WaT Fic: The Strongest Man in the World
The Strongest Man in the World
By Port (desertport)
Warning for PTSD. Rated PG. Spoilers for season 4.
Chars: Martin and Danny
Words: 1,000
Feedback makes my world a sweet, sweet place. Hope you enjoy!
"The strongest man in the world is he who stands alone." - Henrik Ibsen, An Enemy of the People, 1882
1
Martin wants to leave his apartment, but he can’t. Before, he would force himself to leave the ironic warmth of an empty bed, bound for routes he would explore at random in his sneakers and shorts. Even running wouldn’t work, though. He would ride endorphins against a morning chill, mapping side streets of a city still new to him, but he would always head home halfway through, greedy and empty-handed.
His physical therapist visits him the most, nowadays, committed to getting Martin back to work. Martin doesn’t tell him he just wants out of the apartment. He doesn’t tell anyone.
2
Martin’s apartment has six rooms: kitchen, living room, bedroom, spare, master bath and guest bath. He depends on crutches to move from one to another. Lately, he sleeps on the couch to avoid the undignified trip to his bedroom at night. The couch aggravates his healing wounds, and the next day is bitter, but he still refuses to withdraw deeper into the apartment.
His physical therapist has been in the living room and guest bath. Sam had been everywhere, when they dated. His parents too, when they helped him move back from the hospital.
Others stay away. Martin knows why.
3
He cleans every day. There isn’t much else to do until he is strong enough to return to work. His old running shorts are comfortable enough to wear around the house. He bends carefully to pick them up from the bedroom floor, along with white paper bags from the drugstore pharmacy.
He wipes the kitchen counters with a damp paper towel. They shine in the morning sun. The light makes the room airy, highlighting a few dust motes that escape his efforts. He never knew his kitchen looked this way in the morning. He was always at work by now.
4
When his sister calls, Martin is glad.
"How are the kids?" he asks.
"Forget the kids, Martin. How are you?"
"What do you mean? I’m fine." He smiles as if she’s right there.
"Yeah, right, Martin. You were shot. Dad says you looked like crap when they brought you back home. It’s only been two weeks, and we’re all worried about you."
Martin has closed his eyes. What does she want? They had been allies as children, a united front against Mom and Dad. When did that change?
"I’m fine, sis," he says. That is all he will tell her.
5
Martin considers getting drunk, despite the warnings on his prescriptions. At the end of the week, his father would lock himself in the den with the record player and a bottle of sherry. Martin would fall asleep Friday nights to classical music filtering through the woodwork of an otherwise silent house.
His apartment is silent now.
He wonders if Danny went home that night and fell off the wagon. Martin hopes Danny called his sponsor instead, but he’ll never know, will he?
Martin would rather leave the apartment than get drunk. Maybe he can sleep it off with a painkiller.
6
When he thinks about leaving the apartment, several fears come to mind.
First is the crutches. He can’t defend himself on crutches.
Second is his shabby, wasted reflection in the mirror. He tries to keep himself neat, but the tiredness is impossible to wash or comb away. He can’t be seen like this.
Third is Danny. He is irrationally certain that if he goes outside, he will meet Danny. Danny will see him on the crutches, looking like crap, and when Martin returns to his apartment afterward, he will be alone and empty-handed, except for the crutches.
He stays inside.
7
The day his physical therapist arrives with a cane in hand, something eases in Martin. He finds it less awkward than the crutches, though just as necessary. He can’t keep from smiling and joking during the workout. His therapist smiles back. "Not so grim anymore, are you?"
No, he’s not. He tires himself out, but finds enough energy to insist his therapist take the crutches away with him.
Martin reclines on his couch and looks forward to going back to work. Tomorrow, he’ll call to get that ball rolling.
He needs three painkillers the next morning, but he still calls.
8
Should Martin be worried about Danny? He hasn’t heard from him since he found a note on his bedside table in the hospital. "Stopped by, didn’t want to wake you, glad you’re doing better." A sentence had been scribbled out above Danny’s signature.
Martin knows why Danny hasn’t contacted him since, same as he knows why nobody has visited since he left the hospital. But now he isn’t sure.
Martin isn’t stupid. He sees that the shooting has brought out the worst in him. But Danny is stronger, and a better man besides. He has to be all right. Right?
9
Martin has sat on his bed for three hours, in pressed slacks and a long-sleeved shirt. His cane rests against the bedpost.
Five hours ago, he decided to go walking. The light has changed in his room, and a mild rain has come and passed. Martin didn’t quite use the rain as an excuse not to leave. He is on his way out. He is.
He clenches his fists. It’s easier to stay inside, but not as simple to. Danny and his father wouldn’t understand Martin’s hesitation, though he thinks Danny might try. That alone makes Martin want to succeed.
10
In six hours, he'll return to work. Martin lies in bed, anticipating what people will say to him and making up quips in reply. Some of them are pretty good.
He’s glad no one has done more than occasionally call. They thought he was strong enough to do this himself, or else they would have supported him. It’s good they don’t know.
He’s sure Danny’s okay, now. If he weren’t, he would have called, to talk it through, to go over that night again and again until it set right in his mind. Danny’s like that.
