Try as he might, there is no wrenching himself free of the Ceaseless Watcher, which is only too right, he thinks bitterly, here of all places. Once it overtakes him, it spreads outward to claim everything around him, crowding the Lonely out. The fog lingers around him, grasping on, but it cannot protect him, and it is with exhausted misery that he surrenders to the watcher, letting its unbearable sight wash over him.
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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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."