loficharm | For John

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For John

November 25th, 2019

Martin wakes before his alarm, which is to say The Bishop wakes him at the usual time, batting at him gently until he stirs. The Bishop has become his true alarm, really; the one on his phone is more backup. Martin grumbles softly and reaches out to give the cat a few cursory headrubs before he sits up, stretching and wincing as his back creaks. The Bishop chirps pleasantly at him and bounds away, heading to the kitchen to wait by his dish. He is demanding, but never impatient, which Martin appreciates.

"I'm coming," he mumbles, fumbling with his phone to switch the alarm off before setting it aside and pulling himself out of bed.

His shins connect immediately with something surprisingly solid right there at his bedside, and he lets out a startled yell as he nearly unbalances and topples right over it. He jolts back, his adrenaline shooting through the roof as he stares down at the foreign object on his floor. It's a box, a rather sizable but ordinary-looking cardboard box, just sitting there unobtrusively. It wasn't there last night; he doesn't even have any boxes like that around. There is no explanation for it, and for a moment he's gripped with terror that Peter or someone else got in and left him something, as little sense as that makes.

He inches forward, peering inside it. It isn't sealed, and its contents are quite visible. They are a disorganized mess: a mix of folders, loose pages, and tapes. His eyes go wide and he drops down to his knees, rifling feverishly through it all, looking through the first several tape labels and the headings on the pages before he allows himself any confirmation of hope. That this is what it appears to be: a box of Statements.

The paper is from the Magnus Institute; those tapes that are labeled are labeled in Gertrude's writing. None of the file numbers or names are familiar; there are none he can see that John has read before. These are new. Or they will be new to John.

Amid his racing thoughts, he remembers meeting Michael, struggling with the pieces of that crashed ship; he remembers hearing the story of how Saoirse received her coat and her dog. That Darrow just does this sometimes, just gives its stolen residents tokens from home.

Martin practically leaps back to his feet, nearly grabs for his phone to contact John, then decides not to waste time on that. He'll likely already be in the office, keeping his odd hours. Best to just get a move on. He opts to forego his shower, pulling his clothes on and fussing only momentarily with his hair before he stumbles out to the kitchen and gives The Bishop his breakfast. He leans down just long enough to give him a little kiss on the head before he rushes back into his bedroom, scoops up the box, and hurries to the door, awkwardly pushing his feet into his shoes. No time for his own breakfast. He can have some tea at The Archive, grab something at Ahab's later. He needs to get there first.

He just barely manages to lock his door without needing to set the box down, and then he's hurrying down the stairs and out. The box is a bit cumbersome and quite heavy, but he can just manage it. The weight is actually rather exciting, further evidence of just how much is there. He hustles two whole blocks before he finally flags down a cab, and sits full of jittery energy for the entire ride over. He tips the driver graciously and rushes inside. No one else is in yet, but he can just see John through the open door at the back.

"John," he huffs out, breathless and grinning as he bursts into his office, his face flushed from his rush and the exertion and the cold air. "John, look, look what I found!"

It doesn't make any sense, put like that--he didn't 'find' it so much as the city gave it to him. But it doesn't matter. The how, the why, none of it matters. What matters is they have it, and John isn't going to starve, and this will help him stop preying on people more than he and his little stories ever could, and he's going to be okay. Christ, Martin could almost cry with relief.

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There are several reasons why he shouldn't be embarking on a major overhaul of his own filing system, including but not limited to the fact that he barely has anything to overhaul in the first place, and that it's early in the morning and he's bound to suffer interruptions before he's finished. But the urge had struck him, and they don't get that much foot traffic, so he'd dug in, eventually removing his tie and folding it haphazardly on his desk, and rolling up his shirtsleeves to keep cool and prevent dust-smudges.

It's the tapes that are causing him the most grief, really, and that's because it's twenty-fucking-nineteen and nothing is designed with cassette tape storage in mind anymore. The Eye has yet to helpfully manifest any tape cases, and he's not sure if that sort of outdated-but-not-old-old paraphernalia could even be found in antique shops anymore. People don't seem to be as broadly nostalgic for tapes as they are for records, when all is said and done.

By the time Martin barges in, the row of shelves that are budged up against the wall opposite the rare books cage have been emptied, their meager contents spread across the floor as he considers potential configurations. John is on his feet, having risen when he heard the door open, and he takes in Martin's grin and the flush in his cheeks, and his chest does that little thing it's been doing, that wholly internal lifting sensation, as if gravity has decided to work on him only selectively. He tells himself that he is already tired of it, and that there's no point to it, besides, but it hasn't stopped happening, yet.

And then he looks down at the contents of the box, and blinks. His hand dives in of its own accord, and he pulls out a file with a slightly peeling label that reads: "0140911 - Gorgoli, H." Christ, they're Statements, Statements from the Institute. Martin has a whole bloody box of them.

"Wh--" John starts, intending to ask where the hell he found them, but he cuts himself off; that's less important than the apparent fact that Martin hauled them straight here, and that the box looks heavy. "I--here, set it down." He hurries to make a little space on his desk, shoving aside a tape recorder (he distantly notes that it's on, the tape spooling away even as he unceremoniously moves it), his tie, and a few other odds and ends until he's cleared a space large enough for the box. He fidgets restlessly as Martin puts it down, feeling the build-up of some sort of pressure that demands a release, like he's caught in those few seconds between when the water starts to roil and the kettle starts to shriek.

