Fool's Errand // for John

[loficharm]

There are an absurd few seconds where Martin doesn't remember who the hell Eaton is, or why he should be in his phone contacts. The text comes in while he and John are having lunch in the office, chatting comfortably as has become their pleasant custom, and Martin fishes his phone absently out of his pocket and looks at it, trailing off in the midst of an only mildly amusing anecdote about the copier. He's here is all the message says.

He stands bolt upright before he's had a moment to bloody think this through. He never told anyone about this plan, certainly not John, and just as he'd fallen into the uneasy complacency of assuming, more than a month later, that nothing would come of it, he'd also never considered the very real possibility that the tip-off would come while he was in John's company with no viable excuse to suddenly dash out. Right out of the gate he's already made a hash of it; there's no passing this off casually after that abrupt display. John is incisive and Martin is a poor liar when he's unprepared, and this whole thing is now beginning to feel very stupid indeed.

But there isn't time to work something out. There isn't time, because this is happening now, seven blocks away, and he's already scrambling to get his coat.

"I, er—" He shoves his phone back in his pocket as he pulls his coat on. It's awful, but his only recourse now is to just flee as fast as possible and hope John can't catch him, and that he can explain, somehow, later. "I'm sorry, I, I have to go, it's—something came up. It's fine, just, I need to—I'll explain later, okay?"

Christ, this isn't helping, he just needs to go. He winces and turns around, managing to keep his pace only to a brisk trot until he makes it outside, at which point he bolts down the sidewalk in the direciton of Madison & Revello. He doesn't look back to see if John is following him; he zig-zags his way there, up one block, over the next, and so on, hoping he's harder to follow that way. He feels awful doing this, but this is his problem, he invited it onto himself, and he's not about to let John just stagger into it.

As he reaches the store, he finally glances back. John is nowhere to be seen, and he slows a bit, struggling to catch his breath as he gets inside. Eaton is there, behind the counter at the back, and he frowns tightly to see Martin.

He doesn't even speak, just gives him a brusque jerk of his chin indicating a direction. Martin turns right around and hurries up the block, scanning every passerby he can see, his heart hammering from both the exertion and the fear that he was too late, this was his one chance and he squandered it. Despair threatens to overwhelm him, and then his eyes fall on someone moving a little differently from everyone else. It's subtle, but it's enough that he catches it: a slightly slower gait, a sort of keen caution that doesn't seem appropriate for a simple walk through a city. Tall, broad, bundled in a thick dark coat. Heavy boots. Martin swallows thickly, the reality of what he's about to do settling uncomfortably over him. It's stupid and dangerous and he is afraid. But he takes a step, and then another. He follows at a distance.

It isn't so hard, keeping the man in sight while maintaining what feels like a good space between them. He puts his hands in his pockets, palms sweating, fingers curling tightly. He endeavors to appear calm and casual. He considers that he doesn't have any more plan than this, and supposes that the best thing would be to find out where he lives, if possible. Or catch him in the act of something unsavory. Something the police might respond to.

He's trying to work out what to do if neither of these options pan out when the man turns a rather sudden corner, not at the end of the block, but into what appears to be an alleyway. Martin stops short, nearly loses his nerve for half a second, and then hurries to catch up. Maybe there's some particular door he can catch him entering, something that represents either a dwelling or a place of business, something he can follow up on later, safer.

He reaches the corner and glances down the little alley, only to find the man is nowhere in sight. He stops short, staring into the dark, narrow space before taking a nervous step into it. There's a dumpster along the wall, blocking some of his view, maybe a door just beyond it, or—

Or the man himself. Martin startles to see him, crouching in wait, but he's not fast enough before the man straightens up and advances on him. Martin startles back and his back hits the wall; a little gasp bursts out of him, but that's all the sound he can make, staggered by how imposing he actually is, how huge. The man comes right up to him, leans down, and says in a rough voice, "Why are you following me?"

