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The car ride back to the Institute is almost painfully quiet. Jon sits in the back of the car with Mike, who doesn’t make a sound except for some truly heart-wrenching whimpering and coughing. When Martin glances back at a light, Mike’s stretched out on his back across the seats, head in Jon’s lap. Jon’s holding Mike’s head and rubbing his temples with his thumbs. Mike’s got his hands on Jon’s wrists and Martin can’t quite tell if he’s trying to hold them there or pull them off.
Martin uses the half hour to try and sort out some of his feelings regarding the new man in the back seat of his car. On the one hand, Jon seems to trust Michael. More than that, he seems to like him (not that Martin’s jealous or anything). Jon and Mike are similar in a way that seems to go beyond being small and possibly magical and covered in (also magical?) scars. On the other, Mike has definitely killed people, and what’s happened to Martin that that doesn’t seem like as big a deal as it should be? What’s happened to all of them? Jon was once a normal, slightly pissy researcher. Surely, Mike had once been a happy child.
Whatever he had been, Mike is now in Martin’s car, in his care, hurt and vulnerable and seemingly safe, at least to them, at least for now. That’s going to have to be enough. Besides, Martin’s fairly sure Jon won’t be letting Mike out of his sight any time soon, and wherever Jon goes, Martin goes, so Martin and Mike are sort of stuck together. Degrees of separation and all that.
Martin parks in one of the staff spaces closest to the Institute and heads around to the back door, waiting for Jon and Mike to get out. Jon hauls Mike upright and glances out at Martin, who opens the door. Mike, clearly disoriented, glances around a bit before finally focusing on the Institute.
“Oh, fuck, no,” he says, wriggling out of Jon’s grip and back to the far side of the seat. “No fucking way. I’m not going in there.”
Martin sighs. He should have expected this. “Mike…”
“ No.”
“Fine. Jon, will you please get him before he passes out?” Martin gestures to where Mike’s swaying in place, one hand pressed to the back of the seat and pale face looking increasingly lost. Jon scrambles back into the car and puts his hand on Mike’s back, forcing him into the recovery position.
“We can take him to my flat,” Jon suggests.
“No, we’ll do mine, it’s closer.” It’s getting properly late now, and Martin wants to get both of them clean and safe and into bed. He also wants himself to be clean, safe, and in bed, but that will (hopefully) come immediately after. He’s got two idiots to keep alive, after all.
Jon nods and Mike murmurs his assent and Martin gets back in the driver’s seat.
Mike takes a turn for the worse before they reach Martin’s flat. In the five minutes it takes them to go two blocks, he starts making those awful noises again, clutching at his head and begging Jon to make “her” stop (Martin doesn’t want to share an office with Daisy anymore). Then, just as they’re pulling up, he goes quiet. Martin gets out and around to their side as quickly as he can.
Thankfully, Mike’s still conscious when Martin opens the door. He’s leaning listlessly into Jon’s side, watching Martin like he’s not quite sure what’s going on. Jon sort of… shoves him Martin’s way, evidently unsure of what else to do.
Not for the first time today, Martin feels his own headache forming.
“Alright,” Martin says, grabbing Mike under the arms. “Up you get.” It’s a good thing Mike’s so light, as he seems doomed to being manhandled today. This time, he doesn’t protest when Martin sets him on his feet and puts an arm around his middle. Martin’s life would be so much less complicated if he didn’t find this concerning.
Jon climbs out of the car, catching himself on the door when he stumbles, and Martin remembers that Jon, too, has had one hell of a day. At least with Jon, he doesn’t feel quite so strange about the vice of worry that closes around his heart at the sight of him hurt.
To Mike, Martin says, “I hope you can make it up to the flat like this, because I really don’t want to explain to my neighbors why I’m carrying a stranger.” Jon huffs a laugh at this, and Martin tries not to feel too proud of himself.
Mike nods dazedly, leaning heavier into Martin’s side as they take their first steps.
Slowly but surely, Martin gets them into his flat. He leaves Jon to close the door, mostly carrying Mike the last few steps before depositing him in a kitchen chair. Martin toes his shoes off and deposits them by the mat, looking to see if he could put Mike’s there as well and realizing for the first time that Mike doesn’t have any. He’s been in socks the whole time. Jon did say they’d been in Mike’s apartment when Daisy dropped by. Martin blinks and turns around to see Jon hovering uncertainly by the door, shoes and coat off and arms wrapped around his stomach.
