"Dunno. Don't think so. Not unless Jon told him," Martin says, and he lifts his hand to catch the back of Tim's neck to just hold when he hears the way he's choked up. Holds it in a way he hopes desperately is comforting.
He's afraid, he realizes. More than that: he's fucking terrified. What if he goes back and it's game over? End of the world for him and Jon? Worse - what if he goes back and it isn't? What's he supposed to do without an eldritch power to lash himself to for guidance?
The hand on his neck is indeed a warm comfort, but it doesn't keep his grief in. His next breath in shudders quietly, and when he squeezes his eyes shut he can feel the hot sting of tears overflowing.
He doesn't want Martin to leave, because he can't protect him there, and it's terrifying to think that he might go back to just-- nothing. His murdered boyfriend and the world crashing down around him and he has no idea if Jon making deals here will affect that.
He wants to hope, desperately, that they did something right. That they've made things better for Martin, and Sasha and everyone else. But all he can do is hope.
He just squeezes Martin closer, tighter, and tries keep his shoulders from hitching too obviously when a sob breaks in his chest.
Martin can feel it more than he can see it, and it shatters something in him, too. The Barge has never felt quite so much like home as it has in this moment, clinging to hope in the face of uncertainty and feelings of sheer futility.
He raises his other arm to wrap around Tim, leaning hard into him and mumbling clumsy, tearful, placating nonsense.
"You've got so much here," he manages finally. "You've got a future again. Fuck, man, do you know how important that is? How - worth it, god."
It's Tim's turn to bury his face in Martin's shoulder. And he's silent there, even as his shoulders hitch again in short, abrupt bursts, and his grip tightens around Martin's chest, white-knuckled clinging to his shirt between his shoulder blades.
He didn't mean to cry; he certainly didn't want to. He was supposed to be helping Martin pull himself back together and be ready for whatever came next, not breaking on him and forcing Martin to take care of him. But fuck, he's going to miss him.
It takes him a few minutes to take a deep breath, still trembling and ragged from how hard he was trying to keep all of his noise in, and pull himself away enough to meet Martin's eyes, his own red and glistening now and his voice undeniably choked up. "You've got to take care of yourself, alright? If you're fucked up when we come back I'll-- I'll kill you my bloody self."
It's - strange, how Tim being choked up grounds him. Makes him feel better, knowing he's going to be missed. (And, rationally, he knows Jon will miss him, too, but it's that acrid, bitter part of him right now that can only hear that Jon is going to be relieved to see him go, to have the shackles of their relationship loosed from his ankles.)
But Tim isn't obligated to pretend to be sad, and an ugly, selfish part inside of him is grateful. He think a lot of the people who'd once been in his domain, nameless with no one to miss them, and it's a relief to know his name won't be forgotten immediately.
He pulls his hand from Tim's neck to cradle his cheek, hand warm and firm. "Yeah. Alright," he whispers. "But it's okay if you don't. You know that, right? If something happens - if we never see each other again. It's okay. I had you for longer than I was meant to already. Look after yourself first."
He leans into the hand on his cheek automatically, sheer instinct towards the warmth, but he nods as well.
"Yeah." It's not much, but he will. He has been already, and he can keep doing it.
He gives a wet sniff as he pushes himself a bit more upright so he can breathe for a second, but he's still keeping an arm around Martin's back to keep him close.
"When d'you plan on actually leaving, do you think?" So he knows when he can have a cry for himself, and go comfort Jon.
"I, um. I was gonna leave after I finished this letter to you?" Martin's cringing a little with his own words, but he doesn't quite move his hand away from Tim's face. He's not ready to give up the contact yet. "I guess - I was scared of losing the courage to do it."
And, as petty as it is: he doesn't know if he'll be able to resist the urge to crawl into bed beside Jon after a month away.
There's no way Tim would even consider fighting off the contact at this point, not knowing if he'll get the chance for it again. He's not exactly kidding when he says he'll kiss Martin again - he had Jacobi, after all.
But that little gesture, that of course Martin would leave with a letter, makes him smile, and it's less of a laugh than a long, soft huff. "I mean, I can't say I'm looking forward to it, but I appreciate it."
Martin, spoiled by three years' worth of affectionate touch, is worried he might never get it again. So as long as Tim allows him to cling close, he will.
"I couldn't figure out how to start it. I'm- glad you found me. Pissed that Jon definitely sent you, but glad you found me."
"Honestly, with how much of a maze this place is right now, I'm kind of glad he gave me directions," he says diplomatically. Yes, Jon sent him, but-- "You're my friend too, you know. And I'd like to think I was before Jon was, even if I got here late."
"You were," Martin says, and then sighs miserably. "Remember that stupid bloody maze we got stuck in when I decided to go looking for Jon in the tunnels? How long has it taken me to figure out I need to stop chasing him."
"If that's the logic we're using, I shouldn't have followed you down there to begin with," he points out wryly. "Thinking something is stupid in retrospect doesn't make it true at the time. It's not like we knew Michael was there. You were trying to help."
He shifts to get Martin's hand off his face, but it still puts him closer in their tangled cuddle. "That's something that's never changed about you. You're still always ready to help, and that's incredible. And you've learned where to stand firm, you know what you're worth now."
He tilts his head slightly, just looking tired at Martin. "And if it makes it easier for now, maybe that just means 'more than what Jon feels like he can offer'."
Martin yields to that, allows his hand to slide off. Seems to sink in the way Tim shifts closer. "It's not even... I don't hate this place, really, you know?" His voice drops. "I hate that I'm- that I'm bad at being a Warden. But I like the people. I like them a lot. Not all of them, obviously, but most of them. Don't know I've ever really felt a sense of- community like this before."