And it isn't until Martin steps back that he realizes it isn't the box he wants to go for -- at least not first.

"I..." he starts, looking helplessly at Martin for a moment. Then he staggers forward as if shoved from behind, throwing his arms around Martin's shoulders and pulling him in, silently praying he'll forgive him this absurd indulgence. But if ever a positive situation called for a hug, this one does, surely. "Thank you," he says, his voice sounding very small.

Martin moves to set it down as instructed in the space John clears, still breathless with excitement, and immediately begins babbling in response to the unasked question. "I don't know, it just, it was just there in my room when I woke up, I think it might b—oh—" His mind blanks and his voice disappears into a startled huff when John suddenly grabs onto him, pulling him in and hugging him close. For a record scratch of seconds Martin is frozen, his hands hovering in the air, before he's racing to catch up; he relaxes, or perhaps melts is the word, his hands settling loose and natural around John's back, his smile returning with a bit of daze. Christ, is this happening? Is John hugging him, just—just because, no blood or trauma or tears between them, just genuine joy and... and gratitude?

"O-of course," he stammers, his voice equally small as he lets his hands press a little closer to John's back. "I, I didn't really do anything, I mean, I think it came from—the City just does this sometimes, right, just gives you things from home, things you miss or want or..."

Or need. John needed this, and so he needed it. He swallows and goes quiet, just hugging him back for a moment. "You're welcome," he says softly.

Edited 2019-12-02 03:32 (UTC)

Martin relaxes, and his hands press against John's back, and it's just--it's so good, and it's all John can do not to slump against him. He cracks a faint smile at Martin's stammered explanation; it was the City's doing, sure, but it didn't drop the Statements here, or at his flat. If Martin wasn't here, they might not have arrived at all. Hell, if Martin wasn't here, John might not even have lasted this long.

The whole thing is just too much for this early in the day, and John is so overwhelmed that he's barely aware of what he's doing until he's already done it: his head bowing down towards Martin's shoulder, his nose brushing against the collar of Martin's jacket as he huffs out a quiet, giddy burst of laughter. He rests there for a half a second, Martin soft and warm beneath him, before recovering himself. And then he pulls back, bracing his hands on Martin's shoulders to steady himself as he looks over at the box.

"Christ. There must be enough for--for weeks." He looks back at Martin, and is suddenly and powerfully cognizant of how close they are. Oh, god. John takes a careful step back, straightening out of his hunch, then scrubs his hands over his face, mostly for the sake of just not looking at anything for a second or two. Christ, he needs to sit down.

It goes on longer than it ought to, he thinks, but then, that's only because neither of them pulls away. And then he thinks, no, they've earned this with all they've been through. Being given this gift almost feels like some sort of message, a tacit approval of their progress, and it's a promise that John is going to be okay, that there is some sort of future here, even if it's not the one they expected or necessarily the one they want. John is happy, and Martin is all too happy to hold him, even as the seconds creep past the point of supposed propriety.

And then John tips his head down and just... well, he— Martin's eyes go a bit wide as John brushes against him, sort of... nuzzling might be the word. John lets out a quiet laugh before he finally pulls back, leaving Martin endeavoring to keep contained, smiling up at him, still breathless and a little overwhelmed. John doesn't pull away entirely; his hands stay at Martin's shoulders, and it's only then that Martin takes in the state of him, all casually rumpled, his sleeves rolled up. Christ, his forearms are right there, and it's so appallingly stupid, but Martin feels his heart flutter over that, over something so simple and innocent. He's seen John with his sleeves rolled up before, of course, and they've certainly caught his attention, just... never like this, actually wrapped around him, touching him like this. John's arms are lean and long and beautiful, and it takes everything Martin has not to stare at them.

And then John's gaze finds him again, and for a dizzying instant they're just standing like that, John hunched naturally toward him, his lips parted from the words he's just spoken, not that Martin has any idea what those were. Only then does John step back, a bit pointed, hands immediately going to rub at his face. Martin falters back a step, clutching reflexively at his collar as his gut plunges, sudden cold certainty hitting him like an avalanche: that he overstepped, that John saw something there, and that is what pushed him back.

But John doesn't let anything like that show, and after a moment Martin drops his hand back down and takes a few short breaths, attempting to compose himself.

"So you'll... you'll be okay," he says, his smile returning—no matter how desperately his mind wanders, not even his well-honed anxiety can undermine this relief. He laughs a bit weakly. "You're gonna be okay." He says this with a faint air of finality. It's all he ever needed.

John lowers his hands, slow and a bit sheepish, aware that he's blushing like a--like a child. But Martin betrays no sign of thinking John's overstepped, or being mortified to any degree. Instead, he just seems to echo John's weak-kneed relief, both of them reeling over the sudden wealth of breathing room the City has just delivered to them.

"I..." John hesitates, the whole concept of being okay so distant and foreign that it feels dangerous to trust it. But Christ, it's undeniable: there's a box stuffed full of Statements right there. A few weeks ago, it probably wouldn't have felt like enough. Just a temporary respite, perhaps a month or two if he rationed carefully. But in addition to the countermeasures he and Martin have already worked out, it's a boon. If he only dips into them occasionally, when he really needs to, or if he just saves them in the event that Martin's little anecdotes stop working... he'll have a fall-back. An insurance policy, something to tide them over until they figure out something else.

