a pressure in his ears that seemed to amplify the smallest sounds or possibly create ones that weren't even there. Martin blinked at the hard copy text and used one hand like a visor, trying to shield his eyes from the high-rate flicker of the fluorescent bulbs.
The Agency had provided him with top-of-the-line headsets and a screen reader as part of his ‘We Fucked Up So Bad You Would Actually Have A Case Even If We Are A Creepy Government Agency So Please Don't Sue Us’ compensation. Unfortunately, screen readers were no help when you had to go over page after page of eight-point font photocopied text.
He forced himself to take deep, slow breaths to maximize oxygenation and to unclench his jaw. He had pills he could take but they knocked him out and he had to get this work done. His supervisor wanted a verbal report first thing in the morning, so he just had to get this reading done and he could go home.
He took another deep breath and felt the pressure start to build behind his eyes. He wasn't in pain yet, but he knew it was coming. Every sound seemed unnaturally loud. He could hear the click of Arthur's keyboard only a few feet away. He wasn't typing fast. He'd probably finished his work hours earlier and was simply waiting on Martin now. He could send Arthur a quick message, tell him to go home, say that he still had a lot of work, but it wouldn't have the desired effect. Arthur would stop by his desk, see his face, and know what was happening.
He needed to focus, and then he could get to the pills and maybe knock himself out before the pain left him curled up on the bathroom floor. The doctors assured him that his brain was healing. That he could get through even a few pages of text without a debilitating headache was a positive sign, but that didn't change the fact that he'd never had a migraine in his life until his second week back at the office when he found himself vomiting in pain and unable to open his eyes due to the light.
He finished the last page and slammed the folder into his locking desk drawer with possibly more force than was necessary. He gathered his things quickly, feeling his hands start to shake. Everything seemed to have a sickly green tinge and he felt his stomach begin to turn.
Shit. He hadn't gone fast enough.
"Hey."
He tried to relax his face before he turned to Arthur, but his sudden frown was a clue that he'd failed.
"How bad?" Arthur asked keeping his voice thankfully low.
"I can make it home."
"Okay, let's get you out of here."
Martin fumbled a pair of wraparound dark glasses from his pocket. They let in only enough light so that he wouldn't walk directly into someone, but no more than that. The office was mostly empty with half the lights already turned off, but it was still too much.
Arthur walked at his side, not touching, not adding any stimulation, but close enough to be a comfort or catch him if he fell. They stepped into the elevator, and he felt his stomach lurch as it whisked them down to the garage.
With his glasses on, the garage itself was almost too dark to see. He felt Arthur's hand on his elbow, warm, even through the suit jacket. Arthur guided him to the car so he didn't have to take off the glasses. The first hints of throbbing pain were beginning to build, a little worse with each pulse.
He let Arthur buckle him in and he squeezed his hands over his ears. He had noise-canceling headphones at home and a blackout eye mask he didn't like wearing.
He bit back a whimper as the closing of the car door shook his whole body. He knew he didn't have to be stoic in front of Arthur. While Arthur hadn't seen him at his worst, he had witnessed the aftermath. Nightmares he couldn't wake from. Physical therapy where his limbs failed to move as they should. Martin tried not to think about it. The car began to move, and he tried to simply focus on breathing through the pain and nausea.
The car moved slowly, Arthur taking each turn wide to minimize the G-forces and crawling to a stop at each light. Martin appreciated what he was trying to do, but it wouldn't be of any use in the end. He counted the turns, trying to mentally distract himself while gauging how much longer he would have to hold it together.
The car came to a halt and the engine stopped, the sudden lack of noise almost as jarring as the rumble of internal combustion. He didn't move. He wasn't sure if he could.
"Should I get your pills and bring them back to the car?"
He feared moving. He feared even breathing. He hated this. Not just the pain but the helplessness. The need for help. For years, he had taken pride in complete self-reliance. Now, if Arthur wasn't there, he would still be reliant on the kindness of strangers. He made no move or sound, fearful of the pain and the reaction of his own body to it.
