loficharm | Wake // for John

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.

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Martin almost flinches at the tired sigh of his name. He feels suddenly, ridiculously, like he's about to be told off or dismissed, when John hasn't spoken to him like that in years, when he's now technically John's boss. The reassurance and gentle pressure on his arm come as slow surprises, and he looks dumbly at John's hand as it pulls away from him.

He goes along with John easily. There's no alternative, nothing else he might conceivably do at this juncture. He's at the bitter end of his tether, his hunger wearing away into nausea, his fragile grasp on his own emotional wherewithal eroding quickly. He lets John guide him into his office and to the cot, where he sits and takes the cuppa without understanding at first.

The instructions are easy to follow. He drinks. It's sweet, made again the way he likes it, though that isn't as pleasant as it normally would be. It feels incongruous with everything else.

He wants to apologize again for not being here, but John has already reassured him once, and he fears being a nuisance. He looks cautiously up at John, eyes flicking to the scar on his throat and away, to his face.

"You're all right," he says softly - he thinks he meant it to be a question, but it comes out more like a very tired, awed sort of relief.

John watches Martin sip at his tea, a faint line between his eyebrows. He looks like a wreck, and John just wants to--to fix it, somehow. Amid the chaotic smear of last night's memories, he can still easily recall Martin softly promising to take care of him. He just doesn't know if Martin would allow for the reverse.

Not that caring for anyone (himself very much included) has ever been John's forte.

"I'm all right," he echoes, settling himself on the cot beside Martin. The only other options are looming over him, dropping into a crouch like a children's footie coach, or going to sit at his desk as if this is some sort of bizarre counseling session. The cot seems preferable to all that, and he gives Martin a foot and a half of space, trying not to hover too close, or to project a chilly distance he certainly doesn't feel. Within arm's reach.

John swallows, his elbows resting on his knees, then ventures, "I, er... I got your texts."

John sits down beside him, but not close, and Martin doesn't think he has the capacity to wonder about it. He just focuses on drinking his tea, appreciating that John is near him at all, that he is willing to be near him after everything.

And then he speaks, a bit awkward, and Martin almost chokes. He swallows and coughs once before looking at John with trepidation that mingles faintly with amusement. It's just such a ridiculous thing, after the night they've had, after everything - he'd all but forgotten he sent those at all.

"Oh," he says rather stupidly. "Right."

Martin sputters, not quite a laugh but near enough, and John smiles, brief and wry and tinged with an apology.

The texts had been... difficult to read, especially in Martin's absence. His stomach had lurched at the belated realization that his deadened silence had been read as sulking. That it was, apparently, believable that he'd give Martin the cold shoulder -- either because his own prior tendencies towards haughty aloofness had painted that sort of picture of him, or because Martin was sunk so deep into the insubstantial arms of his other patron that it he just... presumed he deserved that sort of treatment. Neither option is particularly encouraging, but it's the second one that he'd fixated on. It was that possibility that had coalesced into a horrible sort of certainty the more he thought about it.

I let it get hard, Martin had said. Well, maybe he had. But John certainly hadn't helped. He'd made no attempt to reach out, he'd just hunkered down and waited. Trusting people, trusting Martin, has required a deliberate override of his own instincts, quick as they always are to turn to doubts and questions and fears. But he'd done the job too well. He'd ignored the doubts he should have listened to, and left Martin to struggle alone.

"I'm... sorry," he says at length. "That I didn't--" he pauses, rubbing a hand over his face. "I suppose it just... didn't occur to me how--how difficult it might be to reach out when not doing that had always been the point." He lets his hand drop, then looks over at Martin, cautiously seeking his gaze. "I know you haven't asked for help, but you need it, too, don't you? Can't just... stop being Lonely all on your own." Naturally. He pulls in a breath, then barrels on, "So if you really want to stop, then... I'm here. I'll help you. If... if that's okay."

For an absurd instant, Martin thinks John is apologizing for not answering promptly, and a laugh almost does startle out of him, but it dies very quickly when John grows increasingly serious, when he keeps talking. He's left just staring, meeting John's cautious gaze unfettered and without hesitation.

He feels like he doesn't understand. He wasn't expecting it, though maybe he should have - that John's response would be not anger or resentment or hurt, but... sympathy. No, more than that: compassion. That he wants to help.

