statement_ends | (no subject)

John sprawls on the couch, his eyes tracing the cracks and irregularities that comprise the ceiling's subtle topography, and wonders if staying in his own flat was a mistake.

It's true that Martin hadn't asked him to leave, though John doesn't dare presume that a desire for company weighed heavier than simple manners. Refusing to put him out of his own home, harboring a ridiculous compulsion to be a good guest: these are more likely motivations than wanting John around. It is easy, despite the familiarity of his surroundings and any awkward or stubborn reassurances Martin might offer, to feel like he is trespassing. Not on Martin's space, perhaps (if you want to get technical), but certainly on his privacy.

Because Martin still has nightmares.

It might be more accurate to say that he's started having nightmares, though John really doesn't know. He doesn't know (and refuses to Know) how frequent bad dreams were before Prentiss, at any rate. But if they were rare things preceding the incident, they've been set off in spectacular fashion by the incident. Less thematically varied than his Martin's nightmares, from what he can tell, but far more frequent.

And he is far less equipped to do anything about it. The first night, when he heard Martin wake (or when The Bishop stalked out of the bedroom in feline displeasure), he did nothing, paranoid that any acknowledgment would be embarrassing or unwelcome. But simply enduring it was more difficult than he ever would have anticipated, and now, their second full night together, it's starting to rub him raw. Faint, miserable noises have been emanating from the bedroom for several minutes, and he can no longer convince himself that ignoring it some sort of mercy.

Fuck.

John rises from the couch and pads softly down the hall, pausing at the bedroom door. It's already open a cat's width, more than enough for John to clearly hear the rustling of the bedsheets and another awful little whimper, and he breathes a defeated 'shit' before pushing the door open and stepping inside. He navigates the dark room easily, making his way to his side of the bed and flicking on the lamp. Then he perches on the edge of the mattress, as if he doesn't dare to take more than an inch or two of real estate, and contemplates a brush of his fingers against Martin's shoulder. Contemplates, but doesn't dare.

"Martin," he tries, soft and uncertain. "Martin, wake up."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

John's voice jolts him into consciousness while the sensation of things crawling down his throat is still very much forefront in his addled awareness, and he nearly chokes on his own spit as he screams himself awake. He lurches back, startled by the proximity more than anything, staring at John with wide, terrified eyes for a fraction of a second before he curls over on himself, coughing, trying not to retch.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers, scrubbing at the tears in his eyes with no hope of stopping them. "I, I'm sorry, I— Did I wake you?" He draws in a shaky breath, struggling to get himself together. It's a losing fight. He's trembling all over, and it's all he can do to keep from sobbing. He hates this, taking John's room even at John's own insistence, now waking him up because of a bloody nightmare. What is he, a child? "I'll... I'll be okay in a minute," he mumbles, utterly unconvincing but not sure what else to say.

Martin's reaction to just his voice is dramatic enough that he is relieved, at first, that he didn't presume to actually touch him. He still lifts a placating hand when Martin looks up at him with terrified incomprehension, murmuring, "Easy, it's just me." He's not even sure if Martin hears him; most of the words end up buried beneath a series of hacking coughs, and John winces, wishing he'd thought to grab a glass of water before he came in, but unable to tear himself away to go fetch one now.

"You didn't wake me. I was already up," he says, frowning down at Martin as he struggles to pull himself together. He doesn't appear to be having much success. Perhaps more to the point, John isn't accustomed to sitting back and watching him flounder without offering... well, without offering something. Maybe Martin suffered alone on that spare cot in the Institute, but he isn't alone now, and John doesn't think he can bear to treat him like a, like a bloody science experiment he's trying not to corrupt with excess variables. For fuck's sake.

"You don't have to be okay, Martin." John runs an impatient hand through his own hair, then exhales audibly, coming to a decision. "Here," he says, scooting onto the mattress and reaching for Martin's arm, his touch far more tentative than his tone. "Let's get you upright, come on."

Martin doesn't quite flinch as John touches him, but he does jump a little, looking at him with open bewilderment that probably isn't fair. John might well be used to this. Especially considering how much they've been through. But even so, Martin would never presume to expect comfort for this sort of thing. It's all so bloody embarrassing.

Still, he sits up a little straighter, back against the headboard, accepting the light touch even if it feels... not wrong, but weird. Unearned.

"Sorry," he murmurs again, not sure what else to say or what to do. "You don't—you don't have to..."

It's too much effort. He's tired, and he'd rather have the company than not, all things considered. He ends up just sighing heavily, dropping his down into on hand, struggling to push the remnants of his dreams out.

Martin looks a bit startled by the touch — a reaction that might sting more if John hadn't been earning a lot of those looks lately, and if he wasn't getting better at reminding himself that it's not wrong to exceed this Martin's expectations (however embarrassing the state of those expectations might be). And while he can imagine some scenarios in which more familiarity might be a comfort, he doesn't think the old John's approach — probably either 'fleeing the room in a mortified panic' or 'brusquely insisting that Martin pull himself together' — would be of any help here.

He doesn't bother to wave off the apology, or the weak insistence that he needn't trouble himself. Instead, he softly echoes Martin's sigh before starting to speak, slow and cautious. "You still have nightmares, sometimes. I'm, er... not really accustomed to just... leaving you to it. Feels a bit mean." His hand begins a slow circuit of Martin's shoulders, thoughtless and automatic. "Normally we'd sit up for a while. Talk about something else. I-if you wanted to, I mean, I—I really wouldn't mind."

"Oh," Martin says stupidly, nodding without quite looking at John. "Right." Makes sense. Sounds nice. Simple, meaningless phrases that die before he can voice them. He's still waking up, getting his bearings, and that makes for an easier delaying tactic than the weight of his own uncertainty. Not just whether he's allowed to take what John's offering, if it's even worth any kneejerk resistance when he is offering, but... what it means to have it offered.