"Yeah," he breathes out in a rush. "I... yes." He drifts over to the box, picking through it without looking too closely at any given thing. Doesn't want to spoil his appetite. But he looks closely enough to see that there are tapes mixed in with the files, and he recognizes Gertrude's handwriting. He hardly dares to hope that it'll all be new to him, but god, it's definitely something. And who knows, maybe something from home will be more... potent, here?

He goes quiet for a few moments, suddenly wondering if Martin means to just... pass the baton, so to speak. It would be understandable; John could get by with just these for a while, and maybe Martin wants a break. But, as selfish as it is, John doesn't like the idea of stopping, of losing those little evenings spent together. He'd started to look forward to them, in a way -- he's honest enough to wait until he really does need something before asking, but he's found that just knowing Martin is on his way over has started to calm him down considerably, and the stories themselves are... they're interesting, and he likes hearing them. Really, the worst part of it all was that niggling worry that he was twisting Martin's arm, and now... if that is the case, then Martin finally has an excuse to step back.

"I'll have to ration them, I suppose," he ventures, giving Martin a furtive, assessing sidelong glance. "It... might be best to--" he pulls in a little breath, then barrels on with a deliberate influx of confidence that he doesn't actually feel, "to continue on with the, erm." And there it goes. "Other thing."

John is quiet for a little while, looking through the box and giving Martin's smile time to fade. Beneath all that excitement and relief there's a note of sadness, utterly selfish at its heart, as it sinks in that this means John will no longer need his little stories. At first he'd been a bit bewildered that essentially just nattering about the full mundanity of his own life was a functional stopgap, and sometimes it had been a struggle to come up with anecdotes, and to allow himself to tell them truthfully without undue fretting. But that had been short-lived. The way it always visibly helped John was more than enough comfort, and over the past few weeks he's really grown to enjoy it, not just for John but for himself. He's never really had anyone who wanted to hear all the little things about him before, and... even if it was for a purpose such as this, it was nice to have that. It was nice that John seemed genuinely interested.

If he wants to go on babbling about himself, he supposes he just can, but there's an unavoidable fragment of fear that John no longer wants that, that he'll be relieved to return to a sort of status quo, whether because he simply wants to allow Martin that space or because, as Martin suspects, his own life grows rapidly rather less interesting with time.

So when John suggests that perhaps they ought to carry on with all that, bringing up the natural point that no matter how much is packed into that box, it won't last forever, Martin looks up with an expression that is only briefly startled before he breaks back into a sheepish grin.

"Y-yeah," he says. "Of course. I mean, it's a finite resource. So..." He shrugs, caught between warmth blooming in his chest and a sort of fidgety unrest over an unnamed tension. "Whatever you need."

"I--only if you want to," John hastens to clarify. The way Martin lit up at the suggestion is... indicative, he thinks (he hopes), that Martin likes the idea of carrying on as they have been. But that doesn't mean he shouldn't be given the option of a breather, if nothing else. "If you wanted a break, or something, that'd be fine."

He rests his hand on the familiar edge of the ordinary box -- such an absurd thing to miss, but every refreshed detail, from Gertrude's distinct, tidy hand (her penmanship, if nothing else, was neat), to the dusty paper scent of the Archive, hits him with an almost physical force. He hadn't realized how much those little things were already starting to fade around the edges. It's almost enough to make him want to dig in immediately, just for the bloody nostalgia, but... no. Better to wait.

"I just... like the idea of having an insurance policy," he says, offering Martin a tentative smile. "Something to fall back on if there's a problem." It's more than that, of course, and he doesn't know if it's the Eye or something else that compels him to add, "And I... I like your stories." That truth hangs solitary in the air for a moment before he pats the box and appends, "Less grim than this lot."

Martin nods along with the clarifications, still smiling; it's oddly charming to see John so tentative about this, as though it hasn't been happening this whole time, but he understands the caution. It isn't until John's final hesitant admission that he stalls out a bit, frankly startled.

"I—oh," he blurts before he looks down at the box, his sheepish smile returning. "I mean, they're just..." His thoughts catches over the inclination to dismiss the remark. John doesn't say things he doesn't mean. And it's... it's good to hear that he actually does like them, so close on the heels of Martin's assumptions that he mustn't, surely. Part of him wants to stammer Why? but that seems unnecessarily interrogative. Maybe he can just... try taking that to heart.

"Thank you," he says. "I... I like telling them. I mean, I like—I like that you listen. I mean, obviously you have to, that's kind of the point, but—"

He stops with an anxious breath of laughter. "Well, I've got plenty more, so just... let me know when you're feeling peckish." He chuckles awkwardly and then clears his throat.

It's not shocking when Martin instinctively starts to minimize his own efforts, though it does leave John wondering if he's going to have to expand his awkward admission into an even more awkward defense. God knows how that would go over. He isn't even sure how to justify his own interest; it's just there, less because Martin's stories are objectively fascinating and more because they're Martin's.

