![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Last Resort // for John
[cw: heavy emotional manipulation/cruelty, self-loathing, and some PTSD symptoms]
23 January, 2020
It is cold out, but not unnaturally so. Martin doesn't think much of it. The sky is still rather dark when he arrives at The Archive. The days are getting longer, but it's a slow lengthening, and he's come in early today. He goes into his office and sets his bag down on his desk, taking the laptop out.
It's in the process of taking an unusually long time to boot up when he realizes that he could hear a pin drop. He lifts his head, a little startled, as though only becoming aware of his surroundings. It is generally quiet in The Archive, but something about this quiet feels a bit wrong. It prickles under his skin. He abandons his blank-screened computer, stepping back out into the main area.
There is no one here, which should not surprise him. It doesn't surprise him, exactly, but there is that same wrong feeling, of something just slightly off that he can't quite place. It's like remembering he's mistyped a word but being unable to find it, or hearing a note in a song that's just slightly off-key.
John must be here. John's always here. He goes to John's office and knocks lightly before opening the door.
Not only is John absent, but the office is starkly empty. The desk is there, the chair and the cot, but all of John's work, the Statements, the files he'd been studying, his personal effects, any sign of the space being at all lived-or-worked-in is just... gone. Martin stands there a moment, uncomprehending, his heart in his throat, when behind him a voice says in a gentle, familiar lilt, "He's not here, Martin."
"Oh, Chr—!" His throat closes in panic before he can finish the startled cry and he turns around so sharply that he unbalances and staggers back against the door frame. There he remains, pressed back against the hard wooden edge, staring at the man whose voice sometimes still bleeds into his dreams, the man who cannot, should not be here.
Peter Lukas smiles blandly, as he does. He's wearing his usual getup, the dull wool suit that isn't quite grey or brown, the dark turtleneck that makes him look like someone's insufferable yacht-owning uncle who obsessively votes Tory. The same unremarkable, unmemorable features, the weirdly hazy outline of him, the white hair and trim beard and ghostly pale skin and muted grey eyes, staring back at him.
He speaks again, as if to confirm his presence: "No one is here, Martin. It's just you."
"You—" The syllable just bursts out of him on a forceful exhale, no thought behind it. Martin swallows hard and tries again: "W-what are you doing here, you—you can't be here."
Peter holds up a hand, his expression mildly pained as it tends to be whenever Martin speaks to him ever, at all. "Relax, Martin," he says, his tone thick with that same old awful false cheeriness. "I'm not actually here. Well, I am. But I'm not really Peter Lukas. You're completely alone, as I said. You just needed someone to talk to. So." He gestures tidily to himself, as if that illuminates anything.
The initial burst of horror starts to dissipate under the unpleasantly familiar obfuscation, leaving Martin feeling hollowed out and a bit sick. His expression darkens. "Well, you're certainly vague enough to be the real Peter," he says.
"Thank you," says Peter brightly.
"So what is this," says Martin, gripping tight to whatever indignation he can muster. "Am I going mad now? Seeing things?"
"No, Martin." Peter strolls toward him a few steps, not close enough to actually invade his space, as he generally tries to avoid, but enough to settle himself more directly between Martin and any kind of escape route. "You're not hallucinating. I'm here. I'm here because you brought me here. You know that, don't you?"
It's infuriating, how very real this feels, how much like Peter Lukas, down to the insistence that he is neither Peter Lukas nor a figment. Martin stares at him, his lips pursed into a tight frown even as understanding dawns, slow and horrible.
"You're the Lonely," he says.
"A piece of it," says Peter with a shrug. "The piece you carry inside you. You've done a lovely job keeping it all at bay, haven't you, Martin? But even you knew it was time for a talk. Being here makes that very difficult. Everything's a bit off. This is a bit literal for my taste, but you know what they say about beggars." He smiles, cold and shark-like. "It was kind of you to arrange for a meeting."
"I didn't—" Martin blurts in frustration. "You're not welcome here. This is John's domain, the Eye's domain, you're not supposed to—"
"Martin." Peter all but tsks at him, and it would set Martin's teeth on edge if he weren't so desperate for answers. "I know you're smarter than this. Do try to keep up. Ask yourself: how did you get here? Why did you come?"
"I—" Martin doesn't understand the question, shakes his head. "I work here."
"Do you?" Peter looks around them, pulling Martin's focus to how barren everything is. "In this empty old building?"
"It... but..." Martin trails off slowly, trying to trace back his morning. He remembers—he thinks he remembers getting up. Feeding The Bishop, heading out for the day. He never really checked the time, and it was rather cold, and rather dark, and no one was around, but that wasn't so odd for a dismal January morning, was it?
"Where am I?" A note of fear crawls back into his voice, his heart pounding faster as he stands up straight. "What have you done with me?"
"I didn't do anything," says Peter, his distaste for the suggestion quite evident. "I'm part of you, Martin. Do you really think the Lonely just reaches over here, worlds apart, to trouble you whenever it has a mind? Do you think, if it could do something like this, it would bother with making pathetic little grabs at you in clear view of your Archivist? Lashing out like that, when at any moment it could just pluck you out of the world like you were never there?"
Martin doesn't answer. Peter sinks a bit closer, his steps slow and oddly muffled on the dry wood flooring.
"I am here," he says, "because you let me in. You did this, Martin. You've always been capable of doing this." He stops, now just on the edge of arm's reach, studying Martin with an awful, prickling intensity. "You just haven't, until now."
Martin knows, deep in the pit of him, that this is true. He knows, and he doesn't want to believe it. He stares at the hazy figure looming over him, now wishing of all things that it really was Peter Lukas and he could blame someone else for this.
"What do you want," he says softly.
"That's not the question." Peter doesn't move, his smile only twitching slightly. "You came here. You brought me here. You needed me, because you aren't strong enough to do this on your own."
Martin stares up at him, his eyes darting back and forth between those unblinking grey ones, his breath shuddering in like he means to speak, only he can't.
Peter draws a slow, ponderous breath and lets it out again. "What are you doing, Martin?" he says, the question so thick with pity and disappointment it makes Martin's skin crawl.
"Wh-what—" is all he manages to get out before Peter takes another step forward, leaning quite close this time, forcing him back against the door frame.
"With John." The words come out in a brittle hiss, a cruel edge to Peter's voice that Martin's never heard. "What do you think is going to come of this? How long do you think he'll put up with you? Clinging onto him like a desperate little remora. It's such a bitter shame that you put so much energy into preserving our good work, only to throw it all away on something that isn't even going to last."
He doesn't even sound like Peter anymore. Martin's breath judders to a halt as he realizes the voice has changed, deepened, the accent grown more slanted and sharp, the eyes peering into him now black and bright and clear. The edges of Peter resolving into something clearer, someone else. Elias is shorter than Peter, but no less daunting, in fact moreso for how unconcerned he is about pressing closer into Martin's space. He's so close Martin can feel the impossible breath on his skin, the words themselves prickling over him.
"You let this place make you so weak," says Elias with contempt. "Let yourself forget who you really are. What little you really have to offer."
"I—" Martin swallows, his throat cracked and dry even as the threat of tears starts to sting his eyes. "I don't—"
"Of course you do, Martin," Elias snaps, a hand bracing hard against his chest, and for a moment the hard wood edge of the threshold to John's office feels different, coarse and uneven, like the bark of a tree. Martin's breath shudders out of him in a terrified burst, but it isn't Jacob Riggs holding him, and Elias lets him go a moment later, straightening up with recovered composure.
"You know exactly what I mean," he says, his voice softening, the accent growing once again sloped with those familiar rounded edges. "You know it because it's in you. It has always been in you. Like an itch under your skin, a constant presence your whole entire life. When will they realize? When will they know? When will John, like the rest of them, learn the truth about you?"
Peter takes a step back, recovering the bit of distance Elias had closed, but it makes Martin feel no freer as his breath hitches in a half-formed sob, tears starting to spill down his cheeks, feeling unusually hot against his skin.
There is a long, awful hesitation, like Peter is waiting for Martin to fill in the rest of the thought on his own, but eventually he leans back down, not close, but in an almost paternal way that is even worse than Elias' more predatory scrutiny. "That you are boring," Peter finishes, the words coming out on a soft breath.
Martin shuts his eyes tight but the tears don't stop, and he feels like the whole world is stretching out around him, like he is very small, and it is just waiting to swallow him whole.
"Stop it," he whispers.
"You've always known it," Peter persists, still soft, almost gentle. "That's why people grow tired of you. It's why no one ever chooses you. It's why no one loves you. Sooner or later, one way or another, John is going to realize it too, that all he really has in common with you is a few years of shared misery. He will grow tired of you, Martin, and he won't want you. He'll try not to hurt you, but he will."
"Stop—" Martin's voice gives out, leaving him to shudder with breathless, silent sobs. Cold fingers touch his chin, and Martin's eyes snap open, his vision wet and blurred enough that he almost convinces himself he sees Riggs again, crouching over him in that dark bunker. But it's only Peter, the touch light and impersonal to the point of being reluctant, its only purpose to draw Martin's attention.