Help seems so far away, like an abstract thing he won't get and doesn't deserve. It has seemed this way for a long time. Martin needed help when he sat in the hospital, begging John to wake up from his coma until Peter's constant burrowing offers finally dug deep enough into him that he gave it up. Since then-

Well, no, that isn't right. He hasn't stopped needing help, he doesn't think. Not really. The idea of letting himself need something from anyone, much less John - needing something more than just a cup of tea or an organized shelf or a door held - has become so foreign to him that it's difficult to accept. But being in the hospital had only been the last time he wanted help, asked for it. And that - that was the point, wasn't it?

Can't just stop being Lonely all on your own.

"I-" he starts, his voice already starting to tremble. It's absurd, that after all that, it feels so terrifying to finally be confronting this. That was what he'd meant to do when all this began. He just never anticipated it happening this way - any of it. Neither the awful circumstances, nor the conversation going like this.

"Y-yeah," he manages eventually. "Yeah, tha-that's okay. That'd be okay." He doesn't know if he has any tears left in him, but he's definitely shaking like he wants to cry, and he's much too tired to stop himself. He wants to say more, to thank him, to express how important this is, but he doesn't think he can. Shame clings to him, heavy and stubborn, shame that it took this long, that it happened at all, that John is having to offer him help with all he's going through.

When he stammers out, "I'm sorry, John," it's like the last of his defenses have finally worn away, and tears do fill his eyes after all. He turns away, wanting to hide them, covers his mouth, only shaking harder. "I'm so sorry," he says, muffled and pitiful.

John watches Martin a bit anxiously, worried, despite everything, that he's setting himself up for another polite rebuff. Worried, too, that the correct response to that might be a refusal to accept it, that what he's really offering is to trust Martin just a little bit less, which feels awful. Christ, he isn't cut out for this; none of the wayward scraps of knowledge that drop into his head pertain to what people need from him.

But then Martin... agrees. Accepts the offer, nebulous and undefined as it might be. John nods, whatever cautious optimism he might feel waylaid by the tremble in Martin's voice, in his hands -- he's shaking, and it occurs to John far too late that perhaps this conversation should have waited. Martin's been awake for over a day, and at least half of that span had been miserably stressful. This bit of air-clearing might be a good thing — it is a good thing — but it's still a lot, and on top of an already substantial pile.

And then comes the apology, which might be for any number of things, none of which really warrant it, in John's opinion. And then come the tears, and his stomach twists with guilt. Even if Martin's more moved than upset, he still hadn't meant to... god, he just wants him to be okay.

"Martin," he starts gently, moving closer, one hand rescuing the mug from Martin's trembling hand and setting it aside, the other settling between Martin's shoulder blades. "You don't have to apologize. Okay?" Christ, they're going to have to put some kind of moratorium on apologies if they don't want to get stuck in some sort of recursive loop of mutual self-recrimination. Later. "Just..." he sighs, sliding his hand over to Martin's shoulder, trying to encourage him to turn, to come closer. Martin did this for him, and he doesn't mind offering it return. He wants to offer it. "Come here," he murmurs. “Please.”

John takes the tea, freeing Martin's hand to reach up and clutch at his own shirt like he's trying to physically hold himself together. John's hand touches his back and he tells him not to apologize, just as Eliot did. John nudges him to turn, asks him to come closer, and it's not like before, when he asked like he didn't know how, and Martin turned him down because he was an idiot, because he was afraid. This time Martin barely needs to be asked at all.

When Greta had hugged him the day he'd arrived and when Eliot had hugged him just a little while ago, it had felt like breathing again. Both times a wordless assurance that he, somehow, deserves this, to experience touch and comfort and care, to remember that these things exist. It had, both times, been profound.

This is not like that. It is no longer unfamiliar, exactly, to have John's arms around him, but this time it is John who chose it, John who's drawing him in. As Martin turns toward him, he ends up pitching directly against John's chest, his hand going automatically from his own shirt to John's, clinging onto him like a child. The crying doesn't stop, isn't soothed back down to quiet; instead he sobs, heavy and hard and aching, and he isn't even totally sure why. It isn't like breathing, it's - something else, something more, something he wants and has wanted and is finally, unfathomably, allowed to take.

