eliotwaugh | Went Down Again Headfirst | Arrival in Darrow (for Martin)

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martin blackwood

Went Down Again Headfirst | Arrival in Darrow (for Martin)

They make their farewells, and even this type of epic literary leave-taking can't dampen the buoyancy of the mood, not really, after all they've won! It's quite literally a miracle! Still, Eliot's expression is serious as he pulls Quentin into a hug.

"Never doubted you for a moment, Q," he says, patting his back. "Well. Maybe just a moment. But you pulled it off! And not a moment too soon, as they say." He looks up at the sky, marveling at the snowflakes. It's cooling off fast, after the brutality of that dire, endless summer. And now it's time for things to change.

Quentin shrugs, and gives a smile that does nothing to hide how tired he looks. "I guess I'm not the fuckup everyone always thought."

"Oh don't be like that, you know we never thought of you like that." He thinks a moment. "Well I didn't at least, I can't speak for Janet."

Janet looks over upon hearing her name and gives Quentin a brief nod. It's hard to read.

“In any case,” he continues, “best of luck out there, we'll try not to trash the place in your absence, et cetera.” And then, because this is the end, he clears his throat and kisses Quentin on the cheek. “Love you. You're going to be amazing.”

Quentin, in classic fashion, fumbles at the sentiment before answering, red-faced, with a “-you too!” and Eliot scoffs.

“I know. Now get out of here, you've got your own adventures to do.”

If his mood is a little less excitable after Quentin and Alice and Julia leave, it doesn't worry him. He and Josh continue chatting about architectural improvements as they make their way to the entrance to the castle. The gates are askew, huge chunks of masonry strewn in the courtyard, and the survivors, bewildered but whole, already trying to get things back in order.

And then of course, there are the bodies of the fallen. Eliot pulls up short, somber, at the sight of it and the thought that here, in place he'd done so much to protect, it all almost ended in such mindless violence.

He straightens the crown on his head. “First things first,” he says, addressing Plum and his fellow royals with all his High Kingly gravitas. “We bury the dead. We will mourn, and then we will rebuild.” A breeze swirls through the courtyard at that moment, dramatically sweeping the snow flurries in spiraling eddies. Time to get to work. He takes the stairs to the keep two at a time, and then-

A sensation of falling, like he's missed a step, and it feels like that because he has and he is, and before Eliot can register any more than that he's landed, sprawled facedown on the sand.

Sand. Sand? It doesn't make sense, and he's jarred enough by the impact that for a second that's all he can think about, it doesn't make sense, there is sand in his mouth and he spits, it doesn't make sense, and he struggles to his hands and knees.

There is no snow, no evening light, no castle. This is somewhere else.

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Martin has never thought of himself as a beach person, and yet after the entire incident with Saoirse and John, he finds himself returning there occasionally, even as the days grow gradually chillier. He likes to sit in the sand off by himself and just watch the water. He tells himself it's because he needs to be out of his flat sometimes, space to sit and think and breathe, and because he's forcing himself to experience the smell and sound and sight of the ocean as something harmless and soothing. He tells himself it's for the novelty and the atmosphere, and brings a notebook with him and works on getting back into his poetry habit.

All of these things may be in some way true, but his own stringent denial that it has anything to do with the memory of John sitting quietly beside him, his hair wet and his clothes rumpled, is probably suspect. Not in any way helped by the fact that his notebook is open and a verse has been penned beneath the heading "Space" - I drew a map into the sand / where X marks the spot / of the first silence that didn't try to drown me. / Instead it was a quiet comfort / that I was close enough to touch / if I'd been allowed.

It's probably terrible, he thinks, and he's debating just tearing the page out and starting something that feels less hopelessly damning, when a soft thud draws his attention, as of a body hitting the ground.

That's exactly what it was, in fact, and he's quite startled to see a man sprawled out nearer the water, levering himself up to his hands and knees. His clothes aren't wet, and yet he's facing like he just came out of the ocean - it would be impossible for him to have come from anywhere else without Martin noticing. Faintly alarmed, he closes his notebook and gets to his feet, and it's only then that he realizes this man's clothes are not only dry, but strange. He looks like he's in some sort of costume for a medieval fantasy reenactment, only it's - authentic, somehow? It takes a few seconds longer than it should for the explanation to slot itself into place, and that finally spurs him into action, shuffling down to greet the poor traveler properly. He'd heard Darrow doesn't always deliver its arrivals by train - John landed elsewhere, after all - but this just seems rude.

"Christ, are you all right?" he says, coming to a stop and offering the man a hand up. He feels some trepidation, not sure what this interaction will be - what sort of world this man comes from, what sorts of questions he'll ask - but he's determined to see it all done right. Greta gave him such a thorough and welcoming introduction, and with him in such a particularly sorry state; he'll be damned if he doesn't do the same for others.

His first thought, uncharitably, is that Josh is fucking about with portals, taking the wind out of his sails after that great little speech. But that's not like Josh, is it.

The voice gets his attention, and the shuffling sound of footsteps. It's the sort of accent he'd expect to hear from one of the bumbling but kindhearted types of talking animals, a badger, maybe, but he looks up and no it's just a normal-looking man.

Too normal, if Eliot's being honest, from his glasses and his cardigan to his rolled-up wrinkled khakis. His whole appearance is just so painfully bland that there's no doubt in Eliot's mind that something has happened and he's somehow back on dismal old Earth.

He frowns, and wipes the grit from his mouth with the back of his hand before reaching out and grabbing the crown from where it's fallen, a few inches away from his head. How could this have happened? Did Quentin forget to mend some cosmic pothole when he was repairing Fillory and now Eliot's just...fallen through? But there was no lurch of vertigo, and he's not in the Neitherlands. He's just...here.

He looks up at the bewildered good Samaritan and pushes himself up so he's sitting, but doesn't take his hand. He doesn't want this to feel real.

"Uh," he says, looking around. "I fear 'all right' may be a bit relative, in this instance."

"Yeahhh," says Martin, wincing in sympathy. Bit of a dumb question - though it's good to see he does seem to be all right in the relative sense, at least. When it becomes clear the man isn't going to take his offered hand, he pulls it back. On closer inspection, he's - well, he's gorgeous, and pulling off all that finery astonishingly well. Martin clears his throat awkwardly and says, "My name's Martin. I'm a new arrival myself."

Christ, that's not too much right out of the gate, is it? He's not sure where to start. Greta had much more time to practice that he's had.

"This is, er... it's a lot to explain," he says. Best to start at the top, establish what he knows and all that. "You're... you're in another world. A different one. From... the one you were just in."

Perhaps laying that on a bit thick, but then, he has no idea of this man's familiarity with the concept of multiple worlds. Given that getup, it seems like it could easily swing either way.

"Are... are you familiar with the idea of... the multiverse?" he ventures. That would certainly make things a bit easier.

There's a lot to absorb in what the man--Martin--is saying, and as his head clears and the seconds pass it becomes glaringly obvious to Eliot that the situation might be exactly as terrible as it seems. Displaced, and not in the usual way. What if in fixing Fillory, something else got broken? The way he says 'new arrival' sounds suspiciously like a 'what are you in for?' and he shudders to think what kind of place this beach is attached to.

"Eliot," he replies tersely, and gets to his feet with a grunt. He sets the crown back upon his head, its familiar weight the only comfort he has at the moment. He looks odd enough already, no doubt. In for a penny.