Christ. And Martin thought he'd done all right. Obviously he hadn't; obviously this whole thing was a huge bloody mistake, but he's here now, and the man—Jacob Riggs, John's murderer, is here, staring at him and wanting to know why. And after that initial shock, Martin finds his fear is almost dulled, anger rising to take its place. He imagines this man coming into John's flat with intent to hurt him and doing just that; imagines him leaving John on the floor to bleed out, to be found. Going on with his life. Wanting to know why. Martin is terrified of this man; he also wants, with alarming, sudden ferocity, to hurt him back.

"Are you Jacob Riggs?" he says coldly. He knows the answer.

There's a flicker of something in Jacob's expression and he takes Martin in like he's re-assessing a threat. Martin stares back hard, wishing he weren't still so out of breath.

"Who are you?" says Jacob.

"You hurt my friend," says Martin. He's no longer thinking; no longer has any idea what he's saying. It just tumbles out.

Jacob sneers faintly and reaches out, seizing a handful of Martin's coat. "Who are you?" he demands. When Martin hesitates, faltering, Jacob shakes him, slight but far too easy. "Talk."

Comments

[statement_ends]

Things are good, John thinks. He's still occasionally haunted by the whole mistletoe incident, but it seems as if they're both determined to bully their way past whatever lingering awkwardness there might be. They've recovered their rapport, and if eye contact tends to be a little more fleeting than it once was, and physical contact reduced to what might qualify as professional or necessary, that's... fine. 

Probably for the best, really.

Things are good enough that when Martin bolts to his feet mid-lunch, stammers out a vague semblance of an explanation that conveys nothing at all, and leaves, John finds himself unable to come up with a reason why he shouldn't give chase. 'Because Martin said it's fine' is not the final word it once might have been, and John has started allowing himself to consider the possibility that 'paranoid' doesn't always mean 'wrong.' Martin's sudden departure makes his stomach drop, and so instead of sitting with the unease, he grabs his coat and follows.

Martin doesn't make the following easy, which certainly doesn't help dispel any of the dread. John just spots him rounding a corner, and though he hurries to catch up, between the other pedestrians and the bloody circuitous route Martin is taking, he's easy to lose. John pauses, one hand fisted in his own hair as he scans the thoroughfare. Then he takes a deep breath and just walks, clearing his mind of any other thought besides the desire to find Martin.

And it works. His feet carry him along until he spots a certain shop, and he either knows or Knows, with sudden, horrible certainty, what Martin is up to. 

His breath stutters in his chest, and he lurches forward, both scared and furious in equal measure. Martin isn't in the shop; he Knows that, and he keeps walking, trying not to let himself get preoccupied with awful ideas about what might be happening. Christ, there was a reason he hadn't told Martin who attacked him: because he knew, he knew Martin would do something bloody stupid like this: try to investigate, take matters into his own hands, as if he stands half a chance against the person who left John for dead on the floor of his flat. What the fuck does he think he's going to accomplish, aside from making himself into a target? Oh, he might let on that John's still alive, he supposes, so they can both be in the sort of mortal peril that John demonstrably might bounce back from, and Martin certainly would not.

He's shaking by the time he hears Jacob's voice emanating from an alleyway up ahead: a growled demand punctuated by Martin's startled gasp, and John cycles through terror and despair and fury before seizing on the latter and clinging to it. It's the only one that'll get him through this.

John rounds the corner, takes in the tableau with eyes that are just a little too wide, and then lets the full force of his gaze fall on Jacob Riggs. "Get your fucking hands off him," he snaps, the order accompanied by a faint, static hiss from the tape recorder now balanced on the dumpster's lid.

[loficharm]

Martin's eyes are locked on Jacob's, and he doesn't realize anyone else has come into the alley until John's voice hits him with full force, harsh and sharp and furious. Jacob's expression changes rapidly, from cold malice to something closer to fear, and that would be satisfying if Martin weren't busy looking at John, all the fight and conviction instantly draining out of him and leaving only a miserable, deep well of shame. He looks at John, but his gaze doesn't, can't linger; he's so angry, and the anger is papering over a sort of panicky energy that is only too understandable. Martin knows with a painfully abrupt clarity that he's messed this up, in more ways than one, that he shouldn't have done this, that he shouldn't have kept it from John, and that this outcome was both horribly predictable and completely avoidable. Christ, he feels so stupid.

