statement_ends | Reprise

It hadn't exactly shocked John when Martin had prepackaged his commentary about feeling a little under the weather with some determination to make it into work the following day. He knows that Martin would haul himself into the Archive so long as he was capable, regardless of whether it was particularly wise or not. Christ knows he's done it before.

But things are different, now, which is to say that John is now free to nip that sort of nonsense in the bud. If Martin's ill enough for it to be noticeable at bedtime, then there's no need for the pageantry of setting the alarm, getting up early, and butting heads over whether one or both of them ought to go in. Instead, John silences his own alarm — more of a reminder to let Kat, Eliot, and Daisy know that neither of them will be in today than a signal to get out of bed — and lets Martin sleep.

And sleep Martin does (with a bit of congested snoring, which is both adorable and all the validation John requires), until John gets a bit bored of just sitting up in bed and rises to make himself some tea. That accomplished, he engages in some quiet puttering: pulling out a fresh box of kleenex, gathering all the assorted cold medications he can find for easy access, and clearing the coffee table so it can be used as a staging ground for whatever Martin needs. He finds himself smiling as he works, small but genuine. He's not glad that Martin's taken ill, of course, but he'd be lying if he claimed not to enjoy doting on him, and a mild illness provides an excellent excuse.

And unlike last time, there's no need for miserably polite restraint. He's going to spoil Martin rotten, so help him.

For the moment, that just means making a few simple preparations while trying not to wake him. But he leaves the kettle on low, for whenever Martin should decide to join him.

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It takes Martin a few tries to wake up, blinking blearily at John's empty pillow beside him before he finally manages to lift his head and look at the clock. It's almost noon, but where ordinarily a rush of reflexive panic would hit him over realizing how late he slept, he can only stare for a moment before dropping his head back down. He thinks he knows what happened. And he knows why; he feels exhausted, heavy with sleep, his nose horribly stuffy and his throat dry. He's definitely sick, and John probably wouldn't have had to work very hard to convince him to stay home, if he'd bothered.

Martin can't decide if he's annoyed or grateful, and in the end it's too much effort to feel anything either way. He tries to speak, slips into a coughing fit instead, groans and lies there for a moment.

"John," he tries again, flopping onto his back. "M'awake."

John has finished washing up after his own late breakfast and is nursing his second cup of tea when he hears the coughing jag from the bedroom. He gets to his feet at once, and has made it to the bedroom door by the time Martin pronounces himself awake. He pauses there for a beat, trying to gauge whether Martin sounded annoyed with him or just generally discontent, and tentatively banks on the latter before stepping into the room.

"Seems you needed the lie-in," he says, settling himself on the edge of the bed and reaching over to brush his fingers through Martin's hair. He lets the back of his palm linger on Martin's forehead for an assessing beat. Warmer than usual. John tsks softly, his fingers drifting down to Martin's cheek. "How are you feeling?"

"Mrmn," Martin replies noncommittally, squinting up at John with mild reproach, though he can't resist leaning into his touch. "Suppose I did."

He doesn't have the inclination or desire to feel truly annoyed over having the decision made for him, he thinks, especially when it was clearly the right decision. John has taken care of him once before under similar conditions; then, he'd had to practically drag Martin home. Now he's better placed to fuss over him, and Martin can't begrudge him that.

"Better now you're here," he says, unable to stop a little smile from touching his lips. He feels awful, truthfully, but he doesn't quite what to say so. It's probably obvious, anyway. He sighs, then pulls away to cough again, an effort that only exhausts him further. "Thanks for letting me sleep," he mumbles, then squints up at John again. "Will have to dock you for insubordination, though."

Martin squints at him in a manner that seems more principle-of-the-thing than genuinely irked, and John struggles to suppress a smile until Martin lets his own show, permission implicitly granted. Even if it is followed by a mild scolding.

"Fair enough," John allows, dropping his hand to Martin's shoulder and giving him a fond little rub with his thumb. "And you're very welcome." He waits a few moments, giving Martin time to rally after his coughing spell, then ventures, "I've made up the couch, if you're up for a little relocation. Or I could just dote on you in here."