Knowing that John is kind — that he has patience, gentleness, and care in his heart — it doesn't feel like a surprise, but it does feel like he's cheating, somehow. Skipped to the back of a book and now can't see how even the inevitable end was reached. And it feels like none of this should be for him. It's for some other Martin, who's earned that care, who nurtured it out and was nurtured in response. Something happened between them that he now can't remember, and it makes his heart ache like he's lost something, even when he hasn't. If anything, this is more like gaining something he never knew he could have.

It's too much, and too much to worry about when all that John's offering is a bit of stability after a terrible dream. Not too much to accept, surely. Not something he should deny. Not something he wants to deny.

Christ, when was the last time his mother even comforted him after a nightmare?

"O-okay," he says shakily, after a slightly too-long pause. "Yeah, that... I think that'd be good." He fidgets a little, unable to think of anything to talk about, unable to think of anything that isn't the too-near dream. But John's hand is on his back. Rubbing slowly, warm and comforting, and... and that's something. He shuts his eyes and breathes out slowly, willing himself to see nothing there but unmoving darkness.

John nods, encouraged by Martin's acquiescence until he realizes he has no idea what to actually do with it. What he considers habitual is entirely foreign to Martin, and as he turns over possibilities in his mind, all of them feel either horribly presumptuous or laughably ineffectual. Who is he to offer comfort? And if he can't, then what's the point of him even being here, keeping Martin awake and implicitly bullying him into trying to make himself presentable? Even the simplest of distractions, a fucking conversation, feels daunting, because hell if he knows how to really talk to this Martin, or what to talk about.

And then he realizes that he's already rubbing Martin's back, and oh, Christ, how long has that been happening? He almost draws back, a slight twitch of his fingers betraying the consideration, but the fear that stopping would be more conspicuous than keeping it up stays him, and he doesn't pull away.

He does avert his gaze, though, and awkwardly clears his throat. "Unless you, er... wanted to-to talk about it?" he offers, wincing at himself. "S-sorry, I uh," he sucks in a breath through his teeth, then expels it in a humorless huff, "I guess I... I don't actually know how to do this. Not with— with you."

"I-it's okay," Martin stammers in return, blinking his eyes back open to find John's, and in that moment there's something almost funny about their mutual awkwardness, and he ends up letting out a weak laugh. "I mean, neither do I."

Even the slightest bit of levity makes things a little easier to bear, and he breathes out slowly, his shoulders relaxing some. "It... it's just nice not to be alone," he admits, though his tenuous confidence wanes quickly and he ends up lowering his head to avoid John's gaze again. Some of the terror and revulsion of the dream slips back in through the cracks, and he shivers, pulling his arms around himself. "S-sorry, I..." He shakes his head, knowing he's likely apologized too much already, uncertain what else to say, what he can ask for, what he can suggest. Blushing hot, his voice dropping to a pathetically low murmur, he says, "If you can just... stay with me, if that's okay... just for a little while."

The laugh is encouraging, faint as it may be, and John musters a smile that is only a little uncertain. The waning tension he can feel beneath his passage of his palm is better still. He is helping, even if it isn't as simple and effortless as it would have been a week ago. It's a bit awkward, sure, but they're managing.

His tentative sense of accomplishment fractures beneath the heavy heartbreak of Martin's admission, though, and John looks away, trying to school his expression but not trusting himself to succeed. He hasn't seen the fog touch this Martin once. Privately, he had thought it might qualify as a small mercy: that with everything else Martin had to process, at least he'd be getting a break from that. But he was lonely before Peter Lukas entered the equation. Hell, one could argue it was always a more natural affiliation than the Eye. And it's never been more apparent than right now, with Martin hunched and miserable and asking for simple company in words he can barely utter. As if it must be an appalling imposition, the asking. As if there's even an alternative anymore.

John doesn't make the conscious decision to move. It just happens, the way Martin curls in on himself obliterating all of the rickety barriers John had thrown up around his own instincts. He forgets that he shouldn't scoot closer, that it's presumptuous to wrap his arm around Martin's shoulders, that he has no business drawing him in with gentle persistence. "Hey, o-of course," he murmurs, the reassurances tumbling out of him just as automatically. "Here, it's okay, come here."

He barely has time to berate himself for coming apart, so soon after thinking he'd pulled himself together; barely has time for anything before John's hand is moving across his back with greater directional purpose, before John's weight shifts, before John's arms are both around him. He has no time even to freeze up before his body is betraying his own lingering sense of mortified propriety. He's already leaning into it, accepting the gesture and the spoken invitation, a small sob escaping as he does. Pathetic. He's pathetic. But there's John, John, drawing him close without hesitation, murmuring reassurances just as he did when Martin first — or first as far as he's concerned — woke up here.

It's too much. It's obscene. The sudden awareness of John, the shape and feel of him, the subtle smell of him — he shouldn't know this, this is for some other Martin, not him. But it's there, offered freely, and he can't turn it away. He doesn't have the fortitude or the self-control.

So he crumples into it, his shoulders shaking as he struggles not to cry, struggles to pull himself together before this becomes truly appalling. But he can't straighten himself out while just sitting there, helpless and inert. He has to do something, anything, even if it feels unthinkable.

He's already doing it. He is desperate for it, for contact, to signal that he accepts this, that he likes it, that he wants and welcomes and needs it, and his trembling hands are already rising to reach around John's back, to settle there, ginger and tentative, to hug him back.

Martin leans into him with a readiness that would have startled John if it wasn't so familiar, if it didn't feel so right. But this is how it is supposed to be: Martin curling against his chest, his shoulders shaking as the lingering unpleasantness of the nightmare rattles through him, his arms settling around John in turn. It's all so normal that it takes John longer than it should to remember that it isn't, for the simple relief of having Martin in his arms to be displaced by astonishment that he's being allowed this, that Martin is literally embracing it — embracing him — instead of shrugging him off, mortified.

But that just speaks to how much he must need it, and John tsks softly, holding him a bit closer as if in stubborn defiance of some disapproving third party. "It's okay," he says again, as softly as before, but now with more conscious deliberation. One hand drifts along Martin's arm, from shoulder to elbow and then back again. "You're all right." 'All right' in the sense that he is well beyond the reach of the entity that still haunts his nightmares. 'Okay' in the sense that he is where he needs to be, if not where he belongs, and that maybe neither of them need to apologize for it.

