(no subject)

[statement_ends]

Daisy does head home, eventually. It's a semi-awkward inevitability: John knows from ample personal experience that sleeping on the couch isn't exactly comfortable for a person of their height, just as he knows that no amount of reassurance, no matter how genuine, can fully outweigh the inherent discomfort of being a third wheel. So when Daisy reaches the point where her restlessness outweighs her exhaustion, John fetches her a bag for her clothes, and they send her on her way.

John wouldn't categorize her departure as a relief. There is, perhaps, a sense of release that accompanies it, but not one that puts him at ease. Quite the opposite, really. All the focus he's put into looking after both her and Martin, into making sure that they're okay... it's kept him busy, but it's felt like bailing out a sinking vessel with a tablespoon. No amount of effort could be enough to counter the fundamental inadequacy of the tool at his disposal; nothing he might accomplish with that sorry little tablespoon will patch the hole in the hull.

Martin could have died. He very nearly did. And John can See it, he can close his eyes and See the hole in the earth and the monster that erupted from it and Martin, trapped, with such clarity that it's almost like he was there.

But he wasn't. Not when it mattered. And if Daisy hadn't been there, if Martin had... Christ, he would have Seen that, too, wouldn't he? He would have Known, and it wouldn't have changed a fucking thing.

He shuts the door softly, and does up a few of the latches out of habit more than caution. Then he presses his palm against the wood to steady himself, feeling suddenly as if he might just pitch to the floor.

Comments

[loficharm]

Martin pulls John into his arms, one hand reaching up naturally to curl around the back of his head. This feels too familiar, holding him while he breaks down, only this time it isn't John who narrowly escaped death. This time, at least, there is nothing to stop Martin from burying his face against John's neck, from stroking his hair as much as he wants, from whispering against him, "I know. It's okay. It's okay."

This really is the closest they've come to losing each other in several months, which... would be much too recent by ordinary standards, but for them, it is significant. And those other times, they were both there — John to pull him from the Lonely's grasp, to save him from Riggs, to wake him up from countless awful nightmares; Martin to pull the knife from his chest. It was never like this. It was never so close. That it was so close this time and that it was so bloody ridiculous just feels unfair.

Martin wants to make it right, but he doesn't know how apart from simply being here, allowing John to hold him for as long as it takes to accept that he is here and alive and well, that the worst didn't happen. He doesn't know how to convince John that it isn't his responsibility to keep him safe. Not when he knows intimately how that feels, because he feels the very same.

"I'm here," he says again, softly, his other hand stroking slowly up and down John's back. "I've got you." He shifts a bit, lifting his head to press a kiss to John's cheek. He whispers, so his voice won't tremble: "You haven't lost me." He holds John a little tighter, a little more fiercely, and says, "You won't."

It doesn't matter that he can't make that promise, that it isn't one he can assuredly keep. That it is down to circumstance, or fate, or chance, or the apparent whims of this bloody city to decide what becomes of them. None of that matters because Martin isn't speaking for any of that; he's speaking for himself, and as far as he's concerned, that's the beginning and the end of it.

[statement_ends]

John shivers in Martin's arms, trying to find solace in the way Martin holds him and the reassurances whispered in his ear. It's harder than he wants it to be. Every word and every touch feels stained by the awareness that he nearly lost this, that if things had been just a little different... Christ, it was so close. John buries his face against Martin's neck with a miserable groan, wishing he could just rein himself in, aware that it was Martin who had the actual near-death experience and that it's absurdly selfish to be falling to pieces like this when their roles really ought to be reversed. Martin shouldn't have to comfort him, for fuck's sake.

In the end, his own exhaustion accomplishes what willpower cannot. He doesn't have the energy to sustain that pitch of emotion, and the storm passes after only a minute or two. The shudders diminish into occasional tremors, the tears slow, less because he feels better and more because he's too tired to carry on. He is weary to his fucking bones.

But his guilt is stronger even than his exhaustion, though it now lies along a different axis. Much as it tears at him, there is nothing to be done about his absence when Martin needed him before. Being needed now, though, is something he can answer, provided he pulls himself the fuck together.