"I don't blame you for trying to hide from this," says Peter with awful magnanimity. "I understand needing to bring forth someone else to tell you what you couldn't tell yourself. But it is time you faced it, Martin. That is why you brought me here. It's time you let this sorry facade end. Spare yourself the heartache now, before he has the chance to hurt you. Or before this place sends you back. Because it will happen, one day. You know that, too. Sever it yourself, Martin. On your terms."
Martin hates this, staring up at Peter and openly weeping, unable to stop himself, unable to look away. Unable to deny any of this, because it's all true, all of it pulled from the deepest recesses of him, where he'd tucked it away in hopes of never really facing it. But it was there. It has always been there.
He draws a breath, shaky and uneven, and Peter smiles a fond smile, drops his hand and straightens up.
"No," says Martin.
Peter hesitates, his kindly expression freezing before it fades into something bewildered and cold. "I'm sorry?"
"No." His breath is still uneven, coming in almost like a gasp, but he remains steadfast, his hands curling into fists. "I think you're wrong. I trust John, and—e-even if he does reject me, even if he breaks my heart—" he can't quite tamp down a sob at the mere thought of it, the fear he knows is irrational which nonetheless has haunted him quietly until now, "—then at least it'll be mine. It'll be because of a choice I made. Not you. Not Elias. Not my dad leaving me or my mum deciding she hated him more than she cared about me." He sucks in another hard breath, feeling so unsteady that he might faint, and somehow he manages to stay upright. "I'm not leaving him. I don't care what happens. You can do whatever you want to me, but you will never change my mind about that, because I, I promised him, I will never hurt him again. I love him."
Words die in his throat and a shiver runs through him, struck momentarily silent by what he's just said, something he's held onto for almost as long as he's known John, something that slipped out now so easily he didn't even have to think about it. Peter's expression has shifted so mildly it's nearly imperceptible, but Martin thinks he can just make out the twist of a sneer.
"I- I love him," Martin says again, like he needs to hear himself say it to really trust it, and he raises a hand to scrub his sleeve across his tear-stained face. With certainty only growing stronger under the incredible pressure of Peter's stare, his voice coming out in a fierce little growl: "I love him, and there is nothing you can do about it."
Peter is still for a moment, allowing the dramatic intent of Martin's outburst to settle like dust on the floor, vanishing into the heavy silence, losing its power almost immediately. Martin is left with only the sound of his own labored breathing, until finally Peter sighs and clasps his hands before him.
"Well," he says briskly. "Very touching, I'm sure. I suppose you'll want to run off and tell him this little revelation of yours, hm?"
Martin hesitates, his brow furrowing, not sure where exactly this is leading but unable to shake the leaden sense that it is nowhere good.
"That is if, however," says Peter, his slow, sinuous smile returning, "you can find him."
Martin jolts upright, pulling away from the door frame where he's been pinned so long, staggering toward Peter on shaky limbs. "Don't you dare touch him," he snarls, the abruptness of his own rage surprising him somewhat.
Unfazed by the outburst, Peter simply looks down at him. "I can't," he says, charmed and amused. "You ought to know that by now, Martin. I can't touch your precious Archivist, not here. But have you forgotten so easily where you are?" He gestures loosely to the surrounding Archive, empty and dark, like the ghost of the building Martin knows. "And as you should know better than anyone, Martin..." he lowers his hand to cup Martin's cheek, a gesture he makes with some displeasure, which Martin can't quite pull himself away from, "it is so much easier to fall into this place than it is to climb out."
He takes his hand away, leaving Martin with the faintest impression of lingering contact, the sense memory strangely heightened. Peter steps back a few paces, looking around the room with a theatrically wistful sigh. "But good luck to you," he says. "And not to worry, Martin. I'll be waiting if you should tire."
He vanishes in the space of an eyeblink, and a cough expels itself violently from Martin's chest, like he'd been holding onto it without knowing. His knees buckle and he collapses to the floor, shivering and gripping onto himself, the damp on his sleeve where he'd rubbed at his eyes starting to freeze his skin. Christ, he's so cold, how did he only just notice?
It doesn't matter. He forces himself back up. He picks his way to the door and pushes it open, fumbling his keys out of his pocket to lock it behind him, which feels foolish, a pointless protection against this empty world, but the habit is somewhat comforting, at least. He doesn't go back for his things, because he realizes now he never had them in the first place. He left his flat like this, walked across town in the dead of night like he was in some kind of bloody trance, all to confront this piece of himself.
Well, that's if the Lonely's version of events is to be believed, and he doubts very much that this meeting was entirely cooked up by his own damn subconscious. It would not surprise him one bit if the Lonely hadn't been waiting for an opportunity like this, biding its time and building its strength, to catch him in a moment of weakness, like those all-too-frequent occasions where he startles awake in the small hours of the morning, full of dread and bitter self-doubt.
Which doesn't really remove his fault in the proceedings, the fact that he let it in, let it invade The Archive again and let himself slip into this empty shadow of the city. It only means there is more than his own weakness holding him here.
It doesn't matter. He wraps his arms around himself, a fragile shield against the cold, and pushes his way down the barren sidewalk toward the Bramford. He has to find John. John can pull him out; he's done it before. It's never been this bad before, never to the point where the entire world has changed, like he's slipped into a parallel dimension where everything is empty. Maybe he has. But if anyone can find him here, it has to be John.
He keeps moving almost on instinct, barely aware of himself, barely aware of anything but the desperation to keep moving, to reach the Bramford, to get there even if it kills him.
When he eventually does reach the building he's so terribly cold he can barely feel his hands anymore, and the building itself looks all wrong. The windows dark and shuttered, the lights all out. Like no one has lived here for years. He tries the door but it doesn't open, he pounds on it but no one comes, he braces his hands against the glass and gasps as exhaustion grips him, as the desire to just sit down and give up rises steadily.
Something brushes against his periphery, and he looks up, startled, to see the clear, startlingly solid face of a woman, pale and curtained by long, almost luminescent curls. She seems much taller than him, until he realizes she's floating several inches off the floor, peering down at him from inside the door with compassionate eyes and a worried frown.
He knows this woman. He has never seen her quite so clearly, but she has let him in once before.
"Edith?" he breathes softly, fogging the glass. "Edith, I—I need help."
She gazes at him, and the door clicks open, allowing him to stagger inside, where he collapses at once. It is no warmer here, no lighter. He coughs again, violent and painful, and he can feel the weight of helplessness bearing down upon his shoulders. But Edith remains, hovering over him. She bends down and touches his shoulder, reaching through all that darkness, and he feels it, if only barely.
Martin pushes himself up again, propelling himself into the lobby and down the hall, half-dragging himself along with his hands gripping the chilly walls. He moves slowly, every step agonizingly difficult, until he finally reaches John's door. He tries to open it, and it doesn't budge an inch. Again, he tries to knock, but he can't even hear the sound of his own fist.
"I can't..." Helpless, frantic, he looks back to see Edith still there, still hovering beside him. "Can you...?"
She looks at the door, then at him. She doesn't speak, but there is something very tired in her expression as he reaches out to it and tries. She did it before, he remembers that; she let him in the night John was murdered. But that had been Halloween, hadn't it? Ghosts seemed to be far more tangible than usual. Perhaps it had already taken a great deal to get him this far. Perhaps this is as far as she can go.
The door does not open, but she does manage to rattle the knob, and this time Martin can hear it, a faint and distant sound, as oddly muffled as everything else here—but it is audible. Martin rests his head upon the door, his palms braced against it, barely holding himself up now.
"John," he says softly and with no hope of being heard. "Please."
23 January, 2020
It is cold out, but not unnaturally so. Martin doesn't think much of it. The sky is still rather dark when he arrives at The Archive. The days are getting longer, but it's a slow lengthening, and he's come in early today. He goes into his office and sets his bag down on his desk, taking the laptop out.
It's in the process of taking an unusually long time to boot up when he realizes that he could hear a pin drop. He lifts his head, a little startled, as though only becoming aware of his surroundings. It is generally quiet in The Archive, but something about this quiet feels a bit wrong. It prickles under his skin. He abandons his blank-screened computer, stepping back out into the main area.
There is no one here, which should not surprise him. It doesn't surprise him, exactly, but there is that same wrong feeling, of something just slightly off that he can't quite place. It's like remembering he's mistyped a word but being unable to find it, or hearing a note in a song that's just slightly off-key.
John must be here. John's always here. He goes to John's office and knocks lightly before opening the door.
Not only is John absent, but the office is starkly empty. The desk is there, the chair and the cot, but all of John's work, the Statements, the files he'd been studying, his personal effects, any sign of the space being at all lived-or-worked-in is just... gone. Martin stands there a moment, uncomprehending, his heart in his throat, when behind him a voice says in a gentle, familiar lilt, "He's not here, Martin."
"Oh, Chr—!" His throat closes in panic before he can finish the startled cry and he turns around so sharply that he unbalances and staggers back against the door frame. There he remains, pressed back against the hard wooden edge, staring at the man whose voice sometimes still bleeds into his dreams, the man who cannot, should not be here.
Peter Lukas smiles blandly, as he does. He's wearing his usual getup, the dull wool suit that isn't quite grey or brown, the dark turtleneck that makes him look like someone's insufferable yacht-owning uncle who obsessively votes Tory. The same unremarkable, unmemorable features, the weirdly hazy outline of him, the white hair and trim beard and ghostly pale skin and muted grey eyes, staring back at him.
