For John

[loficharm]

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.

Comments

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

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.