There is a pernicious voice in Martin's head, some malingering presence that wants to insist this is mortifying and wrong, that he should pull away at once, ashamed and apologetic. But it stands overruled. Maybe this isn't something he earned, but some version of him has. Just because he can't remember all these months and years they've spent together doesn't mean he can't see the signs of it all, in how different John is, in the shared flat, in the quiet evidence of this exchange. There is no awkwardness or hesitation in John as he utters soft reassurances; no tangible indication that he is uncomfortable with this. Perhaps it makes Martin weak, perhaps even manipulative, but he cannot bring himself to deny the comfort that is offered.

And it's in there, in that refusal to look away, in that desperation to accept what's given, that he feels it: an expanding warmth moving through him, a fluttering in his stomach. He was already near enough to the blurred line between attraction and feeling that it's barely even a surprise. If all this is here, tucked behind that prickly, unkind exterior John always put up — if even a fragment of it had shown itself — Christ, he'd have been done for. And all this, now?

When he finally extricates himself, it is with a furious blush and an averted gaze. He sniffs softly, more-or-less recovered, pulling back, if not all the way. His hands still settled at John's arms, uneasy but unwilling to let go.

"I, erm..." he murmurs, and breathes out slowly. The dream has passed now, replaced by a tangle of confusion, curiosity, and desire. He hesitates, caught and exposed with nowhere to hide. He's laid bare before John, and John... this John doesn't seem to mind one bit.

"I'm okay," he says. "I'm okay now."

And it's true; but his hands stay put, and he feels stuck there, unable to see what should possibly come next. There are only questions, and his own waning guard against them. Talk about something else, John suggested, and there is only one direction he can find.

"John," he says softly, and finally looks up, nervously meeting John's eyes. "What's it... like? I mean, what are we like?"

The question terrifies him the moment it's out, but nothing, not even terror, is strong enough now to pull him from it.

John waits for Martin to recover himself with a quiet steadiness that could almost pass for patience. Patience doesn't feel like the right word, though, even if it's only a technicality that eliminates it from contention. 'Patience' implies that he knows where this is going, that there is a clear destination, that he'll recognize it when they arrive. Or, if nothing else, 'patience' might suggest that the destination is of little concern to him: that he is content to simply wait and see how it all plays out, with no particular attachment to the end result.

None of that is true. He is caught at a crossroads, suspended between two equally plausible eventualities: that this will resolve itself in a manner that is... okay, by a metric that isn't his to define, or that it will prove to be some kind of too much — too close, too sustained, too presumptuous, too embarrassing. Sure, he can tell himself that this isn't inappropriate, that this isn't even something limited to the confines of them being in an official relationship. Letting trauma excuse intimacy is right out of their bloody playbook, a move they devised well before he fell through the factory floor. But it's a book they wrote together, a years-long collaboration, and it may be a well-thumbed volume to him, but Martin, this Martin, has never seen it before. So it is easy to conceptualize this as some form of cheating. To believe that the familiar comfort of having Martin wrapped in his arms is something he doesn't deserve, that he is deliberately muddying the waters between what Martin really needs from him and what he wants to offer. And it is easy to imagine that this Martin — one who remembers John's former nastiness as if it was only yesterday, because to him, it is that recent, fresh and jagged-edged and unsoftened by years of better behavior — will recognize the hypocrisy and call it what it is.

If their roles were reversed, John knows that he would've spent the entire week sneering incredulously in the face of Martin's kindness and patience and care. He would've stalked the city like a feral cat, too proud and too bloody terrified to let anyone lay a hand on him. He would've stayed in a fucking hotel, would've insisted on it. He would've made Martin miserable — a new universe and years of missing time unable to dissuade him from treating 'making Martin miserable' like a goddamn calling — and then he would have spent the rest of the year appalled with himself, trying desperately to make up for it.

How can he know that, and pretend he has any right to this?

Martin draws back, inevitably, though he doesn't put as much distance between them as John expects. His hands remain on John's arms, and John doesn't know what to do but cautiously mirror him, letting Martin lead and matching him step for step. There's still a persistent temptation to offer more, to press a cool palm against Martin's reddened face or brush his fingers through Martin's hair, but it's easier to resist now that Martin's regained some of his equilibrium. "Good," he answers instead, allowing himself a light press of his hand against Martin's arm, but no more.

He's awaiting his next cue when Martin lifts his gaze, and asks that question. For a beat or two, he can only blink, a little thrown by how broad it is, but not quite willing to ask Martin to... what, specify? Christ.

"Um. Well..." John looks away, his gaze sliding into the middle distance as he thinks. He's never needed to summarize his relationship with Martin before — certainly not to Martin himself — and he doesn't know if he can do it justice without first conveying the mountain of circumstances that preceded it. But 'context' isn't what Martin is asking for, and John hums softly, a non-verbal 'hold, please' while he considered the question exactly as Martin posed it. Not how it happened, but how it feels, how it is, when things are normal.

"It's... it's easy," he says at length, sounding faintly surprised by the conclusion, himself. "We, er, we spent such a, such a long time caring for one another, a-and— and we both had reasons we thought it wouldn't work, reasons that turned out to... to not be as insurmountable as we'd thought." He can feel himself blushing, still faintly embarrassed by both his own prior convictions and by the needlessly melodramatic behavior that preceded their resolution. "So when we finally worked things out, it was just..." he shakes his head once, wonderingly, and his shoulders hitch in a gentle shrug, "it was like we didn't have to fight ourselves anymore. We could just have what we wanted, without all the, the bloody angst."

He's making it sound simpler than it was, and he leans back against the headboard with a brief, dry huff of laughter. "I mean, it wasn't all easy. We still had to work through some things. But it's— it's good." He shrugs again, dropping his gaze. This all feels so inadequate, but he was never the poet. "We're... really good."