He speaks again, as if to confirm his presence: "No one is here, Martin. It's just you."
"You—" The syllable just bursts out of him on a forceful exhale, no thought behind it. Martin swallows hard and tries again: "W-what are you doing here, you—you can't be here."
Peter holds up a hand, his expression mildly pained as it tends to be whenever Martin speaks to him ever, at all. "Relax, Martin," he says, his tone thick with that same old awful false cheeriness. "I'm not actually here. Well, I am. But I'm not really Peter Lukas. You're completely alone, as I said. You just needed someone to talk to. So." He gestures tidily to himself, as if that illuminates anything.
The initial burst of horror starts to dissipate under the unpleasantly familiar obfuscation, leaving Martin feeling hollowed out and a bit sick. His expression darkens. "Well, you're certainly vague enough to be the real Peter," he says.
"Thank you," says Peter brightly.
"So what is this," says Martin, gripping tight to whatever indignation he can muster. "Am I going mad now? Seeing things?"
"No, Martin." Peter strolls toward him a few steps, not close enough to actually invade his space, as he generally tries to avoid, but enough to settle himself more directly between Martin and any kind of escape route. "You're not hallucinating. I'm here. I'm here because you brought me here. You know that, don't you?"
It's infuriating, how very real this feels, how much like Peter Lukas, down to the insistence that he is neither Peter Lukas nor a figment. Martin stares at him, his lips pursed into a tight frown even as understanding dawns, slow and horrible.
"You're the Lonely," he says.
"A piece of it," says Peter with a shrug. "The piece you carry inside you. You've done a lovely job keeping it all at bay, haven't you, Martin? But even you knew it was time for a talk. Being here makes that very difficult. Everything's a bit off. This is a bit literal for my taste, but you know what they say about beggars." He smiles, cold and shark-like. "It was kind of you to arrange for a meeting."
"I didn't—" Martin blurts in frustration. "You're not welcome here. This is John's domain, the Eye's domain, you're not supposed to—"
"Martin." Peter all but tsks at him, and it would set Martin's teeth on edge if he weren't so desperate for answers. "I know you're smarter than this. Do try to keep up. Ask yourself: how did you get here? Why did you come?"
"I—" Martin doesn't understand the question, shakes his head. "I work here."
"Do you?" Peter looks around them, pulling Martin's focus to how barren everything is. "In this empty old building?"
"It... but..." Martin trails off slowly, trying to trace back his morning. He remembers—he thinks he remembers getting up. Feeding The Bishop, heading out for the day. He never really checked the time, and it was rather cold, and rather dark, and no one was around, but that wasn't so odd for a dismal January morning, was it?
"Where am I?" A note of fear crawls back into his voice, his heart pounding faster as he stands up straight. "What have you done with me?"
"I didn't do anything," says Peter, his distaste for the suggestion quite evident. "I'm part of you, Martin. Do you really think the Lonely just reaches over here, worlds apart, to trouble you whenever it has a mind? Do you think, if it could do something like this, it would bother with making pathetic little grabs at you in clear view of your Archivist? Lashing out like that, when at any moment it could just pluck you out of the world like you were never there?"
Martin doesn't answer. Peter sinks a bit closer, his steps slow and oddly muffled on the dry wood flooring.
"I am here," he says, "because you let me in. You did this, Martin. You've always been capable of doing this." He stops, now just on the edge of arm's reach, studying Martin with an awful, prickling intensity. "You just haven't, until now."
Martin knows, deep in the pit of him, that this is true. He knows, and he doesn't want to believe it. He stares at the hazy figure looming over him, now wishing of all things that it really was Peter Lukas and he could blame someone else for this.
"What do you want," he says softly.
"That's not the question." Peter doesn't move, his smile only twitching slightly. "You came here. You brought me here. You needed me, because you aren't strong enough to do this on your own."
Martin stares up at him, his eyes darting back and forth between those unblinking grey ones, his breath shuddering in like he means to speak, only he can't.
Peter draws a slow, ponderous breath and lets it out again. "What are you doing, Martin?" he says, the question so thick with pity and disappointment it makes Martin's skin crawl.
"Wh-what—" is all he manages to get out before Peter takes another step forward, leaning quite close this time, forcing him back against the door frame.
"With John." The words come out in a brittle hiss, a cruel edge to Peter's voice that Martin's never heard. "What do you think is going to come of this? How long do you think he'll put up with you? Clinging onto him like a desperate little remora. It's such a bitter shame that you put so much energy into preserving our good work, only to throw it all away on something that isn't even going to last."
He doesn't even sound like Peter anymore. Martin's breath judders to a halt as he realizes the voice has changed, deepened, the accent grown more slanted and sharp, the eyes peering into him now black and bright and clear. The edges of Peter resolving into something clearer, someone else. Elias is shorter than Peter, but no less daunting, in fact moreso for how unconcerned he is about pressing closer into Martin's space. He's so close Martin can feel the impossible breath on his skin, the words themselves prickling over him.
"You let this place make you so weak," says Elias with contempt. "Let yourself forget who you really are. What little you really have to offer."
"I—" Martin swallows, his throat cracked and dry even as the threat of tears starts to sting his eyes. "I don't—"
"Of course you do, Martin," Elias snaps, a hand bracing hard against his chest, and for a moment the hard wood edge of the threshold to John's office feels different, coarse and uneven, like the bark of a tree. Martin's breath shudders out of him in a terrified burst, but it isn't Jacob Riggs holding him, and Elias lets him go a moment later, straightening up with recovered composure.
"You know exactly what I mean," he says, his voice softening, the accent growing once again sloped with those familiar rounded edges. "You know it because it's in you. It has always been in you. Like an itch under your skin, a constant presence your whole entire life. When will they realize? When will they know? When will John, like the rest of them, learn the truth about you?"
Peter takes a step back, recovering the bit of distance Elias had closed, but it makes Martin feel no freer as his breath hitches in a half-formed sob, tears starting to spill down his cheeks, feeling unusually hot against his skin.
There is a long, awful hesitation, like Peter is waiting for Martin to fill in the rest of the thought on his own, but eventually he leans back down, not close, but in an almost paternal way that is even worse than Elias' more predatory scrutiny. "That you are boring," Peter finishes, the words coming out on a soft breath.
Martin shuts his eyes tight but the tears don't stop, and he feels like the whole world is stretching out around him, like he is very small, and it is just waiting to swallow him whole.
"Stop it," he whispers.
"You've always known it," Peter persists, still soft, almost gentle. "That's why people grow tired of you. It's why no one ever chooses you. It's why no one loves you. Sooner or later, one way or another, John is going to realize it too, that all he really has in common with you is a few years of shared misery. He will grow tired of you, Martin, and he won't want you. He'll try not to hurt you, but he will."
"Stop—" Martin's voice gives out, leaving him to shudder with breathless, silent sobs. Cold fingers touch his chin, and Martin's eyes snap open, his vision wet and blurred enough that he almost convinces himself he sees Riggs again, crouching over him in that dark bunker. But it's only Peter, the touch light and impersonal to the point of being reluctant, its only purpose to draw Martin's attention.
"I don't blame you for trying to hide from this," says Peter with awful magnanimity. "I understand needing to bring forth someone else to tell you what you couldn't tell yourself. But it is time you faced it, Martin. That is why you brought me here. It's time you let this sorry facade end. Spare yourself the heartache now, before he has the chance to hurt you. Or before this place sends you back. Because it will happen, one day. You know that, too. Sever it yourself, Martin. On your terms."
Martin hates this, staring up at Peter and openly weeping, unable to stop himself, unable to look away. Unable to deny any of this, because it's all true, all of it pulled from the deepest recesses of him, where he'd tucked it away in hopes of never really facing it. But it was there. It has always been there.
He draws a breath, shaky and uneven, and Peter smiles a fond smile, drops his hand and straightens up.
"No," says Martin.
Peter hesitates, his kindly expression freezing before it fades into something bewildered and cold. "I'm sorry?"
"No." His breath is still uneven, coming in almost like a gasp, but he remains steadfast, his hands curling into fists. "I think you're wrong. I trust John, and—e-even if he does reject me, even if he breaks my heart—" he can't quite tamp down a sob at the mere thought of it, the fear he knows is irrational which nonetheless has haunted him quietly until now, "—then at least it'll be mine. It'll be because of a choice I made. Not you. Not Elias. Not my dad leaving me or my mum deciding she hated him more than she cared about me." He sucks in another hard breath, feeling so unsteady that he might faint, and somehow he manages to stay upright. "I'm not leaving him. I don't care what happens. You can do whatever you want to me, but you will never change my mind about that, because I, I promised him, I will never hurt him again. I love him."
Words die in his throat and a shiver runs through him, struck momentarily silent by what he's just said, something he's held onto for almost as long as he's known John, something that slipped out now so easily he didn't even have to think about it. Peter's expression has shifted so mildly it's nearly imperceptible, but Martin thinks he can just make out the twist of a sneer.
"I- I love him," Martin says again, like he needs to hear himself say it to really trust it, and he raises a hand to scrub his sleeve across his tear-stained face. With certainty only growing stronger under the incredible pressure of Peter's stare, his voice coming out in a fierce little growl: "I love him, and there is nothing you can do about it."
