![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Wake // for John
[CW: implied extreme violence & death, excessive blood, related trauma]
October 31st - November 1st, 2019
This has taken him far too long already.
Martin sits at his desk in his office, the door shut and locked as it's been most of the time for the past month, staring at his phone, at the open history of his texts with John. The last message exchanged is dated the 19th, John asking with exceptional care if he was planning on being in that day, forcing Martin to reply very briefly that he had in fact been there for several hours. No response. Before that, only scant business-like exchanges. He knows, and he'd known then, that John was testing the waters, trying to get a sense for what was going on. But he hadn't needed to delve much further. For better or worse, the message had been received.
The phone's screen dims, and he absently taps his thumb against it to wake it up.
Three days ago he'd made a decision. Twenty-two days before that he'd made another: to reacclimate himself with the Lonely, to give up all his tentative progress toward the recovering warmth of social connection and to return to the path on which he'd been set. The justifications were many, and they were easy: because he'd seen firsthand what form the Extinction might take, and even if it wasn't his world it felt too awful to ignore; because the Lonely is still here, breathing down his neck and threatening John in his dreams, and even if those threats are empty they still burrow deep into his heart; because none of this feels real or permanent and he ought to know better than to allow himself something nice when it will only get taken away, just like everything else. Because he wants to be ready, because he wants to be useful, because he wants to keep John safe.
The 19th, he realizes, had been the day Luke came. So they had in fact seen each other briefly; Martin had seen John with him, how different he'd been. Kind and gentle, comforting this little boy who seemed, impossibly, to have become close to him. It had hit Martin in ways he hadn't expected; it was like he was missing something he didn't know was there.
That had hurt, even more than the rest. It all hurt, it hurt so much, and he'd hated it. He'd gotten a cat to cope with the suffocating emptiness of his flat, and that had helped, but not enough. He'd justified it all to himself in a thousand different ways, and each time he had the conversation it felt emptier and more circular, like he couldn't quite keep track of all the threads of it. He'd tried to sink, but he couldn't, he can't, not here. Here the water is different and there is not enough to drown him.
He hated it and it hurt, but that wasn't enough to stop him. Not even seeing John with Luke was enough, not on its own. Maybe nothing would have been enough; maybe he'd have found a way to drown himself anyway, to disappear into the cold dark embrace that clutches him every night. Maybe that would have been it, if Kat hadn't forced it. Needling into him with questions and counters too precisely on the point of it. Promising that he was making John miserable.
That was far more than three days ago, but it took that long for him to arrive at a conclusion. It took him so long to decide, enough. He is tired. He is lonely. And whatever purpose this might have held feels so far away it's like he can no longer see it clearly at all.
So he stares at his phone. He'd meant to catch John before he left for the day, but they've become good at avoiding each other even in this small space. And it's become difficult. He'd allowed it to become difficult. He makes so many false starts and deletes them all, jiggling his knee with nervous, manic energy. He just doesn't know what to say. What can he say? What can he possibly say after all this?
He's sorry?
He is, it just doesn't feel like it'll ever be enough.
But he can't keep sitting here and staring at his bloody phone so he finally just starts somewhere.
It's easy to assume, at first, that the lack of response is simply John giving him a well-earned cold shoulder. It doesn't seem particularly like John - for all he was once rather unkind to Martin, he has never been petty - but Martin tries to content himself with that assumption. He tries as he keeps sending messages, as he locks up the Archive and heads feverishly toward the Bramford. The sun has set already, the earlier darkness still catching him off guard, as does the realization that it's Halloween. He'd forgotten, sequestered as he's been. Not that it matters. He's halfway to the Bramford when he tells John he's coming over; and when he arrives at the front door, there has still been no word and he's beginning to feel a tightness in his chest, a certainty that something is wrong. He just wants an answer, anything - John can be as angry as he likes, John can hate him, just as long as he's okay.
But there's no answer, and the longer Martin stands on the stoop, waiting for anyone to pass through, the sharper that sense of dread grows. He's starting to consider doing something genuinely stupid, like scoping around the building for an open window or something, when the door clicks open.
Martin stares at it, uncomprehending. It opens slowly, with a soft creak and all on its own, which is impossible; reaching out to catch it, he feels the weight of it, how this could not be caused by wind. Someone would have to push it open.