Martin considers both offers before deciding he doesn't fancy being stuck in the bedroom all day and pushing himself up with a soft grunt. "I'll take my doting on the couch," he says with a tired but wry smile, and takes John's hand as it's offered, accepting help to pull himself upright. Once on his feet he ends up half-collapsing against John's shoulder. Christ, he got over twelve hours of sleep and he's still so exhausted.

"M'sorry," he says a bit nonsensically; then, with a slight sulk, "I really didn't want to get proper sick."

"Right," John says, pleased by the answer. The practical differences are too small to be worth any serious measuring: the shorter distance from the kitchen and closer proximity to easy entertainment being the most obvious. But he also thinks there might be some psychological benefit to getting out of bed, as opposed to convalescing there all day like a victorian invalid, and he gets to his feet so he can help Martin lever himself upright.

It's a... mostly successful attempt, and John shifts quickly to take some of Martin's weight when he all but collapses against him. "Easy," he murmurs, curling an arm around Martin's back, his other hand braced beneath his arm. Then, sympathetically, "I know, love." Generally speaking, Martin seems rather good at avoiding illnesses, and he knows the failure irks him. Maybe the colds are different, here. It hasn't been much of a concern for John — there's no real sickness for him but Statement withdrawal, these days — but now he wonders if it ought to be. Does not catching bugs inherently mean he can't spread them? Should he be washing his hands more often? Christ.

Well, it's a moot point right now. "Come on, let's get you settled," he says, gently guiding Martin out to the couch. They've amassed a couple of throws between them, and once Martin's seated, John unfolds one of the softer, thicker ones and tucks it around Martin's shoulders. "Are you hungry at all?" he asks, sliding his fingers back into Martin's hair as he straightens. Hopefully Martin can get something down; none of their cold medications should really be taken on an empty stomach.

Martin sighs softly in John's arms, taking what comfort he can in the sympathy, and in being held. He feels miserable, achy and overtired, but at least John's with him, and there's no shyness or restraint about offering comfort like the last time this happened. As silver linings go, that's a pretty significant one.

He lets John guide him to the couch and help him get settled until he's burrowed in a blanket, feeling a little childish and ridiculous, but cozy enough.

He doesn't feel particularly hungry, but he knows he should eat, and he's briefly, pleasantly distracted by the hand in his hair, so he nods before really thinking about his options. "Maybe just some toast for now," he murmurs.

"Toast it is," John replies, gently scrubbing his fingers through Martin's hair once more before heading over to the kitchen. The kettle's already on low, so it doesn't take long to bring it back to a boil, and it times out well enough that he's able to steep some mint tea while the bread toasts. The Bishop initially observes the preparations with interest, but when it becomes clear that none of it involves cat food, he eventually wanders out to the living room to investigate whether Martin might be interested in dispensing some affection.

A few minutes later, John joins them, a plate of buttered toast in one hand and two mugs of tea precariously clutched in the other. He manages to set it all down without any spills, and then settles himself on the couch beside Martin, close enough to provide a shoulder to lean on, if Martin wants. "There we are," he says, rubbing Martin's back with one hand and lifting his tea with the other. "Get that down, and maybe we can try some medicine."

Martin is so tired, his head so full of fog, that for a while he just sits there and stares into the middle distance. A soft meow pulls him out of his haze long enough for him to welcome their cat up onto his lap, and at least petting him requires very little actual focus.

It's just he hates not being able to focus. Feeling like he's having to struggle hard against his own brain to form thoughts or feelings. It leaves everything sort of muffled and muted. Puts him at the mercy of his own recuperation. It's the sort of thing he always works to avoid, lest he be left truly alone with his thoughts and no distraction, no busywork to block out fear or loneliness. He's worked through mild colds in the past, even pushed himself back to work too soon after the whole Riggs incident; the longest break he's ever had was when Prentiss trapped him in his flat, and while convalescing isn't as fraught as that was, it has similar markers. Stuck, sad, empty-headed, useless. The sort of breaches in his own defense that allow the Lonely in; even with John here, the last time he took ill, that less metaphorical fog had found temporary purchase. It has less to do with his company, and more with his mental state.