Peter is still for a moment, allowing the dramatic intent of Martin's outburst to settle like dust on the floor, vanishing into the heavy silence, losing its power almost immediately. Martin is left with only the sound of his own labored breathing, until finally Peter sighs and clasps his hands before him.
"Well," he says briskly. "Very touching, I'm sure. I suppose you'll want to run off and tell him this little revelation of yours, hm?"
Martin hesitates, his brow furrowing, not sure where exactly this is leading but unable to shake the leaden sense that it is nowhere good.
"That is if, however," says Peter, his slow, sinuous smile returning, "you can find him."
Martin jolts upright, pulling away from the door frame where he's been pinned so long, staggering toward Peter on shaky limbs. "Don't you dare touch him," he snarls, the abruptness of his own rage surprising him somewhat.
Unfazed by the outburst, Peter simply looks down at him. "I can't," he says, charmed and amused. "You ought to know that by now, Martin. I can't touch your precious Archivist, not here. But have you forgotten so easily where you are?" He gestures loosely to the surrounding Archive, empty and dark, like the ghost of the building Martin knows. "And as you should know better than anyone, Martin..." he lowers his hand to cup Martin's cheek, a gesture he makes with some displeasure, which Martin can't quite pull himself away from, "it is so much easier to fall into this place than it is to climb out."
He takes his hand away, leaving Martin with the faintest impression of lingering contact, the sense memory strangely heightened. Peter steps back a few paces, looking around the room with a theatrically wistful sigh. "But good luck to you," he says. "And not to worry, Martin. I'll be waiting if you should tire."
He vanishes in the space of an eyeblink, and a cough expels itself violently from Martin's chest, like he'd been holding onto it without knowing. His knees buckle and he collapses to the floor, shivering and gripping onto himself, the damp on his sleeve where he'd rubbed at his eyes starting to freeze his skin. Christ, he's so cold, how did he only just notice?
It doesn't matter. He forces himself back up. He picks his way to the door and pushes it open, fumbling his keys out of his pocket to lock it behind him, which feels foolish, a pointless protection against this empty world, but the habit is somewhat comforting, at least. He doesn't go back for his things, because he realizes now he never had them in the first place. He left his flat like this, walked across town in the dead of night like he was in some kind of bloody trance, all to confront this piece of himself.
Well, that's if the Lonely's version of events is to be believed, and he doubts very much that this meeting was entirely cooked up by his own damn subconscious. It would not surprise him one bit if the Lonely hadn't been waiting for an opportunity like this, biding its time and building its strength, to catch him in a moment of weakness, like those all-too-frequent occasions where he startles awake in the small hours of the morning, full of dread and bitter self-doubt.
Which doesn't really remove his fault in the proceedings, the fact that he let it in, let it invade The Archive again and let himself slip into this empty shadow of the city. It only means there is more than his own weakness holding him here.
It doesn't matter. He wraps his arms around himself, a fragile shield against the cold, and pushes his way down the barren sidewalk toward the Bramford. He has to find John. John can pull him out; he's done it before. It's never been this bad before, never to the point where the entire world has changed, like he's slipped into a parallel dimension where everything is empty. Maybe he has. But if anyone can find him here, it has to be John.
He keeps moving almost on instinct, barely aware of himself, barely aware of anything but the desperation to keep moving, to reach the Bramford, to get there even if it kills him.
When he eventually does reach the building he's so terribly cold he can barely feel his hands anymore, and the building itself looks all wrong. The windows dark and shuttered, the lights all out. Like no one has lived here for years. He tries the door but it doesn't open, he pounds on it but no one comes, he braces his hands against the glass and gasps as exhaustion grips him, as the desire to just sit down and give up rises steadily.
Something brushes against his periphery, and he looks up, startled, to see the clear, startlingly solid face of a woman, pale and curtained by long, almost luminescent curls. She seems much taller than him, until he realizes she's floating several inches off the floor, peering down at him from inside the door with compassionate eyes and a worried frown.
He knows this woman. He has never seen her quite so clearly, but she has let him in once before.
"Edith?" he breathes softly, fogging the glass. "Edith, I—I need help."
She gazes at him, and the door clicks open, allowing him to stagger inside, where he collapses at once. It is no warmer here, no lighter. He coughs again, violent and painful, and he can feel the weight of helplessness bearing down upon his shoulders. But Edith remains, hovering over him. She bends down and touches his shoulder, reaching through all that darkness, and he feels it, if only barely.
Martin pushes himself up again, propelling himself into the lobby and down the hall, half-dragging himself along with his hands gripping the chilly walls. He moves slowly, every step agonizingly difficult, until he finally reaches John's door. He tries to open it, and it doesn't budge an inch. Again, he tries to knock, but he can't even hear the sound of his own fist.
"I can't..." Helpless, frantic, he looks back to see Edith still there, still hovering beside him. "Can you...?"
She looks at the door, then at him. She doesn't speak, but there is something very tired in her expression as he reaches out to it and tries. She did it before, he remembers that; she let him in the night John was murdered. But that had been Halloween, hadn't it? Ghosts seemed to be far more tangible than usual. Perhaps it had already taken a great deal to get him this far. Perhaps this is as far as she can go.
The door does not open, but she does manage to rattle the knob, and this time Martin can hear it, a faint and distant sound, as oddly muffled as everything else here—but it is audible. Martin rests his head upon the door, his palms braced against it, barely holding himself up now.
"John," he says softly and with no hope of being heard. "Please."
no subject
The exact hour when this occurs tends to fluctuate, and he's found that there's something rather nice about drawing out the process. He ends up showering a little after four, and then just pulling on a comfortably loose pair of joggers and a fleece bathrobe while he putters around in the kitchen, moving in the vague, unhurried direction of tea and breakfast.
He's just finished the washing-up when the doorknob rattles.
John steps back away from the counter until the door is within his sightline, his brows drawn together as he peers at it. The knob doesn't move, and he almost wonders for a moment if he's imagined it. But he's too awake, too lucid for 'auditory hallucination' to be the most natural explanation, and after a brief hesitation, he makes his way over to the door and peers out through the peephole.
The hallway outside appears to be empty. John's frown deepens. Suspicion and fear are habitual responses, quick to present themselves, but they grate against curiosity, the lack of any clear threat, and the knowledge that the most dangerous enemy he's personally faced here has been in the ground for weeks. And while it's still quite early — about half past five — it's not too early for any of his neighbors to be about. Maybe someone just rattled the knob in passing or something.
Or maybe someone needs help.
The thought barely has time to coalesce before John's already half-dismissed it as very unlikely, but the off chance is just high enough that he ends up undoing the several locks and latches (part of Daisy's efforts to shore the place up) and easing the door open.
The hall is still empty. He looks down at the floor, checking to see if the landlord has left a newsletter or anything, but there's nothing. He pokes his head out, looking up and down the hallway for any sign of who might have been responsible... and then something pale flickers out of the corner of his eye, and he flinches so dramatically that he nearly bangs his head on the door frame.
"Christ!" he hisses, stepping back into his flat with his hand braced on the door. "I... Edith?"
Nothing.
John shivers, then shuts the door and swiftly does up the latches. Something still feels off, though, hairs prickling on the back of his neck, and John turns to survey his own flat as if it's a crime scene. What's changed? What's wrong?
"Where are you?" he mutters without thought.
no subject
There is no one there. He blinks at the impossibility of it, but nothing resolves into place. The flat beyond is bare and dim, and his heart sinks.
"John? Martin steps forward, groping his way into the dark space, but nothing answers him. The flat is more than empty; it is abandoned. No furniture, none of John's things, no sign of anyone. Like everything else, like The Archive and the streets and the Bramford's exterior, it looks like this place hasn't been inhabited in years.
He looks back at Edith. She has come inside as well, but she remains by the door, looking at him. The door, Martin notices, is now shut.
Christ. Martin takes a faltering step toward it, staring at the aged, rusted latches. He realizes with a sickening jolt that it must have been John who opened the door, and John who shut it again, only Martin can't see him, can no longer reach the Darrow that lies just beneath the surface of his wasteland prison.
"Is he...?" He looks to Edith, who only stares, her expression still concerned and sympathetic, but silent as ever. He turns away and moves through the flat, searching, trying to catch a hint of movement, to listen for a voice, even just for a feeling. Nothing comes.
He comes back out into the entryway, where Edith still waits. At the very least, she doesn't seem to have any notion of leaving him. A distant part of him is so grateful to her for that he might weep, were his mind not so set elsewhere.
"I can't find him," he says softly, his voice breaking a little. "I can't—is he here? Can you reach him?"
Edith pauses for a moment, then drifts past him toward the kitchen. Martin turns to watch her, sees her stop and focus for a long moment on a cup sat out on the counter. Martin hadn't even seen that a moment ago, as though Edith's attention upon it is what brought it into focus.
He watches, holding his breath, as she stares at it, reaches out, not quite touching it.
The cup moves, scraping along the counter, but barely even an inch. Edith drops her hand, looking, again, very tired.
no subject
At the edge of the counter, a tape recorder that wasn't there before turns on with a quiet click. John stares at it for several long seconds, then pulls in a breath and turns back towards the entryway.
