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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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.

John's smile widens as Martin visibly relaxes: looking, for a moment, like he's actually enjoying himself. But when he opens his eyes and takes in John's current configuration, a flicker of doubt crosses his features, and he starts in on a vague apology.

John shrugs in turn, a full-body gesture employing both knees and shoulders. He isn't that uncomfortable on the floor, and if he was, it'd be an easy fix. More to the point, there's really no better option. And he rather likes being down here, as near to sharing the experience as comfort and practicality allow.

"Would it be more dignified if I sat on the loo?" he asks, attempting a straight face and not quite managing it.

Martin laughs, surprising himself with it, and mercifully the steam helps mitigate any resultant cough. He nods, acknowledging the point, still grinning a bit as he lets his eyes fall shut and returns to his more comfortable slump. It is nice, being here, having John with him. Even if he still can't quite figure out what to do with himself.

He should probably actually do the bathing part of the bath, for starters.

He opens his eyes and looks at their modest collection of soap, shampoo, and conditioner, all contained at the far end of the tub, easy to reach in the shower, but now?

Water sloshes noisily off his arm as he makes a cursory grab, but without much energy to actually lean forward, he misses the mark by a wide margin.

"God, I hate being so tired," he mumbles. He would feel embarrassed for needing help with something so small, but at this point that ship has pretty well sailed, which is some sort of victory at least. "Could you pass me the... one of those?" he says with a weak gesture.

That might be the first proper laugh John's coaxed out of Martin since he woke up, and John grins outright, propping his elbow on the tub and his chin in his hand. Seems the bath is already doing some good.

He isn't quite sure how much Martin intends to get clean and how much he just wants to soak and enjoy the steam, but it isn't long before Martin opens his eyes and makes a rather ineffectual batting motion in the general direction of the shampoo. John sits up a bit straighter, tsking in sympathy, then twists round to fetch the bottle.

He's halfway to passing it over when he hesitates, considering both Martin's stated exhaustion and the evident listlessness pervading his every movement. "Would you like some help?" he asks carefully, setting the shampoo down within easier reach. Canting his head toward the now accessible bottle, he adds, "Besides just this, I mean."

Gratitude slips out in a soft murmur as Martin reaches for the bottle, but he stops when the real meaning of John's question settles in, blinking at him for a moment.

"Oh," he says, too tired to be properly embarrassed at the idea. "Y-you mean—?"

Well, there aren't many ways to interpret it. John's offering to help him; to wash his hair. And actually, it sounds lovely. Not so different from what they already do, constantly carding their fingers through one another's hair. And John's offered.

"Yes, I..." He smiles, sheepish, ducking his head down. "Yeah, that'd be nice."

John hadn't presumed that Martin would agree — it seemed about as likely that he might prefer to win at least one small victory against his own exhaustion — and he brightens when Martin goes along with it. Granted, he's never washed someone else's hair before, but it's not like it's complicated. The hardest part will probably just be keeping himself perched on the edge of the tub, as that would seem to offer the best angle of approach (if not the most comfortable seating).

He starts to rise, and then realizes that rinsing is going to be an issue, too. Their shower-head isn't the maneuverable sort, and he doesn't want to ask Martin to stand up. But they must have a cup big enough for the job. Probably gentler than the shower-head's water pressure, too. "Hang on," he says, levering himself the rest of the way up, "I'll be right back."

It only takes a little rummaging in the kitchen to find a large, plastic tumbler, and he returns to the bathroom with the new prize in hand. "This should help," he says, giving it an illustrative waggle before setting it on the sink. He then rolls up his shirtsleeves, arching an eyebrow down at Martin. "Hope you're ready to be spoiled to within an inch of your life," he says with a wry, teasing smile. "This'll be downright decadent."

John actually seems glad when Martin agrees, which has him smiling all the deeper, still sheepish, still ducking his head. He only looks up when John tells him to wait, and he does, a bit mystified but mostly feeling a sort of empty-headed anticipation, until John returns with a large cup.

Martin grins and blushes at the promise of spoiling and decadence, feeling a bit foolish but unable to deny the draw of it all.

"Oh?" he says, as coy as he can manage under the circumstances. There's no real challenge to be leveled here, not even for play: John already treats him better than anyone ever has, and this is already a level of... if not decadence, care greater than he's ever received. But it doesn't matter. Challenging isn't the point. Playing along is. He shifts his position a little, the water lapping around him, and he says agreeably, "Let's have it, then."

It's hardly a thrown gauntlet; more of an easy agreement, which John likes even better. Martin might not be bursting with energy, but he has enough to play along. And there's something particularly charming about the implication that such care is simply his due — not because the idea is novel, but because Martin's comfort with it is. John's willingness to indulge him hasn't always been met with the idea that such indulgence is deserved.

"Right," John replies, moving the shampoo bottle aside and perching on the edge of the tub, cup in hand. "You asked for it." His smile softens, and he brushes his fingers through Martin's hair for a few moments before sliding his hand around to cradle the back of Martin's head. "Here, tip your head back a bit," he coaxes, leaning over a little to fill the cup with bathwater. No need to kick things off by letting Martin's hair drip directly into his face.

It is surprisingly easy to simply surrender to the idea of decadence; to accept — to embrace it, tipping his head back at once as directed, leaning into the supportive cradle of John's palm. Martin's eyes nearly flutter shut, but first he catches sight of John's bared forearms, and he allows himself a little grin. He'd noted John rolling up his sleeves without properly noticing it, a testament to how fuzzy he's feeling, to say nothing of how shy. It's a practical measure more than anything else, but John knows him well, knows how much Martin likes this look on him. Without much thought behind it, Martin allows himself another indulgence, pausing to nuzzle against John's arm, the skin soft and warm and slightly mottled, in places.

This is so indulgent it's nothing short of a miracle he's not drowning in embarrassment over it all. Too sick, too desperate for comfort. But it's more than that — it's how easily John offered this, how he smiled when Martin agreed, and how much care he puts into it now. John cares about him; John loves him, and he likes to show it, and Martin thinks he's getting better at just letting himself be shown. Letting himself be loved.

So again he tips his head back, meets John's gaze briefly, then finally lets his eyes fall shut with a subtle nod to show he's ready.

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 Date: 2021-07-14 06:21 pm (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 Date: 2021-07-15 03:16 am (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 Date: 2021-07-16 09:08 pm (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.