He peers down at Martin. The attempt to softball the concept is frankly adorable, but at least he's got a grasp of the basics.
"Of course I'm familiar," he sighs, and can't quite help rolling his eyes. "I don't exactly make a habit of careening onto random seashores in my day-to-day, as I'm sure you can guess." He scowls at himself. He feels gritty. This is intolerable. "This is not, however, how one usually goes about this kind of transit. Something's not-"

Eliot cuts himself off with a growl, the besmirching of his royal person too much a distraction to explain himself to this well-meaning bystander. He grumbles an old Avestan banishment and flicks his hand away from his chest. He can't have a proper conversation covered in g-ddammed sand.

Nothing happens. He feels suddenly very cold.

"Oh no," he breathes, and looks at Martin in rapidly rising panic. "No no no no what is this place?"

"Well-" he starts, hackles raising a bit at the frankly unnecessary impatience. How on earth is he to know that this - king, apparently? Prince? - is intimately familiar with elaborate architectures usually relegated to science-fiction? But he just sighs and waits for him to get it out of his system. It's understandable, of course, and he wasn't exactly warm toward Greta before he got over the initial shock. It's not the worst he's ever been snapped at for trying to help, either.

He's not expecting Eliot to start muttering in some unrecognizable language, and he has to resist the urge to take a small step back. It was muttered with purpose, coupled with an odd but very precise hand motion, that makes it seem like something was supposed to happen. Nothing does, however, and that seems to be catastrophic. Only then does Eliot seem to understand the gravity of his situation.

He sighs in weary sympathy. "It's called Darrow," he says. "Or... sometimes just 'the City.' It's not anywhere as far as I can tell, and - frankly, it doesn't matter if you make a habit of careening anywhere or not. It brought you here, like it brought me here, and a good deal others. And..." He wavers, frowning. Greta had been much gentler, he thinks, but his memories of that whole encounter, at least prior to the grounding experience of a shower, are hopelessly foggy.

"I'm sorry," he says carefully, "but there's no way to leave. At least... not yet that anyone's discovered. People are sent home, but it's whatever brings us here that decides when."

He fidgets, clutching nervously at his notebook. Maybe he's not cut out for this. He feels like he's just handed this poor man a death sentence.

"I can - I can help you get sorted," he adds, fully aware of how pathetic an offering it is after that.

It's a struggle, Eliot's attention is divided between his own racing thoughts, trying to reason around what might be happening that the spell didn't work, and the explanation Martin's giving.

"So it's," he says with a short shallow breath, "an entity? the place itself has a consciousness?" He wonders at the true shape of it, if this 'Darrow' is like some vast cosmic leviathan, sucking up detritus that falls through spaces between worlds. The idea scares him, deeply, and he's irritated that he's gotten rattled so easily.

"No way to leave, you say?" At that, he frowns. "Sorry, just give me a moment..." It's not that he doesn't believe Martin, by all appearances he's being sincere, but just because a problem appears unsolvable doesn't mean it is. It just means Eliot hasn't solved it yet. He reaches into the pocket of his doublet where the button is, closing his eyes when his fingers make contact with the raised floral shape on its surface. He expects the nauseating tug in his gut as he's pulled away, as it has always worked before, and instead there's...nothing.

Numb, he opens his eyes. There's Martin, looking fidgety and apologetic. He looks up the beach, takes in the pale cast of the ocean, the boardwalk further in. There is a distant smell of fried food, probably, and trash and stale beer and cigarettes. It is like a thousand other beaches in a thousand little towns and it is all so terrifyingly normal that Eliot cannot view it as anything but a judgment upon him, personally.

"Is this..." His voice is shaking. Pathetic. "Are we dead? Have I died, and Hell is real and it looks like...like fucking New Jersey?"

Martin hesitates over Eliot's choice of the word 'entity' - an apt descriptor, probably, and likely no connection to the way he or John might use it, but it's a bit of a reflex. Eliot's already moving on, though toward what Martin cannot tell. He seems to just be... well, thinking, albeit with concerted effort. And then his eyes are open again and he's taking in his surroundings in what looks like rising panic, as though it's all suddenly hitting him all at once.

He winces at the questions. Greta hadn't been able to give him much of a satisfying answer when he'd asked, and now it's being put to him, and he has no better idea of how to approach it.

Best to start with whatever's closest to certain. "I - I'm fairly certain this is not Hell," he says. "A place with a consciousness seems much more apt, from what I can tell, but... I'm sorry, but there's not really a way to answer if... if you're dead or not? I mean, I was asking the same thing." He shifts his weight uneasily. He still has some unanswered questions about that, really, but he's put them aside because they're just utterly counterproductive. "From what I've gathered, some people are... dead, or at least they're certain they've nothing to return to. I... I haven't really been able to talk to anyone directly about it."

He's not even sure he's met anyone who fits this description. Greta had certainly implied she had nothing to go back to, but what this meant was... unclear, and he's of no mind to pry about it. Harry, at least, knows that he would have died, if he hadn't been dying or dead already. Maybe that's a better place to start.

"Do you... remember what you were doing before you arrived?" he asks gingerly. "Do you remember... anything about dying, or...?"

As soon as he's asked it, he wishes he could take it back. Christ, what an awful question. But it's out now - the possibility that he really has handed Eliot a death sentence - and all he can do is stand there and clutch his notebook.

The lack of any definitive reason for this place feels as irritating as something stuck in his teeth. If this dimension were an afterlife that'd be one thing, but the lack of a pattern, or criteria, if it's just sheer fucking randomness, well. Eliot doesn't know what to do with that. It's infuriating, it feels like a lack of methodical rigor, and that pedantic anger is enough to allow him to feel something other than just blind panic.

"Hang on," he says, starting to pace. "You mean you've got reason to doubt you're even alive, and other people here do as well, but...no one's certain?" That sounded bad. Eliot knows it sounded bad, like he's snapping at Martin for just trying to help, and look at him, he looks like a kicked puppy. Besides that, the frustration is getting him nowhere. He sighs.

"I apologize, I only...I don't think that's what happened to me? I was mid-fucking-conversation, it was like I'd tripped on the stairs." True, maybe he hadn't been paying the most attention, but he doesn't think the others would have let him be crushed by falling masonry or anything. "I'm fairly certain I wasn't imperiled, that's not what was going on. I just assumed this must be some sort of cosmic punishment for my life of sin, because...well. I don't know what situation you came out of but this? This is a definite downgrade. I can't even-" He looks at Martin, hands out in front him him to entreat him to not flee at this part. "Look, I know this sounds crazy. Bear with me. But is there any sort of...magic? In this place?"

Martin balks a little at the question - he'd only barely implied that - but Eliot is quick to pull back and babble on about his own situation, which is a bit of a relief. No need to go into his own issues here. Instead he's able to focus on Eliot, who... well, he's not taking this well, but he certainly seems more put together than Martin felt. Quipping and all. He's very... quippy, and fast, and it's hard not to be charmed by him even with everything else going on.

The idea of this being a downgrade makes him chuckle softly - he's not sure whether because he agrees, or because the comparison with his own home is so complicated - and then when Eliot looks at him and asks his final question with demonstrable caution, he almost wants to laugh, restraining himself because it does seem like a very serious concern for him.

"Oh, there's plenty," he says, happy to at last be offering Eliot some good news - presuming he's reading the question right. "That was almost the first thing I heard when I arrived - 'Darrow is magic.' I think that was just the simplest way for her to explain it, since... I mean, nobody really knows how it works. But I've heard a lot about weird... supernatural stuff that happens here. And lots of other people here have magic, too. Different kinds, from different universes. My upstairs neighbor is, er, she called herself a wild mage." He could go on for quite a bit about all of this, but he stops himself abruptly, realizing he's, well, going on.