"H-hello?" he asks, feeling a bit foolish, but the only answer he gets is a chilly breeze and the distant sounds of trick-or-treaters and those who've gotten an early start on the drinking.
Well, no time to wonder about it now. He steps instead, letting the door fall shut behind him, and heads quickly down the hall to John's flat. He's reaching out to knock automatically when he realizes the door is open, cracked just barely ajar, but open.
It should not be open.
"John?" He pushes it the rest of the way and takes a few short steps into the entryway, startling for just a moment as he thinks he sees a person, pale and slight with very long hair, standing there at the end of it, but it was such a brief impression, like an afterimage on his eye, he scarcely gives it a moment's thought as he steps further into the room and
and
"No," bursts out of him, breathless and already halfway to a sob. "Oh god, oh god, no, no, no, John, John-!"
There is so, so much blood, and it is everywhere, an arc of arterial spray across the wall and spatter from what may have been a struggle and mostly pooled thick and already drying on the floor around the body, around his body, around John's body.
Martin doesn't remember moving forward, only realizes there's dull pain in his knees as he hits the floor and leans over him, grasping desperately at his shoulders as if this is something he can simply wake up from. There is a knife in his chest, stuck into his heart, and Martin can only stare at it, his breath hitching frantically as he begins to hyperventilate, tears spilling hot and startling down his face.
"Nononono," he moans feverishly, his hands trembling as they brush through John's hair like he's trying to smooth it back. His face is still, relaxed, but not peaceful. He thought people were supposed to look peaceful. "John, no, no, no, please, I - I can't, I can't lose you, I- I said I wasn't gonna let this happen again, I said, I - you can't, I need you, I-"
The words are already pouring out in an incoherent mess, but he can't maintain even that as he gives way to outright sobs, crumpling over him, his head pressed against John's unmoving chest. He was too late. He doesn't understand why this happened, what's even happened, but he was too late, he drifted away and he left John alone and now he's - now-
What bloody good is protecting John when he wasn't here to protect him?
"John," he whispers, shaking so badly he feels like he can't breathe, like he's going to be sick. He lifts his head to look at John's face, as if he'll see any sign that this isn't real, and instead his eyes fall to the scar across his throat.
That wasn't there before. That is new; more to the point, it's fresh. Just a thin neat slash across his throat, his neck and shoulders stained with the blood of it. And it's healed.
"What-" He sits up, reaching out delicately to touch the scar, not quite able to bring himself to do so. He pulls back, blinking through tears as he tries to cobble together some sort of understanding. His thoughts are racing as much as they feel frozen; like he exists in two states at once, panic and surrender. Some part of him, the stubborn part that needs made him a target for the Eye in the first place, the part that needs to understand, struggles against the tide of despair until it reminds him suddenly, simply: again.
He said he wouldn't let this happen again.
Nobody could explain how John woke up from that coma. Nobody could explain how he'd managed a coma and not death to begin wtih. Martin hadn't questioned it; it didn't matter. But it matters now. It matters more than anything's mattered in his life.
Martin lets his fingers move slowly from John's hair down the sides of his face, tracing the trail of little round scars down his neck to his shoulder, letting his hands drift back over John's chest. There is nothing intentionally reverent in it; he is moving slow because he can barely control his body, and because he is afraid.
He wraps his shaking hand around the handle of the knife, his lips moving wordlessly in a prayer that is not a prayer - perhaps just please please please please please - and with a strained grunt he yanks the knife out of John's chest.
It clatters to the floor beside him, and Martin sits there with his blood-stained hands curled tight into the fabric of his trousers, staring, waiting, begging. Please, John, please be okay. I need you to be okay. I need you to be here. I need you.
He waits and watches and prays to whatever horrible intelligence is listening, and for the longest sprawl of red seconds, nothing happens.
October 31st - November 1st, 2019
This has taken him far too long already.
Martin sits at his desk in his office, the door shut and locked as it's been most of the time for the past month, staring at his phone, at the open history of his texts with John. The last message exchanged is dated the 19th, John asking with exceptional care if he was planning on being in that day, forcing Martin to reply very briefly that he had in fact been there for several hours. No response. Before that, only scant business-like exchanges. He knows, and he'd known then, that John was testing the waters, trying to get a sense for what was going on. But he hadn't needed to delve much further. For better or worse, the message had been received.
