( it would probably shame or embarrass john by this point to think about how they recalled that selfsame moment so differently; hindsight afforded as much, even if one might try to justify that he, at the time, had had plenty else on his mind. having inherited what he saw as such a mountain of troubles from his predecessor, the small team of assistants that came with the position had been alternatingly a tacked-on consideration for later (when presented with the state of cacophonous chaos of the Archives at the time) and an active source of open anxiety for him (when he lapsed into near-debilitating bouts of impostor syndrome only further complicated by how very palpable the unsettling feeling that settled over him was when reading one of those “real” statements).
the tapes from those days were some of the hardest for him to listen to, partially because of how cringe-worthy his former pompousness and forced ignorance had been, but also because the voices were like those of ghosts reaching through time and space to haunt him. hell, sasha’s voice on all the tapes they had left wasn’t even hers. not really. and tim—well, there were far more grievous regrets that he’s accumulated over the years than those petty ones of how he’d acted, and listening to them had only kicked up those layers of sediment.
he couldn’t have anticipated how much, how deeply he would grow to care about any of them, each in their unique, sometimes challenging ways. it was a bit of a surprise for him, really; it’s not to say he was completely stoic, but he had always been sparing, even cautious, about such things. but they had all been thrown into a rather unique, intense crucible together.
anyways. ) I allowed it, but don’t push it, Martin. ( the tone he affects is severe, yes, but in the particular way that ends up twisting humorous; reminiscent, yes, of those earlier times, and as an offbeat echo to the impression that martin had just put on a few moments ago. )
Well—that’s alright. ( though it does make him happy, a flickering warmth locked in his chest against the sterile functionality of their surroundings, that the first thing either of them had done was look for the other. ) It just… means we’ll have to go and find out together.
( and, God help him, even before martin asks him how he’s feeling, he’s trying again to sit up, though, to john, this is experimentation, testing boundaries and limits. once, his body’s ability to recover had been so instantaneous and comprehensive that it’d been actively frustrating; he’d pushed a knife through his knuckle joint a half-dozen or more times, but rather than sever, the wound just sealed back up the moment the blade was removed. if he’s still alive after being stabbed in the heart, he has to imagine some manner of the same factor is at play—though, to what extent?
it still hurts. his chest burns, feeling strange and wrong in a way that’s hard to define, and his breathing is short and harsh—but he does get the sense that it doesn’t hurt quite as bad as it had moments before. he’s at the very least able to stay sitting up (even if it does kill). a faint sound of pain escapes him before he answers, ) I’ve certainly felt better, but—I, I think it’s improving. Slowly. ( the good thing would be that they might get to leave here moderately soon, though the poison in the tail would be that it didn’t bode particularly well for just how eldritchly-entangled he might be.
that, or the fact that… yes, lying back and talking through all of these details would be a nice, pleasant use of their time. but also: the whole world outside this tent, the surroundings and the people and the situation, it’s all just one immense unknown. it’s like a vacuum of space that draws him inexorably towards it, as hopelessly transfixed as a moth to flame.
so he remains sitting up, even as the question startles another laugh out of him; he lifts a hand to his temple, shaking his head. ) A what?( talk about a switch in gears… ) I don’t know—seems rather presumptuous, really. Do we even know if they have dogs here yet?
( and, hmm… is he more of a cat person? he’d always thought himself neutral in that debate, though his time with the admiral had done much to place a finger (or a paw?) on the scale. )
no subject
the tapes from those days were some of the hardest for him to listen to, partially because of how cringe-worthy his former pompousness and forced ignorance had been, but also because the voices were like those of ghosts reaching through time and space to haunt him. hell, sasha’s voice on all the tapes they had left wasn’t even hers. not really. and tim—well, there were far more grievous regrets that he’s accumulated over the years than those petty ones of how he’d acted, and listening to them had only kicked up those layers of sediment.
he couldn’t have anticipated how much, how deeply he would grow to care about any of them, each in their unique, sometimes challenging ways. it was a bit of a surprise for him, really; it’s not to say he was completely stoic, but he had always been sparing, even cautious, about such things. but they had all been thrown into a rather unique, intense crucible together.
anyways. ) I allowed it, but don’t push it, Martin. ( the tone he affects is severe, yes, but in the particular way that ends up twisting humorous; reminiscent, yes, of those earlier times, and as an offbeat echo to the impression that martin had just put on a few moments ago. )
Well—that’s alright. ( though it does make him happy, a flickering warmth locked in his chest against the sterile functionality of their surroundings, that the first thing either of them had done was look for the other. ) It just… means we’ll have to go and find out together.
( and, God help him, even before martin asks him how he’s feeling, he’s trying again to sit up, though, to john, this is experimentation, testing boundaries and limits. once, his body’s ability to recover had been so instantaneous and comprehensive that it’d been actively frustrating; he’d pushed a knife through his knuckle joint a half-dozen or more times, but rather than sever, the wound just sealed back up the moment the blade was removed. if he’s still alive after being stabbed in the heart, he has to imagine some manner of the same factor is at play—though, to what extent?
it still hurts. his chest burns, feeling strange and wrong in a way that’s hard to define, and his breathing is short and harsh—but he does get the sense that it doesn’t hurt quite as bad as it had moments before. he’s at the very least able to stay sitting up (even if it does kill). a faint sound of pain escapes him before he answers, ) I’ve certainly felt better, but—I, I think it’s improving. Slowly. ( the good thing would be that they might get to leave here moderately soon, though the poison in the tail would be that it didn’t bode particularly well for just how eldritchly-entangled he might be.
that, or the fact that… yes, lying back and talking through all of these details would be a nice, pleasant use of their time. but also: the whole world outside this tent, the surroundings and the people and the situation, it’s all just one immense unknown. it’s like a vacuum of space that draws him inexorably towards it, as hopelessly transfixed as a moth to flame.
so he remains sitting up, even as the question startles another laugh out of him; he lifts a hand to his temple, shaking his head. ) A what? ( talk about a switch in gears… ) I don’t know—seems rather presumptuous, really. Do we even know if they have dogs here yet?
( and, hmm… is he more of a cat person? he’d always thought himself neutral in that debate, though his time with the admiral had done much to place a finger (or a paw?) on the scale. )