Martin K(nife) Blackwood (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
curriculum_fictae) wrote2020-06-16 06:15 pm
curriculum_fictae) wrote2020-06-16 06:15 pm
[PSL] time travel, time travel
[ Martin had always known that Lukas would kill him in the end. If not along the way, then surely at the end, once he'd gotten what he wanted out of Martin, whatever that turned out to be. When the Lonely rose up to swallow him, he'd accepted his impending death with ... what?
What did he have left, really? Numbness, mostly. A hallucination of Jon in the Lonely, looking for him, but - but that was impossible, ridiculous. His mind playing cruel tricks. He settled himself down in the frigid surf, knees drawn up close to his chest, unshed tears frozen to his cheeks and lashes.
And then. A door. A door that shouldn't exist, that couldn't exist. That he shouldn't take at all. The Lonely was terrible, yes, but it was quiet, and it was peaceful. Martin was aligned enough with it by now to very nearly enjoy it, in a strange and terrible way. The Spiral would be infinitely worse than this quiet beach.
But ... it was hope, too. In a strange way. Hope enough that Martin found himself turning the door handle and stepping through, leaving the false comfort of the Lonely behind him.
The transition was unpleasant. Long. But Martin couldn't remember it after; he only remembered stumbling out through the door of a supply closet somewhere deep in the Archives, blinking up at the dim bulbs that pretended to be sufficient. What time was it? Had he escaped? Where were Lukas and Elias now?
And where was Jon? ]
What did he have left, really? Numbness, mostly. A hallucination of Jon in the Lonely, looking for him, but - but that was impossible, ridiculous. His mind playing cruel tricks. He settled himself down in the frigid surf, knees drawn up close to his chest, unshed tears frozen to his cheeks and lashes.
And then. A door. A door that shouldn't exist, that couldn't exist. That he shouldn't take at all. The Lonely was terrible, yes, but it was quiet, and it was peaceful. Martin was aligned enough with it by now to very nearly enjoy it, in a strange and terrible way. The Spiral would be infinitely worse than this quiet beach.
But ... it was hope, too. In a strange way. Hope enough that Martin found himself turning the door handle and stepping through, leaving the false comfort of the Lonely behind him.
The transition was unpleasant. Long. But Martin couldn't remember it after; he only remembered stumbling out through the door of a supply closet somewhere deep in the Archives, blinking up at the dim bulbs that pretended to be sufficient. What time was it? Had he escaped? Where were Lukas and Elias now?
And where was Jon? ]
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-- Is he okay?
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[On one hand, he didn't want to rush Martin... ]
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Right then, I guess we're getting up.
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[Tim's hand remains on one arm and his back as Martin gets to his feet, just in case the man goes back down again. But... he seems to be right at least, without the visual trigger.
The hand on Martin's arm squeezes.]
How we doing?
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[ He's ... better, anyway, and with Tim helping him he's steady enough on his feet. Just tired. So tired. And feeling miserably out of place in a way he hadn't before. Already he misses having Jon all to himself, and hates himself more for even thinking that thought. ]
What's - what am I yelling about? Can you see?
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Oh. Fuck.
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What? What is it?
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A breath. In. Out.]
His hand looks like yours do.
[Like the one currently gripping Tim's shoulder. He can't help but notice, tension running through him.]
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That - that doesn't make any sense. This is 2016, I haven't been anywhere near the Lonely yet.
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... Yeah. You have, right now.
[He swallows a real fear shuddering up his spine. And speaks very carefully.]
Martin, I uh, don't want you to take this the wrong way...
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To himself, his past self, who had always been lonely, sure but, hadn't been Lonely until Peter Lukas had walked in that first time, giving him the slightest hint of what was to come. To Tim now, as the patch that Martin clings to freezes first, then fades to a dull grey.
Martin steps back with a cry of horror, mercifully catching himself on a chair rather than falling to the ground again. There he breathes in raggedly and chokes back multiple emotions, all of them miserable.
(He'd been so sure he was human - so sure he was just cursed and miserable, but ultimately harmless. A quiet little presence that struggled with the automatic teller at Tesco, and left cash on the counter at his favourite café when he couldn't convince the waitress to give him a cuppa. What a pleasant lie that was.) ]
I - I didn't mean to -
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He's vaguely aware of Martin 'sitting' heavily, but can't quite focus there for the lance of subtle, soft, creeping fear that the discoloration provides. He hooks a finger in his collar and looks-
It's not missing. Not like present-Martin's hand is, but- good enough.
He takes a deep breath.] It's okay! ... It's okay. It's an accident.
[But that comforting grasp Tim had been offering as something of a constant... doesn't return, does it?]
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Tim doesn't reach out to him again, and that tells him everything he needs to know. ]
I - I should go. Jon knows nearly everything important I can tell him anyway.
[ Where the hell he could possibly go, he has no idea. If he leaves this flat, it will likely be the last time anyone sees him, period. ]
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No one has said that.
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[ He makes a strangled noise, taking a step back. ]
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[ His head jerks towards his past self being tended to by Jon. ]
1/2
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The thread on Tim's temper snaps and his voice raises.]
Oh, right. THAT will help. You spend an evening convincing me that you're you, and now expect me to swallow that? The sheer idea of it? Nope. Sit down. You're not doing something that will fuck him up. Fuck Jon up, and worst in all of this, kill you.
Sit back down, Martin.
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Or point out the hypocrisy of Tim of all people telling him not to do this. But as soon as that thought crosses his mind, Tim's blazing sincerity abruptly becomes real. He knows where Tim is coming from, and he's seen the terrible result. ]
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[The word is small, mild, and a little winded, coming down from the prickling intensity of it. He leans against the table next to Martin.]
... Thanks.
We'll... we'll figure it out. All right?
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Martin lets out a breath. ]
R-right - right. I'd like that.