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Jan. 23rd, 2022 09:40 pmJohn sprawls on the couch, his eyes tracing the cracks and irregularities that comprise the ceiling's subtle topography, and wonders if staying in his own flat was a mistake.
It's true that Martin hadn't asked him to leave, though John doesn't dare presume that a desire for company weighed heavier than simple manners. Refusing to put him out of his own home, harboring a ridiculous compulsion to be a good guest: these are more likely motivations than wanting John around. It is easy, despite the familiarity of his surroundings and any awkward or stubborn reassurances Martin might offer, to feel like he is trespassing. Not on Martin's space, perhaps (if you want to get technical), but certainly on his privacy.
Because Martin still has nightmares.
It might be more accurate to say that he's started having nightmares, though John really doesn't know. He doesn't know (and refuses to Know) how frequent bad dreams were before Prentiss, at any rate. But if they were rare things preceding the incident, they've been set off in spectacular fashion by the incident. Less thematically varied than his Martin's nightmares, from what he can tell, but far more frequent.
And he is far less equipped to do anything about it. The first night, when he heard Martin wake (or when The Bishop stalked out of the bedroom in feline displeasure), he did nothing, paranoid that any acknowledgment would be embarrassing or unwelcome. But simply enduring it was more difficult than he ever would have anticipated, and now, their second full night together, it's starting to rub him raw. Faint, miserable noises have been emanating from the bedroom for several minutes, and he can no longer convince himself that ignoring it some sort of mercy.
Fuck.
John rises from the couch and pads softly down the hall, pausing at the bedroom door. It's already open a cat's width, more than enough for John to clearly hear the rustling of the bedsheets and another awful little whimper, and he breathes a defeated 'shit' before pushing the door open and stepping inside. He navigates the dark room easily, making his way to his side of the bed and flicking on the lamp. Then he perches on the edge of the mattress, as if he doesn't dare to take more than an inch or two of real estate, and contemplates a brush of his fingers against Martin's shoulder. Contemplates, but doesn't dare.
"Martin," he tries, soft and uncertain. "Martin, wake up."
It's true that Martin hadn't asked him to leave, though John doesn't dare presume that a desire for company weighed heavier than simple manners. Refusing to put him out of his own home, harboring a ridiculous compulsion to be a good guest: these are more likely motivations than wanting John around. It is easy, despite the familiarity of his surroundings and any awkward or stubborn reassurances Martin might offer, to feel like he is trespassing. Not on Martin's space, perhaps (if you want to get technical), but certainly on his privacy.
Because Martin still has nightmares.
It might be more accurate to say that he's started having nightmares, though John really doesn't know. He doesn't know (and refuses to Know) how frequent bad dreams were before Prentiss, at any rate. But if they were rare things preceding the incident, they've been set off in spectacular fashion by the incident. Less thematically varied than his Martin's nightmares, from what he can tell, but far more frequent.
And he is far less equipped to do anything about it. The first night, when he heard Martin wake (or when The Bishop stalked out of the bedroom in feline displeasure), he did nothing, paranoid that any acknowledgment would be embarrassing or unwelcome. But simply enduring it was more difficult than he ever would have anticipated, and now, their second full night together, it's starting to rub him raw. Faint, miserable noises have been emanating from the bedroom for several minutes, and he can no longer convince himself that ignoring it some sort of mercy.
Fuck.
John rises from the couch and pads softly down the hall, pausing at the bedroom door. It's already open a cat's width, more than enough for John to clearly hear the rustling of the bedsheets and another awful little whimper, and he breathes a defeated 'shit' before pushing the door open and stepping inside. He navigates the dark room easily, making his way to his side of the bed and flicking on the lamp. Then he perches on the edge of the mattress, as if he doesn't dare to take more than an inch or two of real estate, and contemplates a brush of his fingers against Martin's shoulder. Contemplates, but doesn't dare.
"Martin," he tries, soft and uncertain. "Martin, wake up."