The phone's screen dims, and he absently taps his thumb against it to wake it up.
Three days ago he'd made a decision. Twenty-two days before that he'd made another: to reacclimate himself with the Lonely, to give up all his tentative progress toward the recovering warmth of social connection and to return to the path on which he'd been set. The justifications were many, and they were easy: because he'd seen firsthand what form the Extinction might take, and even if it wasn't his world it felt too awful to ignore; because the Lonely is still here, breathing down his neck and threatening John in his dreams, and even if those threats are empty they still burrow deep into his heart; because none of this feels real or permanent and he ought to know better than to allow himself something nice when it will only get taken away, just like everything else. Because he wants to be ready, because he wants to be useful, because he wants to keep John safe.
The 19th, he realizes, had been the day Luke came. So they had in fact seen each other briefly; Martin had seen John with him, how different he'd been. Kind and gentle, comforting this little boy who seemed, impossibly, to have become close to him. It had hit Martin in ways he hadn't expected; it was like he was missing something he didn't know was there.
That had hurt, even more than the rest. It all hurt, it hurt so much, and he'd hated it. He'd gotten a cat to cope with the suffocating emptiness of his flat, and that had helped, but not enough. He'd justified it all to himself in a thousand different ways, and each time he had the conversation it felt emptier and more circular, like he couldn't quite keep track of all the threads of it. He'd tried to sink, but he couldn't, he can't, not here. Here the water is different and there is not enough to drown him.
He hated it and it hurt, but that wasn't enough to stop him. Not even seeing John with Luke was enough, not on its own. Maybe nothing would have been enough; maybe he'd have found a way to drown himself anyway, to disappear into the cold dark embrace that clutches him every night. Maybe that would have been it, if Kat hadn't forced it. Needling into him with questions and counters too precisely on the point of it. Promising that he was making John miserable.
That was far more than three days ago, but it took that long for him to arrive at a conclusion. It took him so long to decide, enough. He is tired. He is lonely. And whatever purpose this might have held feels so far away it's like he can no longer see it clearly at all.
So he stares at his phone. He'd meant to catch John before he left for the day, but they've become good at avoiding each other even in this small space. And it's become difficult. He'd allowed it to become difficult. He makes so many false starts and deletes them all, jiggling his knee with nervous, manic energy. He just doesn't know what to say. What can he say? What can he possibly say after all this?
He's sorry?
He is, it just doesn't feel like it'll ever be enough.
But he can't keep sitting here and staring at his bloody phone so he finally just starts somewhere.
It's easy to assume, at first, that the lack of response is simply John giving him a well-earned cold shoulder. It doesn't seem particularly like John - for all he was once rather unkind to Martin, he has never been petty - but Martin tries to content himself with that assumption. He tries as he keeps sending messages, as he locks up the Archive and heads feverishly toward the Bramford. The sun has set already, the earlier darkness still catching him off guard, as does the realization that it's Halloween. He'd forgotten, sequestered as he's been. Not that it matters. He's halfway to the Bramford when he tells John he's coming over; and when he arrives at the front door, there has still been no word and he's beginning to feel a tightness in his chest, a certainty that something is wrong. He just wants an answer, anything - John can be as angry as he likes, John can hate him, just as long as he's okay.
But there's no answer, and the longer Martin stands on the stoop, waiting for anyone to pass through, the sharper that sense of dread grows. He's starting to consider doing something genuinely stupid, like scoping around the building for an open window or something, when the door clicks open.
Martin stares at it, uncomprehending. It opens slowly, with a soft creak and all on its own, which is impossible; reaching out to catch it, he feels the weight of it, how this could not be caused by wind. Someone would have to push it open.
"H-hello?" he asks, feeling a bit foolish, but the only answer he gets is a chilly breeze and the distant sounds of trick-or-treaters and those who've gotten an early start on the drinking.
Well, no time to wonder about it now. He steps instead, letting the door fall shut behind him, and heads quickly down the hall to John's flat. He's reaching out to knock automatically when he realizes the door is open, cracked just barely ajar, but open.
It should not be open.
