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Oct. 12th, 2022 03:42 pmThe past few days have been... difficult. Any attempts to reconcile his guilt with how (meta)physically good he feels have gone about as well as they ever have, both sensations heightened by just how many bloody people were involved. He eats as little as he can get away with under Martin's concerned gaze — some part of him ought to be hungry — and holes up in either their flat or his office, dreading the possibility, however slim, that he might see someone he preyed on the other night. He hasn't yet decided if being recognized would be worse than the alternative. He is too cowardly to want the answer to that question anytime soon.
The majority of his private moments are spent dwelling on what he witnessed: because he doesn't deserve to forget what he put people through; because he wants to wring every scrap of potential nourishment out of the memories as quickly as possible and render them useless; because, on a base level he hates to acknowledge, it is nourishing. It's the best fucking thing to happen to the Archivist all year.
And 'dwelling' is what he's doing now, sat on the floor next to the coffee table, a barely-touched cup of tea gone stone cold at his elbow. Martin is out on one of his walks — a reluctant step towards the idea of normalcy that John had gently bullied him into. It's better for both of them, really: Martin gets to stretch his legs and get some fresh air, and John gets a temporary reprieve from the twin torments of Martin either trying to make him feel better or being sad that he can't. His gaze has slipped out of focus, but it sharpens when there's an unanticipated knock on the door.
He knows the brisk, implacable rap of Daisy's knuckles by now, and he stares across the flat at the front door for only a beat or two before puffing out a sigh and hauling himself to his feet. He pads over to the door, unlocks it, and eases it open a few inches. "What?" he asks in a low croak, wincing a little at how unfriendly he sounds.
The majority of his private moments are spent dwelling on what he witnessed: because he doesn't deserve to forget what he put people through; because he wants to wring every scrap of potential nourishment out of the memories as quickly as possible and render them useless; because, on a base level he hates to acknowledge, it is nourishing. It's the best fucking thing to happen to the Archivist all year.
And 'dwelling' is what he's doing now, sat on the floor next to the coffee table, a barely-touched cup of tea gone stone cold at his elbow. Martin is out on one of his walks — a reluctant step towards the idea of normalcy that John had gently bullied him into. It's better for both of them, really: Martin gets to stretch his legs and get some fresh air, and John gets a temporary reprieve from the twin torments of Martin either trying to make him feel better or being sad that he can't. His gaze has slipped out of focus, but it sharpens when there's an unanticipated knock on the door.
He knows the brisk, implacable rap of Daisy's knuckles by now, and he stares across the flat at the front door for only a beat or two before puffing out a sigh and hauling himself to his feet. He pads over to the door, unlocks it, and eases it open a few inches. "What?" he asks in a low croak, wincing a little at how unfriendly he sounds.