Jacob does let him go on John's command, releasing his coat roughly and taking a healthy step back. It's not entirely clear if he's done so of his own will or if John made him do it, and Martin doesn't entirely care. The moment he's free, he takes a healthy step back of his own, skirting nearer to John. He doesn't move in front of him, though part of him wants to; he doesn't hide behind him either, though an equal part of him wants that. He stands beside him, his hands pulled into fists, staring at Jacob's shoulder with a hard, haunted expression.

"What the fuck," Jacob says softly, inching back a bit more from John. "Y-you can't—I killed you. I made sure." Martin looks at his face just long enough to catch his eyes dart, openly horrified, to the scar on John's neck, and a little of his rage boils back up, and it's hard not to snap at him right there. He can't help twitching a little like he intends to move forward, wanting furiously and ludicrously to throw a punch or something that'll definitely get him killed. He can't move, he can't speak; he shouldn't more or speak. He knows he's done enough.

[statement_ends]

There is some small, distant satisfaction in the terrified look on Jacob's face, the way he steps back in overt alarm. John isn't sure he trusts it to last, so he leans into it, advancing a stiff-legged step. If he can just keep Riggs on edge long enough to get Martin away, that will be enough. For now.

"It didn't take," he says, tipping up his chin to give him a better view of the scar, part of him wanting to be sick over the raw stupidity of baring his neck to this man, context be damned. But you don't show fear, is the thing: you never let the bigger man know you're scared of him. He learned that lesson young, and he clings to it now, his eyes narrowing as he retreats back into that old Head Archivist shell, haughty and cold and in complete control. Riggs won't try the same move twice. He's rattled. They just have to get away.

"Why don't we call it a draw, then?" he asks, though his tone suggests it's not a request. "I won't drag another Statement out of you, and you won't waste my time with something so..." he gestures to his throat and sneers, "pedestrian."

Jacob's throat bobs as he takes another step back, hands lifting, not quite placating, but more defensive than offensive. "S-sure," he says, his gaze darting briefly back to Martin before focusing back on John. "Fine. We're done here."

'We're done here' is not 'we're done,' but John's not about to split hairs. He steps back, gesturing dismissively towards the main thoroughfare, and Riggs slowly edges past them, keeping as much distance between himself and John as the alley allows before hurrying back out onto the sidewalk and heading swiftly away.

John waits until he sees him turn a corner before turning away, himself. The color drains from his face as he retrieves the tape recorder and flicks it off, stuffing it into his pocket. Then he grabs Martin by the arm and hauls him off in the opposite direction, back towards the Archive, making it all of a block and a half before he has to let go. He veers sharply into another alley, one hand pressing against the brickwork as he hunches over, breathing heavily and trying not to be sick.

[loficharm]

Martin is more than a little shocked by John's behavior, his vivid ferocity and apparent lack of fear as he outright displays his neck and even offers a taunt about the attempted murder. He isn't fooled; he knows John is putting this on, like a cat fluffing up, but it's a convincing effort, and he hasn't seen John like this in a very long time. It's upsetting to see it again, for more reasons than one.

At least it seems to work on Jacob, who is eager to make himself scarce. Martin might have allowed himself a bit of frustration over that, except the time for that is far gone. John's hand locks around his arm and before he can form more than a directionless stuttering syllable he's being dragged away like a misbehaving child, which is all too right. He stumbles along without resistance, the full weight of what he's done settling thickly on his shoulders, carrying with it all the belated terror he should have felt before, leaving him a bit faint. When John yanks him into another alley and doubles over, it's a relief only that he can stop for a moment. But there is nothing else about this that inspires anything but dread. Martin stands there staring at John, feeling limp and worthless.

He doesn't know what to say, what he has to offer. An apology feels horrendously insufficient, and that's if John's even willing to hear it. The full impact of his own stupidity hits over and over again, each wave of it bringing new depth. That he thought this was a good idea at all, that he let his anger control him so entirely, that he kept it from everyone, that he kept it from John. That he got caught, that he left like that knowing John would follow and knowing John could find him. That he allowed Jacob to see John, alive, when John had been working so hard to keep himself hidden from the man's dreams. That John had to stand up to the man who cut his throat and defend him for being such a bloody idiot.