"Edith?" he hazards again. Above the ambient spooling of the tape, the sound of a cup scraping across his counter rings out like a firecracker. John starts, then walks slowly over to the counter, reaching out a hand and lightly touching the mug's handle, rotating it a few experimental degrees. He half-expects some sort of response to that, but nothing happens, and he draws back his hand with a puzzled huff.
Well. Whatever or whoever this is, they're clearly trying to get his attention, and they've succeeded.
"All right," he mutters, eyes narrowing and the recorder hissing faintly as he begins to Look. Again, he Sees a pale flicker, like light reflecting off the surface of a pool. But there's something else there, too, beyond it: something hazy that keeps trying to fade, like an after-image between blinking. Trying to focus on it is like trying to recover a bar of soap you've dropped in the bath, and the Compulsion slips out of him before he can stop it: "Let me See you."
no subject
The world is growing quiet and dark. Edith is still there, but he wonders how much longer that will last. Even if she could speak to him, it wouldn't do any good. Martin can barely hear his own breath anymore, can barely see the mist of every exhale. He is so cold, and so very tired. He knows, somewhere deep inside himself, that he is starting to disappear.
And then there is a voice. It is so loud against the silence that it feels like it should shatter the windows, that it barely sounds like a voice at all. It cuts through the stillness like a spear, and it grips him with a violence he could not have expected, trying to drag him forcibly into the open.
Let me See you.
His instinctive reaction is fear. A familiar impulse, to lash out against the command, the horror of being beheld. The Lonely trades on such things, has tried to use that to drive him from John, and those instincts are stronger here. The very world seems to shudder; the grey light dimming, an awful wind picking up around him, overwhelming him with the bitter cold and the smell of damp and the taste of salt. The Lonely resists, and it doesn't seem to matter how much it hurts, worse than the Compulsion itself. It clings to him, pressing down upon him with thickening fog, enfolding him in nothingness, secreting him away.
But he does not want to be hidden.
"John," he cries, his voice swallowed up in the emptiness, making no sound. He can barely move, but he tries. "John!"
Beside him, Edith watches, and Martin can just catch a glimpse of horror on her face. He doesn't know what this must look like to her, these unseen forces grappling with him, but he thinks his own fear and pain must be clear enough. She reaches out to him, reaches for his hand, and he struggles to take it.
no subject
John reaches back with a hiss that might be his own sharp inhalation, or might be coming from the tape recorder, and his fingers close around a frigid protestation of mist that slowly, begrudgingly solidifies into a cold but corporeal hand, and John pulls—
—and Martin collides with his chest, heavy enough that John staggers, cold enough that he has to bully past the instinctive desire to flinch away before he can wrap his arms around him.
"Christ," he gasps out, pulling him close. "Jesus Christ, Martin."
no subject
John's hand—he'd know those hands anywhere—latches onto his and pulls, and all at once Martin comes free, bursting out of the Lonely and back into the world, the brightness and texture and warmth of it all nearly overwhelming. He pitches against John's chest, and John's arms around him are not enough to stop the inexorable drop down as his strength finally gives out. He doesn't need it anymore. John's got him. He's safe.
So he collapses, dragging John down with him, shivering violently as he goes.
"J-John," he stammers, breathless and quiet. "I'm, I'm here. I made it."
It isn't a reassurance, but a pronouncement, a desperate plea for certainty that he is here, being seen and held. As long as John's arms are around him, he knows he isn't gone, and even as he starts to go limp with exhaustion, he struggles to hold him back, his fingers clutching weakly at the soft fabric of John's robe.
"I..." he murmurs, his voice very faint as consciousness starts to fade in and out. He is safe and there is no longer any urgency, but he still tries to speak, to give John the message he needs to deliver: "John, I—"
He can't quite make it. His voice gives out and the need slips away, leaving him quiet and content. He lets his eyes fall shut and allows himself to just breathe, slow and deep.
no subject
Or some version of the city, anyway.
"You did," John says, shoving aside the questions that clamor to be asked in favor of the reassurances he thinks Martin needs. He gingerly moves his hand away from Martin's ear, sinking his fingers into his hair and anchoring his palm against the back of Martin's head. "I—I've got you."
Martin murmurs his name, quiet but urgent in a way that draws his attention. He doesn't know what he's anticipating — a warning, maybe, not because it seems likely but because it seems typical — but he all but stops breathing as he strains to hear what follows.
And he does, sort of. Martin exhales, leaning more heavily against him as his shivers diminish, and he doesn't breathe another word. But John still hears it, the words dropping into his head as if he absorbed the truth via simple osmosis: I love you. In Martin's voice, as if he'd spoken aloud, though John knows he didn't. I love you.
John pulls in a breath, then chokes a little on the exhale. He can't respond to it, not when Martin didn't mean for him to hear it and is barely conscious on top of it all. And Christ, he doesn't even know how to respond. He was no more prepared to hear those words from Martin than he was prepared to get dragged down to the floor — though, as with being dragged to the floor, he suspects the instinctive, inevitable response would be... acceptance. Assent. How else would one translate that desperation to give Martin whatever he needs or wants, and that terrible fear of falling short?
He tries to imagine shaping the phrase I love you, too, and while he's profoundly, shamefully grateful that he doesn't have to, he thinks he could. He thinks it wouldn't taste like a lie.
John shivers, as much from the shock as from the arctic press of Martin's nose against his neck. Christ, he really is freezing, enough so that John feels a pang of guilt for lingering here so long. Maybe he isn't outright hypothermic, but it'd be a near fucking miss. He needs to get warm. "Hey," he murmurs, running his fingers through Martin's hair in a rousing sort of way. "Can't just stay here on the floor. Can you stand for just a minute? I'll help you."
no subject
"Mmnh," he says noncommittally, but he tries to imagine the strength to stand, the willpower to climb to his feet. John's hand is in his hair, and he doesn't want it to leave, but it's probably going to have to.
So with great reluctance he manages to pull away, just a bit, near enough that John's hands are still on him as he pushes himself up, relying heavily on whatever assistance John can provide. It is so hard. His muscles are exhausted, his lungs ache from breathing in so much freezing air. The comparative warmth of John's flat is starting to sting a bit. But he manages. John asked, so he manages.
On his feet, he feels dizzy and tired and directionless. He keeps his face pressed against John's shoulder, his hands struggling feebly to grasp onto the front of his robe. John's wearing a robe, it occurs to him distantly. It shouldn't be a surprise, and yet he never took the time to imagine it. It's adorable.
Not that he's in any position to enjoy it. He lifts his head to look at John, blinking rapidly with the effort of keeping his eyes open at all.
"S-stay with me," he says, a bit nonsensical and a bit pleading. "I—I don't want to be alone."
The effort of saying so much costs more than he could have expected, and he pitches forward again, just barely managing to keep himself upright with a weak grip on John's arms.
no subject
As he helps Martin manage a slow, creaky ascent to his feet, he realizes that 'somewhere a little more appropriate' is going to have to be his bed. It's not just that it's more comfortable than the couch, it's that it will fit both of them with far more ease. John doesn't claim to be an expert on how to stave off hypothermia, but he knows it doesn't involve simply wrapping someone in blankets and leaving them to their own devices. Martin needs a source of real warmth from outside himself, and John's all there is.
Even if he wasn't, the way Martin lifts his head, struggling to focus, and begs him not to leave him would settle the issue. John blinks, first at the comment and then at the renewed weight of Martin's head against his shoulder, and then he tightens his arms around him. "I will," he replies. "I promise."
He waits for the space of a slow breath, then says, "Come on. Let's get you sorted." Slowly, not wanting to push, John helps Martin shuffle into the bedroom. The bed is unmade, the sheets already rucked back on one side, and John helps Martin sit down in the space he'd left when he got up hours ago. "Here, let me just..." he carefully removes Martin's glasses and sets them on the bedside table, then bends to take off his shoes, quietly narrating what he's doing as he goes in lieu of asking for permission. He debates the coat for half a second before deciding it's probably keeping more warmth out than in, and slides it off, tossing it haphazardly over a chair. Then, more of an impulse than a fully considered decision, John unties his robe and shucks it off, wrapping it around Martin's shoulders like a shawl, that he might benefit from some of John's body heat that way.
"Okay," he breathes. "Under the covers with you." He helps Martin get his legs up onto the bed as he lies down, then pulls the blankets over him, tucking him in thoroughly before hurrying round to the other side of the bed and sliding in. He isn't so preoccupied that he can't appreciate what an ironic reversal this is — Martin generally runs warmer than he does, and if one of them is taking shameful advantage of the other's body heat, it's almost invariably John — but maybe that just means he's overdue to return the favor. So he doesn't give himself the opportunity to dwell on the fact that he's never been shirtless in front of Martin, before, and never initiated anything that remotely resembles this. Martin needs him. That's all that matters.
Martin is also very cold, and when John coaxes him into his arms (even half-asleep, Martin takes very little coaxing), he has to bite back an uncomfortable gasp as two ice-block hands settle against his torso. He tenses involuntarily, but still pulls Martin close with stubborn insistence. His fingers curl into his own robe, still warm, and he lets out a small, wistful sigh as he settles in. He misses the garment already, though he knows Martin needs it more.