“Why don’t you go sit down,” Martin suggests, pointing to the couch. “I’ll be over in a minute, once I’ve got Mike situated.”
Jon nods, clearly relieved to have been told what to do, and heads for the living room. There’s no distinction between that and the kitchen, really, but Martin likes to think there is. Different furniture, at least.
He turns back to Mike, who’s got his eyes closed and is methodically touching the tips of all the fingers of his right hand to his right thumb. “Mike?” Mike winces despite Martin’s best attempts to stay quiet. “Sorry. How do you feel about a shower?” Mike nods and cracks one eye open, looking to Martin as he draws closer. “Alright. I’ll show you the bathroom and leave you some clothes and a towel. Then we’ll get you some food and sleep, alright?” Another listless nod and Martin takes his hands, pulling him up as gently as he can and guiding him to the bathroom.
“Here we are,” he says, letting Mike stagger his way to the sink. He grabs the edge of it and looks into the mirror with a strange, bewildered expression. Martin’s not dealing with monster breakdowns right now. “I’ll leave the clothes and towel right outside the door.” Then, he eases it shut and hopes Mike can figure out how to run the water. His shower’s not that complicated, right?
It’s only when Martin goes to put the clothes by the door that he realizes how ridiculously large they’re going to be on Mike. Oh, well. Nothing to be done about it now. Martin heads back to the living room to tend to Jon.
Jon’s curled up on Martin’s couch, blanket held tight around him and hands tangled in the blue and orange fidget he’s pulled out of his bag. His eyes are half-lidded and Martin can’t tell if he’s going to fall asleep or freak out. Martin knocks gently on the wall to alert Jon to his presence before crouching to sit on the floor in front of him.
Jon blinks, looking down at Martin with blank eyes. “Martin?”
“Mm-hmm. ‘S it okay if I put a hand on your knee?” Jon nods and Martin does just that, trying not to visibly react when Jon covers it with his own, lacing his cold fingers into Martin’s. Martin squeezes gently. “Can we talk about today?”
Jo shrugs. “Not much to say, in all honesty.”
“Jon, you nearly died several times. What you went through today was extremely trau-”
Jon twitches, neck rolling to press his head against his shoulder at an odd angle. He takes his hand back, scratching at his chin. “I said I don’t want to talk about it, Martin,” he snaps.
“Alright, alright. We don’t have to.” Martin looks up again, Jon’s face ever so slightly obscured by his fringe and eyelashes. “But I’m here if you need anything. You know that, right? You don’t have to say anything; I’ll be here.”
Jon nods, eyes closed, and Martin knows that this will have to be enough for now. The water turns on in the bathroom and Martin decides to set about making tea and possibly something easy for dinner.
Mike only takes about fifteen minutes in the shower, but it’s time enough for Martin to heat up tea water, set some mugs out, and get pasta started. Mike comes out looking even worse for wear, dragging his fingers along the wall, head low. Martin’s clothes hang off him, one collarbone showing at the neck of his sweatshirt. He’s so delicate, Martin thinks, like a bird ( a lightning strike ). He stumbles over to the couch and collapses next to Jon, who’s fallen asleep in the interim.
Jon startles awake at the intrusion, glaring about sleepily before registering the disturbance as Mike. “Oh,” he rasps. “You don’t look well.” Mike mumbles something that makes Jon purse his lips before throwing an arm over his eyes and lying back.
Martin puts a lid on the pasta and ventures over to them. “Jon, you should get in the shower as well.”
Jon looks up. “Hmm. I suppose so,” he says, looking down as though finally taking stock of his disheveled state. “Could I borrow some clothes?”
“Of course. I’ll leave them right outside like I did for Mike,” Martin promises, pointing Jon in the right direction and leaving him to make the slow trek to the bathroom while he grabbed more pajamas.
When he gets back to the living room, Mike’s still curled on his side, arm over his face and one socked foot hanging over the edge of the couch. Martin taps him on the shoulder as he passes, prompting a startled, “Hmm?”
“I’ve made tea,” Martin says to Mike’s forearm. “And pasta, if you’re up for that.” Then, a thought occurs to him. “I mean, if you still eat and drink, that is.”
Mike sits up slowly, holding his head like one might a faberge egg. Leaning against the back of the couch, he says, “Sometimes. When I’m…. like this, it’s better, yes.”
