[ Honeymooning in the Apocalypse meant for complicated compromises. This, in comparison, was refreshingly mundane; the expected exchange of a year-plus relationship, not the existential debates and petty hurts occasionally thrown like poison barbs on their trek through the wastes.
John wouldn’t be John if he weren’t stubborn to follow his plan despite Martin’s sneaky, sneaky ways to alleviate the burden; at least this time it’s simply to test how his chest feels after stitching itself back together. Sure, the doctors had probably had some impact on his healing, but probably less than either man was comfortable putting a voice to.
Martin is torn between laughing and wincing at the throw-back to one of the darkest times in his life. John had juggled an existential crisis, unknowing of what was left of his team. Being the last of his original assistants, Martin had felt an obligation to try to keep on a brave face – but he’d found himself at the hospital enough that the nurses had come to recognize him, and he’d seen the pitying looks exchanged. They mirrored the ones he felt like a brand from his mother’s caretakers.
Thinking back on those evenings, he believes that they probably wouldn’t have raised much of a fuss if he’d crawled into John’s bed and just lay there in mournful silence, but he’d called himself pathetic enough for the intrusive thoughts of hoping he’d somehow wake up, and look at Martin, and know how unapologetically deep his affections ran. He'd always been prone to those lovesick daydreams. Peter would have probably found it wildly encouraging to his protégé’s development to experience the juxtaposition of physical closeness and heavy, immovable emotional distance. Loneliness was widely accommodating to what spurred and fed it.
He'd stuck to the uncomfortably stiff hospital chair, holding John's hand instead, and he'd fed and fed and fed the hollow parts of himself. ]
Mm yeah, but that’s not… [ He pauses, flustered and annoyed – not at John but the fact he’s so good at collecting trauma. ] That’s hardly the lasting mark I imagined having on you. I am problematically romantic. [ He snorts, despite himself. ] Nothing is romantic about having ‘better aim than most’.
[ So they are… putting a voice to it. ]
Maybe it was because, good aim or not, I’m not part of the Hunt? You’d mentioned that with Trevor — [ It was hardly the first time he’d been bait; he was pretty good at using himself as a distraction, so he can hardly blame John. ] Well, maybe all I could have done in the end was knock you back to a more acceptable level of eldritch horror. Maybe this was just the easier way for the Eye to hitch a ride. [ No, he doesn’t like suggesting it. He’d hoped that the ratio of human to horror would have heavily favored human. Maybe it is; they won’t know for sure until enough time has passed. ] It could be a good thing…? We know how to avoid the situation from escalating, at least. [ Please don’t make the K standing in for his lack of middle name stand for Knife again. ]
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John wouldn’t be John if he weren’t stubborn to follow his plan despite Martin’s sneaky, sneaky ways to alleviate the burden; at least this time it’s simply to test how his chest feels after stitching itself back together. Sure, the doctors had probably had some impact on his healing, but probably less than either man was comfortable putting a voice to.
Martin is torn between laughing and wincing at the throw-back to one of the darkest times in his life. John had juggled an existential crisis, unknowing of what was left of his team. Being the last of his original assistants, Martin had felt an obligation to try to keep on a brave face – but he’d found himself at the hospital enough that the nurses had come to recognize him, and he’d seen the pitying looks exchanged. They mirrored the ones he felt like a brand from his mother’s caretakers.
Thinking back on those evenings, he believes that they probably wouldn’t have raised much of a fuss if he’d crawled into John’s bed and just lay there in mournful silence, but he’d called himself pathetic enough for the intrusive thoughts of hoping he’d somehow wake up, and look at Martin, and know how unapologetically deep his affections ran. He'd always been prone to those lovesick daydreams. Peter would have probably found it wildly encouraging to his protégé’s development to experience the juxtaposition of physical closeness and heavy, immovable emotional distance. Loneliness was widely accommodating to what spurred and fed it.
He'd stuck to the uncomfortably stiff hospital chair, holding John's hand instead, and he'd fed and fed and fed the hollow parts of himself. ]
Mm yeah, but that’s not… [ He pauses, flustered and annoyed – not at John but the fact he’s so good at collecting trauma. ] That’s hardly the lasting mark I imagined having on you. I am problematically romantic. [ He snorts, despite himself. ] Nothing is romantic about having ‘better aim than most’.
[ So they are… putting a voice to it. ]
Maybe it was because, good aim or not, I’m not part of the Hunt? You’d mentioned that with Trevor — [ It was hardly the first time he’d been bait; he was pretty good at using himself as a distraction, so he can hardly blame John. ] Well, maybe all I could have done in the end was knock you back to a more acceptable level of eldritch horror. Maybe this was just the easier way for the Eye to hitch a ride. [ No, he doesn’t like suggesting it. He’d hoped that the ratio of human to horror would have heavily favored human. Maybe it is; they won’t know for sure until enough time has passed. ] It could be a good thing…? We know how to avoid the situation from escalating, at least. [ Please don’t make the K standing in for his lack of middle name stand for Knife again. ]