Despite everything -- the day they've had, the comfort and reassurances already offered and accepted, the determination to be different going forward, to be better, all of it -- John still doesn't quite dare to expect anything, or to hope for anything beyond simply being allowed. The memories of that gulf that yawned between them are too recent and too painful to be easily set aside, and he makes his offer with the trepidation of someone eyeing a hastily-constructed bridge and wondering if it'll hold.

So when Martin pivots toward him, burrowing against his chest and clutching onto his shirt, he has just enough time to feel a swell of overwhelming relief before Martin breaks down entirely. He's not just crying, now; he's wracked with sobs so heavy that they seem as if they could shake him apart. It's an awful sort of surprise, the sort of thing John would normally shrink from, awkward and mortified. But he only indulges his shock for a moment. His arms close around Martin, not the tentative embrace he'd originally envisioned, but something stronger, more solid. Like John needs to anchor Martin here, to the room, to the cot, to him, or he might just dissolve.

"It's okay," he breathes, barely aware of what he's saying, only wanting to offer whatever comfort he can, whatever Martin will accept. His own eyes start to sting, tears gathering in the corners, and he blinks them back. "I've got you. You're okay."

Beneath the cathartic relief there is something a bit horrifying about it all, sobbing with such desperate abandon in John's arms. But it isn't anything like he'd once feared it would be. John doesn't mind, hasn't offered out of obligation; there's no discomfort or hesitation in his physicality. His arms don't fit around him gingerly as they have before, but pull him in, tight and close. Martin feels dizzy from hunger, fatigue, and the near constant outpouring of emotion, but John grounds him, holds him steady. His voice, familiar and warm, rumbles softly in his chest, and beneath that, there's the steady beat of his still-living heart.

The storm doesn't last long, and Martin's sobs soon devolve into soft whimpering, though he stays close, clinging on for as long as John will let him. It's too much, he thinks - it's too much, but he can't pull back, he doesn't want to, and John is holding him so firmly that if he tried he'd have to put up some mild resistance. Still, shame writhes its way through him, natural and persistent. As much as he needs this, as much as it is allowed, there is a part that fears where it will - or won't - lead.

"I'm s-" he starts to say as he finds his voice again, but he catches himself. John's heard enough of his apologies, told him to stop once already. Martin draws a shuddering breath and tries again: "Thank you."

He stays there, settling by degrees. There's no hurry. John's got him.

The worst of it doesn't last long. John keeps his arms tight around Martin, murmuring the occasional reassurance, and endeavoring to keep his own breathing slow and steady in the hopes that Martin will eventually, instinctively start to match him.

It's a minute at most before Martin starts to settle, and John risks loosening his grip a little. Not with any intention of pulling away -- Martin is still huddled against him, his hand still fisted in John's shirt, and he doesn't want to dislodge him -- but just to settle a little more comfortably, himself. He remembers how patiently Martin had held him when he'd first come back to himself, how nice it had felt, and... well, maybe that's how he likes to be hugged, all things being equal?

Martin starts to say something, then pulls in an unsteady breath and quietly thanks him. It's unnecessary, and it makes John's eyes fill again, but Christ, at least it's not another apology. John swallows, then thinks 'to hell with it' and lifts his hand to gently cradle the back of Martin's head. His hair is as astonishingly soft as he remembers, and John's thumb rubs a thoughtless arc through it, a little behind Martin's ear.

"You're welcome," he softly replies. "Whatever you need."

John's hand settles around the back of his head, fingers sifting gently through his hair and his thumb moving behind his ear, and if Martin had any of his faculties left fully intact he might have frozen up at that, but as it is he just hums very softly and settles even more. He's so, so tired, and John is warm and safe and the hand in his hair feels gentle and good. His voice remains a calming refrain, and the smell of him - Martin only notices it distantly, something faintly dusty and bookish, a hint of tea, remnant scents of soap and shampoo from his shower mingling with the sweat of having slept so long - it should be obscene to be noticing all this, but Martin is past that now. It's only comforting, and he's just so, so tired.

He tries to respond to John, though he's not totally sure what he wants to say, and it comes out in a sleepy little murmur. His grip loosens and drops from John's shirt, and he starts to slump, his limbs growing heavy. His thoughts wander away from him, circling gentle half-dreams that aren't yet very different from reality. It's as if some part of him finally just lets go: he can rest, now. He can rest.

