Douglas half expects Martin to flinch again, maybe even bolt for the door. But Martin just picks up the pen.
No hospital. No doctors.
"Martin, you have to." Douglas wants to snap at him, but that's just his own anger and anxiety looking for a target. He walks around Martin's chair and comes to stand before him. Martin doesn't look up, so Douglas sits in the chair beside him and rests his elbows on his knees, to bring his eyes down to Martin's level. "You will get an infection if you don't, and as weak as you are an infection might very well kill you."
Martin doesn't react to this at all. It's like the possibility of his death doesn't even faze him, and Douglas wonders whether it's because Martin is numb, or because whatever has happened to him has brought him face to face with death so often that the prospect has lost all its terror. He doesn't let himself contemplate the third possibility, that Martin no longer cares whether he lives or dies. Douglas won't allow that. He'll do enough caring for both of them, if he has to.
"Why don't you want to go to the hospital?" he says, forcing his tone to remain gentle. It's a continuous effort, because Douglas is aching with the need to do violence of some sort. "Are you--afraid that someone will--find you?"
Martin shudders, like icy wind has swept through the kitchen.
"You don't need to be afraid," Douglas tells him. "No one is going to hurt you. I--whatever's happened to you, whoever's done this to you--I won't let them near you, I swear."
He means it, God, he's never meant anything so much in his life. Three times he's stood before an altar and vowed to cherish and protect his wives, but this feels more like the moment he first held his daughter in his arms and knew, for the first time, that his own happiness and peace of mine would forever more be dependent on the helpless creature before him. There is something uniquely frightening about loving someone who cannot defend themself, like his heart has been excised from his chest and gone wandering through the world where anyone might crush it.
Martin, still holding the pen, pulls the notebook toward him again. You can't protect me.
"Yes, I can," says Douglas firmly. He covers the back of Martin's hand with his own. "You have no idea. I--I'm not really a nice person, Martin. I'm capable of more than you know."
If anything happens, you have to run. Promise me.
"I can't promise that." Douglas stares at the side of Martin's face, entirely consternated. Is this brainwashing, or has the boy gone and got himself mixed up in something truly dire? "Do you seriously think I would ever run away and leave you to--no, Martin. No."
Then I have to leave. Martin's handwriting is shaky now.
"You aren't going anywhere." Douglas says it like he's giving an order, something he hasn't done since he last held the rank of captain, which is longer ago than he cares to remember. "Come now, do you really think you can escape me, in your condition? You're stuck, I'm afraid."
Martin doesn't react to the levity. He's clutching the pen tightly; if it were a pencil it would have snapped by now.
I would rather die than let them have you.
Douglas chokes on a breath. What the devil does he mean by that? Martin is noble, yes, even a touch quixotic, but he'd never suspected him of being a martyr. And who is "them"?
And since when is Douglas more important to him than his own life?
"Martin..." Douglas scrubs a hand across his face. He's been riding the tide of adrenaline up to now, but the reality of the situation is beginning to descend on him--Martin, here, alive, after so very long. "What do you want me to say? I've only just got you back. I'm not losing you again."
The pen slips from Martin's hand. The spark of liveliness that had animated him in the last few minutes flickers and dies, and he is, again, little more than a husk.
Triage, Douglas reminds himself. "Come upstairs with me. I've a first aid kit. We'll--talk about proper medical attention later."
When Martin doesn't move, Douglas, tugs him to his feet again. Martin sways, and Douglas slips an arm around his waist, careful not to put pressure against his back. He hauls Martin up the stairs to his bedroom and tells him to take his shirt off and lie down.
Douglas walks down the corridor to the bathroom and stops there a moment, leaning against the sink, with his eyes closed. Can he really do this alone, be Martin's sole source of care and safety, when he's so desperately damaged? He's not certain he trusts himself. Clever, wily as he is, he's never been in this situation before. Half of him still can't believe Martin is really here, and Douglas is terrified that he'll slip through his fingers like water.
Pull yourself together, Richardson, he tells himself. Have a breakdown later. Martin needs you.
Douglas wipes at his wet face impatiently and stoops to retrieve the first aid kitch from the cupboard beneath the sink. He straightens, carrying it down the corridor into the bedroom.
The covers are rumpled, but the bed is empty, and Martin is gone.