It takes John a while to answer, during which Martin has to stop himself several times from trying to take it back. He wants to know, and John doesn't seem put off by the question so much as surprised, as well as at something of a loss for how to answer it. Understandable. Martin is tempted to retract it both out of embarrassment and a nervous urge to let John off the hook, but John is clearly thinking, not coming empty. And Christ, Martin wants to know. He's desperate for it, this thing he didn't even know existed or ever could exist; now he knows and he can't look away from it.

The answer, when it finally comes, is so... simple, and broad, and despite its inevitable vagueness, there is also something wonderfully specific in it, in the feeling it describes, that — that it feels right, that it makes them happy, that they're... good together. That they fit. John shrugs, looking embarrassed or uncertain, so much soft vulnerability that Martin doesn't know how to read, and for a few moments Martin can only sit there in astonished silence.

"I..." he starts, then shakes his head slightly, not sure where to go. He thinks a moment longer and tries again: "That sounds... nice. Really nice." Which feels idiotic, and he smiles nervously to himself. "I-I guess... I feel like I always knew, or maybe just hoped? that there was m... more to you than you let on." He draws his arms back around himself, keeping his eyes averted. "I felt like I could see it sometimes. I thought maybe I was just making things up to daydream about, but... but I was right. And you—you really care about me."

He blinks, surprised as tears start to well up, and holds himself a little tighter, trying to hold them back as subtly as he can. "And I... I make you happy?"

John glances up, quick and furtive, when Martin starts to respond. He has no idea what to expect, really — they are well off the beaten path as far as social scripts are concerned. But if Martin's initial assessment feels a little inane, that only makes it a perfect match for what preceded it, and John cracks a faint, tentative smile, caught somewhere between encouraging and fond.

But then Martin continues, and it shouldn't hurt, he's paying him a bloody compliment, but John still has to look away in abrupt mortification, a heavy lump forming in his throat. He doesn't know how to bear Martin's belief that he was always secretly a better person than he let on. It feels far too generous to the John he used to be, a facile conclusion rooted in the same wishful thinking as the hypothesis. What's worse, it cuts far too close to one of the reasons John loves him now: that Martin never stopped believing there was something in him worth salvaging. That he insisted on seeing the best in him, no matter how well it was hidden.

His vision is hopelessly blurred by the time Martin says 'you really care about me' — for that, at least, he has no argument — and at the fumbling question that follows, the rest of John's tenuous composure shatters. "Christ," he gasps out, halfway to a sob, his hands flying up to cover his eyes, his fingers snarling in his own hair as if he can physically compress himself back together. He pulls in a few ragged breaths, struggling not just to keep from weeping, but to stop himself from laughing over the absurd disparity of it all: how visibly distressed he must look, and how horribly it clashes with his answer to Martin's question, the words tumbling out of him as surely as if he was Compelled. "God, Martin, I'm the happiest I've ever been!"

The fight to contain his own tears is over the moment Martin realizes that John is fighting them himself. His mouth drops open, wanting for a mortified moment to take it back, to apologize for whatever he's said wrong. But then John blurts out his answer, and Martin just stares at him, somewhere between baffled and awestruck, and the tears start to fall.

Christ, he feels so stupid. He's not even sure why he's crying, what he has the right to cry about here. He's not sure what's set John off, either. It all just feels like too much for him to bear, and while he could pin that on the nightmare he's still shaking off, he's pretty certain that would be too easy.

The happiest he's ever been. There is no doubt he means it, no hint of exaggeration. Martin has made him happier than he's ever been in his life. He doesn't even know that much about John's life, not his history or his childhood or his past relationships. Thinking about it now makes him feel so hopelessly shallow, developing this crush based on John's voice and the way he looks, a vague of how smart and curious he is, and the even vaguer conviction that all that workplace nastiness was masking something else. Little hints of how he was with Sasha, or even Tim at times. Something Martin assumed he'd never be permitted. And now, to have the truth lain out like this, and John in tears over it?

"Jesus Christ," he whispers, almost laughing in disbelief even as he brushes his hand rather brusquely across his tear-stained cheeks. He doesn't know what else to say, and in the end he's left with only one option that feels both too forward and desperately necessary. It is terrifying to reach out, opening his arms in tentative invitation; he trembles slightly, already close to losing his nerve. "C-come here," he says, and flushes with instant regret. "I-I mean, only if you—"

John struggles to contain himself, tears dammed behind his palms and his throat hitching with something that he still can't classify, not quite a sob and not quite a laugh. This is ridiculous. All he meant to do was make Martin feel better; he hadn't thought to guard against being cut off at the knees by a few wistful little questions. Now he's the one going to pieces, and Christ, Martin shouldn't have to deal with this. What the hell must he be making of it all?

He can hardly bear to look at Martin, but he also can't justify ignoring him, so John lowers his hands just enough to peek through his fingers, blinking his tears away in time to catch Martin swiping helplessly at his own. Oh, god, they're both wrecks. A fresh jab of guilt mingles with a sort of hysterical resignation — so much for either of them getting out of this with their dignity or composure intact — and he has just enough time to wonder if simply hiding beneath the covers would make matters worse, or if things have devolved enough that he's incapable of embarrassing himself further to any significant degree, before Martin opens his arms in invitation.

It's a complete shock, and it's irresistible. John barely registers the blushing addendum, already sinking into Martin's arms and pulling himself close, his chin tucked over his shoulder. Martin feels just like he always has, warm and soft and safe, and despite everything that is decidedly not the same, it's still an immediate relief to feel Martin's arms closing around him.

"I'm sorry," John says, sniffling a bit. "I just..." what, just loves him so much he can barely talk about it without having a bloody meltdown? He puffs out an exasperated breath, then shifts a little, tucking in his chin so he can rest his forehead on Martin's shoulder, instead. "This is so stupid," he concludes, his fingers curling thoughtlessly into the fabric of Martin's shirt.