Edited 2019-11-06 03:19 (UTC)

Martin hums, soft and... and contented, and he leans against John in a manner that is slowly but inarguably transitioning into more of a boneless slump. When his grip on John's shirt loosens and his hand drops into the space between their laps, it's undeniable: he's falling asleep.

That's no bad thing, of course; it's horribly overdue. But John hadn't anticipated Martin actually dozing off in his arms, and his mind draws an unhelpful blank when he tries to figure out what to do about it. In the meantime, he tries to do as little as possible -- his arm still snug around Martin's shoulders, his fingers still carded in his hair -- because Martin needs to sleep, and the last thing John wants to do is disturb him back into wakefulness (and field whatever mortified apologies that might induce). There's a wild moment where he wonders just how long he might be able to put up with this in the interest of Martin resting, but he dismisses that nascent idea before it can amount to anything. Martin's getting rather heavy, and it won't be along before John will either have to ease him down or readjust his whole grip on him. Either runs the risk of waking him, but the former would require far less explanation if it did.

Maybe if he just... eases him down very carefully?

"Hey," he breathes, in case Martin is still conscious enough to understand him. "I'm... I'm going to help you down, okay? So you can sleep." He moves his thumb through Martin's hair again, a preemptive soothing gesture, then carefully starts to ease himself off the cot. He was already sitting between Martin and the pillow, so if he can just get himself out of the way, Martin should settle in the right spot by default. But it's hard: he's still a bit weak, and Martin's heavy when he's actually relaxed, and John has to do some awkward maneuvering (and suffer the rim of the cot's frame digging into his ribs for a minute) before he's able to actually get Martin's head onto the pillow.

"There we go," he says, resting his hand on Martin's arm for a moment, making sure he's settled. "Perfect."

Well. Not quite. Martin's on top of the covers, and John can tell just by looking that there's no way in hell to pull them out from under him without waking him up completely. It's not as if the covers are strictly necessary -- Martin's fully clothed, and the office is warm enough that he should be comfortable as he is.

But there's just something about sleeping with no blanket or covering at all that doesn't seem quite right.

John sucks on his teeth for a moment, idly watching Martin's even breathing, then gets to his feet and quietly makes his way over to his desk chair, where he'd slung his coat. It won't be much, but it feels better than nothing, and at least it's rather long. When he carefully drapes it over Martin, now curled up on his side like a comma, it covers him from the shoulders down almost to his knees.

John steps back to survey his work, his hand rubbing at the fresh scar on his chest. The ache is somewhere deeper than his fingers can reach, though, and he soon lets his hand drop.

His turn to wait, then. John sits back down at his desk and pulls the nearest sheaf of papers towards him, his gaze flicking back over to Martin just once before he resolutely attempts to read.

Martin's dreams, if he dreams at all, are mercifully quiet. Sleep comes so fast and so heavy that once he's down he barely moves at all. When he does finally stir, it's for no particular reason, no internal nor external trigger. He simply wakes up.

He's disoriented for a few minutes, blinking blearily at the unfamiliar angle on John's office. There are no windows here, and he has no idea how long he's been asleep. It takes a while for everything that's happened to sink back in, but once it does, he sits up halfway with a startled, formless grunt.

John is sitting at his desk, hunched over something or other, now looking at him.

"Are you okay?" Martin asks immediately and somewhat absurdly, the words slurring sleepily together, his voice a bit hoarse.

If John hadn't already known Martin was a heavy, still sort of sleeper, he probably would have spent more of the intervening hours anxiously double-checking that he was breathing. As it is, he just tries to keep quiet, while also trying not to stray from his office any more than he has to. He does put in a few appearances in the Archive proper, reassuring Eliot and Kat that Martin's fine and finally asleep (if either of them heard Martin's heavy weeping through the door, they're courteous enough to pretend they didn't), making himself the occasional cuppa. He orders himself lunch at Kat's stubborn insistence, and debates waking Martin for that before deciding sleep is probably more important.

By the time Martin wakes, Kat and Eliot have gone home, and John's ordered out again for dinner. He would have woken Martin for it, so it's lucky timing that Martin roused himself now, while the order tracker is still pulsing in the 'we're making your food!' section.