Tim looks tired, and Martin reaches up to sort of stroke his head, to sweep down the back of his neck.
"But don't say that. Jon's... figuring out his own worth more, I think. The way he makes friends here... it was foolish to think I could keep up. I guess I should have seen this coming."
"Well, maybe you could stand to keep improving your own a bit more, too." It's light, a suggestion and not a stab. "Find something better than just 'don't hate it' to settle into. Where you can thrive for being you, not for... something you're trying to keep up with."
That will get Martin to lean back, wrinkling his nose at Tim.
"Okay. Mr. Bloody Idealist, let's not get carried away with ourselves here. But - sure. Best case scenario, I go back to a world where I'm alive and still gainfully employed, I'll go join a book club."
It's Tim's turn to laugh, at the way Martin crinkles his nose at the mere suggestion.
"How d'you think you'd fit 'travelled cross-country through the apocalypse' on a resume, then? Since apparently I'm just a bloody idealist, and- do you hear how weird that sounds too?"
Martin holds up one hand, looking defensive. "Excuse me, Tim, I only put lies on my CVs. And anyway, it sounds like you're saying you don't think I can support myself on poetry income alone."
He still hurts so bad it's physical. His teeth and gums ache with his own stupid grief, over losing Jon, over giving up the Barge. But the laughter in his voice, as faint as it is, is utterly sincere.
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corkscrewed) wrote2017-11-05 04:46 pm
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Christ, he really is leaving, isn't he?
"Oh, God, please don't tell me Jacobi knows that too," he moans dramatically. "He'll gas me out of my room every time he gets shitty at me."
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He's afraid, he realizes. More than that: he's fucking terrified. What if he goes back and it's game over? End of the world for him and Jon? Worse - what if he goes back and it isn't? What's he supposed to do without an eldritch power to lash himself to for guidance?
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He doesn't want Martin to leave, because he can't protect him there, and it's terrifying to think that he might go back to just-- nothing. His murdered boyfriend and the world crashing down around him and he has no idea if Jon making deals here will affect that.
He wants to hope, desperately, that they did something right. That they've made things better for Martin, and Sasha and everyone else. But all he can do is hope.
He just squeezes Martin closer, tighter, and tries keep his shoulders from hitching too obviously when a sob breaks in his chest.
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He raises his other arm to wrap around Tim, leaning hard into him and mumbling clumsy, tearful, placating nonsense.
"You've got so much here," he manages finally. "You've got a future again. Fuck, man, do you know how important that is? How - worth it, god."
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He didn't mean to cry; he certainly didn't want to. He was supposed to be helping Martin pull himself back together and be ready for whatever came next, not breaking on him and forcing Martin to take care of him. But fuck, he's going to miss him.
It takes him a few minutes to take a deep breath, still trembling and ragged from how hard he was trying to keep all of his noise in, and pull himself away enough to meet Martin's eyes, his own red and glistening now and his voice undeniably choked up. "You've got to take care of yourself, alright? If you're fucked up when we come back I'll-- I'll kill you my bloody self."
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But Tim isn't obligated to pretend to be sad, and an ugly, selfish part inside of him is grateful. He think a lot of the people who'd once been in his domain, nameless with no one to miss them, and it's a relief to know his name won't be forgotten immediately.
He pulls his hand from Tim's neck to cradle his cheek, hand warm and firm. "Yeah. Alright," he whispers. "But it's okay if you don't. You know that, right? If something happens - if we never see each other again. It's okay. I had you for longer than I was meant to already. Look after yourself first."
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"Yeah." It's not much, but he will. He has been already, and he can keep doing it.
He gives a wet sniff as he pushes himself a bit more upright so he can breathe for a second, but he's still keeping an arm around Martin's back to keep him close.
"When d'you plan on actually leaving, do you think?" So he knows when he can have a cry for himself, and go comfort Jon.
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And, as petty as it is: he doesn't know if he'll be able to resist the urge to crawl into bed beside Jon after a month away.
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But that little gesture, that of course Martin would leave with a letter, makes him smile, and it's less of a laugh than a long, soft huff. "I mean, I can't say I'm looking forward to it, but I appreciate it."
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"I couldn't figure out how to start it. I'm- glad you found me. Pissed that Jon definitely sent you, but glad you found me."
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He shifts to get Martin's hand off his face, but it still puts him closer in their tangled cuddle. "That's something that's never changed about you. You're still always ready to help, and that's incredible. And you've learned where to stand firm, you know what you're worth now."
He tilts his head slightly, just looking tired at Martin. "And if it makes it easier for now, maybe that just means 'more than what Jon feels like he can offer'."
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Tim looks tired, and Martin reaches up to sort of stroke his head, to sweep down the back of his neck.
"But don't say that. Jon's... figuring out his own worth more, I think. The way he makes friends here... it was foolish to think I could keep up. I guess I should have seen this coming."
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"Okay. Mr. Bloody Idealist, let's not get carried away with ourselves here. But - sure. Best case scenario, I go back to a world where I'm alive and still gainfully employed, I'll go join a book club."
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"How d'you think you'd fit 'travelled cross-country through the apocalypse' on a resume, then? Since apparently I'm just a bloody idealist, and- do you hear how weird that sounds too?"
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He still hurts so bad it's physical. His teeth and gums ache with his own stupid grief, over losing Jon, over giving up the Barge. But the laughter in his voice, as faint as it is, is utterly sincere.