Any further babbling dies on his tongue, replaced only with a breathless little "Oh," as John practically collapses into his arms, close and intimate. Martin would be completely frozen if it didn't feel so immediately natural and necessary to welcome him. By rights there should be nothing natural about it. He doesn't remember the last time anyone touched him like this. In terms of this kind of intimacy, this level of care and desire, no one ever has. It should be overwhelming; it should be terrifying. It is, a bit. But he doesn't want to let go. His heart beats faster John adjusts, leaning on his shoulder, fingers curling into his shirt. He's not sure if he would have said he was in love with John, or how that would even happen, or what it would feel like; but it's happened now. It has happened, and he can't even question himself or deny it in a panic, because John is just here in his arms, desperate to... to be held. And Martin wants — Christ, he just wants, like a great building wave of wanting he did not see coming and is in no way prepared to weather.

John's last remark catches Martin wholly off guard, startling him from his thoughts, and he laughs, soft and awkward but delighted, too. "I won't tell anyone if you won't," tumbles out of him before he can properly assess it; the sort of thoughtless babbling that would normally get him in trouble. But now it feels like... maybe flirting? Is he flirting? Would it even be a problem if he was?

Maybe he ought to pull away, but he can't, not with John clinging on like that — rather, he doesn't want to. Instead, he lets his hand pass up and down John's back, a tentative offer of comfort. "Anyway, I don't think it's stupid," he admits. "I... I don't think anyone's ever, erm... felt this strongly about me."

Which is a bit pathetic, and he's quick to add in a quiet, sheepish tone, "It's nice."

Edited Date: 2022-02-13 11:15 am (UTC)

There is a part of John that still doesn't understand how they got here, how either of them allowed this to happen. He had mulled over the question of what he might offer Martin, what would be fair and decent, what wouldn't just frighten him with its staggering unfamiliarity. He hadn't even begun to consider what he might accept. He hadn't given a moment's thought to what Martin might want to offer him, because the sensible and obvious answer to that was 'nothing.' Nothing owed, certainly. But he should have known better. As if Martin would ever let himself be guided by an objective assessment of what John had earned from him.

He should probably extricate himself. He hadn't known that this particular temptation would even arise, but that doesn't mean he has any business giving into it, indulging himself in the familiar comfort of a hug just because Martin felt compelled to open his arms. But then Martin laughs, sounding a little uncertain but undeniably pleased, and offers a cheeky enough response that John can't help a tired chuckle of his own. Maybe they can stay like this for just a little longer. Any lingering uncertainty is brushed away by the soothing passage of Martin's hand over his back, and John melts a little in spite of himself, tension steadily draining away. He hums softly in response to Martin's sheepish admission: it's not news to him, but he still feels a little roil of indignation over it. "Don't even get me started on your previous partners," he mumbles, his grip shifting into something a little less desperate, but still pointedly snug. "I have notes."

John falls silent for a few moments, pulling in a slow breath and letting it out in a sigh. He feels steadier, now, but he also feels like more acknowledgment is required, and he isn't sure he'll be able to maintain his composure if he has to look Martin in the eye. His fingers curl gently against Martin's back, as near to a nervous fidget as his positioning allows, before he finally manages a soft, almost bewildered, "You're so good to me. You've always been so good."

Edited Date: 2022-02-13 05:54 pm (UTC)

John's grumbling remark about Martin's 'previous partners' is more than a little surprising, though Martin supposes it shouldn't be. There are a lot of things John knows about him now, and the sheer volume of it all, of how little he himself knows by comparison, could overwhelm him if he let it. What's even more startling is the idea that John has notes, that apparently he knows enough of Martin's relationship history to have formed some judgments. More, from the sound of things, than Martin has himself. It certainly wasn't anyone's fault they weren't compatible with him. He almost wonders if there's more in his relative future that he doesn't know about yet, but the idea of asking about it is not particularly appealing.

He's saved from overthinking it either way by the next thing John says, close and quiet, still clinging to him: that he's good.

It's like — Martin doesn't know what it's like. It makes him want to cry and laugh at the same time. It makes his skin flush hot and his heart beat faster. It's breathtakingly sweet and sort of sad and... and he has no idea what to say to it. He doesn't think he's earned the comment. He can't give it a meaningful answer. He certainly hasn't earned the right to answer in kind, or... to say anything else that might mean something. He's new to all of this, an interloper in his own future. He doesn't understand how either of them got here, but more than anything does he want to be a part of it. And he can't.

"I—" He clears his throat softly, almost pulls away and decides, not yet. He can't bear it, not yet. "That's... that's good to hear."

What an inane thing to say. He sits there, scrambling to think of something better, something that will ensure John doesn't pull away, remembering this isn't really the Martin he knows.

"I'm sorry," is all he can come up with. "That I'm not... me anymore."

John cracks a faint smile at Martin's response. It's a little stilted, almost polite, and it serves as an inevitable reminder of his own complacency. He doesn't regret the compliment, but he recognizes that there's no easy way for Martin to respond to it, or to anything else that pertains to everything he's missed over the past six years. Maybe he's being unfair by leaning into all that, solely because it's easier and more comfortable for him — well, and because it's a useful diversion from a miserable nightmare, but it's hard to argue for that motivation when he's the one getting a soothing back rub.

Martin's apology only solidifies the conviction, and John lifts his head with a soft noise of dismay. "No, hey," he starts, loosening his grip and leaning back enough to meet Martin's eyes, but not pulling away entirely. "You don't have to apologize, all right? Christ knows this is all harder on you than it is me." Hard enough that Martin shouldn't be the one doling out comfort, and John sweeps his thumbs in two gentle arcs over Martin's back. With a small, focused frown, he adds, "You're still you, Martin."

Edited Date: 2022-02-14 07:52 pm (UTC)

Martin starts to shift his weight back when he perceives John pulling away; only he doesn't pull away, he only draws back enough to look Martin in the eye, his hands still planted on Martin's back, his thumbs drifting, attentive and soothing, over his shoulder blades. He speaks, his voice impossibly gentle, his face so close that Martin can barely process what he's saying. Martin struggles to maintain eye contact despite the mortifying intimacy of it, not to let his eyes dart about in a panic, particularly not to land on John's lips. He keeps his own lips tightly pressed together as though it will help him concentrate. He should really say something; anything to stop himself pursuing this increasingly problematic line of thinking.

