8821/Splints, Tea, and Cigarettes

Splints, Tea, and Cigarettes
Date of Scene:	23 November 2021
Location:	Martin and Jon's Suite
Synopsis:	Jon finally makes it home to Martin after being kidnapped and kept in Arkham. Tim's secret identity is safe, but Jon's poor arm isn't.
Cast of Characters:	Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood

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Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon was missing for a good 15 hours, but for most of that time Martin didn't even know he was gone. He'd known Jon was heading down to Gotham, and probably wouldn't be back before he had to head out to a late shift, and then... well, and then Martin was at work. So it wasn't until the early hours of the morning, when Martin came home to an empty house and couldn't reach his husband by text or phone, that he might have started to panic. Probably called around to friends, checked in at the Midnight Mission, that sort of thing.

    Fortunately, before Martin could get /really/ worried, he got a call from Jon saying that he was alive, he was alright, in Gotham, got caught up in something with Tim Drake and not to worry. He'd be home in a few hours.

    Those hours... probably passed interminably.

    When Jon finally comes home he looks exhausted despite the nap he got at the Roost. He moves stiffly as he comes through the door to their suite, and his voice cracks a little as he calls, "Martin, I'm back." The cast on his arm is gone, though he still has a sling. There's no other obvious damage, but a sense of numb exhaustion permeates the air around him.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    There is a flurry of motion from the back of the house and then a exhausted looking Martin comes rounding the corner to the entryway of the apartment. The dark bags under his eyes are a telltale sign of his lack of sleep (and probably of his crying fits from worry) and he moves forward with stuttering steps.

    "What... what happened?" he asks. Before Jon can get a proper response the man is drawing him in for a tight hug, seeming to forget the damage to the man's arm or the fact that it's still in a sling. "I was so worried. "I'm alive? You idiot. You can't start a coversation with that! What did Tim have to save you from?" he adds, his voice jumping a few levels in pitch if not in intensity. He was terrified, not angry.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon makes a small noise of pain as he's hugged. "Martin... please... my arm..." He winces, pulls away a bit, wraps his good arm around Martin to give him a kind of side-hug. Exhaustion keeps coming off him in waves, the fear buried beneath it, though it'll come to the surface soon enough.

    "I was kidnapped," he says in a tired voice. "Someone tried to get to Tim through me, but he came and saved me." As you do when you're a billionaire genius college kid, sure. "I wanted to let you know I was okay before you scrambled SHIELD or anything, but I didn't really have the... werewithal to say more, just then."

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin winces and moves to look at Jon's arm and shoulder. "Alright... alright... well... let me look at it and you can tell me more in the living room." He helps the man towards the couch, walking gingerly. He is still terrified but Jon is alive and whole and well and that's what matters the most. The why of the situation seems to be dealt with... or so he hopes.

    Once at the couch, Martin goes to the bedroom closet. He has an industrial medical toolbox there with everything short of a surgical theater within it. He tugs that to the living room and sets it by the couch before moving to help Jon out of his coat and sling. "Talk to me as I do this... if you can?" he asks, his voice hesitant and careful but focused as he does what he is trained to do.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Of course," Jon says softly. He's settled on the couch, fingers of his left hand drumming on his knee in a particular way Martin knows means he's craving a cigarette but trying to hold it off because that means going outside--and in the Triskelion 'outside' isn't just a quick slip out onto the balcony. He peers at one of the fake windows, still projecting daylight into the room.

    "I made a mistake," he starts off with. "I keep doing that. I can't... you know I've always been curious, but as the Archivist it's becoming... almost unbearable, not being able to figure out the truth of a puzzle." He sighs. "In this case, the puzzle was... Tim Drake. I mean, you were there in the graveyard. He'd been shot in the leg, he was on crutches, and he was able to just... balance on that leg and kick a man hard enough to knock him out." He shakes his head. "I started... wondering, you know?" He smirks, glances toward Martin. "I mean, you must be curious, too, spook that you are." He says it fondly.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin is gingerly touching along the arm, making sure the set was good and done properly. "I am. But rich people have strange hobbies sometimes..." he says. "I just figured between acrobatics and self defense courses... the former a hobby, the latter probably directed by his adoptive father..." Yes, he knows who Tim's adoptive father is. No way he wasn't going to do as much digging in SHIELD files as he could on Jon's friends, "it's given him some extra balance."

    He winces at a particular part of Jon's upper arm. "Ooh... I think this might've slipped a bit when I hugged you..." he says. "I'm going to have to splint it" he says, apologetically. "It's going to hurt..." he adds, removing the plastic splint for short term setting and the medical tape.