Thinking about all this is its own kind of trap, and he knows that; fortunately, John returns presently with toast and tea, drawing Martin a little further out of himself. He looks up, blinking as if waking anew, and manages tiny smile and a mumble of thanks as John settles down beside him.

Martin fortifies himself with a little sip of tea, then works on eating the toast, wanting to get through it before it gets cold. Eating isn't particularly pleasant, but he manages it. This chore done, he recovers his tea and leans over gingerly, not wanting to put too much weight on John and also feeling a bit delicate and oversensitive himself. He breathes out slowly, focusing on the tea and on just resting for a few long moments.

"I was so good at not getting sick when I was young," he says. "Mum couldn't really take good care of me and she needed me, so..." He trails off with a sigh. By degrees, he's getting better at being honest and straightforward about his childhood. It's become natural with John, not just because of their mutual trust, but because of how these little truths have turned out to literally sustain him. It's almost habit now to just drop into an anecdote or memory, regardless of how grim a picture it might paint. It still feels a bit wrong, like he's speaking ill of the dead, but he tries to think about it like facts. Not context or circumstances, not enough to render judgment; just the objective truth of his experience.

"I've gotten lax," he says, trying for a joke, and then a rejoinder pops into his head to drain all potential humor out of it: Now that I live with someone who cares about me.

John can probably connect those dots on his own, one way or another, so Martin just huffs softly.

John focuses on his own tea while Martin methodically puts the toast away, noting the lack of any real enthusiasm for the food, but satisfied by the effort. Maybe it's not much, but it should be enough for the purposes of getting some medicine down, and that should help.

When Martin leans against him, he cracks a faint smile. Part of him wants to curl an arm around Martin's shoulders and pull him close, but there's something careful and restrained about the pressure of Martin's arm against his, like he can't quite bring himself to settle properly. There could be any number of reasons for that, of course — John doesn't have an itemized list of his current symptoms and how much relative discomfort they might be causing — so he doesn't presume to up the ante. Instead, he just leans over to press a light kiss against Martin's hair, a fond acknowledgment that he hopes won't exacerbate anything.

And then Martin speaks. They rarely discuss their childhoods at length, and John isn't sure how much of that is down to preference and how much of it is a sensible sort of rationing. But he's heard enough by now to be unsurprised by what Martin says, and he hums softly in lieu of any fresh outrage. It goes without saying that no child should have to become consciously adept at avoiding illness — that caregiving shouldn't have been Martin's youthful priority — not just because it's obvious, but because the reiteration wouldn't change anything. He does echo Martin's little huff, recognizing both the attempted joke and the stinging ricochet: that it shouldn't've taken him until his thirties to catch a fucking break.

"I might take that as a compliment," he replies, reaching over to gently brush the back of his palm against Martin's, a light touch that he hopes won't aggravate any sensitivities (or require Martin to let go his mug of tea). With a dry sort of flair, as if quoting a film poster, he adds, "Jonathan Sims: implicitly adequate caregiver. Who would've guessed?" It's a little self-deprecating, but intentionally so; he doesn't mind making a silly target of himself if it serves as a distraction.

Martin chuckles quietly, tired and fond in equal measure, too much of each to leave room for any tutting over John's self-deprecation. It's light and harmless, and the more important piece of it is how grateful Martin really is to him. It doesn't matter how empty of care his childhood was; what he has now is good, and it would be good regardless of how it compares to things past.

"Far better than adequate," he says, giving John a very slight nudge through the layer of blanket cushioned between them. He lifts the tea to drink more, then sits quietly for a while, wondering if he might just doze off like this. But he's too uncomfortable for rest to be much of an option. It isn't long before an involuntary shiver unsettles him and he nearly spills the tea. He sits up with a weary groan, the aches in his joints and oversensitivity of his skin becoming rapidly too apparent.

"Christ," he mumbles, and sets the tea on the table with a low grunt of effort. He stays hunched over, burying his face in one hand, part resignation and part exhaustion. "Think I have a fever."

