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

[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."