The first words out of Martin's mouth send John's eyebrows creeping upward, and one corner of his mouth pulls back in a smile. "I'm fine," he says evenly. "You've been out for almost nine hours, and I've ordered in some food. It should be here soon." He stands up, stretching a little to counter the effects of his earlier hunch. "Can I get you some tea?"

John smiles - a small one, but it's enough to relax Martin a little. He regards John in mild amazement, that he is okay, seeming mostly recovered, that he's - he let Martin sleep here for nine bloody hours and now he's offering tea. Like this is normal. Like the last month of Martin keeping his cold distance didn't transpire.

He remembers John apologizing, offering help just like the help Martin had offered him, knowing he needed help even before he did, even though he hadn't asked and probably wouldn't. He draws a quiet breath and lets it out. The emotion that had so violently wracked him earlier is still there, but it's quieter now, easier to contain.

"Y-yeah," he says. "Er - thank you."

John leaves to make him the tea, and Martin just gazes at the door for a moment before sitting up the rest of the way. The blanket slips down him with a weight and texture that isn't right, and he very belatedly realizes it's not a blanket at all, but a coat. John's coat.

He stares at it until John returns, at which point he looks up at John with a muted expression. There isn't any question in it - he isn't put off by what seems to have been a gesture of kindness. It's just... it feels so different, as much as it fills him with a strange and almost uncomfortable warmth.

John notices Martin's surprise -- it's rather hard to miss -- but he isn't quite sure how to parse it. He supposes it could be in response to his own physical recovery, though that feels a bit like old news, now. Or, given what's transpired in the meantime, Martin might just be shocked that John's still here for him, offering space and time and--and tea, no obvious grudges held or resentments harbored.

Honestly, resentment barely occurs to him. It probably wouldn't have crossed his mind at all if he hadn't deduced the possibility based on Martin's stunned expression. Of the two of them, John's entity-prompted sins are inarguably worse. Even if nursing a grudge held any person appeal (and it doesn't; Christ, he just wants everything to stop being so fucking fraught all the time), it would be appallingly counterproductive at best, and cruel at worst.

So he makes Martin tea, and ambles back into his office to find Martin sitting up and staring mutely down at his coat.

"Ah." John passes him the cup, then snags his coat by the collar and goes to drape it back over his chair. "You fell asleep on the covers," he explains with a sheepish hitch of his shoulders. "I didn't want to wake you." He hesitates for a moment, then sits back down in his chair, rolling it past the edge of his desk so it feels a little less... impersonal. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"Right," he says a bit quickly when John explains the coat. "Thank you." It's for both the tea and the coat, he supposes. He takes a little sip as John sits back down and asks after him.

"I'm... I'm okay." He lifts a shoulder, equally sheepish. They've both had a hell of a night; he knows it'll be a while before things feel balanced again. But the sleep has helped tremendously, and food will help too. "I'll be glad to eat something."

For a moment he fears the silence, fears the awkwardness of it, but that anxiety doesn't last. It's hardly awkward when he thinks of how long John must have spent in here with him, when he puts it in the larger perspective of what all's happened. He pulls out his phone and fiddles with it for a moment. There's a text from Daine last night, assuring him the Bishop's been fed, and another one today, after the Bishop apparently reached out to her again. He feels a pang of guilt over that, but at least he knows to reach out when he needs help, and Daine seems happy to do it. There's also a rather unexpected email from Greta - an invitation to Saoirse's birthday party this Saturday. Christ, that's tomorrow, he realizes. It's November now.

"Huh," he says softly, halfway to a laugh. "I've been invited to a birthday party." He looks up at John, a tentative little smile emerging as it sinks in. "First time that's happened in - god, actually, I don't think I want to finish that thought."

There's more humor in the remark than there is self-pity. It's just true: he didn't have a lot of friends his age growing up, and as he threw himself into adulthood a little faster than his peers, that distance only widened. Once he was working for the Institute, parties were sort of a thing of the past - at least the sort that someone would have to invite him to.