Things lapse into a companionable silence, both of them drinking their tea, John considering when to start nudging Martin into taking something properly medicinal as opposed to just comforting. In the end, Martin decides it for him: shivering visibly despite the blanket and nearly upsetting his drink, and then dropping his head into his hands and making a miserable self-diagnosis.

John tsks quietly, rubbing Martin's back through the blanket. "You should take something," he says, setting down his own cup and giving Martin his full attention. "And then..." he frowns, considering. Beyond medicine, he isn't certain what would be of most use — not to the point of trying to nudge him in any particular direction, anyway. "What would help?" he asks instead, his tone gentle.

"Mrhm," he grunts, but nods at the suggestion of medicine. He's never thrilled at the idea of cough syrup — nobody is, really — but he knows it'll help. The question of what would help is both more tantalizing and more difficult to resolve. He wants... something, something more than just medicine, but he's not sure what. Comfort, of some sort, which is hard to find when his entire body aches and he feels too hot and too cold at the same time.

He thinks back to the last time, remembering how John read to him. It's a fond memory, even if he's too tired and miserable to smile about it now. That might be nice to pick up again. But for that he'd have to feel content with lying here, and while he has little energy for anything else, it doesn't feel very appealing.

He waits until John has gotten the medicine and he's taken it, waits a little longer until the awful taste isn't the only thing he can think about. At last he shrugs wearily. "Dunno," he says. "I wish..."

He breaks off to bury a sneeze in his elbow. The force it seems to take everything out of him, and he hunches over with an exhausted groan. Christ, he feels disgusting. "I wish I could just take a hot shower," he admits. The steam would help with his sinuses, and feeling clean would probably improve his mood a little, but he can't imagine standing up for that long, and his skin feels too sensitive for water to be pounding on it. "Could have a bath, I guess? Just..." He sighs. "Feels like so much effort."

"Bless you," John murmurs, wincing faintly in response to the sneeze — both the strength of it, and how it seems to wipe Martin out more than he had been already. In light of his evident exhaustion, John can understand why a shower might be a bit much. Frankly, it's hard to imagine Martin staying on his feet for the amount of time it would take for a shower to do him much good.

But a bath is simple enough, and John lifts an eyebrow at the suggestion of it being so much effort. "I could draw you a bath easily enough," he offers. It wouldn't be anything fancy, of course. Neither of them are in the habit of taking anything but showers, so it's not as if they have bubble bath or anything else like that to hand. But the steam would probably be good for Martin's sinuses, and he could sit down, and he wouldn't have to worry about pressurized water on his skin, which seems to be more sensitive than usual. "It wouldn't be any trouble."

Martin hums softly, considering the offer without removing his gaze from the middle distance. Much as it seems sort of inherently silly to have John draw him a bath, that would certainly help. But the effort involved extends beyond that; even the idea of hauling himself in and out of the bath, drying himself off, even doing anything but just sitting in the water... it all feels like a lot right now.

But to say so would feel hopelessly pathetic, so in the end he nods and murmurs, "Yeah, I suppose it wouldn't. That... that'd be nice." At least he'll have time to sit here and psych himself up while the tub fills.

"Right," John says, setting down his tea and leveraging himself to his feet. "You sit tight, and I'll just be a few minutes." He gives Martin's hair a fond little brush with his fingers, then heads for the bathroom to get things situated.

The pleasure of having some clear direction is enough to offset the slight awkwardness of realizing he hasn't drawn a bath for anyone, himself included, in literal years. Well, it's not like it's difficult: he starts the water running, then moves the curtain out of the way and relocates their shampoo bottles to the floor, so Martin won't have to consciously avoid knocking them into the tub. He spends a minute fussing with the water temperature until he deems it satisfactory — just a little on this side of 'too hot,' as he imagines it'll have time to cool before Martin's able to get situated — then plugs the drain and lets the tub start to fill.

Watching it the whole time feels about on par with watching a kettle boil, so John returns to the living room, where Martin is still sat on the couch. "Your bath awaits," he says with a playful flourish, offering Martin a hand up.