"So - yes. Lots," he concludes a bit weakly.

Edited 2019-09-10 22:17 (UTC)

Martin perks up as he starts talking, Eliot notices. For a moment he wonders of Martin's going to embark on some grand Hogwarts-y pitch speech but then it's clear he doesn't know know, doesn't have firsthand experience with the type of thing Eliot's asked about. He gives the impression of someone who just genuinely likes being helpful; not the type of person Eliot wouldn't normally choose to hang around, but a lucky break all the same. As far as entries into a new awful world go, he could probably do a lot worse.

Even if what Martin's telling him doesn't exactly allay his concerns. There's magic here, people who can do magic, from the sound of it, and yet Eliot can't. He still can't shake the feeling like this is a punishment, he's been cut off, but for what? what has he fucked up so badly in his life that would warrant this? He was making a pretty good go of it, actually.

He sighs, and begins brushing the sand off his front, but his hands are fairly sandy as well, and he doesn't make much progress. "Good to know," he says, looking glum. "Doesn't really help per se right now, but...still. Thanks." Eliot tries snapping his fingers a few time to get a flame to light: not a strenuous conjuration but the type of thing that looks effortless even when it isn't. But he can't even feel the expected drag of friction in the air, and the end effect is that he just looks odd and irritated, probably. "It's not working for me, see, is the thing." He doesn't feel any reservations about telling Martin this, and tries it again, for good measure. Not even a spark. "Ordinarily that'd look very fucking cool, but alas." He's being glib about it, but there's a small part of him that would honestly rather turn around and walk into the ocean than live without magic. He can't go entertaining that sort of thought. "So, Martin, what do people do around here then, if there's no way to leave? Just wander in the wilderness? Wailing and gnashing of teeth? Lord of the Flies?"

He's a little disappointed that his answer doesn't seem to have the desired effect; instead Eliot is just looking gloomy and then... having some sort of tic. Martin watches with quiet bewilderment and mild concern as he snaps his fingers repeatedly and apparently without purpose, until he finally offers an explanation. It does little to allay the bewilderment or the concern, however, both just latching onto a new object as Martin raises his eyebrows. He's still very new here, but he's not aware of Darrow taking that kind of thing away from people. Perhaps it's something like Saoirse, before she had her coat...?

But before he can ask, Eliot is moving on, seeming in a rush to do so. His questions leave Martin sputtering for a moment, though he can't help but wrinkle his nose at the mention of Lord of the Flies.

"No," he says rather stiffly. Christ, he hated that book. The similarities between his childhood self and the character so gracefully called 'Piggy' were not lost on any of his bloody classmates. He sighs and brushes hand through his hair like he's trying to bat something away. "No, actually, it's all rather mundane, to be honest. Normal city. Normal people. Relatively. There's... infrastructure."

And if he and John are indeed going to be tapping into that infrastructure, overtures that so far have been answered slowly but keenly, he really ought to be primed for this sort of thing. "They'll have a sort of... welcome packet for you," he says. "There's one for everyone, every time. I don't know how it works, but it'll give you what you need to start out. Quite creepy, if I'm honest. But I can take you to get it, if you like. It's not far."

It had been wildly distressing to him, but Eliot at least seems... better equipped to handle this. Small mercies.

Martin's explanation sounds abysmal, and his attitude makes it clear that he's not very happy about the situation either.

"A welcome packet," he says, frowning. It's not that he doesn't believe it, it fits, really, what a pedestrian way to run a universe. "Like what, this is some underfunded community college? A trade expo? Ugh." The Neitherlands were awful in their own way, but at least there's some sort of gravitas there, a sort of decaying grandeur about the vast Italianate squares and their fountains. "That just seems so...dull." It's the type of dullness that makes him naturally suspect something sinister at work behind it all. Whoever or whatever it is, they're going to get a piece of his mind.

Martin's offer is something of a surprise, though it shouldn't be. Eliot understands the instinct to help when you've been in the same shitty boat, he's just not used to that kindness being applied to him. "Oh, yes all right, thanks," he says. He can't quite manage to smile at Martin but he nods. "If there's some sort of corporate complaint box perhaps I can ask why this isn't working." He scoffs. "It's not like I haven't paid my magic bills."

Martin huffs out a laugh. Honestly, trade expo sounds just about right, in a bleakly funny sort of way. Now that they're moving out of the initial unpleasant shock of it all, he's finding a rueful sort of comfort in meeting someone else who isn't used to this yet. He knows now, better than when he first arrived, that a good deal of the apparent complacency in his fellow prisoners is just a necessity of survival. The concept isn't exactly foreign to him. But it's still deeply satisfying hearing someone else complain of what always bothered him the most: how dull it all is.

He starts to lead Eliot toward the pier, what passes for a vaguely scenic route into the city proper.

"How does it... work, exactly? Your magic." He glances back, more than a little curious. "If you don't mind me asking," he adds hastily. "It's just... granted, I don't know much about it all yet, but I don't think Darrow takes that sort of thing away from people. I don't even know if it can."

If it could, surely it might have fully severed his connection to the Lonely, or John's to the Eye. Though perhaps he should be grateful for the latter - there's nothing necessarily to suggest that John wouldn't just drop dead without that, and that's a thought he really doesn't need to be entertaining right now.

Martin's got a cute laugh, but it makes him sound tired. And Eliot can't blame him, this place feels exhausting, the very idea of it. He's swinging between anxiety and melancholy himself, and he doesn't know yet where he'll land once he really comes to terms with what's happened.

The walking helps, though, the idea of doing something to achieve a destination. The end result might not be what he likes, but at least he'll have more information. If he's able to gain some sort of understanding, perhaps he'll feel some measure of control. Control is good.

"Oh, I don't mind at all," he says at Martin's inquiry, trying to sound light. Explaining helps him focus. "It's all rather fiddly and technical, even if someone has the aptitude for it you've got to be really fucking stubborn to get through all the reading to the point where you can actually...do anything." He smiles ruefully, remembering how desperate he was to get away from his family. "I was highly motivated. And there's so many factors to consider to get a spell to work, the linguistics, the chemical composition of materials, surrounding geography...If you're right, and this, this place doesn't fundamentally change who we are, hm. I can only assume there's some kind of issue in my methodology that I'd need to adjust to be able to get it to function here, but I've no idea how to even begin to research that." He feels tired just thinking about it, having to potentially recreate a system of magic from scratch.

"Anyway that's what I have to believe, as opposed to some eldritch entity decided, 'no Eliot, you're too talented and impressive, you'll just have to skate by on charm from now on.'"

Martin listens with fairly rapt attention as he leads Eliot more into the city itself, taking them down High St. in the general direction of the train station. Eliot makes it all sound so... so real, not like any sort of magic he's heard about before, where it's all just fun and ethereal and beyond understanding. This sounds more like something concrete, that could be explained properly. He feels like that ought to be disappointing, but it's actually quite fascinating, probably largely due to how well Eliot explains it all. At that last remark, he laughs with a little more humor, thinking privately that someone like Eliot could probably skate pretty far on charm alone.

"Well," he says thoughtfully, "if it's to do with geography and all, might it just be that this is... a different place?" He shrugs, hoping that isn't a stupid thing to say - surely Eliot is smart enough to have figured that out. "Perhaps you just... need to get used to it here. Sounds awful, I know."