"You can sleep now," he says. He doesn't actually know if that's a good idea, under the circumstances, but Martin is so exhausted that he doubts it can be avoided. Maybe it's only potentially concussed people you're not supposed to let sleep, and borderline-hypothermic people can do whatever they like. "I'm not going anywhere."
no subject
Martin doesn't move, just blinking in bewilderment, and then gradually dawning dismay. This is John's room, he realizes, John's bed. The light coming through the window is that of afternoon. He is wearing, over his work clothes, a robe that is certainly not his, and John is wearing no shirt at all.
He sits up quite sharply, and his vision swims for a moment. "What—?!" is all he manages to get out.
no subject
He'd sent off a few texts to Kat and Eliot, letting them know that the Archive would be closed that day (he supposes they could have run the place in their absence, but he also isn't sure he wants to encourage in-person gossip about what could be detaining their manager and Archivist when the truth is far more traumatic than not). And then he'd just lapsed into idly scrolling through various news and social media sites, ostensibly for research purposes, but mostly for the sake of keeping himself occupied. He even manages to doze for an hour or two, himself, but he's awake again and back to mucking about on his phone by the time Martin stirs.
Well, 'stirs' is a rather tame verb for it. John is barely aware of the slight change in Martin's breathing before he bolts upright, startling him into dropping his phone onto his own face. "Wh—Christ," John hisses, grabbing the device and letting it clatter onto the small bookshelf that functions as a bedside table on his end. "Martin? Are you all right?" He sets a cautious hand on Martin's arm and blinks up at him.
no subject
"I—" Martin pulls his hand back from sheer force of habit, old instincts kicking in and telling him to stop, not too close and not too much. It still catches him sometimes; he wishes it wouldn't, his own muscle memory undercutting the freedom of intimacy they bloody well earned. John's hand on his arm helps settle that, though, and Martin relaxes a bit, looking down at himself and trying to piece the day together. Bits of it come swirling back in no particular order, all of it making his stomach turn with a vague sense of wrongness, which makes him reluctant to focus on it.
"Everything's sort of hazy," he hedges. "W-what am I doing here? Why aren't you dressed?"
no subject
"I'm afraid I don't know," he says. There's no accusation or blame in his tone, but it's clear that his ignorance on the matter is a bit of a sore spot. He's gathered a few things the old-fashioned way while trying to keep a tight lid on his other options, but... well, it's been a long wait for Martin to regain consciousness, and having him finally sit up just to put some of John's own questions right back to him is not what he'd hoped for. "I—you were... you were in the Lonely, I think. I pulled you out of it, but you were barely conscious and freezing, besides, so..." he gestures, encompassing their current set-up. "Didn't want you getting bloody hypothermic," he concludes, just a touch defensively as he slumps back onto his pillow.
Meanwhile, Martin's letting air in, and his shirtless state has undergone a rapid evolution from something he'd nearly managed to forget to something he is acutely conscious of. He wriggles a bit further under the blankets. "Do you remember anything?"
no subject
"I... yeah." He stares fixedly at the wall, a little chill moving over him, and he can't tell if it's just the air meeting his slightly sweat-dampened skin or something else. "Yeah. I remember now."
For a moment he feels like he might get stuck there staring at nothing, his stomach churning with nausea and indecision, but the dim awareness of John burrowing back beneath the blankets shakes him halfway out of it, and he quickly shrugs off the robe and offers it back.
"Here," he murmurs, leaning forward to help drape it over John's shoulders. He can feel how chilly John is beneath, and he grimaces. "God, I—I'm sorry about all this."
He wants to keep his hands on John, to pull him close and try to warm him, but he can't quite make himself do it. He pulls back slowly, shrinking in on himself a bit as he tries to consider how he might explain this, where to even begin.
He draws a breath without knowing exactly what's going to follow it, and a soft, recognizable click heads him off at the pass. His eyes dart to the tape recorder that's found itself on the little bookshelf beside John, already spooling eagerly away.
"Christ," he says with a brittle huff of laughter. Maybe he should just make a Statement. It would certainly come easier that way, and John could always use the sustenance. But he tries to imagine it—every little detail coming out all neat and tidy, all that insecurity, not to mention the goddamn confession, and he just can't. Not like this, not to feed the fucking Eye.
"C-can I just... tell you?" he says, and finally looks at John. "Not like that, just... like we've been doing. A story, not a Statement." He pulls his arms tight around himself, part of him wanting to vanish, the desire made all the more dangerous by the knowledge that he can. "I want to—I know we can't really stop it recording, but I—I just want to tell you. Myself."
no subject
He only glances back when he feels the press of his bathrobe around his shoulders, and he sits up, then, pulling the garment back around himself and tucking it close, not bothering about tying the belt off. "It's—Martin," is as far as he gets into insisting that Martin doesn't have to apologize for any of it, that John might have been worried, but that Martin was clearly in no fit state to account for himself, and that taking care of him wasn't a strain. That the last thing he wants is for Martin to shrink away from him, whatever the reason may be.
But then the recorder clicks on, and John lapses into a quiet sigh, his eyes briefly falling shut. Christ. So it's to be like that, is it?
And then comes Martin's fumbling question, as if he needs John's permission to not make this a bloody Statement, and his heart breaks a little. What's worse is that a sizable part of him still wants to know, that beneath the resignation and embarrassment he is glad the recorder showed up, that Martin's presumption that it cannot be stopped feels like an opportunity to just let it be. But if that isn't what Martin wants... it doesn't feel right, or fair, and it especially doesn't feel kind.
It feels like trying to push his hand through treacle instead of through the empty air, but he reaches over with stubborn insistence and depresses the stop button. He lets his hand hover for a moment, making sure it isn't going to switch itself back on immediately, and then draws back and turns to Martin.
He has to choose his words carefully, phrasing things in such a way that no compulsion might leak through, even by accident. "You can tell me as much as you like," he says, scooting a bit closer across the mattress, risking a hand against Martin's back. "And not a word more. Okay?"
no subject
"Okay," he whispers, and after another moment's hesitation, he turns inward, tucking his head onto John's shoulder. He draws a shaky breath and lets it out, then again as he tries to find the place to start.
"I—I woke up in the night," he says. "That's been happening a bit lately. Waking up from nightmares I don't remember, or just... nerves, I guess." He stays pressed in close, but his hand reaches out in search of John's, as though he needs as many points of contact as he can get. "Last night, though, it... it was different. I guess I was confused, or... I don't really remember, if I'm honest. I know I fed the cat and got myself ready for work, sort of, but I never thought about why it was so dark or quiet or... I never looked at the time, I just left. And when I got to The Archive, it was all empty, like it'd been abandoned for years, and I didn't even notice at first."
It feels a bit cowardly, hiding his face for all this, but he doesn't know if he can face John right now. It isn't pity or recrimination he fears—John wouldn't—but the idea of compassion or even anger on his behalf feels just as awful right now. He curls in a little closer as he says, "A-and then it... the Lonely sort of... I don't know what you'd call it. Manifested, I think? I mean, I was already in it, so I suppose it was able to just... do that. Just make itself appear, looking like Peter Lukas, just... popping in for a chat."
He grimaces, turning his head just enough that he can look at John's hand in his own, focusing his attention on that, something real and good and grounding.
"Obviously it doesn't like this," he mutters. "And I told it off, but... but then I couldn't get back out. I don't know how I even made it here, and I couldn't even find you, if it wasn't for Edith, I—I don't know what would've happened. I—"
His voice nearly breaks and he shuts his eyes, letting himself breathe slowly.
"I think I might've just disappeared," he says, his voice steady again, but gone very quiet. "Maybe forever. I don't know if that can really happen here, but... but I was so scared it was going to, and, and the worst part is if it had, it—" Again he struggles to compose himself, only this time he doesn't quite make it, his voice dropping into a desolate whisper: "—it would've been my fault."
no subject
The hardest thing might be limiting his own interruptions. Right out of the gate, he wants to insist that Martin can talk to him when that happens. Christ knows he'll probably be up already of his own volition, and he'd welcome Martin reaching out to him whatever the hour. But he doesn't want to make the telling more difficult, and the way Martin seeks his hand makes it clear just what sort of input he's looking for. John clasps Martin's hand, contenting himself with gently running his thumb over his knuckles as he continues to speak.
It's a disturbing picture that he paints. The Lonely has had a go at Martin before, and prior to this instance, John would have characterized the way it had attacked him in the nascent Archive as fairly comprehensive. He didn't know it was strong enough — that Martin had carried so much of it with him, like a hitchhiker — that it could manifest as a place, a world beneath this one, empty and abandoned. He didn't know it could pull Martin so far from him that it was only with Edith's help, and in the relative stronghold of his own flat, that he was able to See Martin at all (and only barely, at that). Christ. He had no idea just how bad it could get.
There are small highlights — the realization that it was Edith who had at least managed to get his attention; the idea of Martin telling the Lonely off — but there isn't much pleasure to be taken from them when Martin sounds so miserable and is so keen to blame himself for it all. John isn't even sure how to reassure him on that point, or if he even can. He's made his own terrible bargain, and he knows the value of guilt. He just... hadn't thought Martin was as deep in it as he was, and he wants to reject the idea out of hand almost as much as he wants to know for certain if it's true or not.