    "Aside from that, he's young and clearly has friends in the hero business. For all we know he's a cape himself--don't know which or really care to know--if he keeps it secret, it's his business, not ours." He pauses and looks at Jon and his expression falls somewhat. "Oh... you... you went digging into his business... didn't you?" he asks, setting the splint on either side of the man's right bicep.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon's face flushes a bit darker as he holds still for the splinting. "Yes," he admits, "I did. That's what I've been doing that I didn't want to tell you about. Not because... well, alright, /yes/, I was embarrassed, but also I... didn't..." He frowns for a moment, like he's struggling to find the right words.

    "It's not like I want to learn these things and then /tell/ people. The Archive... doesn't work like that, mostly. I just want to /know/, at all." He sighs. "I can respect people's privacy, and keep their secrets, I just want to... /know/ their secrets." He shakes his head.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin frowns. "Who did you go to for help?" he asks as he starts to wrap the splint in place. He isn't going to ask whether or not Jon figured it out, because like he said--it's none of his business. He works with super heroes. *Captain America* was with them on his last mission. But the Avengers are a known commodity. Some heros out there aren't the same. Batman, Spider-Man, and a number of mutants, don't want their identity known and he respectsthat. If Jon--if the Archivist--knows which cape Tim is running around in, it is his burden to carry.

    "I'm guessing that's who kidnapped you. You poked a beehive and someone out there got the idea that you figured out which cape he was and so tried to get the info from you? To get to him?" he asks. Martin is far from dense when it comes to puzzles. SHIELD agents are some of the best at deductive analysis, and he's been at it for nearly half his life and despite all the attacks, infiltrations, and misions he's participated in, he is still alive and plans on staying that way for a number of years to come.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I went to my old boss, Hugo Strange," Jon admits. "Gave him a psych profile without any personally identifiable information." He's breathing slowly, waves of pain coming off him, as much as he's trying to hold it back so Martin won't have to sense that. He can't help wincing at the splinting, however, and closes his eyes to focus. The empathic aura dims, fades down, so Martin can focus on his work.

    "I... don't know if it was Strange who kidnapped me, per se? But..." He swallows. His tone is even, /too/ even, he's clearly keeping it that way so the fear and pain don't spill out. "I was on the Hyperloop, heading down there. I texted Tim, telling him what I'd done. Apologizing. I was going to tell Strange that I didn't want the answer, whatever it was. But then there were these men around me, I could /feel/ their hostility, so I... asked one of them what he was doing there." He smirks. "I think I could've stopped them if I'd been a little faster. Telepathically, I mean. But they sedated me instead. When I woke up... I was in Arkham."

    He sighs, finally opens his eyes. "I was in a straitjacket, strapped into a chair in a supply closet. I suspect they didn't expect me to wake up quite so early. I was there... for a long while. I'm... not certain how long. It was..." He can't seem to help it; a spike of fear pulses out of him and he pulls in a sharp breath, pulls it in. "I didn't know where I was at first... I kept wondering who had me, why they had me, what they were going to do to me..." His voice shakes, composure threatening to crack.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin finishes wrapping the splint. He nods, content with his work and moves to checking the rest of the break as Jon speaks. At the end he places a hand on Jon's knee. "Hey... you're safe here. You're not there anymore..." he says. "I promise. You're safe. They can't touch you here." He gives the man's leg a squeeze.

    "What... what did they do?" he asks, pausing before turning to the kit and looking through the contents on what supplies he has, wondering if any could help the man sleep for long enough without dreaming to get some decent rest.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Nothing, really," Jon says, voice shaking. "That's just it... I just... sat there for hours... I don't know, it was dark out by the time I woke so... ten hours, maybe? Twelve? I don't... know." He shakes his head. "And i didn't know... was I going to be tortured? Die? Who had me? Why /me/?" He laughs, shakily. "Which is... actually, there's a fairly long list, you know? HYDRA, whoever killed Gran, maybe that demon wearing John's face... I mean I figured you'd come for me, if nothing else, but... but would you get there in time? What if... what if it was a trap for /you/...?" He has to stop. Break off.

    He takes a deep breath, but keeps shaking, and the fear starts spilling out so Martin can sense it, pouring off of him. "It was almost a relief when I /did/ find out. There was this, umm... they have these little robots that go 'round Arkham, you know, do menial tasks. The robot brought in an... old CRT. And there was this... skull on the screen, like a, umm... anatomy class sort of thing, you know? Puppeted, like. And this... tinny robotic voice started talking. Said... said... well." He swallows.