As shallow as it makes him, Eliot feels a little less unmoored at Martin's laugh, the comfortable familiarity of knowing he's being entertaining, receiving well-deserved attention.

Martin's suggestion is something he's considered, but Eliot looks at him, impressed he's managed to glean that from the manic rambling. "It's entirely possible," he says carefully. "Even if it's just a matter of attunement, though, I've no idea what might be the critical factor. How old is the bedrock here, is there iron ore? quartz deposits? Perhaps the entire size of the planet we're on is different from Earth's, or this civilization simply doesn't use the same math." Laid out like that, it sounds fucking depressing. "Is there like a library here? I need to have someplace to start looking."

He tries to keep an eye on the grid of streets as they walk, filling out a mental map of the place. There's absolutely nothing out of the ordinary for a bland coastal town, but as they cross one intersection Eliot stops. There is a faint thrumming vibration that seems to come from the ground, and he turns to a building on the corner. "What the fuck," he murmurs, peering at the brownstone. He puts a hand up in the air, still a few yards away, and feels his fingers buzzing. "What the fuck," he hisses again, and turns to Martin, grinning in bewilderment. "It's-! This place is warded to shit!"

Edited 2019-09-17 01:54 (UTC)

Martin sputters a bit, not sure if Eliot is actually asking him about the bedrock or if he's just being rhetorical - probably the latter, considering how he goes on, but the instinct to reply is there nonetheless. Of course, Martin has no answers for him. The questions themselves make Eliot's magic sound so bloody complicated, he almost wonders what the point is. As if magic isn't a good enough point.

The library, at least, he knows about. That's where John said he arrived, and he's been there a few times himself.

"Oh, of course," he says. "Actually it's not far at all from here, if you wanted to stop in. The train station is where we'll get your packet, and it's just a little beyond-"

He stops, because Eliot stops, seeming suddenly very tense. Martin watches with curious bewilderment as he seems to feel out the air in front of... what looks like an unremarkable brownstone.

"I... is it?" He peers up at it, as if he'd have any idea how to notice something being 'warded to shit.' He also has no idea what this place is, but that should be apparent. "Is... that... good?"

"It's fucking amazing," Eliot laughs. He doesn't care if Martin thinks he's crazy, grinning at a brick wall like this. He doesn't care. "This is--it's real and I can feel it, I thought...I thought this world had lobotomized me or something, honestly." His relief is as palpable as the thrum from whatever the building actually is. It certainly warrants investigation, but perhaps not now.

He clears his throat. "That's good to know, about the library. I'll have to start looking there and...I don't know. Maybe there's some equivalent of the X-Files here but at least..." At least he has a reason not to give up hope. "Well. I certainly don't want you to have to play tour guide forever, but ah, lead on to this train station."

He wouldn't mind spending more time with Martin, actually, but this can't be what he had planned for the day, and Eliot doesn't want to impose.

Martin has no idea what Eliot is seeing, but he has no real reason to believe that he's lying or hallucinating, and what's important is it seems to be offering a pronounced improvement to his mood. His laugh is surprising but infectious, and he's... well, he was beautiful already, but in a good mood he's gorgeous. Martin can't help but blush a little as he smiles, bewildered but warm.

And then Eliot is moving them onward again, and Martin shuffles along beside him. At the mention of 'the X-Files' he chuckles a little, intrigued by and appreciative of the bit of shared pop culture, wondering how far something like that goes. It takes him a few seconds to realize the relevance of it.

"Oh, er-" He chuckles softly. "Actually, I think that might be... me? Well-" He shrugs, a little embarrassed. "I came here with m-my- er, someone from my universe, he and I - we worked for a place called the Magnus Institute." He's not sure Eliot would have heard of it even if it was something they had in common, but it can't hurt to mention it. "John, he was the Archivist, and I - We looked into a lot of... weird things. Paranormal, I suppose you'd call it. And we've... kind of started up again here. Actually, we've managed to work out a contract with the City. We're about to take over keeping their records on... well, us. People like us. So..." He glances up at Eliot, a little nervous, having said so much. "If you wanted, you could come by sometime over the next week, after we have it all set up. See what we've got."

He doesn't really know what they'll find in the files - they're due to be shipped over on Tuesday - but he has to hope it'll be something that can actually help them get some answers. He's excited about the possibilities, the opportunity to actually help people. A bit of a far cry from what they were doing back home, really.

Martin's extremely cute in his sheepishness. and it makes Eliot thankful that the agreeable company is helping to soften the shock. He doesn't miss the stammer, though, as Martin describes this John he works with, and Eliot raises an eyebrow.
"So is he more of a Mulder or a Scully? he asks, laughing a little. He's teasing, but it's honestly a little miraculous that he's run into someone who knows what Eliot's talking about and also has some expertise in the field.

"I kid," he adds, touching Martin briefly on the arm. "And that's impressive, honestly, taking on that kind of work here where things might be...completely foreign to how you know them to be. You must tell me how you keep from losing your mind over it, it seems like I have similar work cut out for me. And I'd love to stop by and see it, of course."

As they continue walking, the buildings start to shift from the residential to the municipal, and Eliot knows they must be getting close. Stupid to feel apprehension, he thinks, when it all looks so mundane, but who knows what this 'welcome packet' might entail.

Martin starts to answer, but the touch to his arm and Eliot's reassurance he was kidding is enough to catch him, realizing it's a little silly he had an answer ready that quick. He glances down at Eliot's fingers as they leave him, a little startled - just a friendly gesture, but enough to catch him off guard, something so casual from someone so... well. Not the sort of person who'd ever have bothered about him before.

A couple years ago, that might have given him a nervous little thrill. Now it just feels odd. Like he doesn't deserve even passing attention, sure, but even more like he wants to set Eliot straight, that he's not available.

Which isn't true.

He's overthinking things, as usual. He lets out a soft chuckle at Eliot's continued words and clears his throat.

"He's Scully," he says after a beat. "Except there's nothing to doubt, so it's more like... he's Mulder but he was always meant to be Scully, and boy does he resent it." He smiles faintly at what he thinks is actually a pretty good summation, as much as it actually isn't very funny at all when you get down to it. At least maybe Eliot can enjoy it.

They come to the train station, and he leads Eliot in toward the information desk. It's a bit weird being back here after a month - it already seems so long ago that he staggered off the train, covered in dirt. Eliot doesn't know how lucky he is to only have taken a bit of a spill, he thinks with a grimace. Though an ordinary train arrival, which he gathers is more standard, would have been even better still.

"Hullo," he says to the typically disinterested clerk. "I've a new arrival here, Eliot, erm..." They didn't actually get to that part, and he glances back at Eliot, waiting for him to fill in the blank.

Eliot can't help but snicker at Martin's description. "Oh dear," he says, grinning. "He sounds like quite the character. Must make for a hell of a work environment, I'll have to meet him."

The train station is...normal. The information desk is normal, and the clerk sitting behind it is normal, with the dull look in his eyes of someone counting the minutes until their shift is done. And yet this is somehow the end of some cosmic transit line. It's highly unnerving.

"Waugh," Eliot says, at Martin's prompting. "And I'm curious as to how exactly-"

"Hold on," says the clerk, who doesn't even look at Eliot as he puts a finger up and rolls his chair over to a filing cabinet. The audacity. After a moment's search the clerk pulls out a large manila envelope, rolls back over, and hands it to him. "There you go."

