planet of love destroyed

[tapeleader]

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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[eyechivist]

"Martin!" Jon barks, familiar old frustrated tone. And then it occurs to him: maybe not, actually.

The worst thing about the idea is the wave of relief it rolls in on. Maybe it's not Martin who's avoiding his eyes right now. Maybe this isn't happening the way he thinks it's happening. Maybe —

"Just how much baggage did that eye come with, exactly?" he asks, the question slicing and tugging like a meat hook.

[tapeleader]

For a brief, painful moment, Martin nearly slips away. His cup sets down hard on the cart, and the prim figure blurs, clouds, and means to disappear. For Jon's words, though, a sick, black spurt redraws his silhouette, leaving Martin hunched over the little set, glowering under the questioning. He spits back, an unfamiliar frustration that he always spared Jon (like he always spares Jon), and shock, and hurt: "Jonathan Sims. How dare you?"

[eyechivist]

Martin is indistinct for just long enough that Jon starts towards him. His reflexes aren't particularly good. He doesn't get beyond reaching for him, and he snatches his hand swiftly back as if stung when Martin becomes substantial once again.

Jon's embarrassed to have nearly grabbed for him: embarrassment makes him angry, and so does everything else about Martin all of a sudden. "Oh, for God's sake!" There are high spots of fervent colour in his cheeks and the rest of his face is dead pale. "Was I not meant to ask? Am I meant to know who you are? You don't make it obvious!"

[tapeleader]

"I'm myself!" He skitters back from Jon's hand. It's overcompensating, probably, but he's bumping Elizabeth's desk before he knows it. "And you don't have to compel me to find that out! Magnus' eye doesn't burden me with anything worse than his desk does."

After a beat, his hand rubs at the center of his chest, fingertips mussing the neat, dark tie. "Christ--don't do that again."

[eyechivist]

"I — well I — I just didn't —" As ever, after the momentary storm come guilt and defensiveness in an ugly mess. He believes him. That's Martin. It's obvious in the familiar fluster. How many times has he seen him flatten a hand to his chest to quell a racing heart? "It's just that if you were, you wouldn't tell me, probably, or..." Shut up, he begs himself. Please, stop. "...I'm sorry," he concludes miserably. "I've gotten a bit trigger-happy with it, maybe. I... "I'm glad it's you."

[tapeleader]

"Are you?" Martin laughs harshly. He straightens his back and straightens his tie, more disheveled schoolboy than anything more polished. The ritual coats his voice, though, a thin veneer of his cool calm returning. "It certainly doesn't seem that way. It seems, in fact, as if I'm interrupting something. What are you doing here, Jon?" 

[eyechivist]

Well, that's not how this is meant to go: Jon is supposed to soften, offer something kind, and Martin is supposed to accept it as the balm it's meant to be. Jolted out of the usual rhythm, Jon flinches, and is about to snarl back that yes of course he'd rather talk to Martin than to Jonah Magnus wearing his face, when the question throws him off.

"I'm working," he says, brow furrowed up. "I've been here for about a year. I still need to eat, Martin." It's easier to look at him now that he's gotten angry about it. It gives him a lot more willpower. He studies him fiercely. "Why — " Stopping himself, clearing his throat before the buzz of compulsion can come out. He asks, without any staticky questioning, "Why don't you know this?"

[tapeleader]

"I've had better things to do than chase you around the world, Jon." He explains quietly, brow similarly bent and fingers fussing at his cuffs. "I told Elizabeth the truth. This is the closest thing I've had to time off since--you left." 

[eyechivist]

Jon shakes his head, pinching his lips together. "No, I got that." He can't help the slight soreness in his voice, but he moves on from it quickly, the only way he knows how: through interrogation. "What I don't understand is why you have to ask. Elias always just knew."

He keeps up his study, narrowing his eyes. "If not omniscience, then what does one eye of Jonah Magnus get you?"

[tapeleader]

His cuffs are tugged out and straight, neat and flat around his wrists. Martin continues to fidget with them though, all too aware of Jon's eyes on him. "That's not really any of your business, Jon."

[eyechivist]

The temptation to wrench the answer out of him is painful. Jon braces against it. He wants to prove he can control himself.

His voice comes tight with the effort of not compelling. "I'd like to know nonetheless. I'd like to know what your price was."