    "Well, I got my answer, anyway. About Tim. And then... it mocked me. Said... said I was... /weak/. That I'd never have made it in Arkham." The fear is suddenly threaded through with anger. "Started laughing at me. Threatened to throw me in with the patients. And then... then said I was /bait/. For Tim." He's /furious/ about that. Not scared, not of that. Furious. Knowing Jon, that someone was trying to hurt one of his friends at all, let alone using him to do so.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin finds a few pills he hopes will do the trick and hands them over to Jon in a small plastic cup before rising and moving to the kitchen for a glass of water. "You got angry..." he says. It's not a question and he doesn't need to have the telepathic link to his husband to tell him that.

    "I hope you gave them hell for it. Hugo or whoever it was that grabbed you" he says firmly, as he returns. He holds on to the glass of water, waiting for Jon to take the medication. "Made them pay for that petty... gloating. How bloody cliche can you get? Did he do the stupid maniacal laugh as well?" he asks, looking to the man.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Smashed the damn screen with a giant citrine," Jon says with a smirk. Then he sighs and stares down at the pills in his hand. "For all the good it did. I don't know... maybe it helped keep the trap from being sprung...? Couldn't stand the laughter, though. Or the mocking. I'm getting /really/ tired of being called incompetent." He harrumphs a bit.

    He sighs again. "Tim came for me. Because... of course he did. He's a good man." When Jon's said that before it's usually been 'kid.' Clearly something's changed. "And then, well, he saw to it I got medical attention and food and sleep, and sent me back home."

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    "That was nice of him" Martin replies and nods. "And good for you for showing whoever it was what a tool they were being. You're far from incompetent." He squeezes Jon's leg once more and says. "And now? After it all? How are you feeling?" he asks, his eyes on the man.

    The pill she's offering are just another step in an ongoing project of his, finding something to help Jon get a good night's rest despite the dreams that come with being the Archivist. Reliving the experiences, mostly horrific, that he's experienced through the statements of others--be it his patients, the villains he's judged, or his own.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "That's my line," Jon says wryly. "You know, the old joke, 'and how does that make you /feel/?'" He sighs. "Admittedly, terrified to travel alone. I feel like... I need to learn to defend myself better. The kidnapping shouldn't have been able to happen in the first place."

    He stares down at his hands. "Other than that...? Tired, but... I don't know, something happened to me while I was in there. Or maybe... began to happen. It's hard to..." He stops, fingers drumming on his leg again. He /really/ wants a cigarette, but he's not about to leave the apartment. He really wants tea, too, but he doesn't want to bother Martin with the request, of course.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    There are times with Jon forgets that Martin and him share a connection that goes beyond words. Martin sets the glass of water on the coffee table. "Let me get us tea and you can tell me what you're feeling." He stands and moves back to the kitchen, looking over the little bar divider that separates the rooms. "Oh..." he reaches into a cupboard and gets something from it.

    As he moves back to the living room, he taps something on the climate control console. "There... smoke alarms deactivated and ventaliation set to high." There is a bit more wind in the room as the low thrum of the internal ventalation fans kick into overdrive. He sets a glass ashtray before Jon. "Go ahead. Do what you need to do... please." He smiles and moves back to the kitchen area to work on tea.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon blinks at the ashtray. "/Martin/..." He stares up at the man, eyes very wide. Martin has /never/ approved of Jon smoking, let alone smoking indoors. He has to blink back tears, but sighs. If he's craving one so badly that Martin noticed...

    He goes ahead and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and his spiderweb-motif lighter, a gift from a long-dead friend. He waits until he's lit up and taken a long drag, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, before he speaks. The smoke calms his nerves, seems to soothe some anxiety he'd only vaguely been aware of.

    "I'm not going to pretend that I'm particularly brave. I'm not, really, you know? A bundle of neurosis, is more like it. Ironic, for a psychiatrist, but you knew that." Martin knows why Jon chose the profession he did, of course, his own bad experiences making him want to do better by others. "But I... I don't know, I started to feel... resolve? To feel like... perhaps the gods didn't make a mistake, choosing me to be the Archivist. That I can actually do... whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing."

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin sets the water to boiling in the electric kettle and starts putting the loose leaf in the strainer, choosing a soothing but light strength blend: Lady Grey with chamomile. "That's not surprising given what we recently discovered..." he says. "I mean, your power is even older than you thought and there's an entire royal line dedicated to it. I mean, if one of your ancestors stayed behind on Earth then... you're an heir to that courage, right?" he asks.

