corkscrewed | IC Inbox

"Bullshit," he whispers, more harshly than he means to. He'd be crying again if there was anything left. "If he loved me, he'd know what makes me happy."

Martin can't see the forest for the trees, doesn't realize he's proving one of Jon's points right.

"If he loved me, he'd want me to stay with him."

Tim's not judging. He knows how it goes.

"Do you want to stay here?" he asks instead, and it's a very gentle question, because they both know the answer.

"I'm not talking about here."

He lifts his head, breathing stuttering still.

"I'm talking about what comes after here. I'm talking about- about doing everything I could. Reading statements, and getting Elias arrested, and - and every bloody fucking thing I did for Peter Lukas, and the goddamn apocalypse, and then spending three years sleeping at that man's bloody fucking side for him to look me in the face and go, 'it's not me, it's you.'"

The fury isn't real. The grief threatens to swallow him whole, even now.

"I'm not enough. I've never been enough. But I thought - maybe if I just believed, hard enough. Stupid. Goddamn - fuckity - bollocks."

"Martin." There's a firmness to it, as he twists to face his friend properly, but it's kind, empathetic. "It's not you, I can promise you that. And however Jon phrased it, we both know he could make a wet paper bag want to kill him because he managed to find a way to offend it. Call it 'moldy' or something, imply it's made out of bad card stock." And hopefully that gets a laugh out of Martin.

He has both hands on Martin's shoulders now, and gives them a gentle squeeze. "You have been nothing but wonderful for Jon. And I don't want you to let any stupid, Lonely- self-destructive thoughts ruin that for you. You were good for him."

It gets a smile, but it's mostly just a polite one. He knows Tim is trying, and he appreciates it. He'll appreciate it more later when it doesn't feel like every nerve in his body has been rubbed raw.

"But not good enough," he whispers, then laughs ruefully and wipes at his eyes with the back of his sleeves. "Look after him, okay? Just - make sure he doesn't adopt any more pets. Or rebound with someone stupid."

Tim leans in to kiss his forehead again.

"I will vet Jon's choices with the same thoroughness he used to stalk my apartment," he says, and despite his serious tone there's a quirk up at the corner of his lips.

Martin, meanwhile, seems to only have the energy to take that at face value. Instead, he just sighs, tipping his forehead against Tim's shoulder again.

"I thought I was over being lonely," he says, eyes unfocused, voice a little dull. "I can't go home like this. Not with the powers gone. How am I supposed to deal with myself if I don't have something eldritch to blame my personality flaws on?"

He rests his head on Martin's when it's put back on his damp shoulder, and starts rubbing his back again.

"Same way as the rest of us mere mortals," he muses. "Work on it manually. The hard way works, unfortunately, and isn't that just totally unfair."

He's silent for a long, long while. And then- "I'm not just- joking around, Tim."

If nothing else, his breathing is steadier. Finally, he swallows. Makes a decision.

"Can you keep Winnie for me?"

"I know." And he does, truly. So he'll stop trying to push for lightness, now. Just let Martin feel, and lets the thickness settle into his voice a bit as he closes his own stinging eyes. "I'm just gonna miss you."

So Martin knows. Even if he leaves burned and furious at Jon, Tim is still on his side. Always has been, and always will be.

He just breathes quietly in time with Martin, until he feels his breathing shift for speech - but what he says makes Tim's eyes widen in alarm, and he looks down at Martin with something like shock.

"...are you sure? I... I thought you'd take her with you for sure."

He knows. And when the worst of it is over, it'll be a lifeline that he clings to, a buoy of knowledge to keep him afloat. At the moment, the pain is simply too acute, his thinking unhealthily circuitous. (Martin had faced death and murder at home for a chance at reuniting with Jon in another world without the Entitites; Jon had apparently spent a month away from him and realized he preferred the single life. Unhealthy, around and around and around again, like the Stranger's carousel that had been Wished out of existing in the first place.)