His eyes are already stinging from the threat of tears just thinking about all the damage he's done with this, but he bites them back with vicious effort. He will not cry about this, as if he's the one who's been hurt by it.

But he has to say something; someone has to say something. He draws a breath and lets it out, frustratingly shaky. "J-John, I—" he starts.

[statement_ends]

"Don't." John grinds the word out through his teeth, cutting off whatever useless apology or explanation Martin might have had brewing, as if any of that matters now. He wants to round on him, but his legs are shaking badly enough that he only makes it halfway, his back propped against the rough alley wall. His stomach protests the movement, and he stills for several long seconds, hands pressed over his eyes and his lips clamped together as he waits for the nausea to subside.

Once he's certain he can open his mouth without spilling forth anything but words, he lowers his hands and stares at the wall opposite. He can see Martin out of the corner of his eye, but he can't look at him. He doesn't want to see how sorry he is, doesn't want to soften. He can't fucking afford to be soft about this.

"You do realize this is exactly why I didn't fucking tell you his name," he begins, clipped and furious. "Because I knew you would do something ostensibly heroic, but actually abysmally fucking stupid, like, oh," he lifts his hands so he can count off on his fingers, "blowing my cover, getting his attention, introducing yourself as a—a loose end for him to tie up." His tenuous composure fractures under the weight of what might have happened if he hadn't intervened, and his head thuds back against the brickwork as he huffs out a mirthless ghost of a laugh. "Christ, Martin, what the fuck were you thinking? What did you expect to accomplish? Were you going to try and guilt him into turning himself in? Oh — or were you going to kill him? Was that your bloody endgame?"

Jesus Christ. John buries his face in his hands again, slumping a few inches.

[loficharm]

Martin shuts his mouth immediately, the moment John snaps at him, and as the rest of it unravels he just stands there and takes it, staring at the wall just beyond John's curled, shaking body. The sting in his eyes doesn't subside—if anything it gets worse—but he remains steadfast, not letting the tears come, not letting anything show but quiet, grim acceptance. It's been a long time since John shouted at him, and he doesn't think he's ever deserved it quite so much as he does now.

When John demands what he hoped to accomplish, Martin lets his eyes fall shut, tipping his head down a fraction. He has answers, but they aren't worth much now. It's no good to argue that he tried to do this smart, he wanted to keep his distance, when he failed in such a spectacularly thorough manner.

When John finally stops, his head in his hands, Martin waits a few moments more, just listening to him breathe.

"I know," he says at length. "You're right. I—" His voice trembles a little and he swallows thickly, forcing himself to keep steady. "I didn't think. I, I thought I could—I wanted to keep my distance and just—I dunno, find out where he lived, or..." He shakes his head with a little murmured grunt, rakes a hand through his hair and keeps it there. "It doesn't matter. I know it doesn't, I—I know I should've... should've told you, or someone, or I, I should have just listened to you, but I—"

He's rapidly losing the thread of this, as well as his grip on himself. He clenches his jaw briefly, but it's a losing fight, and his voice finally cracks when he says, "I was just so fucking angry, John, he hurt you and I wanted to make him sorry. I wanted to do something, and there isn't anything I can do, except... except make it all worse, I guess." His little huffed exhale might qualify as a humorless laugh if it didn't sound so pathetic. His hand is still fisted tight in his hair as he stares at the ground.

"I'm sorry," he says finally; he doesn't want to, because it still feels so pointless and empty, even moreso now that he's said it aloud. But as soon as it's out, he feels like he can't stop, and his resolve crumples, his shoulders sagging, his hand shifting down to the back of his neck, now clutching like he's holding himself together. "I'm sorry, I—I shouldn't have—I didn't—" His voice finally betrays him, gives out into a sob that he immediately does his best to cover, pressing his hand to his mouth, his shoulders hunching. He feels so miserable and so angry, none of it reserved for Jacob anymore, not when there's so much to be angry at from himself.

"Oh, God," he whispers, muffled against his palm, and he feels like the ground could open up beneath him and swallow him whole, he feels dizzy, like the space around him is contorting itself, like he's drowning in a sudden depth that doesn't make sense. He's shaking and he wishes more than anything he could stop.