"John?" He pushes it the rest of the way and takes a few short steps into the entryway, startling for just a moment as he thinks he sees a person, pale and slight with very long hair, standing there at the end of it, but it was such a brief impression, like an afterimage on his eye, he scarcely gives it a moment's thought as he steps further into the room and
and
"No," bursts out of him, breathless and already halfway to a sob. "Oh god, oh god, no, no, no, John, John-!"
There is so, so much blood, and it is everywhere, an arc of arterial spray across the wall and spatter from what may have been a struggle and mostly pooled thick and already drying on the floor around the body, around his body, around John's body.
Martin doesn't remember moving forward, only realizes there's dull pain in his knees as he hits the floor and leans over him, grasping desperately at his shoulders as if this is something he can simply wake up from. There is a knife in his chest, stuck into his heart, and Martin can only stare at it, his breath hitching frantically as he begins to hyperventilate, tears spilling hot and startling down his face.
"Nononono," he moans feverishly, his hands trembling as they brush through John's hair like he's trying to smooth it back. His face is still, relaxed, but not peaceful. He thought people were supposed to look peaceful. "John, no, no, no, please, I - I can't, I can't lose you, I- I said I wasn't gonna let this happen again, I said, I - you can't, I need you, I-"
The words are already pouring out in an incoherent mess, but he can't maintain even that as he gives way to outright sobs, crumpling over him, his head pressed against John's unmoving chest. He was too late. He doesn't understand why this happened, what's even happened, but he was too late, he drifted away and he left John alone and now he's - now-
What bloody good is protecting John when he wasn't here to protect him?
"John," he whispers, shaking so badly he feels like he can't breathe, like he's going to be sick. He lifts his head to look at John's face, as if he'll see any sign that this isn't real, and instead his eyes fall to the scar across his throat.
That wasn't there before. That is new; more to the point, it's fresh. Just a thin neat slash across his throat, his neck and shoulders stained with the blood of it. And it's healed.
"What-" He sits up, reaching out delicately to touch the scar, not quite able to bring himself to do so. He pulls back, blinking through tears as he tries to cobble together some sort of understanding. His thoughts are racing as much as they feel frozen; like he exists in two states at once, panic and surrender. Some part of him, the stubborn part that needs made him a target for the Eye in the first place, the part that needs to understand, struggles against the tide of despair until it reminds him suddenly, simply: again.
He said he wouldn't let this happen again.
Nobody could explain how John woke up from that coma. Nobody could explain how he'd managed a coma and not death to begin wtih. Martin hadn't questioned it; it didn't matter. But it matters now. It matters more than anything's mattered in his life.
Martin lets his fingers move slowly from John's hair down the sides of his face, tracing the trail of little round scars down his neck to his shoulder, letting his hands drift back over John's chest. There is nothing intentionally reverent in it; he is moving slow because he can barely control his body, and because he is afraid.
He wraps his shaking hand around the handle of the knife, his lips moving wordlessly in a prayer that is not a prayer - perhaps just please please please please please - and with a strained grunt he yanks the knife out of John's chest.
It clatters to the floor beside him, and Martin sits there with his blood-stained hands curled tight into the fabric of his trousers, staring, waiting, begging. Please, John, please be okay. I need you to be okay. I need you to be here. I need you.
He waits and watches and prays to whatever horrible intelligence is listening, and for the longest sprawl of red seconds, nothing happens.
no subject
"Martin." John's gaze flicks down to the jumper, which actually seems to fit him rather well aside from the overlong sleeves, and he experiences a brief, odd, lifting sensation in his chest that lasts for a second or two, and then fades. He looks back up at Martin's face, and then his gaze goes skittering furtively off across the floor, nearing but not quite reaching the door.
"I... I don't want to stay here," he admits. "Can we go?" The question sounds pathetic to his own ears, if only because it's so vague, no where in mind. But he isn't sure he cares about the destination so long as it's somewhere else -- somewhere removed from the grisly evidence of his own attempted murder, somewhere that feels safer by virtue of the fact that it's not here.
no subject
"Of course," he says. "We'll go to the Archive."
There's no question about it. Martin's flat isn't an option for a lot of reasons; the Archive is nearer, and it's both a neutral space and John's second home. Martin knows how necessary the cot in his office is; how much the Archives back home had become his de facto place of residence. It will feel safer there because it's his center of power, so to speak. It simply makes sense.