"I'm sorry," John says, lifting his head stiffly, then loosening his grip just enough to lean back and look down at Martin directly. "I-I didn't mean to—" he huffs once, wetly, and looks away, lifting one hand to swipe at his own cheeks. "I should be comforting you; it's all... backwards." He sniffs, a bit pathetic but stubborn, and looks back down at Martin. "What do you need?" he asks, wanting to help, wanting direction.

[loficharm]

Martin holds on firmly until John finally pulls away, seeming utterly wrung out. When he begins talking Martin can't hide a slight grimace; as if John has any business apologizing for any of this, as if only one of them at a time were allotted space to be a mess.

"John," he says softly, reaching up to frame his face, his thumbs brushing gently at a few more tears. "It's not backwards. You're allowed to—to feel this way." Christ knows he's been a wreck over John's own near-death experiences, even if the circumstances have been a bit different. "It's not like you have to be okay just because it didn't happen to you. We take care of each other, right? Taking care of you, it... it helps me feel normal."

Of course the reverse is probably true, and John does still deserve an answer to his question. He holds John's gaze a moment then leans up to kiss him, slow and delicate. "I just need to be with you," he murmurs. "T-to know we're okay." Because it is we; he doesn't have the wherewithal to pretend they don't need each other, that either of them would be remotely okay if they lost the other. It may not be entirely healthy, but he really doesn't care. After all it took for them to get here, he thinks he's allowed to feel however the hell he wants.

"Can we have a lie-down?" he asks, still pulled quite close.

[statement_ends]

John bows his head a little, listing into Martin's hands. An instinctive part of him wants to balk at the idea of Martin equating taking care of him with normalcy, but... well, he would, wouldn't he? That's been 'normal' for far longer than the rest of this, since well before it ever occurred to John to appreciate it. It's just been upgraded from 'unsolicited cups of tea' to 'patiently comforting him through bloody breakdowns.' Apparently.

The kiss is a faint surprise — something he would have thought himself too wretched for — but the suggestion that follows is a relief. He can manage a lie-down. Christ, that's one of the only things he can manage right now.

"Okay," John breathes, his hands uncurling to smooth over Martin's back. "Okay." He takes Martin's hand, not wanting to stop touching him even for the short duration of the walk to their bedroom, keeping their fingers interlaced until he's actually climbing into bed. Even then, he only lets go because he expects Martin won't want to keep the bathrobe on. In the meantime, John settles himself beneath the covers and folds them back on Martin's side to make things a little easier, expediting the process by all of two seconds (though even those hypothetical two extra seconds are more than he wants to wait).

[loficharm]

Martin smiles, faint and tired but full of affection, as he guides John to the bedroom, their fingers threaded together until the very last moment, when John seems to let go of him only because he must. Martin sheds the bathrobe and hangs it up on its hook before turning to find John has pulled the covers back to invite him in. They are both too worn out for the word 'eager' to properly apply, but there is a certain haste to all of it, a quiet shared urgency to be close to each other, and Martin's smile grows a bit more as he climbs in and wraps his arm around John, settling snugly against him.

"Okay," he says with an air of finality. They're here now; they're together and they're safe. He is aware of an undercurrent of lingering horror, the final vestiges of it which he still needs to process, but he keeps it at bay for now. Instead he shifts a bit awkwardly until he can reach up with his free hand and brush his fingers a few times through John's hair. "Better?" he says softly.

[statement_ends]

It isn't until Martin is nestled close beside him that John feels like he can properly breathe again. He curls an arm around Martin and budges a bit closer, head turned to press a lingering kiss to Martin's brow. They're okay. Martin is warm and soft and still here, still with him, and they're okay.

He pulls in a slow, deep breath, then releases it, his eyes drifting shut as Martin's fingers comb through his hair. "Better," he agrees. For a few moments, he just lies there, settling by degrees into a stillness that is more peaceful than weary. Then he cracks his eyes open, studying Martin's face as if he's committing it to memory, lingering on his lips for an extra moment before leaning in to kiss him, soft and slow.