[statement_ends]

Christ, this would all be so much easier to bear if Martin didn't understand — if he'd simply been stupid and hadn't known better, or if he'd let his anger overtake him in the heat of the moment instead of coming up with some half-baked plan and sitting on it for fucking weeks. But no, he'd had dozens of opportunities to come clean, or go about it differently, or abandon the whole thing, and he'd taken none of them. And now all those sleepless nights have been relegated to a retroactive waste of time, because Jacob Riggs knows. He knows John is alive, and he knows Martin is too fucking nosy for his own good. And if he decides not to honor their incredibly tenuous suggestion of an arrangement, well. Whatever plan he comes up with, it'll be far more solid and ruthlessly effective than whatever Martin had in mind.

Martin's fumbling explanation draws to a close, and the silence that follows is broken some seconds later by a sharp exhalation pushed out from between John's hands. "No," he says flatly. "You shouldn't have."

He drags his hands down his face before letting them drop, and letting his gaze list over towards Martin. He now looks as if he's about to be sick, and John can't decide if he should feel bad about that, or if he should find grim satisfaction in the fact that they're finally on the same fucking page. But the longer he looks at him, the harder it is to hold onto his anger. It was only a front to begin with, a means of hastily papering over the terror that predominates. And now, it's outlasting its usefulness.

John sighs, then straightens. He still isn't feeling particularly steady, but he wants to put more distance between them and the site of their bloody confrontation more than he wants to stay put until he's fully recovered.

"We'll tell Daisy," he says, because that plan can at least boast some prior discussion. "And figure something out from there."

[loficharm]

John's agreement with his piecemeal assessment impacts not softly, but somehow muffled; it hurts less than expected. Martin has spent so much of his life desperately trying to please others, to please John, to avoid being shouted at, and to avoid creating any trouble for anyone. Now that he's made such a tremendously enormous mistake, it's easier to accept John's blunt disapproval. But it does still hurt, even at a distance.

He almost wants to turn and walk away, to put space between them, but there's no right way to do that. He wants to give John space, imagines John might be furious enough that he wants to be apart from him; but leaving would probably look more like a desire to avoid further confrontation, or worse, a sulk. And he can't leave John alone when he's so vulnerable. And he doesn't think he could even make it the rest of the block before his own knees gave out.

John offers a plan, his voice a little steadier, the plan both comfortingly vague and practical, pulling in someone who can, in fact, protect John if she really needs to. It makes Martin feel a little better, though he thinks maybe it shouldn't. Whether because of the myriad ways it is incomplete or because he simply doesn't deserve that is neither here nor there.

"Yeah," he says with a little nod, his voice very brittle. "Okay."

And then his knees do give out. Not all at once, he doesn't collapse, but as the adrenaline of all that belated terror burns out it leaves his muscles aching and exhausted, and under the weight of overwhelming shame he simply can't hold himself up anymore. He staggers a little, catching himself on the wall behind him, then carefully lowers himself down, just having a sit-down right here, right now. He puts his head in his hands and breathes slowly.

"Fuck," he says quietly, so quietly the only really audible part is the soft click of the -ck. He's silent for a moment, his head still turned down. "I'm so stupid," he murmurs, sounding somehow both very desolate and terribly earnest. He doesn't say this to invite pity or reassuring contradiction. He means it; he knows it's true.

[statement_ends]

John watches as Martin slowly sinks to the ground, his face slack, only his eyes betraying bewilderment, concern, and resignation in quick progression. He wants to just get out of here, but he doesn't want to snap at Martin anymore, and he isn't entirely sure he has the strength to help him get to his feet. And just sitting in the alleyway, absurd as it is, also feels about right.

He sighs quietly, then lowers himself to sit beside Martin, the motions so stiff and weary that he's surprised not to hear himself creak like a piece of old furniture. He settles on the pavement with a bump, only a few inches between them. Close enough that he could give Martin a light jostle with his leg or a nudge with his shoulder, if he had the inclination, or the nerve. Instead, he just sits, and breathes.