"I won't let that happen," he says at length. "You, disappearing." It is a struggle to remain gentle, to keep the ferocious promise that he would tear this fucking city in half, if he had to, tucked behind his teeth. "I won't lose you to that. Ever."
no subject
"I-it was me," he says, not sure he really needs to clarify, but not wanting to leave it to assumption. "It didn't pull me in so much as I just... went. I let that happen, I let it into The Archive, and everything it told me, it was all... it was all from me. I don't—how can we stop it when it's just in me?"
His voice quavers a little and he shuts his mouth in frustration, looking away as his eyes start to burn. "I don't want to lose myself," he says after he's spent a moment reining himself in. "I want to be strong enough that I don't let that happen, I—"
He stops again, his breathing growing a bit quicker and shallower. For a moment he regrets not letting this just be a Statement; for a moment he wants to tell John all of it, his fears and what he'd told the Lonely, what he'd meant to say on his arrival here. But it... it feels too soon, or like it's not the right moment. He's not sure what the right moment will look like, but... not yet.
Or maybe he's just a coward.
He presses the heel of his hand against one of his eyes, rubbing at both the brimming tears and the growing headache. "I don't mean to be such trouble," he says, trying very hard to air it like a joke.
no subject
"You didn't go in on purpose. You didn't choose it. You didn't even realize it had happened, at first, so saying you let it happen is a bit much." Granted, that Martin took so long to realize what had happened might not be encouraging, or a mark in his favor, but it certainly belies the idea that any of this was somehow deliberate. The worst he might call it is 'careless,' if he was inclined to be so harsh, which he isn't.
"And when you did realize what was happening, what did you do, then?" he continues, ducking his head a little to catch Martin's gaze. "You told it off, and then you came here, and you let Edith help you, and you let me find you. None of that was passive, Martin, or—or weak." He can't even begin to imagine the strength it must have took, to say nothing of the time. Long enough for Martin to be frozen through by the time John found him, at any rate. "You did everything right," he says, softly but firmly, giving Martin's hand a squeeze. "And if it tries it again, we'll beat it again. Both of us, together."
He lifts his other hand from where it had defaulted to Martin's shoulder, tentatively combing his fingers through Martin's hair. He wants to do more, suddenly and acutely cognizant of their convenient proximity, but he is too cognizant of other things, as well: how little they've discussed, how vulnerable Martin is, the unfortunate connotations of their physical location. So he contents himself with slowly carding Martin's hair back into order, smoothing the sleep-rumpled angles back to normal.
"And it won't be any trouble," he concludes, brows drawn together in protest against the very idea that Martin's needs could be troublesome. "Not to me."
no subject
He lifts his hand to Martin's hair, and Martin can't keep a little smile from flickering across his lips at the comforting closeness of it, the gentle care John takes in setting it all back in place. And then John tells him he is no trouble; not to him.
Martin looks at him, unabashedly meeting his eyes, dark and beautiful and intent, and for a moment he can't speak, can barely even think. He hovers for a moment, not certain what to say, how he can possibly answer all of this, and in the end he doesn't. He surges forward, closing the distance between them, wanting so badly to kiss him but not yet, not here. Instead he puts his arms around John, hugging him close, burying his face against his shoulder.
"O-okay," he says, his voice a bit thick and unsteady as he fends off tears. He smiles, breathing in the scent of him, letting his fingers drift slowly over John's back as if trying to memorize the shape of him. "Thank you."
He's still feeling out John's tolerance for this sort of thing, learning when a hug tips into too long or too close; he tries to err on the side of sooner than he'd like, though in this case he's considering just asking directly, when suddenly he gives a start and pulls back quite sharply.
"Wait," he blurts, looking John over as if there'll be some visual sign of something wrong. He woke up with John's arm around him, and it had felt like a heavy sleep, the sort where he doesn't move around much. And Christ, it's been hours. "Y-you—did you really stay here with me that entire time? Did you—I mean, holding me, that whole.... Christ, are you okay?"
no subject
It's nice, and certainly hasn't gone on long enough for John to be tired of it, so he blinks in surprise when Martin startles and jerks back as if he's been stung. John follows his gaze down to his own person, his brain sluggishly grasping for an explanation, half-wondering if something sharp somehow got stuck in his robe. But the stammered questions that follow illuminate things, and he settles back with a soft, startled, "Huh."
Martin's concern isn't unwarranted. John's tolerance for close, sustained contact is a fluctuating but generally limited resource, and nothing they've done so far would have given Martin the impression that cuddling for hours was on the table. Normally, it wouldn't be; unless he has a hell of a distraction, he inevitably gets bored or anxious or smothered after a few minutes.
But he hadn't, this time. And the only explanation that John can offer with any readiness is that this was a special case, which... well, it was. It's not like he'd crawled into bed with Martin for the hell of it. Martin had needed him, both to help warm him up, and then to just... be there. To make sure he wasn't alone.
Of course, that's all setting aside what he'd heard Martin think before he functionally lost consciousness. Christ knows how much of a difference that might have made, at least in combination with the other factors. He knows himself too well to believe that an I love you would be enough to simply switch off some deeply rooted proclivities, but... Christ, he couldn't just leave Martin after that. After any of it.
He also can't present that as evidence when Martin never meant for him to hear it.
"I'm all right," he says slowly, as if to give himself every opportunity to change his mind and decide he isn't. But the verdict remains, and he shrugs. "I didn't leave you, but I had my phone. I think I slept for a little while somewhere in there, too." Not exactly typical behavior for him, either, but then, Darrow's been bursting with unanticipated opportunities to acquire a tolerance for sleeping next to Martin. This isn't even the first time he's done it while fully human and with Martin clinging to him like a limpet.
He shrugs again, then slides out of bed and stands, his robe falling open as he makes his way over to his dresser and slides open his shirt drawer. "Are you hungry?" he asks as he rummages through his limited options.
no subject
Which could, perhaps, be considered promising, if Martin weren't loathe to think of it like that. It's not as if this is a project; he's not trying to nurture in John a higher tolerance for tactile affection. This was... nice, perhaps necessary, and maybe that's what made the difference. Either way, he's glad John was able to indulge him this time, and it probably ought to remain that in his mind: an indulgence and a special case. To that end, he adds another soft, "Thank you."
Martin watches him as he gets off the bed, considering where to go from here, when John's robe falls open and any thought of questions or conversation abruptly leaves his head. Martin goes still, blinking as his eyes flit over what little he can see of John beneath the soft fabric. He is beautiful; Martin has always thought so, but never seen this much of him, and now he thinks he could easily lose himself in it all: the defined ridge and shallow divots of John's collarbone, the smooth line of his chest, the sort of tautness to his belly and the little spread of dark hair that grows over it. John turns away all too soon, but Martin remains staring at his back, swamped with the desire to get up and reach out to him. He wishes he could slide his hands beneath the robe and just rest them there, or let them wander gently, no expectation, no goal, just... to feel him, to trace over all those sharp, lovely edges and memorize them all.
By the time he realizes John's asked him a question he knows he must have been silent for far too long, and he blinks again as he refocuses, blurting out a faintly damning, "S-sorry, what?"
no subject
He thinks, a little bitterly, that this is what Martin signed up for, isn't it.
His shoulders are starting to creep up by the time Martin belatedly issues a response to his question, and he grabs a shirt at random and slides the drawer shut before glancing back at him. Martin looks entirely caught out, and John blinks, shoulders dropping and heart sinking. Diverting as his own inner bullshit might be, Martin ought to be his focus — and aside from 'conscious enough to explain what happened,' John has no idea how he's doing.
He sighs quietly and pivots to face him, clutching his shirt in both hands. "I'm sorry, I—are you all right? I-is there anything you need?"
no subject
Again, he doesn't understand the question; not that he missed it this time, but that it doesn't seem to make sense. He thought they'd sort of moved through all the fussing over him by this point.
"I..." he says again, his eyes flicking once down John's neck, the thin, awful scar crossing his throat and the shorter, rougher one just beneath it, to what little is visible of the curve of his shoulder. There is a scar there, as well, and he's not sure he knows where this one came from, if he's simply lost track or he never knew; he can just see the pale, violent edge of it peeking out from beneath the line of the robe.
He hovers there just a moment too long before catching himself and looking back at John's eyes. "Sorry," he says again, wishing absurdly he had somewhere to hide, or any means of disguising his own stupid blush. "I—I'm all right."
no subject
"I—oh," John blurts intelligently, eyes widening. Christ. He frees up a hand and tucks his robe shut, then folds his arms to keep it that way, cheeks prickling. "S-sorry, I wasn't... wasn't thinking." Certainly not about any potential ramifications, which now feels like a glaring oversight. He doesn't know exactly where Martin's boundaries lie when it comes to... to anything that he might find a little too enjoyable, so to speak, though he's dedicated to not straying anywhere near said boundaries if he can help it. Martin knows what he can't offer, and the least John can do is not be a bloody tease, accident or no.
no subject
"No, no, I'm sorry," he babbles quickly, all but wringing his hands. "I—I shouldn't have—I didn't mean to, I just—"
He huffs and lowers his head into his hands, too embarrassed by his own inability to finish a bloody sentence to hold himself up. "I didn't mean anything by it," he says, his voice high and anxious, muffled through his fingers. "Y-you're just—I've never really looked before and I wasn't expecting—I mean, I, I don't want to make you uncomfortable, I really—you—you're just bloody handsome, okay?"