Even as tired as he is, Martin can't help but smile sheepishly when John returns, offering him a hand up in such a playfully formal manner. Moving slowly but steadily, he shrugs off the blanket and takes John's hand, levering himself up with a soft grunt.

"Okay," he murmurs, just standing there a moment and getting used to being upright. He hesitates, not letting go of John's hand, but not quite willing to just pull him along. He feels more clingy than usual, and it isn't until he's presented with the prospect of going to be by himself for a while that he realizes part of the 'effort' involved here is just that: being alone.

John would certainly understand that, but he still doesn't quite feel prepared to... what, ask him to join? Sit outside and talk through the door?

Maybe he's being childish thinking of it like that. He's sure he is. But he isn't sure how to address it now, in the moment, with no preparation.

So he just stands there, still holding onto John's hand, looking somewhat vacantly toward the bathroom where the water will surely need to be shut off soon. "Okay," he says again, with a little less conviction.

Martin takes his hand and then keeps it past the point of strict necessity, looking towards the bathroom more than at it. John's first thought is that he's gone a bit light-headed, but Martin doesn't waver or slump or seem to require any physical support. He just looks... well, exhausted. And John knows how it feels to be so bone-tired that even bathing seems an almost insurmountable effort.

Christ, he wasn't far from this very spot when he'd sat, covered in his own gore, and faced the same bathroom as if it had been reinstalled atop Mount Everest. The only reason he'd managed to clean himself at the time was because the alternative was too mortifying to imagine. But Martin had still helped, to the extent that their collective Englishness allowed, and John certainly isn't averse to returning the favor with interest.

Presuming Martin is still interested in a bath at all, of course. John runs his thumb over Martin's knuckles and tips his head towards the bathroom. "Change your mind?" he asks, his tone light and neutral.

Martin huffs softly and shakes his head before looking up at John, trying to steel himself for a question that seems like it should not feel as difficult or untoward as it nonetheless does.

"C-could you come with me?" he says. "And... keep me company, I mean." He looks away before he's even finished speaking, his face now flushed beyond any feverish reasons. "I mean, just—whatever feels okay, I guess," he says, a bit nonsensically.

John blinks, and then his expression softens. He'd anticipated Martin needing some assistance; knowing he just wants company is an endearing surprise. Maybe it shouldn't be — 'miserable' and 'lonely' do tend to rub shoulders, and the last time Martin was ill, the fog had crept in the moment John's back was turned. But even without that nascent risk, John wouldn't have been opposed to the idea.

"Of course," he replies, giving Martin's hand a light squeeze and then drawing him towards the bathroom.

The tub isn't too full, but John has the belated realization that Martin will displace more water than he did as a child, and gives the water level an assessing frown before reaching over to turn off the tap.

"Right," he murmurs, turning back to Martin in the ensuing silence. "Do you want me to...?" He trails off, not awkward so much as uncertain. Of all the intimacies they've shared, full nudity has never been one of them. There's no reason to fuss over it, as far as John is concerned, and perhaps it would be silly to... what, avert his eyes? But it's Martin's comfort that matters most, given the situation, so he adjusts: "What would you like?"

It helps that John softens so immediately, the gentle, reassuring quality of his voice and the squeeze of his hand telling Martin at once that he needn't have worried. John guides him into the bathroom and turns off the tap, and then comes the question whose answer Martin still doesn't know. He shifts his weight and fidgets a bit, not quite managing a shrug. If John's asking, it likely means he doesn't have a particular preference or hangup himself, which would only make too much sense. Very often, Martin has found his expectations of John's boundaries or discomfort to be mere projections of his own. But that hasn't always made it easier to push past them, or to deduce which ones are worth keeping and which are simply the results of long-borne shame.

Finally, he draws a breath and lets it out as if excising all his latent anxieties at once. He is tired and overheated and his bloody skin aches; he wants to get in the bath and have done with it.

"I-it's okay," he says, and lifts his eyes to meet John's. "I don't mind you seeing me."

And there isn't anything special about it, anyway. It's not like he's stripping, or... or there's any expectations. It's not as if John is going to be weird about his body; John has already proven time and time again that such judgments elude and anger him. Martin has gotten used to being touched and seen in casual states of partial undress; this is just going a little further. They're adults; they're partners. He wants company, and that's the end of it.