But Martin course-corrects a moment later, thanking him in a fumbling sort of way. John smiles faintly, though there's a hint of guilt there, as well. He's not a complete idiot; he knows that any charm his own attention carries now exists in marked contrast to how coldly indifferent he used to be. The novelty of it is probably half the appeal.

The alternative -- that Martin likes it when John listens to him not just because John hadn't really listened to him before, but because no one had really listened to him before -- is so depressing that he refuses to really consider it. Though it does contribute to his stubborn determination to be attentive, just in case he has more than his own personal shortcomings to make up for.

"Well," John starts, fully aware that he should just let Martin go about his managerial business, but not wanting to, "I should get this mess back on the shelves, but then, if you're not too busy...?" He bends to start gathering up the files he'd spread across the carpet. "I mean, I'll be fine if you can't, it's not--not bad, yet." It's not really bad at all, if he's being honest with himself. He'd been feeling a bit bored and restless, but that isn't always symptomatic of a larger problem. He just...

He just wants. And while it's simpler to think that he's merely a conduit for the Eye's appetite for knowledge, he suspects that this wanting is just his.

"Oh," he says, watching John as he starts clearing things up off the floor. "Yeah, of course."

There's no reason he shouldn't have expected this, especially after he literally just said he had plenty more 'whenever' John needed, and yet he still manages to feel a bit caught off guard. He hadn't realized John was hungry now, and rationing or no, he'd assumed John would want to dip into the box first thing. That he'd rather have this, now, is... Well, it's surprising, but he's not about to protest it. Even without the slow bloom of warmth in his chest, the shy smile he allows himself while John isn't looking—he'd never deny John a thing.

It's just, he wasn't entirely prepared for this, and he's not sure he has a good one. His brain is a bit empty, all sluggish after the unexpected excitement of the morning and the sense of being on the spot. He reaches out to help tidy a bit, quiet while he tries to think of something, anything worth telling.

If asked, John could rationalize why it makes more sense to stick to Martin's stories rather than delve right into the box of Statements. One reason is that he's actually seen increasing returns with what Martin's doing, which seems as if it ought to be impossible. That's only saying so much, of course; Martin's stories don't leave him feeling sated so much as they just dull the hunger into something he can manage, or even ignore. But if things are going to continue to improve -- or at least not worsen -- then he doesn't want to risk throwing it all off on a whim, like abruptly quitting a restrictive diet just when he'd started to get used to it. And the longer he puts off Statements, the more potent they're likely to be when he does read them, and the longer they'll last. It's perfectly sensible.

But Martin doesn't ask, which saves him the trouble -- to say nothing of the risk of appearing overeager, or needlessly defensive.

It doesn't take long for them to set the shelf to rights, and then John glances at his phone and huffs. "Christ, it isn't even eight, yet." He's been doggedly staying up most nights, and it's thrown off his whole concept of time, or at least of 'early.' Martin usually gets up a little before seven, though; he must have rushed right over, probably without bothering to eat anything. "D'you want some tea, first?"

"Oh! Er, yes," says Martin, remembering all of a sudden that he hasn't had anything yet. "If you don't mind making it, actually I—I haven't had anything to eat yet, I was going to pick something up, a pastry or something. I could get something for us both, if you'd like?" He suspects John, as usual, hasn't eaten any breakfast in addition to being existentially hungry.

John agrees, and Martin sets out at a brisk pace, feeling happier than seems sensible. The gift from home is an odd one, for all that it represents a way forward—it still seems like it should bear some uncomfortable implications, or even just a bit of homesickness. But it doesn't. He also still doesn't know what story to tell, but he supposes he'll just have to wing it. Babbling organically has worked out in the past, even if it leaves him feeling a bit embarrassed sometimes. It doesn't matter, because John... John likes it. John likes his stories.

He's grinning a bit too much at the nearby Ahab's, picking up a few selections from their bakery—a plain and a chocolate croissant as well as a pair of scones that look appealing. He carries it all back to find John back in his office with the tea laid out, ready to go.

Something about it makes Martin a little nervous, and not about sharing another personal anecdote. It's the friendliness of it, the ease of just... having breakfast like this in John's office. These moments are increasingly common, and yet he still finds time to feel odd about them sometimes, like they shouldn't really be happening. But they are friends. They've grown close. It's not everything he wanted, but it's near enough, and he's determined to enjoy it.

"You, er... you ready?" he says, unable to keep all his natural awkwardness at bay, even as he smiles and lays the pastries out, taking the chocolate croissant for himself.

The Ahab's isn't too far away, but Martin's errand still gives him enough time to brew two cups of tea and straighten up his office a bit more. He moves the box of Statements over to the rare books cage -- he's not sure they need to be locked up for safety reasons, but he isn't sure he wants anyone to just stumble across them, nor does he want any of the box's contents to be easily lost -- and goes about tidying his desk, condensing the strewn paperwork into a few neat stacks and depositing the scattered pens and pencils back in their cup. He considers his tie for a moment, then loops it loosely back around his collar with the vague intention of tightening it once he's done getting the desk squared away.

