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Holdover // for Daine
October 9th, 2019
The insufferable irony of it is Martin is lonely.
Well, of course he is. That's sort of the point. But it's not like it was back home, the intention of it unsupported by his current circumstances. He can't get on like he did when he had the work laid out before him, reinforcing the purpose behind his self-imposed exile, altering him slowly and in ways that were only starting to become evident. He can't squirrel himself away and avoid the friends he's made; he can't, and more importantly he won't, avoid John. But neither can he deny that the Lonely is still very much present, hovering over him daily, even if he doesn't feel it, even if John can't always see it. Those moments when it makes itself manifest are all reactive. It can't pull him back and it can't insulate him, so it lashes out when he strays too far. That isn't fair, but the Lonely isn't a fair creature, and it isn't governed by human reason or emotion. The indignation he'd felt seems childish now. It just wants him back.
It was so easy to slip into the rhythm of things here. He'd seen how easy it was, and it had alarmed him, and he'd let it happen anyway. The whole thing feels like a test of temptation. How easy it is to just settle in here, to go out for semi-regular drinks with John and pretend this is what his life could be like. And it's not that he regrets any of that - he's grateful for the time they have together, odd as it is. He's grateful, in a sort of perverse way, to have this respite before he falls inevitably and fully into the dark of whatever he'd begun with Peter.
But it won't last. He will go home, eventually. He's been given to believe that he may not remember any of this when he does, but that is not a comfort. It doesn't feel like a free pass to behave however he wishes. Not while the Lonely looms over him still, twining around his thoughts and reminding him daily he shouldn't wish for what he can't have.
If he can't pull away and he can't sink back into it, then what he needs is balance. And ever since he woke up from the horrible shared dream of Regan's world, that's what he's been trying to strike. Going to work, remaining pleasant enough, but keeping to himself as much as he can otherwise. It's what he needs to do. It's practical.
But it hurts. He'd grown used to the way things were, even with the Lonely's occasional torments. And it's worse still, far worse, for how much things had changed in the week of John's stint as a cat. He'd grown used to John being with him all the time. It was a forced situation neither of them chose - and John certainly wouldn't have chosen it - but it was company nonetheless. To go so completely cold turkey now is awful, and for a while he's not sure what to do, how to fill the gap without breaking his renewed conviction. How to stop from craving something that wasn't even his; John being there, waking up with him, sharing space and food and a strange, newfound trust that seems to be vanishing back into their ordinary routine.
It takes him a while to realize he's trying to solve the wrong problem. It isn't just that he misses John, specifically, though of course he does, and that's a misery all on its own - it's that the flat feels so empty now; it's the quiet, simple comfort of sharing space with another living thing.
Having a pet is a small thing, and it's tempting. It's something he's always wanted, and for once in his life, a bit absurdly, he can afford it. It might be a bit... weird, getting a cat to replace John, more or less, but... that's only if he allows himself to think of it that way. If he can't have what he wants and he can't go back to what he had, then the best he can do is find a median. The Lonely is forced to work by halves here; maybe it will accept him doing the same.
There's no one to give him permission or to talk him out of it, so he spends an entire day mulling it over in various states of indecision, frustration, and embarrassment before he finally caves and texts Daine. She is, of course, one of the handful of people who might well have some assumptions about where this notion originated, but she seems the sort to keep it to herself.
A bit of back and forth and a short while later, Martin finds himself outside her flat, rapping lightly and a bit nervously on the door.
The insufferable irony of it is Martin is lonely.
Well, of course he is. That's sort of the point. But it's not like it was back home, the intention of it unsupported by his current circumstances. He can't get on like he did when he had the work laid out before him, reinforcing the purpose behind his self-imposed exile, altering him slowly and in ways that were only starting to become evident. He can't squirrel himself away and avoid the friends he's made; he can't, and more importantly he won't, avoid John. But neither can he deny that the Lonely is still very much present, hovering over him daily, even if he doesn't feel it, even if John can't always see it. Those moments when it makes itself manifest are all reactive. It can't pull him back and it can't insulate him, so it lashes out when he strays too far. That isn't fair, but the Lonely isn't a fair creature, and it isn't governed by human reason or emotion. The indignation he'd felt seems childish now. It just wants him back.