[tapeleader]

"My--" That gets his attention up, furrowed and earnest and fixed on Jon. "My price? You don't have to be so--so crass, especially not when you don't have the slightest idea what I've been dealing with." He shakes his head with a laugh. Jon can hear in his voice: not Martin, not Jonah, but Peter.. Calm and soothing and laser sharp:  "I guess I shouldn't have expected anything less. It's all you know. You've always been for sale."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6sV3rA-CJI

[eyechivist]

"Excuse me?" Jon's all hackled up like an angry cat, pale and appalled.

[tapeleader]

"Don't play innocent again, I've been with you this whole time. At every turn you've taken the course of least discomfort and greatest personal profit. You gladly walked into the position of Archivist despite being barely qualified compared to the other staff because it suited your ego. Since then, you've bargained away piece after piece of good advice, person after person, bit after bit of yourself to get to where you are now."

His voice winds tighter with each word, but the cool stays. All of Martin's careful observations, his ceaseless, affectionate watching fit together nicely now--the haze of love penetrated by his new knowledge. He shakes his head scoldingly and hammers through: "You comforted your ego by allowing Tim to join you in the Unknowing, despite Elias asking you not to. I suppose his life was a much lower price than yours."

[eyechivist]

Jon sways slightly under the barrage, a kind of amazed pain writ clear on his face. The look of someone who's been stabbed but can't quite believe it. One pathetic part of him is protesting even Elias calls me loyal.

It's actually a relief to hear Tim invoked. His breath loosens. He's relieved to have something he can argue with sincerity, that doesn't feel like scrabbling on a wet rock face for purchase on his own motivations. "That isn't how that happened," he says, loud and flat. "There was no stopping him. I know how Tim died. I can see it, feel it, and I couldn't have stopped it.

"You haven't been with me. You've been busy. You went missing long before I did." He swallows hard, and frames it polite and vicious: "It seems we simply don't know each other very well anymore."

[tapeleader]

"Jon," He laughs, almost a curse, "did you ever think you knew me?"

[eyechivist]

That pries in neatly up between Jon's ribs. It hurts, and he can feel that it will hurt for a very long time. For some reason he's shivery-cold, as with a fever.

He asks, "Why did you do it?" just as Elizabeth opens the door. There's no real force in his tone, but the compulsion is a roar that almost obliterates the words themselves. Elizabeth's face flickers too quick to read.

[tapeleader]

For all his compromises, all his growth and everything he's learned, all it takes is a pointed word from Jonathan Sims to break him open. Martin sighs, nostrils flaring, and nods a wire tight greeting to Elizabeth. His voice scrapes out of him. "Someone had to cut Elias down. Peter couldn't, and we all knew that you wouldn't. My coffee, if you don't mind."

[eyechivist]

There. He's been wondering about the answer to that question for a year, and now he has it. It cuts a few of his strings. His shoulders drop: tension comes out in a sigh. It's not the answer he wanted. It has almost nothing to do with him, and he hates that it's troubled him for so long. He hates that he knows it will continue to trouble him. "...I'm not going to pick up your bloody coffee," he snaps, sullen and a little dazed.

Elizabeth slides into the room and closes the door calmly behind her. "I see I shouldn't have taken that call," she says, unruffled. "The energy in this room is a migraine waiting to happen. What do you think, Mr Blackwood? We can continue as you like or pick this up another time — perhaps over dinner?"

[tapeleader]

Elizabeth is right enough that Martin breaks into a genuine smile. It's nothing to celebrate, but yes: this is a literal headache, or will be in about ten minutes. "Yes, I should--check in back home anyway." And a clinical, recycled paper coffee cup in a corporate cafe also sounds like just the ticket.

"Dinner would be lovely." Martin drifts towards the door, leaving Jon the widest possible berth, ignoring him for bad behavior. "If at all possible, we would prefer to keep these early discussions between senior staff. Shall I make those reservations for three? You, me, and Mr. Lukas?"

[eyechivist]

Jon rolls his eyes in the background at the petty snipe, but he's dizzy and bedraggled. He's returned to his position beside Elizabeth's desk, and he's doing a poorer job than before of pretending he's not holding onto it for support.

Elizabeth smiles in return: genuine or not, it's very hard to say, but she certainly doesn't forget to look quietly impressed that Martin can promise Peter's presence. "It has been a minute since I've seen Peter. Sounds wonderful."