"Do you want to leave right now?" he says. "I just need to wipe off my shoes a bit and we can go."
no subject
... Until they share another nightmare.
John lets out a breath, then slowly makes his way over to the closet, pulling out his coat and shrugging it on with some difficulty, as if the garment's dimensions had changed over the past several hours, the sleeves not quite where he expects them to be. But he manages, and then braces a hand on the wall so he can stuff his feet into his shoes, not wanting to fumble with the laces.
Only then does he risk a furtive glance at Martin, wiping John's own blood off of his shoes. Christ. He feels as if he ought to apologize, as if all the bleeding was just clumsy of him. Instead, he just... keeps watching, unable to look away as Martin mops his fucking plasma off his footwear.
no subject
He sighs, looking John over with a brief, tight frown. "You ready?" he asks. He hesitates, then holds out his hand. He's not entirely sure if he's offering it to be held, or just trying to beckon John forward. Either way. "Come on," he says softly.
no subject
He manages to hold onto that surety until they step out into the brisk night air. It's late enough that the trick-or-treaters have packed it in, but the city's hardly shut down. There are distant (and some less distant) sounds of general revelry, probably university students making their way between various bars. No harm or danger in it, he knows that, but when someone out there shrieks, he pulls in a sharp breath and unthinkingly grabs Martin's hand. What if it's him, what if he's not finished, what if he rounds the corner by sheer fucking coincidence and sees him, sees Martin--? He couldn't save himself, what makes him think he'd be able to protect anyone else? Christ, fuck, maybe they should have just stayed in his flat, maybe they should turn back now...?
John stops in his tracks, his breathing rapid and shallow, his eyes wide and staring in the direction the scream had come from, searching the darkness between the street lights.
no subject
The scream was more along the lines of drunken delight than horror or fear, but John's in no position to make such distinctions right now. Really, the fear might be contagious if Martin weren't so fixed on keeping a cool head, on looking after John. As it is, it's not too difficult to reason it out: John was on that floor a while before Martin got there, and they took their time leaving. Even if the assailant was the sort to hang around his own crime scene, he'd be long gone by now.
Martin looks up at John, wincing faintly. He grips back, gentle but firm, and reaches around with his other hand to touch John's arm, just above the elbow.
"Hey, hey, it's all right," he murmurs, drawing John's attention back. "I'm here. You're safe. Let's just keep moving, okay?"
Moving a bit gingerly, he continues leading them onward, down Clinton to Haight, then just three blocks up to the Archive. It's not a long journey, but it feels like it'll be ages before they get there. Martin just keeps hold of John's arm and hand, guiding him along as best he can.
no subject
But he doesn't know anything else, and that's a rather large part of the problem. He's so tired, so much vitality wrung out of him and still awaiting restoration, and every time he hears a distant shout or a raised voice, he doesn't know that it's nothing. Ambient facts don't drop into his head. There's no room for them; his own anxiety takes up too much space. He can tell himself that the distant shouts are probably nothing, and that his assailant is probably long gone, but those are only feeble, pathetic guesses. There's nothing to anchor them to reality.
They are surrounded by darkness that might harbor anything, and there is nothing John can do about it.
All he can do is grip onto Martin's hand with a stammered, “Right, s-sorry,” and stumble along after him, his head still turning towards every undefined sound, his mouth a thin, unhappy line. He hates this, and he hates being like this, weak and frightened and useless. It stretches the normally short walk to the Archive into a miserable, interminable slog. His legs are shaking by the time they finally reach it. All of him is shaking, and he has to let go of Martin's hand so he can brace himself against the brick facade and pull out his keys. He drops them wordlessly into Martin's palm, not trusting himself to get the key in the lock with any sort of dexterity, and knowing he'll crawl out of his own skin if they end up held up on the fucking doorstep.
no subject
So he just keeps moving, growing steadily aware of how much John is shaking, coming apart at the seams. He's halfway to swearing under his breath as he realizes he left his own keys in his trousers back at John's flat, but then John produces his, and Martin doesn't even hesitate to offer his hand, where John quickly deposits them.
Martin unlocks the door quickly and pushes it open, the little bell a familiar break in the quiet, ushering John in before following, shutting and locking the door behind them.