"It's for Saoirse," he goes on, skimming back over the message. "She's nine now. Looks like it's happening tomorrow, at Greta's cottage." Glancing back up at John, he says, "I suppose that might be a... good way to, er... break out of some habits? If - if you'll be okay without me here?" He doesn't want to assume that. He and John usually come in on weekends, and he doesn't really want to break with what few rituals were actually working for them. Even if a break might do him good, John may not want to be alone, and that's more important as far as Martin's concerned.

"Or you could come with, if you wanted," he says, cracking a bit more of a smile. He has no expectation John would want anything to do with a birthday party, much less a child's - friendship with Luke notwithstanding.

John only spends a second or two hung up on the question of who, among Martin's acquaintances, would still be in the habit of throwing birthday parties -- and then Martin explains that it's for Saoirse, and John nods. That's... sweet. And it probably would be good for Martin to attend a gathering of some kind. If he's willing to make that leap into the proverbial deep end that is a child's birthday party, John isn't about to hold him back.

He also isn't about to join him. It would be a tough sell even if John had been invited, but he hasn't, and the prospect of attending is even less appealing with the knowledge that he'd be taking advantage of Greta's hospitality (to say nothing of the odds of him making the birthday girl nervous).

"Just what every little girl wants crashing her birthday party," he deadpans with a self-encompassing gesture. "I'll pass."

Softening a little, he adds, "You should go, though. I can hold down the fort." Most of their visitors so far have been curious walk-ins who wander back out once they realize there's nothing interesting for sale. And the way Martin had smiled at the invitation was... indicative, he thinks. "Might be fun. And if it's not, I can just pretend to text you with an emergency that requires your immediate attention. Say I've fallen down a well, or something."

Not that such subterfuge is ever really necessary. But given Martin's situation, 'they probably won't notice if you sneak out' wouldn't be all that reassuring.

Martin laughs softly at the droll remark, and smiles again when John says he should go. He nods, tapping out a quick and polite reply to the invitation before putting his phone away. He hopes it will be fun - something a bit outside his wheelhouse, but harmless. Cheerful. Social. It'll be nice to see Greta and Saoirse again, along with whoever else might be there. And Regan too, he supposes - perhaps he'll have a chance to right the awkwardness of their last conversation.

He laughs again at John's suggestion, surprised at himself, surprised by how funny it is and how easy it is to laugh. This should feel so strange; for a moment his mind almost turns toward the thought that it should feel wrong, that he should be guilty, but he slams the proverbial door on that as fast as he can. This is good. This is what he needs, and... Christ, when was the last time he and John shared a laugh about anything? Sober, at least. He really can't remember if it's ever even happened at all.

"Sounds like a plan," he says lightly. His stomach gurgles a bit and he goes back to his tea, still smiling into it.

Martin laughs, the first real laugh John's heard out of him since before the hospital, and John has to restrain his smile lest it grow into a truly ridiculous grin. For a moment, he just watches Martin smiling into his tea, enjoying the sight of him actually looking happy, for once. And then his phone vibrates across his desk, and he checks it briefly before getting to his feet.

"Food's here," he says by way of explanation. "I'll just be a minute."

He hadn't been entirely sure what Martin might like, but he also hadn't wanted to wake him early to ask, so he'd erred on the side of variety and gotten a lot of smaller things from an Asian fusion place a few blocks away. There's already space cleared on his desk, and he figures it makes more sense to eat there than to do so within sight of the door, where someone might spot them and get the idea that they're open for business. So he sets down the bag in the middle, then nudges the guest chair back with his foot in implicit invitation.

"There's a bit of everything," he explains as he starts lifting out smaller plastic cartons, setting out one that contains chicken satay and another of spring rolls. "Wasn't sure what you'd be in the mood for."

Martin gets up, moving a bit shakily to the chair John's indicated for him, and makes a soft little coo of interest over the variety of options. His hunger had turned into nausea before he'd fallen asleep, and then he'd gone so long without that it had faded away entirely. Now, smelling the food John's setting out, it returns with a vengeance.

"I'm pretty sure I'd eat anything at this point," he says, settling down and selecting a spring roll. "Thanks."

He focuses on eating for a while, sampling a few different options, conversation the furthest thing from his mind until he's feeling a little more put together. He realizes, very belatedly, that it seems to be just the two of them - that isn't a surprise, really, given how late it must be, but he has some regret over not giving more attention to Eliot and Kat - particularly Kat, who he barely saw at all today - while they were still about. It must have been a dreadfully uncomfortable day for them both, and they deserved both more gratitude than he'd had wherewithal to show. He thinks he really ought to offer them a solid week of paid time off, as well. He may prefer to think of them as friends than as employees, and he hopes they feel the same even after everything, but regardless, all this wasn't exactly in their admittedly vague job description.