It's surprisingly bulky, and there's his name typed on the front like he's in some heist movie getting out of prison. Only no, he's getting in. Eliot goes cold and very still.

"Listen," he says, voice low with anger and all the hard-won authority that is now, it seems, stripped away in the face of this...bureaucracy. "I don't want to sound middle-aged but is there anyone else I can talk to about what the fuck is going on here?"

The clerk shrugs, and gestures to the envelope. "That's all there is."

As the exchange unfolds between Eliot and this utterly disinterested clerk, Martin feels an intense wave of gratitude toward Greta for just... handling this on his behalf. He'd almost forgotten that he hadn't had to do this part, just... accept the horrible folder with his name on it from this apathetic, unsympathetic worker drone. She'd really taken good care of him, and now he fears he's let Eliot's appearance of being remarkably well-adjusted cloud his judgment. Receiving the packet - and worse, what's in it - is a terrible wake-up call, no matter how used to the idea of multiple realities one is.

The sharp change in Eliot's demeanor catches him a bit by surprise, though it likely shouldn't, given his dress and the crown Martin still has managed not to ask about and the way he carries himself. He wants to feel sympathetic, or perhaps even join in his righteous and well-earned indignation, but there's something both intimidating and... well, charming, he supposes? in it as well.

The clerk isn't interested in helping either way, and seems wholly unmoved by Eliot's attitude, so Martin just sighs and says, "Yes, very helpful, as always," appropriately curt but in no mood to prolong the conversation. Eliot will find no purchase here, no matter how regal he makes himself. The clerk shrugs, unimpressed, and goes back to whatever the hell he's doing, and Martin turns to Eliot and gingerly touches his arm at the elbow, trying to coax him away. "We should probably... sit down," he says, his tone softening at once, "before you open that."

Eliot feels the urge to lash out, to rage and rant at some minimum-wage city employee about how unfair this all is, because it is. But Martin's quiet apologetic presence tempers that, and he doesn't want to make a scene. He stays quiet, and lets Martin lead him away to a bench, and slumps down with a heavy sigh.

It's unfair, certainly, but...there's a certain fatalistic cruelty in realizing that even in this, he's not special. What's happening here isn't a slight against Eliot personally, and if it's unbearable, it's nothing that anyone else here hasn't felt.

"What a fucking shitshow," he mutters, mostly to himself. And it is, of course, but he's trying to project more annoyance than the trepidation he feels as he looks at the envelope. Why should his hands be shaking? It's ridiculous.

He opens the envelope and tips it slightly, and soon realizes why it felt so bulky: out slides, of all things, a cell phone.

"Are you kidding me?" Eliot asks, looking at Martin but not really expecting any answers. "Seriously, what the fuck." This is like...he can't even think of anything that this is like, other than he wants no part of it.

Eliot's mood continues to veer sharply downward, and Martin fidgets nervously as he startles to search the envelope. The phone is the first thing, and that's enough for Eliot to just... crumble a bit. Maybe the sort of mocking normalcy of it all, or worse, the appearance of generosity. 'Have a free phone on me, your new captor.' It definitely left a rather bitter taste in Martin's mouth when he got his.

That wasn't the worst of it, though, not by half. "I know," he says quietly. "I'm sorry." He sighs and nods at the envelope. "There's more. It's all... it's all like that. Mundane but... creepy. And stuff that should be impossible." He's almost tempted to list out the things Eliot will find, to try and soften the blow some, but he doesn't think that will actually make it better. Might just be putting himself in the seat of the messenger.

The most important thing is that they find Eliot's new address. Then at least Martin can get him home, somewhere private where he can sort all this out.

"Do you..." He shrugs, not sure what to ask. "Are you okay?"

"Of course," he laughs at Martin's confirmation, bitter edging towards hysterical. "Of course it's all like that, of course there's--" He needs to stop talking, because he's starting to feel like every time he opens his mouth there's danger of it just being a scream instead. So he focuses on the envelope, no longer taking care with it, just reaching in to pull whatever horrors it has for him out into the light.

Papers. A map, a small stack of bills in some ludicrous, un-American money, a card with an address, and of all things an ID. He looks at it, looks at his own face, dressed as he is now, crown and all. His expression is like that of anyone at the DMV. Eliot laughs again, and now it's definitely hysterical. "Look at that, Martin, I'm official!" He covers his mouth with his hand; he's shaking again, worse than before, and he's almost past caring if anyone sees him like this.

"I mean how could I be?" he whispers in response to Martin's question. "How could anyone? Were you?" he paws through the information, looking at the little business card. "What is this, a fucking dorm assignment? Candlewood. Sounds like a gated community, like..." The struggle to find comparisons, to frame it so it makes sense is exhausting. He can't quip this away. "What am I supposed to do with this?”

Martin tries not to think back on his own experience with this, falling apart in Greta's cottage, while he watches Eliot shuffle through the meager gifts from his new, undesired life. He'd really had the best possible circumstances - a quiet place to sit, tea and food, a shower even, and Greta very kindly and carefully presenting this to him. And he'd still been an absolute wreck. Watching Eliot come apart at the seams beside him on this municipal bench is... well, it's awful, but it puts some things in perspective. Perhaps he shouldn't be too hard on himself for not being able to fix something that is by its nature unfixable.

Eliot's lurch toward manic hysteria and then just quiet, shuddering panic is horrible to witness, though, and Martin still feels the urge to do something, to make it better somehow. There's a distant bit of... not quite excitement and not quite relief, but somewhere between the two, when Eliot mentions Candlewood. He's glad to know they're neighbors; that makes this easier, and he'll be able to see Eliot again more easily. But that's not going to make Eliot feel any better right now.

"No," he says softly. "No, I wasn't. Don't know how anyone could be, really." He knows not everyone reacts to this the same way, but he can't imagine anything but this. He hesitates, not sure how to answer Eliot's last question. Maybe it doesn't have one, at least not one he can give.

Greta had offered comfort, and he hadn't known how to take it; had been afraid of it, even when he'd realized how much he needed it, how much he wanted it, he'd still been afraid. A lot's happened in a little time. The Lonely still hovers around him, cloying quietly in his dreams, but it's not so aggressive as it was, not since John bested it in the Archive. It may yet come back. But Martin no longer finds that a convincing reason to hold himself at bay. Not when someone is suffering so plainly beside him, and all he has to do is reach out.

So he does. It's a bit awkward, and it would have been even if he weren't out of practice, but he manages not to care very much. He reaches out and, gingerly, like he's testing the waters, sets his hand on Eliot's back. Eliot doesn't lean into it, but he doesn't recoil either, so he keeps it there, applying a faint bit of comforting pressure.

"If you're anything like me," he says, cautious and measured, "eventually, this feeling will settle into background noise, and you'll just... get on." It sounds bleak, as advice goes, but it's not like he can offer hope or a resolution beyond the infuriating 'maybe Darrow decides to send you back one day,' so... pragmatism. "There are some good things here, and good people. We're all in the same boat, most of us trying to help each other. That counts for something, I think."

He's not sure he'd have believed that if Greta had told him. But it's all he knows to say. And Eliot seems strong - stronger than him, easily. He imagines he'll bounce back soon enough.

"The good news, if you can call it that," he says, "is I was assigned Candlewood, too. And it's not a gated community. Just apartments." He shrugs. "Nothing special. But I can show you there, if you like. And... if you need company..."

He trails off, not wanting to offer too much, but leaving it there if desired.