"Not your finest hour," he allows, but there's no venom in it. After a moment, he adds, "But I suppose this was... inevitable. He would have realized I was still alive sooner or later." John still would have much preferred an accidentally shared nightmare than Martin shoehorning himself into the mix, but there's no use belaboring the point. It happened, and now they'll just have to deal with it.

[loficharm]

At that, finally, Martin feels a little of the awful weight start to lift. It isn't really a joke, but he huffs out an exhausted echo of a laugh. There's something comforting in the self-deprecation, not hating himself and not forgiving himself either. He's too tired for the former and not sure he'll ever be ready for the latter.

"I'm..." He sighs and scrapes a hand through his hair again before finally sitting up a little straighter and allowing himself to look at the ground near John's foot. That proximity, even without contact, is comforting too. "I'm so sorry, John," he says again, shaking his head even as he says it, knowing it's worthless. He presses a hand to his face again, breathing through his fingers. "We should... we should get you somewhere safe, and... tell Daisy. And I'll... I dunno." He wants to offer to just go home, or hold down the fort at The Archive, hide himself away somewhere, but that instinct is likely questionable and John will certainly question it, no matter how strong a resentment he feels. He doesn't know what else to suggest, so he just sighs, slow and heavy, and thinks about the mechanics of getting up without actually making a move.

[statement_ends]

John hums softly in acknowledgment of the apology, which is about all he can manage. 'I forgive you' feels too formal and too premature; 'it's okay' would be an absurd and blatant lie. But making Martin feel worse holds no appeal at all, so he settles in the middle ground between reassurance and disparagement and hopes it'll be enough.

Martin lays out a slightly more detailed plan of action than his own, and John sighs. They're good, sensible suggestions, and he can't stomach them. Not right this instant. He needs—he wants to compose himself more before he tells Daisy anything; he suspects she'll take some convincing to not just go after Riggs herself, and it'll be that much harder to do if he's suffering a terror-hangover and looking like he might collapse at any moment.

And, selfish and silly as it is, he'd like a few more hours of at least pretending everything isn't awful, before looking over his shoulder becomes a full-time occupation. Whatever Riggs ends up planning — if anything at all — it won't happen tonight, or tomorrow. He'll take his time. He'll want to be sure. John is only a little less safe now than he was this morning, and he doesn't want to hurl himself into bloody witness protection at once.

So he pushes himself to his feet. "Counter-offer: we should go to the nearest establishment with a liquor license and get a drink," he says, bracing one hand against the wall and offering Martin the other. He doesn't think he'll need the additional support of the wall to help pull Martin to his feet, but it won't hurt. "Drinks, plural," he amends, with feeling.

[loficharm]

Martin is surprised by the offer of a hand up, and even more by John's suggestion. The offer is simple courtesy and need not represent more than that, but it still feels unexpected, like a tacit acknowledgment if not forgiveness. And the suggestion makes a certain kind of sense; there's an appeal to be found in self-medicating from the unthinkable situation Martin's just exacerbated so drastically. Both carry the implication that John does not, in fact, want to see the back of him, at least not right now. Quite the opposite.

Martin takes his hand and pulls himself up, pulling back and wrapping his arms around himself, guarding against both the chilly air and how fragile he feels. He nods a bit hurriedly, still not quite able to look John in the eye.

"Yes," he says firmly. "I—yes, that."

[statement_ends]

Martin's surprise is evident, but he agrees quickly enough. John doesn't smile — still too rattled for that — but he nods, and a little tension leaves him. Whatever role Martin's played in worsening the whole situation, John doesn't have it in him to hold a grudge. And getting things right with Martin might at least be achievable. Maybe it's not the drink John wants as much as settling the one aspect of this whole fucking mess that's easiest to sort.

As luck would have it, there's a bar and grill half a block away. It's reasonably bustling at this hour, still early enough for lunch (though their own shared meal in his office feels as if it happened hours ago). A server settles them in a booth, and looks only mildly perturbed when John ignores the lunch menu entirely and orders a whiskey.

[loficharm]

The first three rounds are absolutely miserable. They sit opposite one another and drink in almost complete silence, and Martin begins to feel certain that this is a mistake and he ought to really make himself scarce at the first opportunity. But he keeps drinking, and gradually his shoulders loosen, and John's do as well, and before he fully knows what's happening he's on his fifth... sixth? Some ridiculous number of glasses, and he's resting his head fully on the table.