"Okay," he says, moving quickly to the thermostat to turn the heat up ahead of schedule. "Okay. Let's get to your office, yeah?"
no subject
"Yeah," he agrees, though he doesn't make any immediate attempts to move. His eyes had fallen shut at some point, and he opens them with some effort. "O-okay." The nearness of his goal makes it, somehow, all the more tempting to simply sit down on the floor exactly where he is, but said nearness also makes that option ridiculous. He's not going to make Martin drag him the last dozen feet or so to his office, not least of all because he probably would, and he's already done more than enough.
But he doesn't think he can make the journey unsupported, and he shifts his weight to one hand so he can reach for Martin with the other. "Could you...?" he starts, too tired to be properly ashamed of how fucking needy he's become.
no subject
Martin walks them carefully but steadily to the office at the back, one hand holding onto John's wrist, the other slung loosely around his back. His breath seems so uneasy, faltering and weak, but Martin keeps his eyes ahead, not wanting to scrutinize him overmuch.
Making it into John's office, he steers them directly toward the cot against the wall, where he lets go of John's hand long enough to pull back the rumpled covers before helping him sit.
"Can I get you anything?" he says as he does so, though he's not sure what there is to offer. More water, he supposes. Not the time for tea. John needs food, a Statement, and rest, not necessarily in that order. Food might be doable, but a Statement might be the most important thing, and Martin can't even think of that right now. He hopes that John will just sleep - that he can.
no subject
Maybe he shouldn't read too much into it. Martin did find him unresponsive and ostensibly murdered on the floor of his own flat, after all; if that didn't prompt an unusually strong response, few things would. They're both in some degree of shock, and once that's worn off... doubtless they'll find their way back to a normal that doesn't involve quite so many desperate embraces.
Never mind that the feeling of Martin's hand in his hair had been... nice. Really nice.
Martin's question mercifully forces him to abandon that train of thought. "No," John replies automatically. What he needs most is a Statement, but he can't ask Martin for one now, on top of everything else. The only other thing he's probably capable of right now is sleeping. Christ, he could sleep, and as Martin helps sit him down on the cot, his head drops down onto Martin's shoulder with a tired huff.
no subject
"Do you..." He hesitates. He has only two options here: stand up, forcing John to move his head, or... sit down beside him, giving him a minute longer to rest. One feels cold, the other feels presumptuous. He clears his throat. "Do you want me to sit with you for a bit?"
no subject
(Though a small, dour part of him can't help but point out that his own misery never stopped Martin from withdrawing before. No reason for it to be that compelling a factor now.)
He has sat up and recovered some small scraps of dignity two or three times in his head, his half-asleep mind weaving his intentions into vivid little dreams that could almost pass for the truth, before he slides heavily back into reality and realizes he's done no such thing. His forehead is still pressed against the familiar knit of his own oversized jumper, and he doesn't even know how long it's been since Martin asked him a question, or what the question was.
He lifts his head with a sharp, startled breath, brow creasing and eyes narrowing as the room refuses to come into focus. "Sorry. I can..." he finds the pillow more by touch than by sight, and slowly curls down into it, trembling a little with the implausible effort of just lying down. "'m all right," he croaks, absurdly.
no subject
Martin frowns down at him for a moment. He's not stupid. It was an awkward question, awkwardly put, and he doesn't exactly have a good track record lately of being there for John. Everything that's transpired tonight has been tinged by the air of urgency and need, and he imagines it's not a stretch for John to assume none of it is to stay. Why would he, when it hurts far less to expect otherwise. Martin knows that intimately.
"No you're not," he says softly, "and I'm not going anywhere." He tugs the blanket up over John's shoulders, tucking him in as securely as he can before he sits down, settling carefully on the edge of the cot, not wanting to crowd John too much. He stares down at his hands, listening to John breathe. He really can't tell if John's already passed out or not. There's more he wants to say, and he feels like he needs to say it now, but he's not sure it'll even be heard. It wouldn't be the first time he talked to an unconscious John, but he's not sure any of that was retained, either.
He shifts slightly and his foot touches something hard beneath the cot. He peers over and smirks very faintly, reaching down to pick up the tape recorder that may have been there or may have just arrived. Either way, seems clear enough.
"Okay," he says, and starts it recording. He watches the tape spool, hearing no particular change in John's breathing, and sighs.