So, feeling a little emboldened, he starts to raise up his shirt, and almost instantly gets stuck, sucking in a little breath of discomfort over his sore joints and over-sensitive skin. He winces and looks at John. "Erm," he says, "actually, could you help me with this?"

John gives a slight, subtle nod to Martin's answer. The novelty of all this is more incidental than monumental, he thinks — something that hasn't happened because there was never a reason for it, not because they'd been consciously avoiding it. But it's still new, and he wouldn't have begrudged Martin a different response. More to the point, it's always touching when Martin allows or encourages him to look at him, even in the lower-case sense of the word. It feels like an extension of trust, one that John is determined not to break.

He shuffles back half a pace as Martin starts to lift his shirt, wanting to give him room to maneuver, but stills when he sees Martin flinch. "Oh," John says, realizing the problem and huffing out a soft, disapproving breath, as if Martin's shirt has just made some sort of appalling faux pas. "Yes, I — well, let's see..." He steps back in, carefully taking the bottom hem in his hands. Fortunately, it's a sleep shirt, looser than what Martin would wear outside the flat, and it forgives the bit of stretching required to pull the back of it up and over Martin's head so he needn't lift his arms. "There we go," he murmurs, drawing the garment down until Martin's free of it and setting it aside. He touches Martin's shoulder, just a light brush of his fingers. "Okay?"

It isn't unusual for John to take such care with him, even with such a small gesture, and maybe it's partly due to his current vulnerability, but Martin feels such a wave of gratitude as John gently helps him out of his shirt that he fears for a moment he's in danger of bursting into tears. Fortunately it's a short-lived sensation; he's far too tired for such emotion, and he has no desire to give John any cause to worry. He just sighs with relief and murmurs his thanks before shucking off the rest of his pajamas as quickly as possible.

Quick so he won't have time to think about it. Even already committed to this and too tired to overthink it, embarrassment still runs through him as he steps gingerly into the tub. It has been years since he was actually naked in front of anyone, in any context, and even as far as he and John have come, he's nowhere near comfortable enough with himself that he can treat it with any nonchalance. It's only illness that keeps him on track: too tired to freeze up, too tired to rush himself. He eases himself into the water with only a slight hitch of breath as he acclimates to the temperature; then he shuts his eyes and breathes out slowly.

At least he doesn't feel too terribly exposed. Natural anxieties aside, it's not a bad feeling to let John see him. The insecurity is his own. John only makes him feel safe.

So, eventually, he opens his eyes again and looks back at John, managing the faintest of smiles.

It doesn't take Martin long to rid himself of the rest of his clothes, and John watches him step into the tub, ready to offer a hand if Martin needs steadying (or if he gauged the temperature wrong, and Martin wants to make a quick exit). But it seems such assistance isn't required, and Martin lowers himself into the water with a sigh that could easily pass for 'relieved.'

For a moment, John isn't sure what to do with himself. Standing feels absurd, and the only chair-adjacent object in the room is the toilet, which feels a little undignified, even with the lid down. The floor probably isn't much better, at least as far as dignity is concerned, but it feels more companionable, if only because it would put John more on Martin's level. So, after that beat of consideration, he sits down on the bath mat, facing Martin, legs loosely folded with one knee pitched up against the outer wall of the tub. It's a little awkward, sure, but nothing he can't weather for the duration of a bath.

"Comfortable?" he asks, returning Martin's faint smile.

"Mmhm," Martin answers softly, letting his shoulders slump and his eyes fall shut for a moment. The water and heat are certainly treating him nicer than anything else has so far; and it's comforting to have John with him, too. But as he looks at John again, at his slightly awkward positioning against the tub, a little spike of guilt rises up and he says, "S-sorry to make you, er..."

He trails off with an embarrassed shrug. John will surely dismiss his concerns, such that it almost feels pointless to have aired them at all, but it's too late now. He hates being a bother, and it's still difficult not to see this as somehow burdensome. Apology is an impulse he can't quite shake, not even with John smiling at him like that.