It was so easy to slip into the rhythm of things here. He'd seen how easy it was, and it had alarmed him, and he'd let it happen anyway. The whole thing feels like a test of temptation. How easy it is to just settle in here, to go out for semi-regular drinks with John and pretend this is what his life could be like. And it's not that he regrets any of that - he's grateful for the time they have together, odd as it is. He's grateful, in a sort of perverse way, to have this respite before he falls inevitably and fully into the dark of whatever he'd begun with Peter.
But it won't last. He will go home, eventually. He's been given to believe that he may not remember any of this when he does, but that is not a comfort. It doesn't feel like a free pass to behave however he wishes. Not while the Lonely looms over him still, twining around his thoughts and reminding him daily he shouldn't wish for what he can't have.
If he can't pull away and he can't sink back into it, then what he needs is balance. And ever since he woke up from the horrible shared dream of Regan's world, that's what he's been trying to strike. Going to work, remaining pleasant enough, but keeping to himself as much as he can otherwise. It's what he needs to do. It's practical.
But it hurts. He'd grown used to the way things were, even with the Lonely's occasional torments. And it's worse still, far worse, for how much things had changed in the week of John's stint as a cat. He'd grown used to John being with him all the time. It was a forced situation neither of them chose - and John certainly wouldn't have chosen it - but it was company nonetheless. To go so completely cold turkey now is awful, and for a while he's not sure what to do, how to fill the gap without breaking his renewed conviction. How to stop from craving something that wasn't even his; John being there, waking up with him, sharing space and food and a strange, newfound trust that seems to be vanishing back into their ordinary routine.
It takes him a while to realize he's trying to solve the wrong problem. It isn't just that he misses John, specifically, though of course he does, and that's a misery all on its own - it's that the flat feels so empty now; it's the quiet, simple comfort of sharing space with another living thing.
Having a pet is a small thing, and it's tempting. It's something he's always wanted, and for once in his life, a bit absurdly, he can afford it. It might be a bit... weird, getting a cat to replace John, more or less, but... that's only if he allows himself to think of it that way. If he can't have what he wants and he can't go back to what he had, then the best he can do is find a median. The Lonely is forced to work by halves here; maybe it will accept him doing the same.
There's no one to give him permission or to talk him out of it, so he spends an entire day mulling it over in various states of indecision, frustration, and embarrassment before he finally caves and texts Daine. She is, of course, one of the handful of people who might well have some assumptions about where this notion originated, but she seems the sort to keep it to herself.
A bit of back and forth and a short while later, Martin finds himself outside her flat, rapping lightly and a bit nervously on the door.
no subject
"Oh," says Martin again, softer and faintly reverent this time. He really hasn't known many cats, and what he'd been given to expect is that they generally need time to warm up to a person. Especially given the vague parameters he'd given Daine, instant affection is not something he would have expected. But it doesn't matter. The Bishop burrows up against him and Martin shifts his hands a bit to support his weight better - his fur a little patchy, his shoulders a little too sharp - and he feels something he hasn't felt in what seems like a very, very long time.
"Hello," he says quietly, smiling small and warm, unable to stop himself from pressing an instinctive little kiss on top of his head. "Hello there."
no subject
I like him, the cat informs her, even as he lets out a soft trill and sprawls sidelong against Martin's chest, one paw hooking into his coat for leverage. He's soft.
"He says he likes you," she translates, even though that's probably clear enough from the way The Bishop's behaving. She elects not to pass along the comment about him being soft, lest Martin take it the wrong way, and instead adds, "And he wouldn't need much in the way of extra care. Mostly you'd just have to make sure you feed him right, and brush him carefully while his fur is still coming back in."
no subject
"Well I like him," he says, admiring The Bishop's beautiful eyes for a moment. Then he looks at Daine, feeling a bit like he's stepping out of a fog - though of course he knows he's really just stepping back into it. His expression softens and dulls a bit. He is grateful to her, and he is happy with this wonderful cat and his odd name. But he feels the subtle tug all around him, to get this over with. She'll have to help him with the paperwork, with fetching food and supplies and whatever else. The sooner they do all that, the sooner he can get back home and be alone, if not completely, at least more.
"Thank you," he says. "He's perfect." He runs his hand gently over the soft curve of The Bishop's back and manages another smile, genuine if much smaller. "Shall we?"