He's had some small desire to re-open discussion on the matter at hand, but just about the only piece of wherewithal he clings to is the the instinct to avoid that. He need not moan drunkenly into the table about how he just wanted to help and this was all in part because he knew there was a ticking clock and wouldn't it be better to have some control over when it chimed. He can hear all the counter arguments without needing to actually hear them. It's obvious, and they are here to avoid that. At least for now. As long as they can.

So, in keeping with what has become their usual way, he'd begun nattering. And as happens when he's allowed to go on long enough, and especially when he's drunk, he loses track of his own thread so many times that he has no idea how he's gotten to where he is, nor does it much matter.

"And then," he says, having worked quite hard to get to this stage of the conversation without getting sidetracked a thousand different ways, and quite pleased with the inherent drama of it: "She comes out of the loo, right? Only she's. She's a whole tiger."

[statement_ends]

John drinks, at first, with a single-minded purpose, as if getting absolutely wrecked won't happen without his complete and unerring focus. There's nothing remotely enjoyable about it, and he's pretty sure their server is a little bit terrified. The mozzarella sticks that he ordered with their third round out of pity for her sit mostly untouched until round four. By the time Martin's head makes its acquaintance with the table top, both of them considerably more at ease, John's rediscovered their presence. He consumes one by small, steady degrees as Martin spins his tale with rambling inefficiency, looking rather like a slow-motion video of a guinea pig eating a baby carrot.

"Noooo," he opines, eyes narrowing. "How'd she fit her whole tiger self 'n Eliot's loo? Half in the tub?" He gestures vaguely with one hand. Tigers are big, and the WCs in Candlewood are not. "Back half, I s'pose. Hind...quarters."

[loficharm]

Martin lifts his head just enough to squint at John, on some level annoyed he's introduced some confusion to the story, and that he doesn't in fact know the how of it.

"I dunno," he says. "I didn' see. Not polite." He flaps a hand and lowers his head back down. "She jus... made it work, yknow. Very good at that n'all."

He, too, remembers the mozzarella sticks a moment later and sits up a little bit more, though the room immediately punishes him for it by spinning with abandon. "Woo," he says, sitting as still as he can until it levels out. Then he leans over the basket and very primly selects a mozzarella stick like they're unique little cakes rather than pub food. He chews thoughtfully, enjoying the lull, enjoying the peace that accompanies John just listening to him while he goes on. It's nice; but there's still an itch under his skin, and it's hard to focus away from that, so he thinks he better keep talking.

"Was very impressive," he says while he tries to find more to say about it. About Eliot and Daine squaring off, or... how dangerous she could really be if she wanted. He thinks, if only she had been around earlier. How'd Jacob Riggs like to see a whole tiger growling at him? He can't help chuckling stupidly at the image, then quiets, distantly ashamed.

"John," he says, studying the table with intense focus. "M'sorry."

Wait. No. He wasn't going to do this. He's clung so hard to the promise of not doing this that he forgot what it was he wasn't doing, and now it's slipped out. And it doesn't help anything anyway, and he's already said it too much. He rests his elbow on the table and his head in his hand and lets out a long groan, not wanting to leave it there at that same useless apology, not sure where to go.

"I dunno why I—how—" He frowns, momentarily distracted as he tries to figure out where he was headed with this. "I w-wanted to find him," he says finally. "But I wish I didn't do it so stupid. Wish I was better at... at anything. Daisy can—she can protect you, Eliot can do magic, Daine can be a whole tiger. Tim and Melanie and Basira and, and Sasha, they were all brave an' smart but I can't—can't even do esp... espon... spy stuff."

He draws in a long breath and sits up straight, slower, still staring at the table. Now that he's lifted the moratorium he set down, it's like he can't stop. "Back home you always kept stuff from us to, to keep us safe, an' then there was nobody to keep you safe, and I just... I don't want that to happen again." His voice reaches a truly plaintive pitch on the first syllable of happen and he shrinks a little, embarrassed. "But then I just kept it all from you right back and it was the... the same thing. The same thing happened. An' now it's worse, and I..."