"Er—" He looks down, partly to grant himself some relief from the intensity of all that closeness, partly to hide an embarrassed smile. "To be fair, I... don't think this is quantifiably harder or easier for either one of us."

Yes, he's taken the brunt of the disorientation here, but John is the one who's lost something, whatever he says. Though it is nice of him to say it.

"But thank you," he amends, and looks back up, nervously meeting John's eyes again. "I'm..."

What? Happy to know it works out? Glad John actually came around to his efforts, that they weren't all in vain? Jealous of some future version of himself?

He gives up, sighing softly as he pulls John back in for a hug. It seems like something they can both handle, and it feels good, and he wants it, and as long as John wants it, maybe it's okay.

"S'pose we ought to try and sleep," he murmurs in spite of himself, slightly muffled against John's shoulder.

One of John's eyebrows lifts slightly at Martin's assertion, though he doesn't otherwise argue. Whether his comparative wealth of context makes up for his acute awareness of what's missing, and how that measures up against the distress of both finding yourself in another universe and realizing that even the parts you ought to recognize are wildly different than what you expected... maybe it's not splitting hairs, but it's also not something they need to sit and hash out now. He doesn't think the nightmare is still lingering so severely that they need to sweep it away with some spirited debate.

Martin thanks him, as if to confirm that equilibrium has been achieved, and John mentally prepares himself to draw back, not wanting to telegraph the reluctance he feels and risk making things awkward. But before he can so much as loosen his grip, Martin surprises him by drawing him back in for another hug. John returns the gesture automatically, any startled hesitations overridden by muscle memory. Part of him questions whether this is really wise — if there's a point where this might get too indulgent, with them no longer solidly on the same temporal and emotional page — but he isn't sure he can muster any real anxiety over something Martin has so clearly chosen. Nor does he have any interest in making Martin feel in any way worse, given what brought him here in the first place. He wants to make Martin feel better, not humiliate him. So he leans against him, one hand gently rubbing his back, and resists the urge to turn his face and nuzzle into Martin's hair.

It isn't long before Martin suggests sleep, and John hums in quiet agreement. But Martin makes no immediate move to extricate himself, and John isn't eager to lead the proverbial charge. He chews his lip for a moment, weighing his options, then ventures, "I can— I could stay, i-if you like. If it would help, I mean." Is that too presumptuous? "It, um, it's helped before," John clarifies, realizing with distant horror that he's starting to babble, "though obviously the circumstances are a bit different now. But if you think it might help, I-I wouldn't mind just... staying." Jesus Christ. "Like this." Shut up.

"I, oh," Martin stammers. Christ, must he blush so bloody easily? John is no better off; he seems flustered, which is distantly adorable, but Martin isn't sure what to do about it. He wants to answer Yes; it's what John wants, it's what he wants, it should be simple. John's nervousness is more endearing than worrisome, but for his part, Martin wonders if he can trust his own motivations. Is it for his own comfort, or because he can't bear to say no to John — which would be doubly ridiculous when John so clearly is trying not to pressure him? Or is it because he just wants this, wants so many inconvenient things he never thought to imagine, much less grasp?

Would it be wrong for that to be the reason?

"I... wouldn't mind either," he says. His thoughts are too difficult to untangle; the words, settling the churn of his gut at the thought of rejecting the offer, those are easy. He smiles, faint and a little terrified, still hidden from view against John's shoulder. "I'd like that," he amends.

He can feel Martin blushing, the two of them close enough for the increasing warmth radiating off of him to be noticeable. Which means Martin can probably feel him blushing, too. This is ridiculous, and John is halfway through composing a retraction (with some actual deliberation this time, as opposed to just letting himself spew forth whatever words his bloody hindbrain comes up with, unfiltered) when Martin actually agrees: first in the same indirect manner as the offer, but then with reassuring clarity.

"O-oh," John says in lieu of his half-composed mea culpa. "Good." He can do better; hell, the very least he can do is meet Martin where he is, and he adds a soft but sincere, "Me, too."

He stays put for a few moments, basking in the relief of their agreement before facing the next minor hurdle. Their current position is cozy enough for what it is, but neither of them are going to doze off like this. They'll have to do some rearranging, and a small part of him worries that adjusting themselves will allow a prohibitive amount of awkwardness to seep in through the cracks. Not that there's any alternative. He'll just have to muster enough confidence for both of them. Surely he can manage that — not least of all because it's something they've already done more times than he can count.

"Here," he murmurs, giving Martin's back a more rousing sort of rub, "let's get settled." He pivots to rearrange the pillows a bit, one hand still resting on Martin's shoulder. Then he wriggles beneath the covers, settling in until he's comfortably propped against the headboard. "There we are," he says bracingly, offering Martin a shy smile and opening his arms in invitation. "Come on, then."

Martin doesn't know that he's used to this new, gentle, staggeringly different John, but he knows he'd like to be. He'd like very much for this to feel normal and natural and easy, as it's apparently meant to. It still feels weird, the sheepish answer, the patient pause, the warmth and care he puts into adjusting their position. He is tender and thoughtful and he uses words like let's and we, conversational and rhetorical and yet also more than that. For him, this is natural, no awkward fussing, no apologies and certainly no resentment. He wants to do this, to provide comfort and steadiness, because he wants Martin to be comfortable, to feel safe, and because he... what, just wants to be with him for its own sake?

It is overwhelming. If Martin thinks about it too long, looks at it too closely, he fears he may become appallingly pathetic about it all. He may start crying and not know how to stop. Not even his mum had much habit of holding him after a nightmare, and while none of his short-lived boyfriends ever had the occasion, this sort of unconditional affection was still nothing he'd ever dared to expect. Come on, then, John says, shy and inviting rather than presumptuous or impatient. Christ, it's too much.

