Reprise

[statement_ends]

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.

Comments

[loficharm]

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.

[statement_ends]

"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.

[loficharm]

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.

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

"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."

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

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."

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

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.

[statement_ends]

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?"

[loficharm]

"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."

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

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.