tapeleader | planet of love destroyed

Peter didn't want him to go. He only came out and said it once or twice. Saying anything so directly would mean being in Martin's company, the delight of which has worn off over the months. Still, he's made his disapproval more than obvious, primarily in the form of disappearing people and things that Martin needed to get here. His keys and wallet. His desktop computer at one point. His cell phone. His booking agent. One shoe, in a particularly petty pre-flight snit.

He makes one last effort halfway across the ocean, lazy and comfortable in the strange atmosphere of the economy cabin. "You don't owe those voyeurs anything." Peter hummed sleepily over his shoulder, plastic cocktail cup swirling slowly in his hand. "What do you say to landing and taking a nice, long drive out to the midwest? It wouldn't have to be a waste then. We could get some good business done out there. Really save on stress. Doesn't that sound nice..."

But Martin did learn a few things from his predecessor, and the greatest lesson he learned about Peter was that a smile and a nod were the very best way to deal with him. Once he was pacified, do as you like. Certainly, Martin will wander out of his good graces at some point. But he notes as he checks into his hotel room that Peter doesn't stop him or disappear his credit card or whisk away the attendant. He simply dissipates and drifts away and doesn't appear again until they're in the elevator of the Usher Foundation head quarters.

"You picked a fine suit, at least." He remarks of the well-fitting ensemble that Peter himself paid for early on in Martin's directorship. The gray (or is it blue?) is clean and crisp, well-cut to frame the weight he has left, colored to match the lone blue (or is it gray?) eye that preceded it by only a few months. Martin smiles and nods, and Peter lets out a great, singing sigh. "Do be careful, Martin. You're getting very greedy these days, you know. Don't let your eyes be bigger than...well. Just be careful."

His knuckles brush the side of Martin's neck, fingers comb a few cropped curls out of his collar, and Martin reaches for him--finds himself surprised by the nervousness he finds right at the top of Peter's brain. Before he can ask or look for more, the elevator door opens on his floor, and Peter Lukas is gone through the ducts.

Mr. Blackwood approaches the administrative desk alone, leather portfolio tucked under one arm, the other hand settled protectively on top of it, smile demure and eyes too-sharp as he quietly confirms that he has an appointment.

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Bullshit. He argues coolly, "If you were going to keep it from me, you should have kept your mouth shut about the matter entirely. You've seen fit to bring me into the conversation, so I have to assume you'd like my input. And we are, after all...partners. In this. I'd like to know how he's hurt you. How do you imagine I can help, short of knowing?"

Jon bites the inside of his mouth, as frustrated as ever by Elias' justifications. Not least because he raises a good point: why tell him anything, if he's not prepared to tell him everything?

The answer comes out of Jon's mouth with a sigh, as much a revelation to himself as it is to Elias: "I couldn't have kept it from you any longer than I did. That's...simply not how things work between us. I don't know if that's any relief to hear, but it's true."

"...It's no relief." Impatient, sighing long and longsuffering. His fingers drift to Jon's knees, anchor there once he finds them to help guide Elias to a kneel. His palms settle heavy where they lay. "But I...can wait. Though I need to know: what sort of...collaboration is he proposing? Are we safe, Jon?"

The long-suffering frustration in Elias' voice and the way he folds down to his knees shift the air between them, and suddenly Jon is left feeling more culpable than he wants to feel. Especially when it comes to knowing are we safe?

Guilt weaves its familiar way up his airway, makes it hard to speak for a few seconds. He is meant to be able to protect this tentative little sanctuary they've managed to sustain so far. Once he swallows the sticky feeling down, he says, "For now. Yes."

He leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs just in front of Elias' hands: the curve of his torso suggests shelter overhead. Closer to him, Jon can speak more softly. "We still have Elizabeth's protection. And Martin's not looking to carry out a ritual, or to sacrifice to the Lonely. He's trying to feed the Eye. I got the sense he'd been rather neglecting it. He's keeping a lot of plates spinning, as it were. And the plates do not necessarily like each other." As the metaphor breaks down, Jon frowns. Strange: he has no idea whether he's saying this because he Knows it or because he assumes it. Whatever fog surrounds Martin makes it very difficult to trust his appraisal of him.

In the spirit of inspiring trust, he doesn't mention this. Instead, his hand wanders to thumb a few strands of hair from Elias' forehead, lingering at his hairline and he says, "I don't know if he knows you're here. That...could change things. Oh — and Lukas is here." His voice lifts in a sneer, hand vanishing from Elias' face before he can take his irritation out by pushing too hard. Jon's contempt for Peter Lukas strains at any polite leash he tries to put on it.

His fingers lace together, flat-pressed lips fold into his knuckles. Jon's touch doesn't entirely soothe the flare of fear and worry and disappointment that Peter's name stirs up, but it's something else to think about, and something else to be frustrated with when it goes away. "Whatever spine Martin's gained isn't worth much without their backing. You need power to make a show of it.

"...Has he...manifested?" Hesistant, murmured into the gaps between his fingers. “What did he buy with his service?”

"Yes," says Jon, glad to have the word affixed. It captures how Martin is both unlike himself and more himself than Jon has ever seen him. The same trait crops up in many avatars whose prior lives Jon knows something of: Jane Prentiss, Annabelle Crane. Himself. All those victims turned volunteers.

"But I don't know exactly what he can do," he confesses, frustration curling the edges of his tone. His hand comes back to Elias' hair, spreading out at the back of his head. Half a distraction, half a warning not to jump. "You haven't asked about his eyes. Are you being patient? ...Do you already know?

"He's kept one of yours."

Jon braces him, so he knows it's coming. Still, dread wells up under Jon's palm, sticky and mournful. Elias' fingers curl into his legs. Anger and jealousy, a bright and insistent where is it reaching up Jon's arm to shake his nerves. Why didn't you take it? Elias doesn't move.

"Do you think I should have yanked it out of his face?" Jon scolds him, shaken by the image and tense under Elias' hands. "Christ. No."

The ragewant inside him screams back yes of course of course, but Elias answers with a more typical, snapping: "No. Don't be stupid, of course not." His composure would usually dictate brushing Jon off now and drifting away, affecting whatever semblance of apathy he could manage. He can't quite grasp all of his composure, though, so Elias settles for simply talking opposite to his desires. He reasons to Jon's knees, "I'm only surprised, he hated them so much--hated me so much, I'm--shocked he would deign to keep it. I'm shocked that he would. Where's the other?"

It isn't did he tell you. His head tilts up imploringly, chest aching with the demand. "What did he do with the other?" Know it.

The lie is obvious: what Elias really wants is scrawled in the air between them in searing nightmare colours fit to make Jon wince and squint.

He tries to know. He really tries. When Elias pleads, Jon likes to be able to give him what he wants: it makes him feel benevolent and powerful, two things he otherwise sorely misses. The desperation and the pain in Elias' question prompt him to action. But when he reaches out, all he finds is Martin, tipping and leaving the coffee shop, drifting down the street, crowds thinning around him until there's no one there. Finally he grows indistinct, and Jon can't keep sight of him anymore.

Jon blinks his way back to his body and finds his whole head locked up in something like the worst brainfreeze known to man. He grimaces, and finally spits, "I don't know, Elias!"

planet of love destroyed

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