"Okay," Arthur whispered.
He listened to Arthur get out. The sound of his steps leaving. He took the smallest breaths possible. He knew from experience he couldn't force himself to black out. Even at the most desperate levels of pain, he couldn't hold his breath that long.
The parking lot was quiet, but he could still hear the street noises. As the cars and occasional truck rumbled by, he tried to work out how much time had passed. Had Arthur simply walked away? Decided he had had enough and left him here to figure out his own mess himself? It was a stupid thing to think. Stupid and illogical to even contemplate. Arthur was loyal. It was one of the defining traits the Agency looked for: loyalty and a willingness to serve. For some reason, Arthur had turned that loyalty trait towards him. He wasn't sure why.
He heard footsteps approach the car again. He hoped it was Arthur. He was in no shape to explain his condition to a police officer or innocent bystander, and the only chance he would have of getting away from a kidnapper would be by vomiting on them.
The car chirped as it unlocked, and he winced. His door opened. He couldn't open his eyes to confirm it was Arthur as they were squeezed tight. The muscles of his face seemed locked into place.
"I've got the liquid stuff and your headphones." Arthur's voice was quiet and gentle, yet still hit his ears like a shock wave.
He slowly took his hands from his ears and let Arthur slip on the bulky headphones. They felt like a clamp, but the rough sound of the street became distant and muted. He knew what was coming next. He didn't like it, but there was no other way of relieving this level of pain. He felt Arthur carefully brush aside his suit jacket and untuck his shirt. The air was cold on his bare side, and he gritted his teeth against the quick swipe of cold alcohol on his skin. There was a sharp jab and he bit back a whimper. He knew the puff of warm breath against his skin was a needless apology.
He breathed slowly. This wouldn't fully take away the pain; it was far too late for that. It should take the edge off enough for him to get to his apartment and then fall asleep. Hopefully, without a bout of vomiting between those two things.
He felt his muscles begin to relax from the full-body cramp they had constricted themselves into. It must have been some sign to Arthur to start the process of moving him, more delicately than if he was defusing a bomb. Avoiding any sharp movement or noise, he was extracted from his vehicle and helped to his feet. The drugs had taken enough of an effect that he was able to crack his eyes open and make his way.
Arthur took out his keys. He still had the key Martin had given him in the hospital room when he was wracked with fever and afraid of missing his weekly library appointment. He'd never asked for it back and Arthur had never offered. He would have laughed to himself if he wasn't aware of the pain it would cause. So much of their relationship seemed to be centered around him becoming sick or injured. He'd spent years, decades really, striving for near perfect self-sufficiency, then Arthur waltzed into his life and his body decided to completely break down. He supposed the kidnapping and violent aftereffects thereof couldn't be blamed on his body. He knew exactly which analyst he could lay the blame on for that and had rather grand plans for eventual revenge.
Arthur led him to his bedroom. "Do you need to use the toilet?"
Martin shook his head. That was a mistake, a big one. He sprinted to the bathroom landing hard on his knees in front of the toilet. His body rejected the sustenance of the day, every muscle screaming in outrage. He became aware of Arthur sitting next to him as he clung onto the cold porcelain. Not touching. He knew not to. Not when every nerve was hyper-aware and tuned to pain.
His body spent another minute trying to reject what wasn't there, simply because it couldn't do anything else. He wanted to cry, but it would serve no purpose in this situation. He had his eyes squeezed tight again, but he could feel Arthur get up, hear the faucet run, and feel a cold glass placed against his fingertips so he knew it was there. He took a sip, more to rinse the taste from his mouth, and felt Arthur sit back down on the hard bathroom floor.
"What are you doing here?" Martin whispered, a heady blend of pain, anger, and self-pity swirling behind his eyes.
"Where else should I be?" Arthur answered back.
With someone who isn't broken, he wanted to reply.
"I filled out a B dash 837 form with HR that has your name on it. I'm exactly where I should be."
Martin reached out and blindly took Arthur's hand because, beneath all the pain, something warm and peaceful bloomed in his chest.