Re: FILL: If I Believe In Death (5/?)
No hospital. No doctors.
"Martin, you have to." Douglas wants to snap at him, but that's just his own anger and anxiety looking for a target. He walks around Martin's chair and comes to stand before him. Martin doesn't look up, so Douglas sits in the chair beside him and rests his elbows on his knees, to bring his eyes down to Martin's level. "You will get an infection if you don't, and as weak as you are an infection might very well kill you."
Martin doesn't react to this at all. It's like the possibility of his death doesn't even faze him, and Douglas wonders whether it's because Martin is numb, or because whatever has happened to him has brought him face to face with death so often that the prospect has lost all its terror. He doesn't let himself contemplate the third possibility, that Martin no longer cares whether he lives or dies. Douglas won't allow that. He'll do enough caring for both of them, if he has to.
"Why don't you want to go to the hospital?" he says, forcing his tone to remain gentle. It's a continuous effort, because Douglas is aching with the need to do violence of some sort. "Are you--afraid that someone will--find you?"
Martin shudders, like icy wind has swept through the kitchen.
"You don't need to be afraid," Douglas tells him. "No one is going to hurt you. I--whatever's happened to you, whoever's done this to you--I won't let them near you, I swear."
He means it, God, he's never meant anything so much in his life. Three times he's stood before an altar and vowed to cherish and protect his wives, but this feels more like the moment he first held his daughter in his arms and knew, for the first time, that his own happiness and peace of mine would forever more be dependent on the helpless creature before him. There is something uniquely frightening about loving someone who cannot defend themself, like his heart has been excised from his chest and gone wandering through the world where anyone might crush it.
Martin, still holding the pen, pulls the notebook toward him again. You can't protect me.
"Yes, I can," says Douglas firmly. He covers the back of Martin's hand with his own. "You have no idea. I--I'm not really a nice person, Martin. I'm capable of more than you know."
If anything happens, you have to run. Promise me.
"I can't promise that." Douglas stares at the side of Martin's face, entirely consternated. Is this brainwashing, or has the boy gone and got himself mixed up in something truly dire? "Do you seriously think I would ever run away and leave you to--no, Martin. No."
Then I have to leave. Martin's handwriting is shaky now.
"You aren't going anywhere." Douglas says it like he's giving an order, something he hasn't done since he last held the rank of captain, which is longer ago than he cares to remember. "Come now, do you really think you can escape me, in your condition? You're stuck, I'm afraid."
Martin doesn't react to the levity. He's clutching the pen tightly; if it were a pencil it would have snapped by now.
I would rather die than let them have you.
Douglas chokes on a breath. What the devil does he mean by that? Martin is noble, yes, even a touch quixotic, but he'd never suspected him of being a martyr. And who is "them"?
And since when is Douglas more important to him than his own life?
"Martin..." Douglas scrubs a hand across his face. He's been riding the tide of adrenaline up to now, but the reality of the situation is beginning to descend on him--Martin, here, alive, after so very long. "What do you want me to say? I've only just got you back. I'm not losing you again."
The pen slips from Martin's hand. The spark of liveliness that had animated him in the last few minutes flickers and dies, and he is, again, little more than a husk.
Triage, Douglas reminds himself. "Come upstairs with me. I've a first aid kit. We'll--talk about proper medical attention later."
When Martin doesn't move, Douglas, tugs him to his feet again. Martin sways, and Douglas slips an arm around his waist, careful not to put pressure against his back. He hauls Martin up the stairs to his bedroom and tells him to take his shirt off and lie down.
Douglas walks down the corridor to the bathroom and stops there a moment, leaning against the sink, with his eyes closed. Can he really do this alone, be Martin's sole source of care and safety, when he's so desperately damaged? He's not certain he trusts himself. Clever, wily as he is, he's never been in this situation before. Half of him still can't believe Martin is really here, and Douglas is terrified that he'll slip through his fingers like water.
Pull yourself together, Richardson, he tells himself. Have a breakdown later. Martin needs you.
Douglas wipes at his wet face impatiently and stoops to retrieve the first aid kitch from the cupboard beneath the sink. He straightens, carrying it down the corridor into the bedroom.
The covers are rumpled, but the bed is empty, and Martin is gone.