhythm, or meter, or something. Two syllable and one." It reminds him of something, but his brain is mostly full of static. "But I don't think my name should be first." It's like a logic problem. Cabbages and goats or something. John's probably good at those, he can puzzle it out.
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Even though John is the one who suggested both their names be part of it, it's still oddly charming to hear Martin actually throwing ideas out there. Emphasis on the odd, probably. Things have been moving at such a fast clip that the magnitude of what they're doing keeps striking him afresh, no less bizarre for its necessity. And naming it gives it a sort of conceptual solidity to go along with the physical location.
He smiles faintly when Martin starts going on about rhythm and meter. "Well, you are the poet," he acknowledges. "And it does sound..." he means to say 'better,' but what it also sounds is familiar. It takes him a few moments to work it out, and then he huffs quietly. "Might be a bit 'Breekon & Hope.'" God, this might be harder than he'd thought. A good name seems important, though, and he wants to make sure they get it right.
Not that his brain is offering anything particularly useful, and John shuts his eyes, trying to focus without much luck. "Maybe it's enough to tack something on in front of our names. 'The Repository of Blackwood and Sims,' or something."
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Of course, John is very drunk and saying a lot of very silly things, and Martin is very drunk, and feeling everything very much. It seems likelier that John used a word without thinking much of it, and that Martin gave it way too much importance, which is pretty pathetic, which is also earned.
Breekon & Hope is there to seize him out of this soppy existential mire, and Martin's nose wrinkles as he realizes that was exactly what it had reminded him of, too. It's a good sound-pairing, not like they've cornered that market with their big nondescript... bigness, and their stupid fake accents. But John's already moving ahead. Martin struggles to keep up.
"That sounds..." He squints, trying to arrive at something, but it's getting harder and harder to think. Why bother, honestly. He waves his hand as if swatting the idea away. "Too complicated," he says, nearly tripping over the word in three places. "Too many words." Things need to be easy to say. Right now especially.
"What if it's just. The Archive." He raises his hands and gestures like he's envisioning a marquee. Then he snorts and hunches back over the remains of his noodles. "That'd get their attention."
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It's as well he's swallowed by the time Martin suggests 'The Archive,' otherwise he might've choked. "In lights? Like a theatre?" he snorts out a laugh at that mental image, then gives the idea a little more consideration. "Simple," he says with burgeoning approval. "An' it--it has the advantage of annoying every other archivist in town. All of 'em going 'why didn't we think of that?'"
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John is making a good point, besides. "Ooh," Martin says approvingly. "We'll have that market well cornered."
He can't imagine what sort of archival market there is in this place, but who knows, honestly. "S'pose we'll need some sort of... output? I mean we aren't self-sustaining. We'd have to provide. Y'know, the. Goods n' services. Something." He's not built to think about this right now. He rests his head briefly on the table. "I'll work it all out. With... with spreadsheets."
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Output isn't really something he'd considered, but Martin's right. They need some non-fraudulent means of bringing in money. And it's a shopfront more than an institution. People will walk in off the street, expecting... something. "Besides the... the pleasure of our company?" he suggests with a wry grin and a flourish of his chopsticks. "We could sell concessions." He regrets that suggestion almost immediately, face scrunching at the thought of the messes that would inevitably result. "Ugh. No, not that. But something."
His smile softens as Martin's head gently comes to rest against the table, and he has to resist the absurd urge to reach over and poke him. "You should have some water," he says. Then, "Christ, I should have some water." But that would require sitting up, which feels far more difficult than it should.
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He is very tired. It turns out the resting of his head on the table wasn't brief at all. It's still happening. Time to head home, he thinks. 'Home.' Weird empty little flat, weird unfamiliar city, weird awful brand replacements. It's all so bloody weird and empty and unfamiliar and awful. Still thinks it's a bad dream sometimes. But it's not all that bad, is it? John is here. It's good that John is here. John is good.
Anxiety scratches at the back of his mind and he frowns rather petulantly about it. John is talking again, which provides a good distraction. He blinks blearily over the suggestion of water. "Yeah," he says in ostensible agreement, but he doesn't want to sit up. He heaves a sigh and gives himself a light tap on the head. "Christ, gonna be full of hornets tomorrow."
