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[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 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.

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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.

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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."

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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."

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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.

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"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."

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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.