Too much still pales in comparison to the unthinkable effort of rejecting it, and so Martin commits himself to John's open arms, gingerly laying himself alongside the long line of his body, closing his eyes as John's arms close around him. He breathes out slowly, breathes in the scent of him. This is not familiar, but it is good. It is safe.

"Thank you," he murmurs softly, his eyes still shut.

John still feels a thread of nervousness as he waits for Martin to join him, half anticipating a belated rejection, or some other variety of anxious backpedaling. It's not as if he could really blame Martin for reconsidering; this might not be unusual for him, but there is only so much ballast he can provide. Much as he wants to offer comfort, that's not the same as becoming a comfort, and he can't presume a shortcut exists just because he'd like it to, or because it would be more convenient for both of them if it did.

But Martin does settle in, moving carefully, as if mindful of an injury. John matches him almost instinctively, folding his arms around him with just enough pressure to suggest that it's deliberate and not incidental. One hand settles lightly on Martin's arm, the other — as much to relieve the tickle against his jaw as in a bid to help Martin relax — reaches up to sweep back Martin's hair.

"Of course," he replies softly, repeating the gesture without any conscious deliberation. Martin's temporal regression hasn't made his hair any less soft, and John has spent more than enough time petting it for it to become simple muscle memory. It doesn't help that he's distracted, searching for something to say that might make this easier, somehow, that might smooth away any lingering awkwardness. After a few moments, in the sort of tone with which one might discuss the weather, he ventures, "This does beat the couch."

It is a testament to how tired he is that he doesn't jolt at the touch to his hair. It isn't unpleasant in the least; unexpected, but even the surprise is short-lived, easily brushed aside in the wake of such a gentle, indulgent comfort. John seems to have done it without thinking, which means this is another normal thing he — the Martin of this world, this future — gets to enjoy on a regular basis. Martin lets his breath draw out slowly, cautiously, as if fearing he might startle John out of it. He wonders if he ought to say something, when John beats him to it with a remark so unexpectedly casual it startles a soft, sleepy laugh out of Martin.

"Well, good," he says as firmly as he can in this position. "You ought to sleep in your own bed, anyway."

He hesitates with a held breath, a faint implication that he has more to say, though he isn't quite certain what. The longer it goes on, the more he wants, more than anything, to keep that hand in his hair. "This is nice," he murmurs at length, and rather inanely. Consciousness is waning rapidly, which is why he doesn't manage to stop himself mumbling, "Always knew your hands were nice."

He'd been angling for a laugh, but it's still a pleasant surprise when he actually gets one. John chuckles softly, low and relieved. "Just an observation," he insists. "I'm certainly not suggesting we swap." He is, in fact, pointedly not suggesting anything, given that the only possibility he might still voice is that they continue sharing the bed. That is sufficiently presumptuous as to be off the proverbial table. He is happy to be here now — to be able to comfort Martin after a nightmare the way he usually would — but this is a special case. There's no reason to believe Martin would welcome company under less fraught circumstances.

He does seem to be enjoying the company now, though. John can feel him relaxing, his breathing not so much slowing as shifting from something deliberate to something more thoughtless. When Martin eventually, drowsily pronounces this nice — as if 'niceness' is such a foreign concept that it ought to be remarked upon — John feels as if his heart might burst. Christ, what can he say to that? Besides a deluge of words about the kindness Martin has always deserved, and how the one arguably good thing about this whole situation is that for once, he doesn't feel as if he's making up for lost time?

Martin saves him from all that with his follow-up comment, and John huffs softly, as near to a laugh as he can get without disrupting the peace that's settling over them. He hadn't fully realized what he was doing, petting Martin's hair on bloody autopilot... but if Martin's enjoying it, like hell is he going to stop. "So I've been told," he murmurs, his fingers curling gently into the soft weft of Martin's hair. "By you. On multiple occasions."

Martin is also, not entirely at least, not suggesting they swap, but he doesn't currently have either the temerity or wakefulness to say so. The embarrassment of realizing he's just said that aloud is only barely matched by that of learning he's apparently mentioned this before — on multiple occasions, even. And even despite that embarrassment, he's far too comfortable, exhaustion catching back up with him too quick, for him to react much before a formless little grunt. John hasn't stopped; if anything he's redoubled his efforts, his fingers curling with tender familiarity. Christ, he knows what he's doing. What else does he know? What else do they do? How much have they done, what does John know, what does he like?

He's too sleepy for these questions to be much more than passing curiosities, fading quickly into the haze of his dreaming subconscious as it kicks back on. Gentler, this time. There's no danger here, only warmth and security. In a matter of moments, he's back asleep.

He doesn't remember his dreams on waking, the circumstances of waking too immediately distracting to allow any lingering fragment of unconscious. No nightmares, he knows that much. He feels like he's just slept better than he has in... who knows. Weeks, at least.

John's arms are still around him. He's passed out like that, hand having slipped from Martin's hair, but otherwise apparently comfortable enough to just stay like this all through the night. A little spike of anxiety runs through the overwhelming contentment that's suffused him all night; should he have let this happen? Was this all horribly untoward — should he pull away, set it right, apologize for overstepping or asking too much?

Probably not. Probably worrying too much, like he does, though it's as difficult to convince himself of that as ever. Easier to stay put simply because he doesn't want to disturb John, not yet.

He has never seen John look so peaceful. The intimacy of this is overwhelming, the warmth and the smell of him, the way they're just... tangled together like they've always belonged here. It is terrifying; it is also intoxicating. Martin finds himself just quietly gazing at John, the relaxed expression on his sleeping face; looking at what he can without moving, lying very still and letting the moment go on for as long as it will. He can't bear to break it, not when it still feels so precious, like the slightest wrong step will fracture it and he'll never get it back.

John wakes to the familiar sensation of Martin watching him. Consciousness arrives by degrees: he keeps still and quiet, knowing he wants to bask in the sensation before remembering why it would be worth savoring. Martin is still in his arms, something that first strikes him as only a little unusual, and then strikes him again with staggering force.

Martin is still in his arms. Martin is awake, and watching him.

