“Thanks again for picking me up,” Gerard mumbles, slumping down into the passenger seat. He’s exhausted and strung-out and feels like he’s covered in filth.
“Of course,” Martin says softly. He waits for Gerard to buckle his seatbelt before coaxing the car into life and aiming it at the street. It’s on its last legs, honestly, but Gerard knows better than to point this out, or suggest Martin look into getting a new one. Even a secondhand car is out of his reach. When this bucket of rust goes, he’s going to be wholly dependent on public transit. It’s not the worst thing in the world, but it’s a bit limiting.
“How’s your mum?” he asks, not really thinking about the words before they come out of his mouth.
Martin’s mouth tightens briefly. “Same as always. Doc’s got her on a new medication. It’s…it’s not really doing anything, honestly. They did some more tests last week, we’re still waiting on the results of those.” He pauses, then adds, “Somehow, I don’t think they’re going to come back with anything useful.”
“You sure?”
“Just a hunch.”
Something about the way Martin says that makes Gerard’s stomach twist. There’s a significance to it, almost like he’s not just talking about medical ailments. Something is going on, something probably dangerous, and Gerard hates that Martin is stuck in the middle of it. He wants to…he’s not sure what. Do something. Get Martin out of there, whisk him out of the country, hide him somewhere nothing can touch him. Anything.
He knows better. He tried that once, and it didn’t work out for any of them. In a way it’s what led them to this point. And that’s assuming It would let Martin go, which is a pretty damn big assumption. He might still be able to escape, but they’ve known that was a slim chance for years and it’s becoming less and less likely by the day.
“And Uncle Roger?” he asks, more to distract himself from impossible hopes and desires than anything.
“He’s on a new regimen, too. It seems to be helping. At any rate, he’s not getting any worse.”
Gerard hums and lets his gaze drift out the window, watching the streets go by. For all he considers himself a Londoner, he’s spent a relatively low percentage of his actual life here, and he’s not terribly familiar with the streets. And after eight months at Her Majesty’s pleasure, he’s even less familiar with it than he used to be.
Still…
“Hey, this isn’t—isn’t the shop in the other direction?” he says, confused, as Martin makes a turn.
Martin barely spares him a glance. “I’m not taking you back to the shop. Don’t be ridiculous. You’re staying with me. At least until you’ve got your feet back under you.”
Gerard panics slightly. “I don’t—I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose, I—”
“It was in the papers,” Martin says quietly. “That you’d been acquitted because a key piece of evidence went missing—it was the Book, wasn’t it?” He pronounces it, as they always do, with a capital B.
“I think so. Don’t know what happened to it.” Gerard can guess, though, and he sincerely hopes he’s wrong.
“I went by the shop to pick up some clothes for you, but…well, there’s a crowd out front. Reporters mostly, but I think a few curious people. You know the type. Groupies and ghouls.” Martin’s silent for a moment. “And at least one person was…Touched. I didn’t Look too closely, but…you know.”
Gerard’s stomach turns over. “Shit. So I can’t go home.”
“Not yet, anyway.” Martin sighs heavily. “I can try to sneak in after dark, but I didn’t want to risk it in broad daylight and have someone call the cops on me, or worse, follow me. But, um, I’ve got a couple things for you. They’re not…you know, your usual, but…”
“It’s not prison clothes. I’ll take it. Thank you, Martin.” Gerard sighs as well.
Martin glances at him sideways. “Maybe you should change up your style a bit anyway.”
Gerard huffs at him. “Are you saying there’s something wrong with my style?”
“Yeah, I’m saying it’s garbage,” Martin deadpans. Gerard bites his lips to keep from laughing. “Seriously, though, your picture was in all the papers wearing a t-shirt even I couldn’t tell where the fake bloodstains ended and the real ones began and jeans that would be baggy on me with more holes than the plot of that book you tried writing when you were fourteen—”
“Hey!”
“—and that’s pretty much the same thing you’ve worn for as long as I’ve known you,” Martin continues relentlessly. “Maybe if you wear something a bit different, you won’t be recognized.”
“Like what, skinny jeans and a Grateful Dead t-shirt?”
“Try looking respectable for a change. You know, bottle-green turtleneck, brown corduroy jacket with patches on the elbows, tie your hair back in a queue…”
Gerard stiffens. “There’s a picture of my dad in that exact outfit. It’s the only one I’ve ever seen of him. Have I…shown it to you?”
Martin’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, and his face goes ashen, but he only says, “No. No, I don’t think you have.”
They’re silent for the rest of the drive. As Martin pulls up to the curb in front of his building and the car either turns off or dies, though, he says softly, “Even a nine days’ wonder only lasts nine days.”
Gerard manages a smile. “You’re saying they’ll forget about me eventually.”
“Yeah. And I do actually have your passport—they gave it back to me after your trial to hold for you—so you can get out of the country for a while if you want to.” Martin jerks his head in the direction of his front door. “Meanwhile, I bet you want a shower. There’s loads of hot water, and the towels are clean. Landlady actually had someone in to fix the plumbing, too, so the water pressure’s decent. I’ll make dinner while you’re at it. Neens will be home at some point tonight, so we can make it a double celebration.”
“Thanks.” And Gerard is grateful, but he’s also apprehensive, and he hesitates with his hand on the handle. “What should I be…prepared for? I mean…does she know I’m coming?”
“Sh—oh, God, I forgot, you don’t know.” Martin reaches over and squeezes Gerard’s arm gently. “They’re not here, Gerry. Either of them. They went into a home six months ago. It’s just me.”
Gerard sighs in relief. “Thank God. I know she’s your mum, but I really don’t want to deal with her after…that.”
“Honestly? Me, neither.” Martin opens the door. “C’mon. I’ll even make some hot cocoa. And I knew they wouldn’t have let you have any hair dye while you were in, so I bought a box for you. We can do that tonight or tomorrow, whenever you want.”
Gerard comes around the car and hugs Martin tightly. “You’re the best, Mart.”
The way Martin’s face lights up, even as he hugs him back, is as warming and comforting as it is heartbreaking.