"John," he murmurs, "I'm sorry. That I left you, and... that I've been this way. I know I said I was done before, but... I mean it this time." He pushes the pad of his thumb slowly back and forth along the edge of the recorder, a subdued nervous fidget. "What I said to you that day we found each other here, it was awful. I haven't forgotten that. I wish I could take it back, but... mm. I guess all I can do is try to make it better, if it's not too late. This isn't charity to me, John, and I just - I wish I hadn't ever made it seem like it was. I know I haven't made this very convincing, but I want to be here. I - I want to. And I'm tired of trying to convince myself that it's better if I'm not, because... it's not better. For me, or for you. And I'm just... I'm so sorry it took me so long to realize that. But I want you to know, I want to be clear, it's not because this happened. It's because I'm waking up."
He draws a shuddering breath, every bit as shaky as he lets it out again. He looks down at the tape again, then at John, still unable to tell if he's awake for any of this or not.
"So I'm not leaving you," he says, and reaches out to settle a hand on John's blanketed shoulder - a brief touch that still feels slightly dangerous at the back of his mind. "And I'll be here when you wake up."
He takes his hand away and shuts the recorder off, setting it back down on the floor.
no subject
This isn't meant to be anything like the latter. He doesn't presume or hope that Martin will do anything but pull the blanket over him and let him be. He's just so wretchedly exhausted that waiting for sleep to claim him feels like all he's really capable of handling. Pretending it's already happened will let Martin off the hook, an added perk.
So he lies there, eyes shut, breathing steady, his face as expressionless as he can make it as Martin tucks him in. It's better this way. They can just be done for a while.
He isn't expecting the sound of the tape recorder, and if his exhaustion was less genuine, his eyes would've snapped open. As it is, he just feels marginally more alert, knowing that it heralds something. It always does.
And then Martin just... starts talking.
In retrospect, John's exhaustion might've been a relief. It means the full force of Martin's words can't quite reach him, and spares him the embarrassment of whatever form a more fully realized reaction would take: more tears that he doesn't have the strength for, a sharper ache in his chest as certain phrases burrow their way in and find their mark, a reflexive curl into a spiky, defensive skepticism that he'd find hard to resist and would probably regret.
Because he wants it to be true. He wants Martin to really mean it, this time.
He wants Martin to stay.
The tape recorder keeps spooling until Martin shuts it off, and he hears him tuck the device just beneath the edge of the cot, where it won't get stepped on but won't be hidden, either. It's meant to be found. He thinks, as he drifts towards the edge of unconsciousness, that it probably wouldn't have recorded at all if it wasn't true.
His limbs are so heavy, but he manages to worm one arm out from beneath the covers, reaching blindly towards the dip in the mattress until his fingers brush against the sleeve of his jumper, and then just a little further until they curl loosely around Martin's wrist, the tip of his index finger settling against the reassuring beat of his pulse point. A soft sigh escapes him. Martin's here. He's not leaving.
John turns his face into his pillow, and finally surrenders to sleep.
November 1st
Martin sits there for a long time, just gazing at him. He slowly lifts his hand, cupping his own fingers around his rest as if in imitation. It was a small, gentle, passing touch, but it felt - it felt important. An acknowledgment of what he'd just said, or... something.
The events of the evening, the emotional and physical closeness they've shared, more over a few hours than in the whole span of time they've known each other, begins to sink into him, heavier now than before. He had scarcely had room to worry over it or think about it, but now there is nothing but silence and retrospect. He feels it all like a physical ache - some of it actually is physical, a soreness in his knees where he'd hit the floor over John, in his back where he'd bent to try and scrub away the blood. He remembers the sensation of John's arms around him, far more acute than the remnant of that dream they'd partially shared; the smooth texture and thickness of his hair. Christ. Martin feels very suddenly like he might vibrate out of his skin, and he gets up too quickly, going immediately still when he fears it was too much, but John doesn't wake.
He rubs anxiously at the back of his neck and looks around John's office. He doesn't want to leave him unattended, in case he wakes up suddenly, but - he needs something to occupy himself. He leaves the office as quietly as possible, just long enough to cross into his own and recover the cheap used laptop he got for work purposes. He returns to find John in the same position as when he'd left.
He settles on the floor, his back against John's desk. It doesn't feel right to sit at the desk proper. He gets out his phone where he'd noted down everything he could remember from the details John had spilled out about the knife - the knife that is still on the floor in his flat - and gets to work.