"Yeah," he says quietly. "My flat's small. I don't think I'd be able to take very good care of her. But Jon's always getting up to trouble here. The cat's fine, she's independent enough, but Jon won't forgive himself if Winnie gets hurt 'cos she's caught in some stupid crossfire." Tim might be looking down, but Martin isn't looking up.

That certainly smells to Tim like an excuse to isolate himself, rather than put in the effort to maintain self-care through the lens of taking care of a pet, but he's certainly not going to comment as such. He just rests his head against Martin's again, so his friend can feel him nod.

"Of course. I won't let anything happen to her." Never mind his own getting caught in crossfires; but his certainly don't end up with as much disastrous collateral as Jon's do. "Will you be alright without her?"

Please - as if Martin has ever needed a reason to self isolate. "Don't have much choice, do I," he mutters.

He sighs, silent another long moment. Martin distracts himself mindlessly, fingers brushing the fabric of Tim's sleeve.

"Where are you going? When it's all over." He's trying to memorize the feeling of companionable arms around him, the warmth and weight of a head against his own.

He takes a long breath himself, because he hates having to do this to Martin as well.

"...haven't decided yet." He lets his hands drift again, following a seam on Martin's shirt. Just stroking with his fingertips in slow, lulling motions. "Jacobi graduated, though."

Which means the others are back. Sasha is back.

"Did I tell you I've got another deal lined up?"

Martin had expected as much from Tim, especially when he'd begun thriving. What was left for him at home? "Congrats to him." He means it, does his best to sound like it, but mostly he sounds wrung out. "What's your next deal?"

He just leans on Martin a bit more firmly on hearing that exhaustion.

"I'm gonna get everyone back the memories that the Not-Them took."

He smiles softly, because - well it's such a wholesomely Tim thing. It's impossible not to be fond. "God, you should've been the one who survived to road trip with Jon. You would've had it all solved in days."

That gets a faint huff out of Tim. "You saw me when I got here. I would've tried killing him well before we got that far."

And honestly, maybe that would have solved things sooner. Or maybe he would have become an Avatar as well, from being an angry, broken, bitter man who needed something to blame it on and found the fuel for it in one of the Fears.

"I would not have been able to help him the way he needed for that."

The world had ended. Martin still has no idea if it even really worked - he just remembers light, burning, the slick of Jon's blood on his hands and the weight of his limp body in his arms. He wasn't able to help him the way he needed, either.

"You should ask for a wish for yourself, you know," he says, not answering the remark. "A million bucks. Or at least a good fake passport for wherever you end up."

"Where's the fun in having everything handed to you?" he jibes back automatically, tightening his grip on Martin to turn it into a quick hug. "If I don't have ID it just means I get to have some fun with whoever's manning the customs counter."

"Tim," he sighs, "you literally won't have an identity. You can't talk your way into a job. Only worked for me because Elias was looking for losers."

"Oi." He pinches Martin gently, going for a tickle more than pain. "Don't talk like that about my friend. You're not a loser, you were in hard circumstances that Elias took advantage of."

He huffs quietly. "And I'm not sure I have an identity back home either, if I've been reported deceased already. It's a bit hard to explain being not quite dead after all when you got caught in an explosion."

"I mean... I don't really know how it works." Martin slaps ineffectually at the hand pinching him, but it's clear his heart isn't really into it. "Kind of just figured - you rewrote history somehow. Like I'll get home and no one is gonna remember the apocalypse happening."

"I didn't really specify rewrite," he admits. "I said brought back. I suppose that it'd just bring everyone back on the date I died, I honestly didn't think too hard about the logistics of it."

"Still rewrites it for me. I have- not a single clue what I'm going home to." Martin frowns thoughtfully, grateful to have something else to focus on for even just a moment. "I've never remembered this place when I've been home. I know some people do, but... I haven't. I don't remember time passing without me at home, either, but- god, the first time I came here was maybe six months after Prentiss attacked."

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