[loficharm]

Martin smile warms and he takes a moment to just breathe and enjoy this, holding John and being held in return. He lets John kiss him, tipping his chin up obligingly, humming softly against his mouth.

But there are still fragments of the day that cling to him, the smells and the awful sense memory of suffocating pressure, and now that John is calmer, it is more difficult to keep it all at bay. He lets some of it out in a soft puff of air and an involuntary shiver, and turns his head back down, curling in close against John's chest.

"S-sorry," he murmurs. Christ, the last thing he wants to pitch John back down this path with his own lingering anxieties. "I'm okay."

[statement_ends]

It's a little easier, with them both curled up in bed, for John to shift into the comforting mindset he adopts when Martin's just had a nightmare. Martin's dispelling exhalation and little shiver are familiar in that context, and John leans into it even though he knows the actual cause, in this case, was horribly real. He's had his breakdown; he doesn't want Martin suppressing his own distress for fear of setting him off again, and he'd rather offer comfort in exchange for what he's already received than just... pretend it's all settled.

"You don't have to apologize," he replies, stroking Martin's back and tucking his chin atop Martin's head. "I've got you."

[loficharm]

Martin whimpers softly at John's reassurance, the tacit permission to not be okay, and he clings on a little tighter, the residual tension making him shiver a bit. For a while he just lets himself be like that, as if it has to drain out of him and all he needs is to wait it out. And it does help, a bit, enough that before too long he can breathe quietly again, slower and deeper.

"I was so scared," he whispers finally, and the admission almost surprises him, like it was some sort of secret, or a bad thing to own. But there is something freeing in it, instead, which unfortunately translates to the release of a little sob. "Christ, it was so ridiculous, but I was so bloody scared."

His fingers curl slowly against John's back, a small concession to his own nervousness. He doesn't want John feeling responsible, or guilty, but the inevitable trade-off is forcing himself to confront the reality that something awful may happen to him someday, and there will be nothing anyone can do. And all he can think about right now is how badly he doesn't want that.

[statement_ends]

"I know," John quietly replies, part of him wishing that it was just one of those mindless phrases you say to demonstrate active listening and not quite so literal. It would be easy to reflect on that heap of Knowledge that had dropped on him as he'd hurried out of the building, to home in on any given horrible detail for closer examination. He could Know, even more intimately, just how frightened Martin was. Hell, he already does: suppression might hold it at bay, but it's still there. He can't deny it.

Nor can he repackage it as mere empathy without it feeling a bit perverse, and he sighs softly, pulling Martin a bit closer. He doesn't want to dwell on what might have happened earlier — or on what still might happen, during some unspecified future disaster. Which just leaves him with the present.

"You're safe now." It doesn't feel like enough, just as it feels greedy to want or expect any more than that. As if Darrow, even with its absurd disasters, doesn't still qualify as an extended vacation from the miserable status quo they'd settled into back home. He ought to just count his bloody blessings. John shifts a little, then resettles. "We're okay."

[loficharm]

John does know, Martin supposes; not the simple fact of it, but what it explicitly felt like. For all that they've chosen to share with one another, Martin's fears were part of the deal long before any choices were made, a deal neither of them knew they'd signed up for. His fear could sustain John better than his anecdotes, maybe even better than his love. He's known this, offered his Statements willingly, confronted trauma time and again so that John might feed on it. Now, though, he's not sure he likes it, realizing that John just... just Knows everything he felt in that pit. He's never quite let it bother him before, but now... it feels kind of awful, that he couldn't choose to withhold any of it and that there is nothing now to tell.

But it isn't John's fault that his bloody patron makes these sort of executive decisions for him, and Martin has no desire to broach the subject. He's certain John doesn't either; John probably feels even worse about it than he ever could. The reassurances that follow only strengthen that impression, and Martin sighs quietly, allowing them to sink in, to push out the rest of it. He matches John's movements, shifting and resettling in turn, drawing a slow, stabilizing breath and letting it back out.

"Yeah," he murmurs. He does feel safe here, in John's arms, in this city whose myriad dangers still never quite outweigh what they left behind. He stays quiet after that, allowing his mind to drift even as his body remembers what it is to be secure.