When his back protests too much, he allows himself to sit at John's desk. When he feels himself getting too tired, he leaves the office again to make himself some tea. He ends up sitting in one of the makeshift break room chairs while he drinks it, just to give himself a rest - they're a bit more comfortable than John's, and the light is better out here. He knows, but doesn't consciously consider, that that's because the sun is rising.
After hours of digging after the knife's other victims, he has precious little to show for it. Their names all link to dead ends of Darrow local news articles. They aren't even particularly sad stories - just footnotes from slow cycles. Nathan Parks, murdered during a jog through a quiet part of the city, no known suspects, no conclusive evidence, no family to press for an investigation. Leslie Wittenburg had friends, but the incident was chalked up to a mugging gone wrong, no reason to believe there was any connection to Parks, or to Adam Marshall, about whom almost no information could be found at all. Nothing to be found there - Martin suspects if he were to ask any sort of law enforcement, he would get blank stares or questioned for asking about closed matters.
The address, though: that's something. The easiest to verify, a shop specializing in tactical and hunting gear, called simply Madison Tactical. Madison and Revello, like John had said. It isn't much, but that may be the only place to start. They still have a lot of ill-gotten funds to get through, Martin thinks grimly, if he really needs to bribe someo-
The door opens. It unlocks first, then opens. He startles, closing his laptop sharply, and stares in wide-eyed bewilderment as Eliot and Kat come in, their conversation ceasing immediately as they see him sitting there, clearly not having slept, and still wearing John's clothes.
For a terrible, ridiculous instant, Martin simply can't think of anything to say.
Re: November 1st
"Uh...hey Martin," Eliot raises a hand in awkward greeting. Martin looks like a deer in headlights. He looks like shit. He looks like he's wearing someone else's pajamas. "...rough night?"
no subject
"Please keep it down," he says softly, though nobody's actually made much noise yet. He nods toward John's office. "John's sleeping, and Christ knows he needs it."
He recovers his computer and moves down nearer to them, distantly and suddenly aware of how hungry he is. No time for that now. He can't believe he actually lost this much track of time, to say nothing of forgetting the day of the week, that Kat and Eliot would show up at some point, but - it's for the best.
"It's good you're here," he says to both of them. "I need one of you to stay for when he wakes up. Erm - Eliot, maybe you could come with me." He turns into his office without waiting for a response, setting the computer on his desk and stepping back out again, shutting the door behind him. He's not entirely sure how he's going to explain any of this, and he wishes the questions weren't inevitable. He would much rather just get moving.
no subject
"Looks like he's not the only one who needs it," she says, not unkindly, brow raising a little. "Are you... okay? Did something happen?" It seems obvious that something did, but it also feels like the safest place to start, one that doesn't involve jumping to catastrophic conclusions. She doesn't even know what those would be in this case. Still, she can't remotely pretend that this is normal, nor would she try to. If something's going on, maybe she can help.
no subject
He can't do it. He can't bring himself to say 'murdered' - he can't handle the weight of those implications and how much explanation it will require. They deserve to know, will need to know at some point. But 'John is functionally immortal' feels insurmountable right now, in addition to being a detail that doesn't feel like his to share.
So instead he says, "John was attacked," which is still true. "He's all right, just - it was.... He needs to rest, and I need your help," he gestures vaguely at Eliot, "cleaning up his flat."
He turns around, again without waiting for a reply, and disappears back into John's office. John is still laid out and breathing steadily, and Martin pauses to look at him, studying his face and his hands, reminding himself yet again that he's here and he's okay. John's coat is draped over his desk chair, and Martin rummages briefly in the pockets until he finds the keys. Then he wanders back out.
Eliot and Kat are both watching him, and he slows, momentarily caught in the net of unasked questions.
"Look, I - I know I've been... off, lately," he says after a moment. "But that's over now. Y-you both helped me break out of it, and... thank you." He sighs and makes his way toward the door. "There's a lot to explain, just... later, okay?" As he passes by Kat, he stops to glance at her, setting a hesitant hand on her arm. "If he wakes up before I'm back, tell him I - tell him I'll be back soon."
He drops his hand and steps rather abruptly out into the cold morning, expecting Eliot to follow.