He might be going a bit overboard, honestly; it's not as if he expects Martin to bring back a spread. But he's been trying to differentiate this sort of thing from giving a Statement as much as the circumstances will allow, which has mostly translated to making sure Martin's comfortable. Being a good host, not just a good listener. It had started out as a distraction: something to do with himself in that interminable stretch between sending a text and Martin arriving at his flat. There'd been some preemptive apology in it, too, softening what he could only presume was a--a strain, despite Martin's reassurances to the contrary. He knew, he was acutely aware, that he was asking for things without offering much in return (besides his attention, which, while apparently more valuable than he'd realized, is still the least he can offer). He'd needed to give Martin something, even if it was just a comfortable place to sit in a tidy room and a cup of tea made to his specifications.

It's a bit silly, probably, but the mild fussing makes him feel... better. More human. Like he might be worth all this.

So, by the time Martin returns with pastries, his tea is ready and waiting on John's desk. John's cleared off one end of it rather than the middle. It's impossible to feel companionable when sitting opposite one another across the full span of a desk, he thinks, and everything will be within easier reach that way. He even found a small pile of napkins at the tea station, in case Martin didn't get the chance to grab any.

John settles into his chair and helps himself to the plain croissant, lifting it in a sort of toast. "Thank you. And... yes. Whenever you are."

Martin can't help feeling charmed by the setup, noting that John's taking pains to make it feel as informal as possible. They've never done this in his office before, and Martin's not unaware of the possibility that it'll feel more like giving a proper Statement, but it's clear John's keen to avoid that any way he can. Martin smiles at him, caught up for just a moment as he notices John's loosened tie—Christ, first the sleeves and now this, he really needs to pull himself together—before averting his gaze and settling in. He takes a moment to center himself, eating his croissant and think it over. He still isn't sure on a direction, but usually if he just starts talking, he ends up somewhere.

"Well," he says at length, "I remember when I was... let's see, would have been about eleven or twelve, I think? Whenever I needed to be out of the house, or... if I wanted to delay going home after school, you know. I'd go to the library. A handful of the librarians knew me by name after a while. I think they liked that I was quiet and predictable. They were mostly very nice, but I never wanted to bother them, so I figured out the filing system enough that I could track down what I wanted on my own. I think, at a push, you could say that's where I first realized I liked archival systems and organization, I mean, I didn't know yet that working in an archive was a thing you could do, and it's not like I had childhood dreams of working in admin, but... it was just a natural aptitude, I guess? Anyway."

He pauses to take a sip of tea. He hasn't entirely worked out where this is going yet—there are a lot of potential branching paths down this line of memories, and this isn't like giving a prompted Statement, the Eye neatly organizing it all into a linear format with only relevant details. He's just... wandering, finding it as he goes.

"You know, I read the entire Narnia series there?" He cracks a smile. "All seven of them. I didn't even bother checking them out, I'd just sit down somewhere and tear through them, it was a few-weeks-long project. I don't even remember them very well now. I went through them so fast and I... I don't think I ever read them again? Isn't that funny, they felt so important at the time."

He takes another sip, puzzling over it idly when all of a sudden he remembers why he never returned to them. He hesitates, his mouth twitching slightly, not sure he wants to commit to this particular memory, and not sure how to veer away from it now that he's recovered it. "Huh," he says softly. "Actually I... I haven't thought about this in a long time." He frowns down at his tea for a moment. "I forgot I was... I was actually spending so much time there, like reading an entire series instead of taking them home, because I was hiding from this boy from school. I don't... Christ, I don't even remember his name." He lifts a shoulder with a little huff. "He was a big kid. Held back a year, and... well, I was pretty small for my age. He'd been picking on me for a while, just... I dunno, I guess I was an easy target. I was really sensitive, and always on my own."

He cups his hand around the back of his neck, preemptively warming the inevitable chill that moves across it. Like bloody second nature.

"We had similar paths to take home from school, so... it just kind of happened. He never tried to steal anything, or... I mean, I didn't tend to have a lot of pocket money, but he also never asked. He never did anything to hurt me, either, it was just... a lot of teasing, really." He shifts uncomfortably. "Now that I think about it, it was probably pretty harmless. Maybe he was lonely, too."

He laughs, softly and without much humor. "But I didn't get that, so I just... spent a lot of time at the library, and that's when I read The Chronicles of Narnia, and... when I was on the last book, y'know, that one's kind of weird and depressing so I imagine I must have looked very serious, and then he just... found me. He must have followed me, I don't know. He snatched the book right out of my hands and when I looked up and saw him I was so startled I just started crying."

He looks away, feeling faintly embarrassed to admit this. "I don't think he expected that, just right out of the gate and in public, so he just stood there for a moment and one of the librarians came over and... she was one of the older ones, one of the not-so-nice ones. She just kicked us both out without ceremony so I was stuck outside with this boy and I felt so stupid for crying and... I think I shouted at him or something, told him to leave me alone. And I remember he just stood there and watched me go. At the time I was afraid he was going to chase me, but he didn't, and... I was just relieved."

He lets out a slow sigh, his thumb moving slowly up and down the smooth surface of his mug. "I did eventually finish The Last Battle, but I think between how weird I found it and all that, I burned out on the series very quick. And that boy left me alone after that, which was fine with me. I actually only really saw him one more time, which was... Well, a month or so later I'd become the target of some new bully, who had a little posse of friends. They were a lot worse. They really scared me. Looking back, I think... I don't know if that other boy was even a bully at all. I think he was just awkward and lonely and didn't know how to make friends. Just like me. These boys were just... cruel. There was a day after school where they had me cornered and I—I think they might have actually hurt me if... well, that boy ended up stepping in and told them to step off. I was so scared I didn't stop to think why. He was bigger than them, and he ended up beating the ringleader into the ground, and... that was the last time I saw him. I think he was expelled."