    He was making a concession letting Jon have the smoke, he wasn't going to be around it if he didn't want to. The built in lingering smell around Jon he liked... the smoke itself he wasn't a bit fan of. "And... you're stronger than you give yourself credit. I think, if you work on what we learned in Nilaa..." he smiles. "Well, if you want to join in in caped adventures aside Psych work and SHIELD work... I'm not going to stop you. Just... try to be home when you get done."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon peers over at Martin with a raised brow. "...What do you call what I've /been/ doing, if not 'caped adventures,' Martin?" He shakes his head. "I just mean... I've felt like I was... doing all this because I must, because there's no other choice. Like I'd give it back, if I could, but I can't, so I'll... get on with it."

    He sighs, and for a moment just sits there smoking the cigarette. Then, "Now I feel like... there's a choice one makes, at some point. To do the work, even if it's terrifying and difficult. To /embrace/ it, or to run away and only do it grudgingly. And I suppose, from what I know from my work, one /keeps/ making the choice, over and over--it's not like it's a one-time thing. But I think I've... reached the point of making that choice. Of trying to... move forward."

    He lets his head fall back on the couch, stares up at the ceiling. "Now if I could just find a therapist and deal with all the /shit/ that's happened to me these last couple of months..." He shakes his head and focuses on the cigarette. He wants to be done with it before Martin comes back over.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    The water is boiling and Martin turns to grab it and pour it into the pot. He looks back at Jon. "Well... now you can do it *with* a cape? Is what I mean." He sighs. "I'm just saying... that I'll support you in that choice. Whatever it may be."

    He smiles. "I'm not going to go anywhere. I made you play the blind one for far too long... it's time I paid some of that back... balance the scale as it were." He chuckles softly. "That's what you do as the Archivist, right? Balance the scales?" he asks. "Might as well apply to domestic life too."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I do not /balance/ the scales," Jon huffs, and peers over. "I /judge/ the scales. I... stop teasing, I'm being serious here." He finishes the cigarette and leans forward to snuff out the butt in the ashtray. Puts the pack and lighter away; evidently one is enough, for now. Or he's forcing it to be; he wants tea, and that means Martin back over here with him.

    He sighs. "I wonder how long I'll be able to keep up my private practice? I have patients I don't want to let down, but... I'm running out of time in the day, and nobody else can be the Archivist. And now... well... now I'm dedicated to that."

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin makes a face. He wasn't teasing, he was being quite serious but in hindsight he could see how it could be taken as such. He pours the tea and brings over a tray for the pair of them.

    "I'm sorry... I didn't mean..." he sighs. "Look, it might be worthwhile to drop to an on call basis as a therapist. Take those meetings where you don't have to have a set schedule to the visits. Between SHIELD and this work as The Archivist... you're right, there's only so many hours in the day. I know I wouldn't be able to keep my EMT position if I started caping around..."

    Which he most suredly was *not* going to, no thank you. Helping Jon out with some activities as Archivist was one thing, regular masked vigilante work... not his cup of tea. Speaking of which... he moves to start mixing his own cup, adding three sugars to the hot milky brown liquid and stirring it vigorously.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon adds four, because he likes his tea almost ridiculously sweet most of the time. Takes the time to stir, then takes the mug in his hands and frowns down at the liquid like it carries the secrets of the universe therein.

    "I suppose you're right," he says softly. "Something has to give, and with the Chief having me taking patients here at headquarters..." He shakes his head. Sighs, and finally takes a sip.

    "Can you call out tonight?" It's said even more softly, almost a whisper. "I... don't want to be alone. I just want to... what's the equivalent of ordering in, here? Getting something from the Food Court?"

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    "Door Dash has clearance to come on the grounds as long as we call it in with the gate guard" Martin says with a smile and "I already got Lamar to cover my shift tonight." There was a dangerous glint to his green eyes. "I was going to go out myself and hunt you down if I had to." He smiles and takes a sip. "I'm glad I didn't have to."

    He takes another sip of his tea. "What are you feeling? There's a good stone oven place not far that I can call if you're wanting more traditional." He looks at the clock. "They're still open for a while yet."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Tandoor sounds wonderful," Jon replies, sipping his tea with a smile. "Get some extra samosas? So we can snack on them while we watch... well, you decide? I'm too tired to make a decision."

    After a moment, he adds, "I knew you'd come for me. I never doubted that. I just..." A sigh. "I didn't know if you'd get there in time." He's still afraid, but he's started to get used to it. Fear seems to be par for the course, these days.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin nods and rises taking his mug with him. He sips from it again. "Go change into something more comfortable..." he says placing the mug on the bar separating living area and kitchen and then pulls out his phone. "I'll make the calls. I'll need to go down to the gate to get it but I can do that." He pulls out his phone and starts dialing, first door dash, then tandoor, then gate.