The former was... probably inevitable. John isn't even sure which one of them dozed off first, but he is committed enough to Martin's comfort that, even half-asleep, he wouldn't have attempted to extricate himself. Unless Martin had made a move in that direction, of course, which... it seems he didn't. It seems he isn't: he is awake, and watching him, but he hasn't moved and doesn't currently seem inclined to.

It wouldn't be fair to read anything into it besides Martin simply not wanting to disturb him, which makes any continued basking feel a little perverse (even presuming he wasn't too alert for such liminal pleasures). And it goes without saying that a dry, familiar joke about the subject is out of the question. Martin doesn't know about... Christ, any of that, and John isn't eager to get into it.

So he takes what feels like the only decent option available to him: he pulls in a deep breath and shifts a little, stretching beneath the covers and lifting the hand that isn't still pinned beneath Martin to rub at his face. "Morning," he mumbles, drawing out the little show of wakefulness for as long as he can before he cracks his eyes open, craning his neck a little to look at Martin. He isn't sure if he'll be able to stave off mutual self-recrimination through sheer force of will, but hell, he can try. "Sleep okay?" he asks, as if that is the only detail that matters.

John stirs, and Martin immediately averts his eyes, tensing slightly in anticipation of needing to move, whether by direct request or implicit necessity. But instead John just asks after him, peering at him as if this were a perfectly ordinary situation. Martin blinks, feeling caught out by such a simple question, but after a moment he manages to reply, "Yeah, actually."

He hesitates, his eyes flicking elsewhere, to the cat curled up alongside John, around the still unfamiliar room. This feels like a dream, and yet it's so incredibly real, the warmth of John's body against him, the weight of sleep and comfort he hasn't known in a very long time. "Did you?" he asks finally, not sure what else to say.

The question seems to startle him, and John might wonder what Martin was expecting if he didn't suspect the answer to be hopelessly vague. This is so far off the beaten path, from Martin's perspective, that expectation wouldn't serve as much of a guide. But he responds in the affirmative (albeit sounding a little surprised by that, too), and John cracks a drowsy, satisfied smile. "Good."

Martin sleeping well was the objective; that John also slept well feels more incidental, but it's no less true. He hums a yes, following Martin's gaze to The Bishop and reaching over to brush his knuckles along the cat's side, drawing a sleepy little chirp out of him. Honesty and lingering anxiety compel him to add, "Well, it was more business-as-usual for me than it was for you." He glances back up at Martin, trying not to read too much into the fact that he's still so close, neither of them having made any real attempts to extricate themselves. "But you're all right?" he asks.

"Y-yeah," he murmurs, looking away again, unable to hold that soft gaze, to face it directly. But he lets a little smile show as he says, "Yeah, I'm all right."

He lets the moment breathe a moment longer before he finally stretches and starts to extricate himself gingerly, pushing himself up into a sit. "I... I'm glad you stayed," he admits, feeling his face flush hot. "I think it helped." He hesitates, breath drawn like he intends to say more. He feels he should apologize, but for what? John was clearly comfortable, and had the power both to leave and to ask Martin to sleep elsewhere. This was business as usual for him.

"I—" He stammers a bit, nervously working his way toward what he wants to say. "I think you shouldn't... sleep on the couch." He clears his throat and reaches up to rub anxiously at the back of his neck. "If this was more comfortable, y-you should... I mean, it's your bed."

Martin's smile is as much a reassurance as the words that follow, and John releases the breath he'd been holding. "Good," he says, aware of the inane repetition but unable to think of anything more clever to say. It is good — better than he had any right to expect, really. Which is all the more reason why he shouldn't feel bereft when Martin finally moves away and pushes himself up into a sit: things could certainly be worse, and it's not as if Martin is jerking away in horror like he did that first night. But he still feels a pathetic little pang at the loss of contact, and he stubbornly fixates on the cat, rubbing between The Bishop's ears until Martin speaks again.

John looks back up at him, noting the flush in Martin's cheeks and unable to stop his own from following suit in response to his admission. He swallows a bit thickly, wondering what he might say to that without embarrassing himself (he can't just keep parroting the word 'good,' for Christ's sake), saved from the immediate necessity by Martin's obvious intention to say more. He pushes himself up a little, elbows propped beneath him, and blinks as Martin finally delivers a fumbling sort of... offer? To share the bed?

Is that the offer? It feels presumptuous to assume, but then again, Martin hasn't said anything about taking the couch himself. And he did say that John staying close was helpful, so turning around and suggesting that they swap locations would be counterintuitive, surely. And never mind that John wants that to be what Martin's offering. Beyond the physical comfort of a proper mattress, he wants to help, to be able to help, to have that implicit permission to provide comfort and reassurance. To anchor Martin in a reality that's kinder than the one he left behind. If Martin doesn't find that inherently inappropriate or unappealing, then... then where's the harm, really?

... Besides, if Martin was really suggesting a businesslike trade-off regarding who ruins their back on any given evening, he probably wouldn't be blushing so bloody much.

"Oh, er," John pushes himself the rest of the way upright, earning a faint grumble from The Bishop. "Sure. A-as long as you're comfortable, I mean. I'm sure my, um, my back would appreciate it." He scrubs a hand through his hair, directing the stupid little smile he can't suppress at the cat.

Martin looks back at John as he starts to answer, fumbling a little, but seeming pleased. He can't stop himself breaking into a ridiculous little grin over it. This so easily could have gone poorly, he thinks; it might've been presumptuous, or painful, or... or he doesn't know what. And he hadn't really laid out very clearly what he meant, nowhere near bold enough to say with any directness that he meant they should just... sleep together. But John has leapt to that conclusion on his own, and it... it's making him happy.

"Okay," he says. "Good."

Christ, now what? He feels a nervous pull to get up and make himself busy. The longer they just sit here together, the more intimate this becomes, the more he risks losing his composure entirely. It's nice, sitting here, sharing space. But maybe it isn't practical. And there'll be time for it later, now. Maybe.

"I suppose I'll put the kettle on," he says softly as he gets up. "And... maybe, I don't know, you could show me around this weird magic city."