Martin stares at his tea, quiet for a while. "I haven't thought about this in years," he says. "So I'm only just realizing that... not only was I too awkward and, well, probably a little stuck-up about his being held back, too, to notice this boy was just trying to get to know me; I didn't even really appreciate that he actually protected me. I was only relieved that he was gone and that this new gang left me alone after. He probably could have been a really good friend, if I'd let him. But I don't even remember his name."

He finally looks at John, blinking sheepishly. "Er... sorry. That—that was a bit of a downer."

John listens attentively, but not with the same intense focus as he would a Statement. He watches without staring, and hums occasionally in understanding or acknowledgment. He tries to make it easier, more pleasant. Worth the effort.

He relates to more of it than he expects to, really. The hours spent in the library, finding comfort in the company of books as opposed to people. The all but inevitable bullying. Granted, it sounds as if Martin's bully was more clumsy and awkward than actively malicious. Part of him does wonder, though, if Martin's retroactive assessment is accurate, or if he's just more inclined to be generous now that time has softened it all. How much does his bully's motivation really matter when all he'd managed to do with it was make Martin frightened and miserable? Even the heroics had terrified him.

But at least the heroics were something. And he supposes his own memories are coloring his impressions. He had a childhood bully whose name he can't remember despite the fact that he'd saved him, too, but his bully had never meant well. His teasing had been cruel, not awkward. And the rescue had been far from intentional.

Martin's apology draws John out of his own head, and he blinks over at him in surprise. "It--it's all right." All that really matters to him is that the stories are true -- and that they're Martin's. And if some of them are downers, well... they're still rather light compared to his usual fare. Martin's ostensible bully just got expelled, not horribly murdered.

"I actually had something sort of similar, once," he continues, gazing off into the middle distance. "Well, not really. I'm certain my bully didn't mean well. But he... he did save me. And I can't remember his name." His smile is a brief, humorless thing that fades into uncertainty as he looks back at Martin. "Did you ever hear that tape? My first Statement?"

Maybe he already has. Or maybe he wouldn't want to. Either way, John hesitates to just launch into a story of his own, especially if Martin would as soon avoid any downers.

Martin perks up at once when John starts to relate something back to him, partly just because it's so unexpected. They've grown better at talking and sharing things with each other, but this—trading stories in this context—is still fairly uncharted territory. He's picked up a few things about John's childhood, that he was an orphan raised by his nan, the thing about her bringing him whole bags of random books to keep him occupied (a detail Martin has found hopelessly endearing, in spite of it all), but John's never sat down to tell him a story in the same way Martin's been doing. And he would never ask or expect it. This isn't transactional, and he needs nothing in return for helping John.

But if John's offering... Knowing it was Statement-worthy promises a story even more unpleasant than his, but Martin doesn't mind. John didn't seem to mind his being a bit depressing, and that's easier to understand now that their roles have switched. He wants to know everything about John, the good, the bad, even the truly horrible.

"No, I—I didn't," he says, a little surprised by the question. He's listened to a lot of the tapes, generally they were cases being worked on, not... nothing personal. He's not even sure when John would have recorded this, or what would've prompted it. "What happened?" he asks, full of open curiosity.

Any doubts he might have had about Martin wanting to hear about it are put to rest at once. Martin sits up, plainly surprised by the implicit offer, but not at all put off by it being a Statement. It's oddly gratifying -- to realize Martin's interested, and to think that he might have something to offer in return for all this besides his own attention.

John leans back in his chair, considering how best to begin. Just because it was a Statement, that doesn't mean he has to tell it like one: sparing no detail, retreading ground that they've already covered in other contexts. Martin's story was about the bully, not the books. Perhaps that's the framework John ought to use, as well.

"Well," he ventures, at first uncertain, but slowly gaining confidence as he goes, "there was this boy who used to help my grandmother with odd jobs every now and then. Not a boy, really. He must have been at least eighteen, a good ten years older than I was. And he... he didn't like me much." John rubs the back of his neck with a rueful wince. "I don't entirely blame him; I'm sure I was deeply annoying, though at the time, I liked to think he hated me because I was smarter than he was." He snorts faintly: case in point. No one likes a know-it-all, especially one half their age.

"But he was old enough that there isn't really any excusing what he did to me," he continues, his gaze fixed impassively on the remaining pastries. "All the usual fare: name-calling, a little petty thievery. He knocked me around a few times, though never badly enough that I couldn't pass it off as a fall from the swings, or something. I was too proud to admit any of it to my grandmother, couldn't stand the thought of her sorting it out for me. And she did need the help. It's not like I could mend the gutters or what have you."

He sighs quietly, passing his hand over his face. "Anyway. I think I've already told you about how she used to bring me those big bags of books from the charity shops and secondhand bookstores. Whatever she could get for under 50 pence. I don't think she even looked at them beyond the price tags, didn't exercise any other sort of... discretion. And even if she had, it's not as if she would have known to... to look out for anything from the library of Jurgen Leitner.

