statement_ends | Reprise

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martin blackwood

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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Admittedly, John knew what he was doing when he rolled up his sleeves (besides making an obvious concession to the task at hand). He's well aware that it's a look Martin enjoys. The nuzzle is still a slight surprise, though: enough to startle a quiet chuckle out of him. Between the full cup of water in one hand and the need to support Martin's head with the other, his options for recourse are a bit limited, but he does manage to curl his fingertips in Martin's hair, his gaze warm and irrepressibly fond.

And then Martin tips his head back and shuts his eyes, and John breathes an, "Okay," before he carefully starts to pour. For a few moments, his half-teasing comments about decadence are entirely forgotten. Perhaps it's because there is nothing feigned or performative about Martin's vulnerability, and the thought of treating it playfully — even just for the sake of allaying any nerves or embarrassment — is secondary to the thought of treating it with the care it deserves. So he remains quiet and focused as he wets Martin's hair, methodically refilling the cup two or three times, shifting his supporting hand a little to make sure it's a thorough job. Then he eases Martin back upright, brushing back a few stray locks of hair before they can start dripping in his eyes.

"All right so far?" he asks, setting the cup aside and reaching for the shampoo.

John is always so incredibly gentle with him, and sometimes Martin almost wants to stop him, wants to promise him that it's okay, he's not going to break and there is nothing to make up for, nothing to prove. That's an old, ignorable impulse that belongs to a life and context that now feels distant and unimportant. It's not about proof or atonement or equilibrium. The fraught lives they led, where circumstance had edged out any opportunity to talk with true honesty, are gone now. Now, John is washing is hair, treating him with a care that is appropriate for the situation, given freely, and desired by them both.

Martin is too tired to really dwell on any of this, all of it flitting by in the back of his mind, the unimportant flotsam of fading associations and insecurities. Warm water flows over his hair, over John's supporting hand, and it's as divine a sensation as he can imagine. John takes his time with it, thorough and methodical in this as in anything, and when he finally nudges Martin to straighten a little and asks after him, Martin feels like he's waking from a particularly lovely dream.

"Mhm," he answers automatically, blinking out of his haze and peering at John with a shy smile. "Feels really nice."

"Good," John replies, his smile small and bashfully lopsided. He squeezes a bit of shampoo onto his palm and then rubs his hands together for a moment before he begins working the shampoo into Martin's hair. It's odd, at first, both the angle of approach and the desire to be extra gentle making it rather unlike washing his own hair (something he generally accomplishes in a few brisk minutes, without giving it a moment's conscious thought). But odd isn't the same as awkward; it's not as if he's a stranger to mucking about with Martin's hair. It's just that the purpose has never been quite so practical, before.

He ends up working up an impressive lather, wanting to be thorough but also increasingly enjoying the sensation of scrubbing little circles against Martin's warm scalp. "Might have enough material up here to do a little bubble-sculpting, if you're interested," he remarks, drawing one hand back so he can show Martin his suds-covered fingers. "Could give you a great big Santa beard."

John's sweet, crooked little smile is the last thing Martin sees before he lets his eyes fall shut, and he smiles himself, continuing to think of that expression like a particularly pleasant afterimage. Then John gets to work, and Martin sighs softly once before falling into an utterly contented silence. John takes his time, as thorough as he is gentle, and it's about the most perfect feeling Martin can imagine, the soft scrub of his fingertips, the luxuriant care of the task. Christ, it's exquisite. Perhaps it goes without saying that no one's ever pampered him like this, but it's not even the novelty that strikes him. It's how unsurprising it really is. Over time, as they relax deeper and deeper into the shape of their life together, this sort of thing has just started to feel natural. Like something John would do.

When John pauses and makes his wry remark, drawing a hand away, Martin is slow to look. John's done a good job keeping any suds from his eyes, but it still goes against instinct to open his eyes mid-wash, and when he finally does blink them open it's a bit tentative.

The sight of all those suds, and the follow-up comment, startles another giggle out of him, and he dips his head down sheepishly.

"Mmm," he says, making a show of consideration, as facetious as he can manage while this worn out. He lifts a hand to rub at his slightly fuzzy chin — he often has a bit of scruff showing, but he prefers to keep clean-shaven where possible. He's not really capable of growing a properly full beard, so much the better as far as he's concerned. "Dunno if I'm feeling that adventurous," he concludes with a wry smile. "Dunno if you want to see me with a beard, either. It'd be like... a crime against nature, or... something."

His witty retort game is already on rather shaky ground compared to John, and now he's even more prone to just babbling nonsense than usual. He laughs, soft and sheepish. "Honestly, I've seen pictures of my granddad and I think I lucked out not getting those genes. I'd have looked an awful mess."

Edited 2021-07-14 18:21 (UTC)

John snorts out a faint laugh at crime against nature. Granted, he thinks he'd prefer Martin clean-shaven even if the alternative was more viable than it seems to be (it's less abrasive, for starters), but the hyperbole is dramatic enough that he's inclined to poke at it.