Martin's hand on his back is, he has to admit, a small comfort amidst the madness that this day has become. It's grounding, anyway, and the gentle tone of his commiseration suggests that maybe Eliot himself will feel something other than this panic, at some point. Martin's been through this period, and he seems...all right.

Eliot gives a short soundless laugh at the idea of just getting on. It's absolutely the most English thing he's ever heard, and he's not certain that's an outlook he can adopt, honestly. What he wants is to get out, get back, and even if this entity is a power beyond anything he's ever encountered, that doesn't mean he shouldn't try. He can't just keep calm and carry on. He's got work to do.

He mostly stares at the envelope as he tries to wrap his head around it, but turns to Martin when he hears his offer. "I uh," Eliot says, hastily wiping at his eyes with his handkerchief. He's not crying, not outside in public, but it's a near thing. "I-listen," he stammers as he stuffs the handkerchief back in his doublet. "You seem...extremely sweet, honestly, and if I were going to make bad decisions to cope with all this I think you're probably the best bad decision I could make right now." He punctuates this by laying a hand on Martin's shoulder and giving him a very serious look. "I'm a mess, Martin, I don't think it'd be enjoyable for either of us." He sighs.

"Thank you though, that's very kind. And we're neighbors? Huh, that's..." It's a relief that he knows someone who will be nearby. Eliot doesn't do well on his own. "That's rather nice. As much as anything can be."

"Wh-" Martin blinks in mounting alarm as he realizes what Eliot has taken from his offer. He keeps his mouth shut, letting Eliot say his peace, reddening a bit as Eliot lays a hand on his shoulder. Did it really sound like he was offering... that?

Eliot moves on, quick and perfunctory, and for a moment Martin is caught wondering if he should just... let the misunderstanding slide. But when he considers what he might say instead, he comes up empty.

"I - sorry," he says a bit unevenly. "That's not what I was - I meant friendly company, like if you just want to chat or... not be alone. I'm not - I wouldn't - you just arrived."

Yes, he's incredibly handsome and charming and friendly, but Christ, he's obviously not in a fit state for anything, if Martin were even the type to be so blunt.

He clears his throat quite awkwardly and gets up. "Can I at least show you there?"

As it becomes immediately clear that Martin wasn't offering that kind of company, the absurdity of it all somehow brighten's Eliot's mood. Amid all the stupid infuriating impossible things about this world he's stuck in, this type of ordinary awkward misunderstanding is...well it's hilarious.

"Oh," Eliot says, trying to sound sly even as he starts to laugh, and oh shit Martin's blushing so much, he can't help giggling. "Oh you mean this isn't just a regular day for you? You don't go hang around dimensional portals to pick up strange distraught men?"

He snorts. He actually snorts. He may be crying for real now. "Fuck," he says, breathless, trying to stop laughing. "I'm sorry, I know-I shouldn't laugh really, you're just being kind, oh-" Eliot heaves a deep breath, shaking his head. "Yes, of course I would appreciate that, I would love to hang out with you. As friends."

He gathers up all the materials back into the envelope and follows suit as Martin stands. "Please," he says, still chortling a little, "lead the way. I'm ordinarily much more collected than this, I promise."

Normally, Martin might bristle if someone laughed at him like this, especially over so embarrassing a misunderstanding, but Eliot has no difficulty making this charming, too, and after seeing him sink so low, it's mostly a relief to see him lighting back up. He even laughs in return over the suggestion that he... hangs around portals, which is absurd enough that it reassures him Eliot knows he meant no harm.

And it's nice, too, to hear that he'd like to be friends. Martin smiles a bit sheepishly. "I'm sure you are," he says, and starts to lead them out of the station and toward their building. "I've, er, I've meant to ask - you don't have to answer, it's just, the crown - are you... royalty?"

He had been planning to just leave that Eliot's business until he wanted to share it, but it's proving very difficult not to wonder if a bloody king just mistook his intentions like that.

Well, that's cleared the air somewhat. Eliot does actually feel better, the catharsis of the laughter slowly giving way to...calm. They walk off away from the station, and it feels like they could just be two people getting to know each other. Eliot can live with that, though there's a part of him that knows he'll be on his own again at some point, and he can't stave off the despair forever.

That's a later problem. He focuses on Martin and his question, and laughs a little, though nowhere near the earlier fit of giggles. "Yes, I'm a king," he says, as calm as if Martin has asked if he had any food allergies. "I mean I didn't start out a king, I didn't...hah, didn't come from some world where they have fantasy creatures and medieval kingdoms and The X-Files." That would have been some kind of fucking thing, though. But Fillory was fucked up enough in its own way without all of that.

"I'm High King of a realm called Fillory, I don't know if that would be familiar to you? When I was a kid I read books about it, nursery stories but...turns out it was real. Lived there for several years but I was in New York before that."

He thinks about it a moment. "I don't know if I should say I was a king, if...if that role's empty now that I'm gone, or if I still am, just...abroad." Eliot shrugs. the semantics, at least, he can think about without getting too maudlin again.

"Ooh," says Martin, a lightly impressed noise at Eliot's explanation. 'Fillory' certainly isn't familiar, though it sounds a little bit like the Narnia books. Really, it sounds like Eliot has had a fascinating go of it. He hopes he does come by the Archive, and that... well, maybe he'd be willing to give a Statement.

Though that feels like a horribly utilitarian way to treat a person, a new friend. It needn't come up, really, at least not without John present, and the explanation of why he needs it.

"I think you're still a king," he says thoughtfully. "I mean... who we are doesn't change just because we're... here." A bit ironic, coming from him, but he'd stand by it for almost anyone else. "And like I said, I think it works like - time doesn't pass without us, or something. Lives aren't disrupted when people return. So people have said."

He wishes he could give more concrete assurance, but that's all he has without getting into slightly more uncomfortable details and personal information about the others he's met.

They make their way to Candlewood in decent time; it's a nice day, and Martin's getting to know his way around quite well, which is... something. Not like it's difficult, being a simple grid system, but still, feels a bit odd.

"Here we are," he says, gesturing to the building with a bit of facetious flair. It is, after all, quite ordinary. "You're on ninth, right? I'm 2D."

He takes Eliot inside, realizing too late that perhaps he ought to warn about their landlord, but like clockwork, there he is. At the very least this time it seems like a coincidence; he's not emerging ominously from his flat, but coming down the hall, perhaps prowling for someone else to bother, or perhaps - though Martin will believe it when he sees it - doing some actual goddamn work.

"Oh, Christ," Martin mutters under his breath, which is all the warning Eliot gets before Peter strolls up with a big smile on his face.

"Martin!" he says before looking Eliot up and down. "Got an upgrade, have you? You must be the new one, 9C, right?" He seems amused, more than anything, by Eliot's getup. "And what are you supposed to be?" he asks, and he's so generally odious that Martin can't decide if it's meant to be an insult or a come-on. Both equally bad, if you ask him.

It's not even that long of a walk, thankfully. Eliot decides he's glad Martin found him; they have enough common cultural ground for understanding, he's not fazed by the supernatural, and he's genuinely kind.

"That is reassuring," he says, looking around at the neighborhood. "if it's a single point of divergence, I mean." If it's as Martin says, then maybe the whole idea of just 'getting on' doesn't seem so defeatist.

Still, if he's just supposed to...live his life, he can't just go bumbling around without magic, without resources. The envelope, the ordinary-looking apartment building, none of it matches the lifestyle to which he's accustomed. And while he certainly can't expect to live like a king here, well. If this place wants him to make himself comfortable, it's going to take a lot more than the paltry sum in his so-called bank account. He manages a smile as they reach the building. At least being on a higher floor means he'll get good light.