He braces his hands on the table and levers himself up with a soft groan, eyeing his water as though it has offended him. Mostly he just hasn't drunk much of it, like a bloody amateur. He sets about correcting that now. "Should probably stagger out of here soon, yeah? S'getting late an' all."
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It would be so much tidier to think that that Jonathan Sims had died in the wax museum. So much more comfortable to pretend not to recognize himself.
Well. No time like the present to... improve. So he nods in agreement, and says, "Keep me posted," and leaves it at that.
John shoves himself upright, give or take a few degrees, and takes a sip of his own water. It probably is about time they headed out, though he finds himself reluctant to actually part ways. It's not just that this has been surprisingly pleasant, though that's certainly part of it. It's that Martin's safe, and it's hard to squash the fear that it might change the moment John's back is turned.
He hesitates for a moment, fussing needlessly to himself about phrasing, before venturing, "You could... come to mine, if you want. Might be safer."
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"Oh-" he blurts, and busies himself drinking a great deal more water. "I- safer. Right."
From the Lonely, he means. Sweet of him to worry. Or... practical? Practical. That's a much more John-like term. And it's tempting. It really is. Far too tempting, dangerously tempting, when the memory of John's hands on his own and ghosting over his hair is still so sharp in the murk of his sake-addled brain, and when it was only this same night he'd been so close to doing something really, really stupid.
"I... I'll be all right," he says after some outwardly mild consideration. "Thanks. But I think... s'far as I can tell, I think you actually put the Lonely sort of... in its place." He manages a little smile. "Don't think it'll be back anytime soon."
The check comes, and he gives the server his card without hesitation, without even glancing at the price. Who cares. He keeps his eyes on John, as grateful for his help and for the offer as he is mired over the difficulty of denying it.
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But when it comes to the Lonely's behavioral patterns, Martin would know better than he would, really. John does give him a searching look at the refusal, wanting to make sure it's not coming from a place of pride or embarrassment or anything else he'd rank below Martin's safety. But it seems he's being honest, and John nods, mollified. "Well. Good." After a beat, he adds, "You'll er... call me if that changes...?" Not that he'd expect 'placing a phone call' to be an easy task under the circumstances, but Martin did manage to text earlier.
Some of his deliberate composure fades when Martin offers his card without even hardly looking at the receipt, and even though he's mid-sip, he hums in protest, brow furrowing. "Wh--hey," he adds for good measure once he can speak.
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"What?" Martin blinks out of his stewing thoughts at John's protest, confused for a moment, and then smiles faintly when he realizes, waving him off. "You can get it next time," he says.
Because there will be one. He can't decide if that feels good and warm and comforting or, or terrible. Like he might be sick from the stress and the stupid bloody guilt of it all. Or that might just be his faltering constitution.
Martin thinks he needs to get home quickly. That he actually needs, ironically, to be alone now. This is getting to be... unwieldy. The check returns, and he scribbles in a hastily calculated tip, aiming higher just in case, and he gets to his feet with a soft grunt. His back actually cracks.
"All right," he says decisively. He stands there for a moment, caught between impulse and instinct, before he figures fuck it and offers John his hand. Why not. Who said he couldn't. "Up we get."
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Now that he thinks about it, it's entirely possible that Martin doesn't even mean it. That it's just an excuse to get the check sorted with a minimal amount of fuss and end the evening as expeditiously as possible.
John's on the verge of sinking into a maudlin funk over the depressing likelihood of that premise when Martin decides to complicate matters by offering him a -- Christ -- a friendly hand up. John looks at him askance for half a second, trying and failing to make that detail fit the narrative.
It occurs to him, for the barest instant, that he could refuse it on some sort of petty principle. But he shakes off the impulse -- as if the few, often gentle rebuffs Martin has doled out aren't dwarfed by the pile of nastier brush-offs John has been responsible for over the years. As if he isn't rather pathetically touched by the gesture, by the casual, startling humanity of it. Like that's something people do: offer their hands to him, to be kind and not to burn.