"I dunno," he muses, curling a soapy finger beneath Martin's chin and pretending to scrutinize him. "Might lend you an air of authority. Then you could really clamp down at the Archive. Remind us all who's in charge." He draws his hand back, smile widening. "Of course, we could probably engineer a similar impact by, oh... buying you a top hat, or something."

John looks back at the pile of suds atop Martin's head, and then bites back a guffaw as a ridiculous idea suddenly strikes him. "Here, I'll prove it," he says, lifting his hands to tease the amorphous blob into something vaguely hat-shaped. There really isn't enough for anything close to a proportional top hat, is the only problem, and he shortly amends, "Well, this might end up being more of a fascinator. But the point remains."

Edited 2021-07-15 03:16 (UTC)

Martin startles slightly at the touch to his chin, sitting up a little straighter at the facetious scrutiny that follows. No matter the absurdity of the circumstances, however silly John's intentions or however sick and tired he feels, he can't help but feel a little thrill over that sort of proprietary attention. It's ridiculous, and he could easily lose himself in blushing embarrassment if John wasn't so quick to follow up with even further nonsense, busily sculpting a hat out of shampoo suds. Embarrassment forgotten, Martin starts giggling again, turning into a full bout of laughter at the idea of going into work wearing a fascinator, made of bubbles or otherwise.

"All I need now is a monocle," he says before a cough finally gets the better of him, and he slumps again, tired but still smiling. "I'll be the talk of the town, or... something."

He looks up a John, his smile growing softer and fonder before he shuts his eyes again. He means to say something about how they've had their fun and he could probably do with a rinse now, but he ends up just letting out a contented little hum.

Edited 2021-07-16 21:08 (UTC)

"Could start a hat-based cold war with Harriet," John muses, grinning as something hat-adjacent takes shape. The suds aren't terribly cooperative, but it's not as if the end result really matters. "She may have you beat in terms of sheer numbers, but you're already familiar with what she's working with, and you'd have the element of surprise. I think you could give her a run for her money."

He leans back to admire his handiwork, more than a little tempted to run and get his phone so he can take a picture, if Martin would allow it. But he also doesn't want to step away, even for such a worthy cause, so he just lingers long enough to cement the image in his mind before reaching back up to scrub the wonky little soap sculpture back into Martin's hair. Then he resettles his hand at the back of Martin's head, and dips the cup back into the bath to fill it.

"Right, let's get you sorted," he murmurs, waiting for Martin to tip his head back before he starts to rinse the shampoo away.

Martin giggles again, feeble and weary but genuinely charmed, imagining the look on their odd recurring patron's face if he came in with a, with a top hat or something. This is all very silly. He wishes he could match the silliness, but right now he hasn't got the focus for it. Instead, it is a gentle relief when John turns back to the task at hand, and Martin lets out a happy sigh as he relaxes and tips his head back, letting John pour water over him and wash the suds away.

It feels so good. Martin blinks his eyes open, squinting up at John, and he smiles, soft and warm and hopelessly fond.

John takes his time rinsing Martin's hair, both for the sake of being thorough and just because it's nice: the methodical dip and pour of the cup, the gentle curl of his fingers through Martin's hair, the gradual dispersal of the suds as he works.

He probably ends up continuing on a little longer than he has to, though it's not hard to justify; the cup method is more pleasant than efficient, and he doesn't want that first scrub with the towel to end up working up a lather that has to be dealt with. But the real reason might just be the way Martin smiles up at him, content in a way his illness would've otherwise discouraged. How can he be in a hurry to wrap things up?

Of course, there's only so much rinsing he can do before it becomes ludicrous, and he eventually concludes that the job is done and sets the cup back on the rim of the tub. "There you are," he says, smoothing back Martin's hair so it won't drip into his eyes. He should probably ask if Martin's ready to pack it in — the bathwater won't stay warm forever — but he looks so happy that John instead finds himself asking, "Is there anything else I can do?" He doesn't think Martin typically bothers with conditioner, and he isn't sure he'll have the wherewithal for a proper wash (or the inclination to let John assist to that extent). But he can't quite bring himself to suggest breaking the cozy little spell they're under, not just yet.

"Mmm..." Martin draws the hum out playfully, giving the question a proper consideration. He is tempted to ask for more, simply because it feels nice, but he also doesn't want to drag this out to the point of absurdity, and the water is already approaching room temperature. He's not looking forward to getting out — to the aches starting to seep back into his bones, the sick feeling to return to the fore — but it'll have to happen either way. Better to end a good thing while it's still good, he thinks.

He ends up just shaking his head with a little murmured "Mh-mm," then amends, "Just the towel, I think."

Before John can get up, Martin catches him, one hand over his forearm. "John," he says softly, looking up into his eyes. "Thank you."

Martin does think about it for a few moments, which reassures John that whatever he chooses, it's unlikely to be prompted by any lingering embarrassment, or by concerns that he's encroaching on the limits of how far John is willing to indulge him. So when he decides to pack it in, John just nods, starting to pivot towards the towel rack until Martin arrests him with a hand on his arm, and quietly thanks him.