"That was my first brush with--with all of this." He waves his hand at the Archive surrounding them. "My first Leitner. A Guest for Mr. Spider."

It doesn't take Martin long at all to settle in as John starts to tell his story, leaning forward a bit subconsciously, his elbow resting on the desk and his chin in his hand. His body language communicates active interest, but also a bit of nervous tension; he's invested, but it wouldn't be right to say he's enjoying himself. The story is unpleasant even before anything supernatural has a chance to occur. Martin has to tamp down a reflexive urge to protest John's assessment of his own childhood character—it's not as if he has any evidence with which to contest it. But he's also all too familiar with John's tendency toward self-deprecation, to say nothing of his own, and it strikes him as unfair to characterize himself thus when he was all of eight years old, an age where no one is without little quirks and flaws. But all too quickly, this becomes the least distressing detail of it all.

Martin isn't so successful at containing the quick spike of rage that rises in him when John tells him rather plainly that an eighteen year old had 'knocked him around,' and that he'd hidden it. He understands wanting to keep that sort of thing a secret. He'd certainly never gone to his mother over any of the bullies he'd suffered throughout his youth. But John's grandmother sounds a bit more present than she'd been, at least; maybe she wasn't the most equipped caregiver, but... well, surely she didn't hate him.

But it doesn't matter. John had kept this a secret, that a near-adult was hurting him, and it's all Martin can do to limit his reaction to a scowl, so small and transient that it's just a twitch of his lips and a subtle narrowing of his eyes, while he balls his free hand into a fist, hidden in his lap where John can't see. John's moving onto the books, and Martin feels a bit lost in the weeds for a moment, unsure how this connects to the bully, when all of that fades rather abruptly into the background.

At the mention of Jurgen Leitner, he stiffens quite noticeably, lifting his head from his hand and blinking at John in astonishment. He'd expected the capital-S Statement part of this to come later on, like all this was some sort of setup, or at least that it'd be something more indirect, something John pieced together later, when he had context. He'd never realized, never known John had encountered something like this so directly and so very young.

And why would he? Christ, he'd apparently recorded this at some point, but it's not likely anyone else would have heard it. And John probably never told anyone. So nobody knew this. Nobody but Elias, he supposes with a sick twinge in his gut.

Mr. Spider is too easy to place, and it makes Martin regret a bit how pushy he's always been on the point of spiders not being so bad; he's never talking about actual horrible Web spiders, of course, but he knows that at some point, that doesn't matter.

"Jesus," he says softly, unable to keep quiet. He makes a face like he's bit into something rotten, afraid of what comes next, fixating on little details. "Sounds like a bloody... kids' book."

"It was," John softly confirms. "Or it was made to look like one, anyway. Thin, hardcover... there was definitely something wrong about it. The title looked like it had been half-carved into the cover, and it seemed like--like violence was just leaking out of it, almost. I hated it immediately, but I couldn't help but open it."

He frowns, not particularly wanting to give a page-by-page description of the thing as he did during his Statement. "It was about the, er... the titular Mr. Spider sitting in his parlor while this succession of terrified flies knocked on his door. Each one would bring him something, an offering -- cake, flowers, their own child -- but the obvious implication was that he was eating the flies themselves. The book didn't show it, exactly, but he was never satisfied by the offerings. And as the book went on, his body grew more... distended, and his parlor smeared with these ugly stains..." He trails off, shivering for a moment before he returns to the present. He's safe in his office. Martin is here. It's fine. He's fine.

He pulls in a breath, then continues on. "The second-to-last page was just a close-up of his door, and it had what looked like a cut-away panel to the page behind it. Said something about how Mr. Spider wanted another dinner guest, and that it was polite to knock." He looks down at his hands, his right one curling into a loose fist. "And I was about to do it, I would've... but that bully appeared. He knocked the book out of my hand and shoved me over. I was at the park a few blocks from home, I don't even remember how I got there. But he must have seen me, and he..."

Christ. John leans back in his chair and rubs his hand over his face, determined to get through this. "He wasn't trying to help, is the thing," he says, his voice straining a little with the irony of it all. "He didn't see that I was in trouble and decide to intervene. He just made some comment about me reading a stupid kiddie book and picked it up off the ground, probably intending to steal it, or--or hold it over my head, or something. Except then he looked at it, and he started to read, and... it was like he couldn't help himself. He just started walking, and I followed. I don't know why I wanted the damn thing back, but I did. Or maybe I just didn't want him to have it? But I followed him--Christ, it must have been the better part of a mile, until we were on some residential street I'd never been on before. Night had come on. And he just..." John huffs out a breath, part of him incredulous even now. It sounds mad. He knows it sounds mad. "He went up to one of the houses, and he put the book up against the door, opened to that second-to-last page. And he knocked. And Mr. Spider's door opened, and these long, thin legs reached out, and they just... he shouldn't have fit, but they pulled him in before he could even scream, and then... he was gone, and the book was gone, too."

He looks over at Martin, not quite daring to meet his eyes, but finding the sight of him reassuring. "So he saved me. He didn't mean to, it wasn't... noble of him. He just picked the wrong moment to torment me. But I still... I wish I remembered his name. It doesn't seem right, that I've forgotten."