Martin wishes he were.
Fin
By Port (desertport)
Warning for PTSD. Rated PG. Spoilers for season 4.
Chars: Martin and Danny
Words: 1,000
Feedback makes my world a sweet, sweet place. Hope you enjoy!
"The strongest man in the world is he who stands alone." - Henrik Ibsen, An Enemy of the People, 1882
1
Martin wants to leave his apartment, but he can’t. Before, he would force himself to leave the ironic warmth of an empty bed, bound for routes he would explore at random in his sneakers and shorts. Even running wouldn’t work, though. He would ride endorphins against a morning chill, mapping side streets of a city still new to him, but he would always head home halfway through, greedy and empty-handed.
His physical therapist visits him the most, nowadays, committed to getting Martin back to work. Martin doesn’t tell him he just wants out of the apartment. He doesn’t tell anyone.
2
Martin’s apartment has six rooms: kitchen, living room, bedroom, spare, master bath and guest bath. He depends on crutches to move from one to another. Lately, he sleeps on the couch to avoid the undignified trip to his bedroom at night. The couch aggravates his healing wounds, and the next day is bitter, but he still refuses to withdraw deeper into the apartment.
His physical therapist has been in the living room and guest bath. Sam had been everywhere, when they dated. His parents too, when they helped him move back from the hospital.
Others stay away. Martin knows why.
3
He cleans every day. There isn’t much else to do until he is strong enough to return to work. His old running shorts are comfortable enough to wear around the house. He bends carefully to pick them up from the bedroom floor, along with white paper bags from the drugstore pharmacy.
He wipes the kitchen counters with a damp paper towel. They shine in the morning sun. The light makes the room airy, highlighting a few dust motes that escape his efforts. He never knew his kitchen looked this way in the morning. He was always at work by now.
4
When his sister calls, Martin is glad.
"How are the kids?" he asks.
"Forget the kids, Martin. How are you?"
"What do you mean? I’m fine." He smiles as if she’s right there.
"Yeah, right, Martin. You were shot. Dad says you looked like crap when they brought you back home. It’s only been two weeks, and we’re all worried about you."
Martin has closed his eyes. What does she want? They had been allies as children, a united front against Mom and Dad. When did that change?
"I’m fine, sis," he says. That is all he will tell her.
5
Martin considers getting drunk, despite the warnings on his prescriptions. At the end of the week, his father would lock himself in the den with the record player and a bottle of sherry. Martin would fall asleep Friday nights to classical music filtering through the woodwork of an otherwise silent house.
His apartment is silent now.
He wonders if Danny went home that night and fell off the wagon. Martin hopes Danny called his sponsor instead, but he’ll never know, will he?
Martin would rather leave the apartment than get drunk. Maybe he can sleep it off with a painkiller.
6
When he thinks about leaving the apartment, several fears come to mind.
First is the crutches. He can’t defend himself on crutches.
Second is his shabby, wasted reflection in the mirror. He tries to keep himself neat, but the tiredness is impossible to wash or comb away. He can’t be seen like this.
Third is Danny. He is irrationally certain that if he goes outside, he will meet Danny. Danny will see him on the crutches, looking like crap, and when Martin returns to his apartment afterward, he will be alone and empty-handed, except for the crutches.
He stays inside.
7
The day his physical therapist arrives with a cane in hand, something eases in Martin. He finds it less awkward than the crutches, though just as necessary. He can’t keep from smiling and joking during the workout. His therapist smiles back. "Not so grim anymore, are you?"
No, he’s not. He tires himself out, but finds enough energy to insist his therapist take the crutches away with him.
Martin reclines on his couch and looks forward to going back to work. Tomorrow, he’ll call to get that ball rolling.
He needs three painkillers the next morning, but he still calls.
8
Should Martin be worried about Danny? He hasn’t heard from him since he found a note on his bedside table in the hospital. "Stopped by, didn’t want to wake you, glad you’re doing better." A sentence had been scribbled out above Danny’s signature.
Martin knows why Danny hasn’t contacted him since, same as he knows why nobody has visited since he left the hospital. But now he isn’t sure.
Martin isn’t stupid. He sees that the shooting has brought out the worst in him. But Danny is stronger, and a better man besides. He has to be all right. Right?
9
Martin has sat on his bed for three hours, in pressed slacks and a long-sleeved shirt. His cane rests against the bedpost.
Five hours ago, he decided to go walking. The light has changed in his room, and a mild rain has come and passed. Martin didn’t quite use the rain as an excuse not to leave. He is on his way out. He is.
He clenches his fists. It’s easier to stay inside, but not as simple to. Danny and his father wouldn’t understand Martin’s hesitation, though he thinks Danny might try. That alone makes Martin want to succeed.
10
In six hours, he'll return to work. Martin lies in bed, anticipating what people will say to him and making up quips in reply. Some of them are pretty good.
He’s glad no one has done more than occasionally call. They thought he was strong enough to do this himself, or else they would have supported him. It’s good they don’t know.
He’s sure Danny’s okay, now. If he weren’t, he would have called, to talk it through, to go over that night again and again until it set right in his mind. Danny’s like that.
Martin wishes he were.
Fin