"Were Kat and Eliot... all right?" he asks hesitantly as he picks at his rice.

They eat without speaking for a few minutes, but it's far removed from the heavy, awkward silences that used to hang between them. It's comfortable, not laden with things unsaid or choked with fog he can almost See. John releases some tension he hadn't realized he was holding, his shoulders relaxing as dips his satay in some peanut sauce.

When Martin does speak, it's a bit hesitant, and John glances up at him curiously before dropping his gaze to consider the question. 'All right' is vague enough that he might interpret it broadly, but even if he took some liberties with the definition, he doesn't think he could make it fit.

"They were... unnerved," he replies. Which, when measured against what he and Martin went through, feels like nothing worse than an inconvenience. But that isn't quite fair; they came into work expecting a normal day, and instead they found Martin in a state, at which point Eliot was hauled off to clean up a crime scene and Kat was left to babysit her not-quite-human-actually coworker.

John rubs the back of his neck, then adds, "I think they're all right. But a large bonus probably wouldn't go amiss." Less because he thinks either of them would walk out otherwise, and more because they just deserve it.

Martin nods in immediate agreement. "They've more than earned it," he says. "Not even just for today."

He hesitates, looking at his rice. He's eating it plain, but it's the really good proper kind of sticky white rice, good enough on its own. He stares at it like it's a metaphor for something and then remembers to look back at John. "You know it was Kat who sort of snapped me out of this," he says. "I mean - not entirely. It was a lot of things. She just... well, she sort of cornered me over text. Forced me to really think about things." He chuckles faintly. "It took a while for it all to sink in properly, but... it helped."

He wishes it hadn't taken so long, but he has no desire to get back into his many regrets just now. And small talk comes surprisingly easy - Christ, he's missed it, just nattering away, and the really amazing thing is it seems like John's missed it, too.

"Oh, and Eliot - I mean he went above and beyond today, obviously, but... the other night, er, it was Tuesday, I think. With all the... ghosts? I gather it was a city-wide thing. Did you... Well, he sort of crashed my flat trying to ward it or something, only there was this big horrible spooky thing just looming in there, so we ended up running, and..." He laughs softly. It's so weird to think about this, that this happened just earlier in the week. "That was helpful, too, I mean, can't really mope around avoiding everyone if you're too busy panicking about your whole building being suddenly haunted." He sets his rice down on the table and takes a sip of tea, smiling rather smugly. "We ended up directing them all to take up their complaints with the landlord."

John listens, caught between gratitude for what Kat and Eliot have done for Martin and a resurgence of the guilt he'd felt earlier this morning, hard on the heels of the belated realization that Martin had needed someone to drag him out of the fog, and that John had just... left him to it. Kat and Eliot had reached out, unsolicited and probably unwelcome, and helped haul Martin back from the brink. John had minded his own business, and done such a catastrophically bad job of that that when Martin finally reached out to him, he was too busy lying, insensible, in a pool of his own blood to reach back. Christ.

But he doesn't want to ruin Martin's charming anecdote by burying his head in his hands, so he tamps down the fresh wave of self-recrimination. He even musters a snort at the thought of them siccing a building full of ghosts on Peter, who certainly deserves a miserable night or two.

"I suppose I got lucky on that front," he says. "Well, sort of. One of the entities in the basement isn't particularly friendly, but Edith and I had a rather pleasant chat, once I got over the... initial shock." Which is to say that he'd actually yelped when he first saw her. But she was plainly cut from a different cloth than the thing that kept poking spindly fingers up through his floor, and once he'd finished whacking the offending digits away with a broom, they'd got on rather well.

"Edith?" Martin hesitates, the name scratching at something in his memory, but the vague sense of unease that accompanies it makes it easy to set aside. John says it like she's a friend he'd have mentioned before, not... a ghost he just encountered and had, apparently, a pleasant chat with. His smile is both curious and slightly unnerved as he picks up another spring roll. "Whooo's Edith?"

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