So he takes Martin's hand, curls his fingers around his palm. The scar tissue is still a little more sensitive than the unmarred skin used to be, and the warmth of Martin's hand is heightened as a result. But it doesn't hurt, it's just... pleasant. And then he's tugged out of the booth and up onto his feet, and his head swims. "Ugh," he mutters, scrunching up his face in displeasure, his grip on Martin's hand tightening unthinkingly for a few moments until the room settles. At which point he makes himself let go, running his other hand over his face.
"Maybe Archivists don't get hangovers," he muses, without any real hope.
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As much as he's always aware of its existence, Martin was in no way prepared to actually feel the scar on John's hand. It's long since healed, little more now than a faint sheen the light catches at odd angles, and a smoother texture than what he's anticipating. It strikes him how much it covers, John's entire palm, his fingers; so little fuss was made over it, to his then-frustration. And on top of all this, he's never touched John's hand before, at all, has he? Christ, was John brushing all the fog away the first time? That can't be right. Maybe there was once, before Jude Perry happened, shaking hands on an introduction? Maybe? That doesn't sound right either. John would have been too distant, and he too awkward, too intimidated by this tall, striking, unattainable man with that arch sneer he always seemed to wear in those days. So no, no contact, not until this precise moment of casual drunken forgetfulness.
He'd thought about it, of course, in the hospital. Reaching out and taking John's hand while filling him in on all he'd missed. The nurses said even said it might help, probably making a few assumptions along the way, but he'd never done it. Wanted to. Hadn't.
John's grip tightens surprisingly as he recovers his balance, and then he lets go, and Martin stuffs both hands quickly into his pockets as though there'll be some mark on them, some obvious sign. He really needs to get home. Lie down, face first, and not think about anything for a while.
Fortunately John is there to offer him something else to focus on, and he smiles and huffs a laugh. "That'd be a neat trick," he says, turning and wandering back out into the warm night air. He was already overheated, and this doesn't help a bit.
"I miss London summer," he grumbles. "Not so... milky." That really isn't the word he was looking for, he thinks, but it's what happened. "Well, I... I guess I'll be off, then." He looks at John for a moment, wanting to say something else, or take him up on his offer. Wanting far too much.
"Thank you," he says instead, a bit too serious. "I- I'll see you tomorrow, probably."
The certainty and normalcy of it is so comforting. Maybe it can just be comforting. Not awful or scary or... fraught. He turns away to amble home. Could do with an amble. Sober himself up a bit. Get his head right. Exhaust himself so he just passes out when he hits his bed. Wake up a wreck and see John, probably. Plausibly.
"Christ," he mutters, and pulls his arms around himself despite the late summer heat.
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"Right," he says, dropping his gaze to Martin, who's looking up at him with a solemnity he isn't quite sure what to do with. Solemnity and... something else that he can't name, but that fills him with a sort of electric anticipation, like that nerve-jangling instant between the flash of lightning and the crack of thunder that'll tell you just how close you were to being struck.
Not that there's any cause for it. Martin just thanks him. Again. "You're welcome," he replies, just as seriously. What else is there to say, really, or to do but nod his head in agreement at this oddly casual farewell. An 'I'll see you' might not be ideal coming from him, so he sticks with what he hopes is a blandly inoffensive, "Later, then."
He also knows he shouldn't just stand there and watch Martin leave, so he turns toward the Bramford, making it a few steps before he can't help but glance back over his shoulder, as if to make sure the fog hasn't rolled in already. But Martin looks fine, his outline perfectly clear as he passes beneath a streetlight.
No obvious outward reason for him to curl his arms around himself.
John's steps falter, and he waffles uncertainly for a few moments before shaking his head and continuing on. Martin will reach out if he needs him. He said he would, and John just has to trust him. Besides, what's the alternative: legging it down the sidewalk and insisting he come to the Bramford? Christ, just imagining the look on Martin's face is enough to dissuade him from that course of action. It's... it'll be fine.
They're fine.