Something startles Martin as they enter the front hall of the building, and Eliot looks at him in confusion for a moment before the cause makes itself known. A terribly dull-looking man, addressing Martin, looking at Eliot like that, and immediately Martin's discomfort makes sense.

This man, it is patently obvious, is a grade-A Creep. Leaving aside whatever the implication of an 'upgrade' could be, Eliot frowns at the disrespect to his royal person. He can't really expect anyone to take him seriously dressed like this, but...fuck, still. He schools his expression into a sneer, and looks down at him.

"I beg your pardon," he says, all haughty command. "This young man is providing aid to ourself, and you, it seems, only a disruption." He sniffs for good measure. It feels a little weird to launch into Fillorian formal speech after all their previous conversation, but he'd rather this asshole think he was ignorant of the modern world than try to relate to him in any way. At the very least Eliot comes off like he's too much work to talk to.

He waves the man off without really looking at him and takes Martin by the elbow to complete the effect. "Lead on, Martin, but tell me, do you know that...person?"

Martin tenses angrily at the suggestion that he's 'got an upgrade,' honestly, who the hell does Peter think he is? But before he can actually say anything, Eliot has launched into an entirely different brand of authoritative than he had even at the train station, and Martin is left gaping up at him over the ourself and the overall formality and the, well, incredible haughtiness. When Eliot waves Peter off and takes Martin's elbow to guide him along, it's - it's so bewildering that he just does it, and Peter, too, just stands there looking beautifully nonplussed. It's at that point that Martin almost bursts into a laugh.

He manages to restrain himself until they've reached the elevator, and once they're safely inside and heading up to the 9th, he doubles over, laughing harder than... well, than he can remember, really.

"Oh my god," he says, wiping a few tears away. "That - that was fantastic." He straightens back up and looks at Eliot, reining himself back in. "His name is Peter," he says, some of his amusement fading to be replaced by weary resignation. "He is, unfortunately, our landlord. He's always like that. The worst part about this place to be sure." He sighs, though at least he can't imagine Peter will find much purchase picking on Eliot after that. "As far as I can tell he's just a bit of a creep? Not like dangerous or anything, but... best avoided." He chuckles softly as the doors slide open to the ninth floor. "That was extraordinarily satisfying to watch," he admits, stepping out.

Martin's laughter is contagious and Eliot joins in, feeling genuine delight that he managed to put on a good show. "Oh, oh good," he says, trying to catch his breath. "I thought I'd laid it on a bit thick but--ugh a landlord, really?" That takes some of the wind out of his sails. The best thing about being a king, he's realized, is not having to pay rent.

"So he just does that, then, thinks it's his business to comment on your social life? Shit, guess I'm not bringing anyone back here, then." Eliot's getting ahead of himself, he knows, but the thought had crossed his mind that random hookups might be an acceptable way to cope with this imprisonment. Only now there's a snag in that plan. Damn you, Peter. He glances at Martin, his expression sobering. "Seriously though, let me know if he does anything worse than that. That's...really not okay." It remains to be seen what exactly Eliot could do to him without working magic, but if it really came down to it at least he's got superior height and a mean hook.

As they step off the elevator Eliot looks around, not sure what he's expecting but...it's just an apartment building. Like the rest of the city he's seen so far it's not ominous, or threatening, just...rather dull. He sighs and finds the right door, thinking as he unlocks it that it should feel more momentous maybe. But it doesn't. The door swings open to a short narrow hall and a painfully small room, and Eliot sighs. "Honey, I'm home," he says tonelessly. The envelope hangs loose in his hand. "What a fucking shitshow."

"I mean, he might leave you alone after that," says Martin. "Anyway I wouldn't plan your social life around him. Don't give him the power, yeah?"

Funny thing for him to say, when twice now Peter's managed to get into his flat and he hasn't been forthright enough to stop him. The first visit was mercifully brief, but the second had to be disrupted by John.

The conversation veers away from him soon enough, though, as Eliot is confronted with his flat. He takes it about as well as can be expected, and Martin looks up at him with a small, sympathetic frown.

"It's... not ideal," he says, the understatement of it somewhat intentional. "I'm still getting used to it myself, and I only came from an even smaller London flat, so..." He shrugs. Much as they're in the same boat, he can't really imagine what someone like Eliot is going through here.

"There's not going to be much - I mean, you'll need to go grocery shopping, at least," he says. "They provide you a photo ID but not a bloody toothbrush." He hesitates, weighing his options. There's very little he can do to help at this point, but it feels so cold to just leave him like this.

"If you want, I... could run downstairs and see what I have to offer," he says. "Food, I mean. At the very least I could make some tea. I have plenty of that." He shrugs. "Though if you'd rather be alone, I understand." All too well, really.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Eliot answers. What he doesn't say is that if anyone seems to be in danger of continued attention from their landlord, it's Martin. He doesn't want to be insulting, though, not when Martin's gone out of his way to be so kind.

He sighs. A castle this is not, but it's not as if he's always lived in splendor. He just...wants to, and currently lacks the means. Eliot nods along with Martin, not fully paying attention. "They use little minty twigs in Fillory," he murmurs, wandering down the hall. It's so narrow that he has to take extra care with the sword at his waist to avoid hitting Martin or the walls, and it's not even that impressive a blade. "I'll just have to make do." He's going to have to make do with a lot, he realizes. He opens a linen closet and brushes a hand along a towel, honestly surprised it doesn't draw blood. It's almost exactly like moving into a new apartment, only he has no possessions to speak of. Just an ever-growing mental list of necessities that he hasn't needed to think about for years, and the realization that however much Monopoly money the city provided him won't be nearly enough.

"Oh," Eliot startles a little at Martin's offer. It shouldn't come as a surprise, not after how he's acted all through their brief acquaintance, and yet. He'd assumed Martin would want to make himself scarce, after deciding that Eliot and his existential crisis would be Too Much. "Yes," he says quietly, smiling at Martin almost in disbelief. He feels extremely tired. "That would be...amazing, honestly, I'd love tea." Of course Martin has tea. He exudes Englishness. "I could...there are places that deliver around here, I'm sure I could order something for us, I don't want to put you out." Maybe the 'us' is presumptuous, but Eliot's swiftly coming to the realization that if he's going to keep from completely losing his mind here, he'll need friends. And Martin is...he stifles a laugh that threatens to bubble out of him, with the unbidden thought. Practically perfect in every way.

"If it's not too much trouble, of course, if you've got plans or something I don't want to keep you. But I...maybe if you wouldn't mind staying for a bit, I think if I fall apart after I've eaten, at least, I'd be able to put myself back together on my own." He laughs a little, trying to sound anything other than pathetic, and he's not sure if it lands.

Martin smiles at Eliot's acquiescence and his evident surprise over it. It's easy to remember the steps to all of this, caring for people and offering help, when their gratitude is clear, when he knows he's actually helping a little. He's relieved, even if Eliot is still on shaky footing. He hasn't completely lost his touch.

"That sounds lovely," he says. "I'll just be a moment."

He steps back out into the hall, letting Eliot's door fall shut, and is making his way toward the elevator when he's quite startled by - for God's sake - Peter emerging from the stair entrance.

"Christ-!" He jolts back. "Did you follow me?"

"Came to check on the new tenant, if that's all right with you," says Peter, though from his mild smirk Martin doubts that's the whole of it. "You picked him up fast, huh? I see you like them tall dark and rude."