"Of course," John murmurs, reaching over with his other hand to brush his fingers over Martin's cheek. "Anytime." His smile widens as he gets to his feet, adding, "You wouldn't even have to be ill, honestly." It may be why John offered to help — and why Martin was inclined to accept instead of demurring — but enjoying the excuse to dote on him isn't the same as needing the excuse.

John fetches Martin's towel, then offers him a hand up.

Martin raises an eyebrow, surprised and intrigued by that last remark. He would never have thought of this as something he wanted outside these circumstances — the idea would have been prohibitively mortifying had he not been so exhausted and pitiful. And it had been wonderful, but he still hadn't expected it was going to become a standing offer.

But that's... It's really nice, he thinks. He smiles to himself, sheepish and warm, as he turns it over in his mind. He's still smiling as he takes John's hand, grunting softly as he picks himself up, wrapping himself in his towel. He's a little shaky, and moving even slower than before, contentment on top of illness.

"Yeah," he says belatedly, and peeks up at John before moving to gingerly dry his hair. He's so lucky to have this, to have John, to have the time and energy between them to find things like this. An ever-increasing wealth of ways in which to share space, to care for each other. Right now, sleepy and warm and clumsy, he feels nearly overcome with it. "Th-that'd be really nice."

John stays close for a minute, wanting to make sure Martin's steady on his feet before he steps away. But once Martin reemerges from toweling off his hair, John sneaks a quick little kiss to his forehead, murmuring a low, "Don't go anywhere," before retreating to the bedroom. He fetches some pants and loose joggers — much like what Martin had been wearing before, but clean, at least — and then, on impulse, grabs his own bathrobe off its hook. Martin isn't really in the habit of borrowing it, running warmer than John ever does, but he has turned to it for its combined powers of comfort and self-indulgence once or twice before, and now seems as good a time for that as any.

John returns to the bathroom, setting Martin's clothes on the counter and then holding out the bathrobe in much the same way as he might help Martin don his coat. "I think the situation calls for it," he says.

Martin stays put as instructed, pulling the towel close around himself and tucking his chin down to hide the warmth of his smile and accompanying blush. He waits, not so much patient as too dazed and tired to think much of anything, so that he's almost startled when John returns.

He blinks at the robe in John's hands before his grin returns, equal parts sheepish and delighted. "Mkay," he murmurs, and gives himself a final sluggish toweling off before reaching for the clothes John brought. "I s'pose it does."

He dresses himself as quickly as he can under the circumstances, which is not saying much, before turning and allowing John to help him into the bathrobe. It's warm and soft and a little too long for him, and he lets out a shy giggle as he all but burrows into it. It's so nice. This, all of this, has been so nice — far nicer than the circumstances seemed to allow. He lifts his hands, obscured by the overlong sleeves, then wraps them around John, pulling himself close for a hug. All but melting against him.

"G'night," he announces.

It seems that grabbing the bathrobe was a good impulse, and John grins as Martin snuggles himself into it. He has a few moments to just enjoy the view — the too-long sleeves are a particularly endearing detail — before Martin pulls him close, and he returns the embrace with a low chuckle.

"Time for a nap, then," he says, as much an agreement as a question, before nestling a kiss in the tousled mess of Martin's hair. "Bed, or couch?"

"Mmmmbed," he mumbles, muffled against John's chest. He only just came from there, but at this level of decadence, the couch just seems silly. "And maybe..."

He almost catches himself, a little embarrassment seeping through the cracks in the coziness, but he stifles them stubbornly. "Maybe you could read more," he suggests in a sheepish little voice. "If you wouldn't mind."

John grins outright at the request. "I think we could manage that."

Martin hasn't requested anything specific, but as far as book choices go, the answer seems rather obvious. John hasn't actually picked up Watership Down since the last time Martin was ill — not because he wasn't curious to know what happened next, but because carrying on without Martin's involvement hadn't... well, it hadn't felt right, or held much appeal. He probably could have suggested they continue the read-along for no other reason than the enjoyment of it, but it never felt important enough to outweigh the embarrassment of making such a belated request in the first place.

But now, with Martin both making the suggestion and providing such an excellent excuse, it's easy to just look forward to it. "Let's get you settled," he says, keeping an arm curled around him for both comfort and support as he guides him back into the bedroom. Once Martin's comfortably situated on the bed, John doubles back to the living room, where he plucks Watership Down off the shelf. Then he returns to Martin's side, settling himself in bed and then lifting his arm in invitation. "Come on, then," he coaxes with a warm, easy smile.

Martin grins and curls up close under John's arm, letting his head settle upon his chest. Symptoms are creeping back in and he's already starting to feel a bit sniffly again, but there is still overwhelming warmth and comfort and contentment surrounding him, leaving him happy and relaxed.

John starts to read, and Martin starts to drift along with the pleasant rumble of his deep voice. He doubts he'll be able to keep awake for long, but there won't be any nightmares this time.

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