The dread settles in, thick and heavy, as John continues his story, describing the book, his experience reading it, and the reappearance of his bully. The end result of it all is strange and horrifying, as expected, but Martin doesn't pull away, continuing to lean forward, his shoulders tense and his fist still curled tight. Christ, it's awful—that it happened at all, that John was so young, what became of the older boy. What nearly became of John. Martin's suddenly seized with an almost overwhelming desire to reach out to him, to grab hold of him and confirm—for him, for John, it doesn't matter—that he's still there, that he's safe. John's quiet distress over not being able to remember the name of the boy who inadvertently saved him is... familiar, understandable, but it doesn't feel as important as the rest of it, not now that Martin's heard it all.

For a second Martin thinks about getting up, putting his arms back around John, but he banishes the idea just as quickly. It's too soon after the last one, the last one which was already a bit... intense, and John's sitting and what if he doesn't want that sort of contact, it'll just be... awkward, and possibly a little bit patronizing. But he has to do something. He can't just sit there, his face etched with horror and sympathy that does John absolutely no good.

He shifts a little so he's no longer braced on his elbow, instead leaning forward a little more, his arm stretching out toward John. Both of John's hands are in his lap, curled together tightly, and Martin pushes past the heavy layer of nervousness and doubt that shrouds his every impulse as he reaches his hand out, his fingers sliding tentative and careful over John's. He says nothing, just keeps his eyes on John's face, waiting for John to look up, to look at him. He's terrified by how much he wants John to look at him, by what that look will or won't mean, by what it will make him want, and that John might see him wanting. But he doesn't—won't allow himself to—flinch from it.

The last time that John told this story -- the only other time -- his audience had been a tape recorder (and, by extension, the Eye). The recorders don't exacerbate the horror by acknowledging it, which had been a sort of mercy. But they can't offer any comfort, either, and so John has learned not to expect it. Whether they're his stories or someone else's, there is never a response from anyone but himself, no horrified sympathy, no commiseration. He doesn't expect one even as Martin reaches for him, the motion of his arm cautious but deliberate. John watches Martin's hand with the tired, placid interest of someone watching a nature documentary, not fully connecting the movement to this moment, to himself, until Martin's hand actually slides warmly over his own.

Oh.

For a moment, John is afraid to move at all, as if the slightest twitch on his part will prompt a hasty retreat and an awkward tumble of apologies. But that's foolish. This is hardly the first time that Martin has offered him comfort -- an anchor -- and the acceptance won't scare him. Still, John's own movements are slow and careful: the loosening of one clenched fist, the slight pivot of a wrist, the slide of his thumb over Martin's knuckles, all culminating in a gentle grasp that Martin could withdraw from in an instant, if he wanted. Barely a hold at all.

And then he looks up, and he sees him. He sees the way Martin is looking at him, and he thinks: oh, Christ, and he thinks: I've been a fool, and he thinks: no doubling down on it, though. Just because the wanting is there, that doesn't mean it's right, or--or wise. Wanting is so often a mistake. Especially where Jonathan Sims is concerned.

Best to just let it go.

John looks back down with a quiet, rueful scoff. "Speaking of downers," he says as he releases Martin's hand.

John uncurls his hand, slow and careful, but he does take it, and Martin has to work hard to stop an embarrassing hitch of his breath when John's thumb brushes over his knuckles. It's a light, natural point of contact, and yet it's more than he expected, perhaps because it's so careful.

And then John meets his eyes, and Martin is overwhelmed by the certainty that this was a mistake. For a dizzying moment it's all he can do to stare back, the two of them just... holding each other's gaze like that, like that, only he can't read John's expression and he doesn't know how much his gives away. Perhaps too much; perhaps John will recoil from it, think Martin is deriving some undue pleasure from reaching out to touch him, from that hug, from all of it, and that will be the end of it all.

But John doesn't recoil. He averts his gaze, dismisses the whole thing with a wry little remark, and lets go his hand.

Martin pulls back slowly, not in a hurry, feeling dazed and a bit cautious. Either John didn't see anything, or he saw it and he's just... setting it aside. Which would make sense. Martin knows that John's heard every tape, heard those moments where he said a little more than he meant to, let slip that he worries, that he misses him, that he needs him to be okay. John's heard Elias taunt him about his devotion, and even heard Martin snap back about his feelings, so... this shouldn't be any different. John knows, and he's made peace with it, and... and Martin can, too. It's encouraging, sort of.

"It's all right," he says softly, managing a little smile. "I'm glad you told me."

He is glad; as awful as it was, he likes knowing more about John, understanding a little better what formed him. His first horrifying experience with a Leitner has a lot of context to offer. After sharing so much of himself, it... Well, Martin doesn't believe there's any need for something transactional here, but it feels good that John is willing to share, too.

He rouses himself at length and picks up one of the scones and his tea. "Well, on that note," he says, as lightheartedly as he can, "I suppose I ought to get around to managing this place." He stands up and looks at John, still smiling. Beyond all of it, the sad elements in both their stories, his own underlying torments, he's still just overwhelmingly happy about the gift, the knowledge that John's going to be all right. He's not sure what else to say, the I'll see you later sort of obvious and implied, so he ends up just nodding and turning to leave. He needs a bit of time to himself, he thinks, but it's the good sort, just to settle himself. Knowing John's around the corner is the comfort it ought to be.

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