Martin nods, heading to the kitchen. “‘Like this?’”
Mike hums, and Martin realizes he’s not getting anything better.
“Would it be better for you to be, you know, out in the open? For healing, I mean.” Martin has to guess that the headache is the product of some internal repair, but he’s surprised at how long it’s taking.
“Yes,” Mike admits. “Usually. But right now, with the Hunter liable to realize I’ve gotten out and the Eye watching, it’s safer to be with another Avatar.”
“Right.” Then, the end of Mike’s sentence processes. “Wait, another what?”
“Huh?” Mike looks at him, incredulous, before seemingly coming to some conclusion and glancing away. “Nothing. I misspoke. Anyhow, it’s safer in numbers. The Hunter knows that.”
Martin nods, pouring out a cup of tea. He knows a thing or two about needing company, and he’s not going to begrudge Mike his excuses. As long as he doesn’t try anything, that is.
He fills a bowl with a small serving of plain pasta, dashing some salt and pepper on it and sticking in a fork. Hopefully, Mike’s headache hasn’t made him too nauseous.
Mike curls his lip at the sight of food, which… isn’t a good sign. He takes the tea, though, thanking Martin quietly and holding the mug close, sipping slowly. Martin settles on the other side of the couch, eating his own pasta and scrolling through Twitter, trying to give Mike some semblance of privacy. The shower’s still running, but hopefully Jon will be out soon.
Martin’s phone chimes with an incoming text.
Tim: boss kill you yet?
Martin: We’re fine, Tim. Staying at my flat tonight.
Tim: why
Martin: I don’t really see how that’s any of your business.
(Read, 9:42 pm)
Martin: I’m sorry, that was too harsh
(Read, 9:43 pm)
Martin sighs, rubbing at the returning headache. He can’t play babysitter to three people at once, not when one doesn’t want to be helped. Tim’s ego will recover. In the meantime, Martin focuses on the recently turned-off shower and the way Mike’s carefully picking at his pasta.
After a few minutes, Mike gives up. He’s eaten some of it, at least, and Martin smiles encouragingly when Mike gives him a guilty look and sets the bowl down.
“It’s okay,” Martin assures him. “Makes me feel better that you’ve eaten any of it, honestly.” He takes the bowl and the mugs to the sink, turning around in time to see Jon coming out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam.
Oh, God, Martin did not think this through. Martin did not think this through at all and now Jon is standing in Martin’s flat wearing Martin’s clothes with his curls all piled up in a damp bun and his cheeks flushed from the heat and oh, God, Martin’s going to die.
“Um, ah, um, Jon, there’s some food on the stove and some tea, you can help yourself while I get, um, while I get some blankets.” Yes. Yup. Martin feels a bit guilty leaving Jon to fend for himself, but he really does need to get blankets. And get out of here before he does or says something stupid.
They quickly come to the conclusion that Jon’s going to have to sleep on the floor. He refuses to take Martin’s bed or displace Mike, and he assures Martin over and over again that it’ll be fine, that he has more than enough pillows and blankets, but Martin still doesn’t like it.
“Jon, just… just call for me if you need anything, alright?” Martin implores.
Jon looks up from his little pillow nest and gives Martin a half-smile. “I will, Martin. I promise. Goodnight.”
Martin casts one more glance around the living room. Mike’s long since sound asleep, curled up in a blanket with his limbs taking up far too much space for someone so small. Jon’s got the light on in the kitchen, his phone charging, and plenty of bedding. He’s within earshot if something happens. Martin takes a deep breath. Jon’s right. It’s fine. “Goodnight, Jon.”
Then, finally, Martin gets to bed.
When his alarm goes off, it takes Martin a moment to remember the events of the previous day. As soon as he does, though, he’s on his feet and padding into the living room. Jon’s still sound asleep, blankets tangled around him and hair escaping from his bun.
Mike is nowhere to be found.
Martin should have known. He should have… what? Kept Mike here? Why? Mike’s a grown… Avatar? Man? Either way, he can fend for himself.
Still, Martin’s heart beats a little easier when he finds the letter, hastily written on scrap paper and set on the table.
Martin,
Thank you for your assistance last night. I’m quite alright now, I assure you, and this is not the last you’ll see of me. Not all of us bastards of the big spaces have to keep to ourselves, you know. Do tell Jon I said goodbye.
Regards,
Mike
P.S. Your clothes are in the hamper.