Martin opens his mouth and shuts it again abruptly, so startled and appalled by the crude remark that he's left quite unable to think of a retort. Peter slinks closer, leaning against the wall with his arms folded casually, though his decision to block the elevator button is anything but. "And here I thought that other guy, what was his name - John? He sure was a character. I thought you and he had something going on."

"Well that's really none of your business," says Martin stiffly, and he steps around Peter, angling for the stairs instead. Peter reaches out smoothly and stops him with a hand on his shoulder, which Martin probably should have expected at this point, but Christ, the absolutely shameless gall of this man never ceases to surprise him.

"While I have you," says Peter offhandedly, though something about the remark makes Martin deeply uncomfortable, "I've been meaning to check in. You seem like you've been keeping busy. You've been all right?"

The questions would be kind on paper, but from Peter, holding him gently but suggestingly in place, they feel like an interrogation. Martin stands tense and quiet, not sure if he should play along or try to break free and risk setting off something worse, unable to decide which outcome feels more awful.

As soon as Martin leaves Eliot slumps, pressing his back to the door with a shaky sigh. Everything is catching up with him and he can feel his composure slipping, and he hopes Martin gets back before he's in too dismal a state. He tries to take some steady breaths, but doesn't get very far before a noise from the hall catches his attention. It's like a yelp. He frowns, turning to peer through the peephole.

Martin, tiny and fisheye-distorted, at the end of the hall and there's...there's fucking Peter. Eliot can't hear what's being said, can barely make out what's going on, but he's out the door and marching down the hall before he realizes what he's doing.

"Hey," he says. As he closes the distance he sees Peter's hand on Martin's shoulder and Martin's pained expression, and oh, that's it. That is fucking it. "Hey," he repeats, raising his voice a little, "leave him alone."

Peter turns to him with a smile that would be innocuously annoyed if it weren't for everything else about him, and he's still holding Martin in place. "Settle down, Your Highness, okay? You just got here, there's no need to go sticking your-"

"Did I fucking stutter, shitbird?" Eliot cuts him off, all trace of fantasy pretension gone. There's just the anger, and fuck does it feel good to feel angry, to have someone to be angry at. "My friend doesn't want to talk to you, that's pretty fucking clear, so maybe back off and no one'll have to stick anything anywhere."

He's making a scene, he knows he is, and he's sure Martin doesn't need this extra stress in whatever his relationship with the creep is, but at this point Eliot can't help himself. He feels like he's dissociating a little as he reaches to his waist, grasps the hilt of his sword. He stares Peter down. "Is there going to be a problem here?" he asks, voice low as he draws the rapier out just an inch.

Martin is startled but intensely relieved when Eliot steps back out into the hall; he's certainly not expecting what then ensues. He turns slightly to stare, caught somewhere between shock and awe, as Eliot outright threatens Peter - and not just with his attitude as John had done, but with an actual literal sword.

Peter keeps his hand on Martin's shoulder for a moment, his fingers tensing a little; he's staring at the indicated weapon, evidently trying to decide how to respond. The whole thing is a little terrifying; there are a lot of ways it could all go very badly for them both. But Eliot is sharp and resolute, and eventually Peter lifts his hand away, taking a short step back.

"No need for that, pal," he says rather coldly, and jerks his chin at the sword. "Might become a problem, you keep that shit up."

He says this with some natural authority, but Martin can tell he's shaken, trying to make himself seem unruffled. The irritation at having been threatened and bested once again is palpable, but he's also already inching back toward the stairwell. With a somewhat reproachful glance in his direction, Peter nods and says, "You have a good night," as he makes his hasty retreat.

Martin stands there for a moment and then breathes out slowly and reaches up to cover his face with one hand, muffling a soft chuckle.

"Christ," he says, and then with faint delight, his voice pitching a little higher: "Shitbird." He looks up at Eliot, grinning. "Thank you. I can't believe he - God, he's just the worst. You were amazing." He looks back at the sword. "Seriously though, please don't get evicted on my behalf."

It occurs to him that he's taking this rather well. He's shaken from t the encounter, of course, and he feels a swell of warm gratitude toward Eliot as well as amusement at the grand absurdity over it all, but... it seems like there should be more. If he'd ever had the presence of mind to imagine that someday a tall, gorgeous man with a regal bearing and a movie star accent and a beautifully crooked smile would defend his honor from a predatory landlord, with a sword no less, well... It sounds like a romantic fantasy. The sort of thing he'd want to replay in his head over and over again - rather like how he replays a specific part of the tape he keeps hidden in his sock drawer over and over again, only instead of a handsome king and a well-placed leave him alone, it's John, saying with a very faintly possessive air, I'm his friend.

Of course Eliot had also called him a friend, which is a source of no small delight on its own. Martin clears his throat and his overcrowded thoughts and says, "Perhaps you could... come with me, to get the tea. Just in case."

Edited 2019-10-17 03:02 (UTC)

"I don't start fights," he says coolly as Peter backs off, and Eliot leaves the obvious unsaid: the problem was preexisting, not of his making, but he'll resolve it if he has to. It's not his best work as far as parting shots go, but one must make do.

Once Peter makes his slinking retreat the adrenaline starts to leave him, and Eliot sighs. "Glad I could entertain, at least?" he says with a smile at Martin's delight. "I mean I probably shouldn't have done that, like...you're not supposed to escalate with people like that, right? I don't want to make things worse for you, for...for either of us, but I wish there was something to be done that didn't involve bloodshed." He looks down at the floor. This isn't the field of fucking battle, it's thin apartment carpet over concrete. "I can't imagine what tenant's rights legislation exists in a place where people just come and go at the whim of some cosmic...thing."

When Martin invites him along on the short errand to fetch tea Eliot smiles. "Excellent plan," he agrees. He's eager to avoid getting mired in his own bleak thoughts for too long, so he tries to make light of the situation as they head downstairs. "This happen to you a lot here, then?" he asks, giving Martin's arm a light nudge with his elbow. "Fending off random creeps who thirst after you?" Eliot honestly wouldn't be surprised, Martin's highly adorable.

"Yeah..." Martin shrugs. These concerns are legitimate, of course, and he really doesn't want to see what Peter might do if pressed, but there's also nothing wrong with having multiple people willing to step in for him. That's... it makes him feel a bit spoiled, really. Or just very lucky. "Honestly I'm just glad to be rid of him for tonight. If he gets worse..." He just makes a dismissive gesture. He's not sure he wants to say anything close to the truth - that if he gets worse, it still probably won't be as bad as the sorts of authority figures he's had to deal with. Between Elias torturing him and Peter Lukas being himself day in and day out, Martin thinks his landlord being a little too handsy doesn't really bear up as that bad. But that would be a rather grim thing to say in any context, so he doesn't.

Eliot provides him quick distraction anyway, and he smiles at the nudge. "Fortunately no," he says lightly. "Not much fending that needs doing, generally speaking. Nor creeps."

It's a bit odd, feeling like he's made a friend so quickly that they're already engaging in light banter. When was the last time something like that happened? Eliot almost reminds him of Tim, like a weirdly classy fantasy novel Tim, just all charm and sass and easy charisma. The old Tim. He and Martin used to get on rather well, and Eliot is similar enough that it feels almost like picking up where that left off. Which could feel quite sad, and in some ways it does; but it's nice, too, feeling like this - the capacity to make friends - is still something there and accessible to him.

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Went Down Again Headfirst | Arrival in Darrow (for Martin)

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