(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]

It was nice, having Daisy here, the three of them drinking and resting together, for a certain value of nice. He's glad he was able to propose the idea he'd had ages ago, that she join them here in the Bramford. It's a comfort, more than he might have imagined it would be, to know that Daisy will soon be his neighbor once again.

But he is also tired, and although a part of him dreads what may come when she leaves, he also needs it, the different sort of quiet, all his focus turned toward John. They haven't yet had a chance to talk about this, not really — about what nearly happened, about the horror of it and the anxiety that he can feel brimming in himself even after so much comfort. The same anxiety he can see lurking just beneath the surface of John's outward composure. He isn't looking forward to it, but he needs it just the same; they both do.

He watches John shut and latch the door behind Daisy, a bit wary of the inevitable erosion of the wall he's put up, and he wastes no time getting to his feet when it happens.

"John," he says softly, padding across the room to meet him at the door. He's not sure what else to say or what to even do. He wants to put his arms around him, to pull him in close, only he can too easily imagine himself falling apart the moment he does. For now, he settles for a gentle hand coming to rest on the tense curve of John's back.