That, blurted out in something approaching desperation, is not entirely where he meant to take this, and he just curls over a bit more, his ears burning hot.
no subject
As Martin continues, certain phrases leap out as potentially indicative. 'Wasn't expecting' makes his heart leap into his throat — he isn't vain, but he isn't blind, either, and he knows he's thin in a way that tends to inspire more concern than appreciation (though even that assumes Martin isn't referring to his myriad scars) — but then Martin comes to a crashing halt on the wholly unanticipated insistence that John is just bloody handsome.
John opens his mouth, then shuts it again. "... Oh," he says at length, uncurling one of his arms so he can rub the back of his own neck. "I, er. I—I thought it... I mean, I didn't want to make things—" Jesus Christ, don't say harder, "—awkward, or, or difficult. For you. I guess I..." he huffs out a quiet, embarrassed breath. "Well, it's nothing you didn't see on the beach."
no subject
Martin breaks into a nervously relieved smile, cautiously lowering his hands into his lap. "Well, I—I didn't, actually," he says. "See anything, I mean. I—as soon as I realized what you were doing, I looked away." He lifts one of his hands again to rub the back of his neck, unwittingly mirroring John. "I mean, I've always thought you... that you were quite handsome, so looking would've felt like... I dunno. Like it wouldn't be fair, I suppose. But John—"
He drops his hand and sits forward a little, an earnest and unconscious desire to be closer. "It doesn't make things difficult for me. I mean I—it's not like it... turns me on or..." He can't quite get through that without another blush, which is a bit counterproductive, but he bullies his way through: "It's not that easy to get me worked up," he assures him with a little smile. "It's sort of like... well, I don't look at you that way, because you're not, so it... it's easier not to... go there." He wishes, a bit, that he could speak a little more directly, but considering how new and faintly terrifying this is for both of them, he's unusually inclined to cut himself some slack.
"I just think you're lovely," he says, his smile growing increasingly sheepish. "To look at. And I'd—i-if it's all right with you, I wouldn't mind... doing it some more."
no subject
Christ, what a waste of cortisol.
He still can't quite conceptualize himself as lovely to look at, though, and isn't quite sure what to do with Martin's gentle, polite request to see more of him. If it was just about what he wanted, he'd be putting on a shirt and one of his oversized jumpers and forcibly steering the conversation towards something less bloody complicated, like lunch. And he could. He could put Martin off, just as gentle, and there would be no hard feelings. Martin wouldn't feel cheated. Martin would respect his wishes so thoroughly that it wouldn't even matter if they ran counter to his own.
Except it does matter. It can't all be Martin making little concessions on John's behalf; that isn't fair. And given the way he was casually wandering about with his robe open two minutes ago, it feels silly to get precious about it now. Never mind how often he's been beheld by eldritch horrors or his smug prick of a former boss; no, it's being aesthetically appreciated by someone who—who loves him that he just can't get his head round.
John pulls in a slow breath, then releases it. He's probably overthinking this. So, simplify it: he wants to get dressed; he doesn't want to just stand shirtless in his bedroom for the sole purpose of letting Martin look at him; he also doesn't want to put Martin off or make him feel terrible over what's already transpired; he doesn't want to take looking off the table when it feels less like a hard line Martin should never cross and more like something that's just a bit much right now, when he's already feeling silly and self-conscious.
So.
"I'm not... opposed," he ventures, testing each word as if trying to cross unstable ground or traverse dubiously thick lake ice. "But I would like to just," he gestures with the shirt he's still mindlessly clutching, "get dressed." He drags his gaze up from the floor, furtively studying Martin's expression. "I, er. I don't mind if you watch while I do. If that's... something."
no subject
In some ways, he thinks the Lonely kind of got it wrong. The fear of being too dull and ordinary to be loved is indeed pervasive and has been his whole life; in some ways it's become a deeply seeded truth that he's just embraced over time, as if accepting it will protect him from the pain of rejection. But it isn't just that with John. Waking up in the night filled with dread that John, like everyone else, will decide he's made a mistake and leave him is like an old learned response, a bodily function that still fires on habit. But when he is with John, the fear is so much more concrete, and it has nothing to do with having too little to offer.
It is hard not to wonder for an awful moment if John would be happier with someone else, someone who doesn't react to things like Martin does, someone who makes him feel safe without any of the negotiation or compromise. John deserves, more than anything, to feel safe.
But that line of thinking leads nowhere constructive. There isn't anyone else John wants, he made that plain enough. And he said he trusts Martin. If Martin can do anything for him at all, it will be to justify that trust.
"Of course," he says, gentle and quiet. "Doesn't have to be right now." He smiles a little at the offer of watching; he'd easily have turned away, in fact that would have been his automatic response if he'd been expecting it, so the permission is nice to have. "I would like that, though, thank you."
He doesn't want John to feel like this is some kind of performance, though, so he shifts a bit, scooting to the edge of the bed and swinging his legs over in preparation of getting up. His legs ache from having walked so far and slept so long, so the preparation is a bit necessary, and it affords him space to just sit near John and watch.
"Honestly, after this morning, it—it's just nice to see you at all," he says softly, and offers a faint chuckle.
no subject
Making it a performance would be well beyond his comfort levels, though, presuming it even occurred to him to think of it that way, which it doesn't. If he is conscious and careful of how he moves, it's only because he doesn't want to look hurried. But he doesn't linger, either, as he sets the shirt down on top of his dresser and shrugs off the robe. He gives the garment a loose fold, as he normally would, and lets it drop at the foot of his bed before turning back to the dresser and pulling on his shirt — a rather loose-fitting tee, as it turns out, but it's not as if he's planning on going anywhere.
He's tugging down the hem with some relief when Martin speaks, and then he stills, looking at him properly for the first time in minutes.
John had been having a normal morning, is the thing, and by the time he'd realized Martin was in any danger, he was already pulling him out of it. Martin had given him a truncated version of events, of course, and he's been able to fill in some of the gaps. But he hadn't really considered how different this morning could have gone. That he might just as easily not have known anything was wrong until hours after he did; that it might have been even harder to locate Martin in that other place; that he could've been frantic; that Martin could've given up hope. That he might not have had this: Martin sitting sheepishly on the edge of his bed, watching him get dressed.
John blinks, his vision threatening to blur, then leaves off fiddling with his shirt so he can offer Martin a hand up. "Come here?" he asks, wanting nothing more than to pull him close and just... just keep him for a few moments.
no subject
Of course there's no sense getting hung up on that all over again, not now when it's all been put right. But he's still a little somber when John turns to face him, and the offer, the reaching hand, the faint shimmer in John's eyes, all catch him a bit off guard.
He opens his mouth to answer, but thinks better of it, thinks he might start to cry if he does. Even as it fades into the background, pieces of his confrontation with his own demons still cling to him, uneasy little memories of having been touched: Peter with condescending disdain, Elias with casual disregard, Jacob Riggs with violent intent. And now, John's hand, offered with gentle invitation, is so beautifully simple. Not something to stiffly accept or surrender to or defend against. So he doesn't need to need to answer. He doesn't need any reassurances or questions or debates with himself. He can just take John's hand.
So he does. He lets John pull him up and in. He lets John guide him, lets himself be led. His arms fit neatly around John's middle, his head tipped down to burrow against his chest, and he lets out a sigh that turns into a soft, contented hum. He is trembling a bit, but there is no hesitation and no unease. It's been so long since he consciously chose to do this, to surrender on his own terms, and Christ he forgot how much he loved it, how good it felt. That he can just let himself be for a little bit. That he's safe.
no subject
This one is different. John draws Martin in and then curls himself around him, arms wrapped around his back and pulling him flush against his chest, head bowed to bury his nose and lips in Martin's soft hair. His grip is not just snug, but tight; he holds Martin as if someone is trying to prise them apart, as if Martin is all there is. And Martin is warm and soft and solid and here and his, and he's so fucking lucky, and so grateful that for once, he doesn't stop to ask himself if he really deserves any of this. It doesn't matter. He has it, and he's not letting it go. His eyes slip shut, and he lets himself just breathe until the rise and fall of their chests naturally lapses into a comfortable synchronicity.
He holds Martin like that until he can no longer feel him trembling, and until he's reasonably certain he's got ahold of himself. Then he lifts his head, sniffling just once and loosening his grip until it's a little more customarily snug. One hand lifts to card through Martin's hair, and after a second or two of idle finger-combing, he asks, "Hungry?"
no subject
No one has ever held him like this, he doesn't think. Not just because. Those few he was ever romantically involved with certainly never did, and anyone else... it would have been in a very different context. Not bad, but... not this.
He remembers, a bit distantly now, the dream he had that the Archivist invaded. He remembers John's arms closing around him to shield him from the Lonely, remembers how bloody awkward they'd both been afterward, sort of edging around the subject without ever addressing it directly. Martin allows himself a small smile as if he's enjoying a secret, still safely pressed against John's shirt.
It's a comfortable while before John loosens his hold, and Martin is able to look up, smiling all the warmer as John's fingers card through his hair.
"Yes," he admits, and loosens his own hold, not quite stepping back yet. There's no rush. "And if she's still about, I need to thank Edith."