That may be as far as he can go without descending into the truly pathetic. He trails off, his gaze still dropping downward until he knocks back the dregs of his drink and finally, nervously, peers over at John.

[statement_ends]

That he hadn't actually watched the transformation take place is a fair point, and John would nod or tip his head in acknowledgment if sudden moves along those lines didn't seem profoundly unwise. Instead he just hums and blinks solemnly as he polishes off his mozzarella stick.

Martin chuckles about something, and John's about to badger him into sharing the joke when Martin falls silent, the mirth slipping off his face and leaving something much worse behind. It's a testament to just how fucking drunk John is that he finds the transformation wholly inexplicable, unable to imagine why he should be unhappy all of a sudden. He was telling a fun story. There are mozzarella sticks. What's gone wrong?

And then Martin apologizes, and John remembers why they started getting drunk to begin with.

Ah. That.

A deep, weary resignation settles over him, his expression crumpling into something faintly stricken as Martin continues on. He doesn't want this — the mood dive, the apologies. He doesn't want Martin to feel this way, like he has something to prove, like he owes it to John or to anyone to hurl himself into harm's way. As if it's just his turn to do something stupid and reckless. As if the risk is equally shared between them, when John has survived a creditable murder attempt and Martin has done no such thing.

Maybe he could make a compelling argument along those lines if he wasn't fucking drunk. "Wh—" he starts, leaning his head into his hand so he can rub at his temple. "No. Martin..." How are sentences made, Jesus Christ. "I didn't want you to... any of that. Tha's not, 's not your thing. I don't need you to be Daisy or Eliot, or—or a tiger, or fight my bloody battles." He's keeling over very slowly as he carries on, a slow sideways slump that continues until his elbow butts against the wall of their booth and arrests his progress. He peers at Martin from this slightly altered vantage point, his free hand idly pawing at the table top as if he might find the conclusion of his stilted paragraph in the grain of the wood.

It isn't there, of course. It isn't anywhere, because his brain isn't right, because he's really very drunk. "I just... need you," he says, having just enough wherewithal to inwardly panic at the prospect of leaving it there, and to hastily add, "to be okay."

[loficharm]

Martin feels awful for dredging all this back up and getting so lost in it, and it's only worse when he sees John's expression shift and watches him start to slump slowly, inexorably sideways. He slumps over a bit himself, mostly forward, but manages to maintain eye contact as John strings a reply together. At first it stings a bit, and he wants to argue. Could be his thing if he tried harder. What good is he if he can't be any of that, when John faces so much?

And then John, having come to rest against the side of the booth, says I just need you and everything stops for a few breathless seconds, and Martin does breathe again when he finishes the thought, but it's no less staggering for the additional fragment.

Because Martin's said those words. He's said that about John, and it felt like too much and it felt terrifying, and then it felt like it no longer mattered. He's never kept it hidden, and he knows it's always been obvious, but. He never thought anyone would turn it around on him. Never thought John would.

But who else? John's who came after him. John's who's pulled him out of the Lonely multiple times, who put himself between Martin and a very angry ghost without even thinking about it, who saw the man who killed him and instead of showing his own earned fear, threatened, said Get your fucking hands off him, which Martin hasn't even had a moment to process. And belatedly, gradually, Martin feels the lingering shame begin to fade. He didn't want to be forgiven and he didn't want to be told it was all right when it wasn't, and this... this is something else entirely. John was angry because he cares about him. Because he needs him to be okay.

It seems very simple, and it seems very obvious, but Martin is very drunk, and it feels overwhelming.

"I," he stammers a bit, and grabs at his empty glass, staring at its lack of contents in brief consternation before looking back at John. "Oh."

There's so much bubbling up in him that for a moment he's terrified it's all going to spill across the table. "Well, I..." he says, but he's not sure what to say, part of him wanting to reiterate the sentiment himself, the rest of him too scared. He ends up pulling back into a soft slouch against his seat, cradling his empty glass against his stomach. He's quiet for a moment, letting the warmth of alcohol and fondness seep into his bones, and then he says, "I'll do a better job of... of being okay. An' if he tries anything again..." he raises his eyes back to John, "we know a tiger."