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[statement_ends]

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."

Comments

[statement_ends]

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."

[loficharm]

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.

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

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.

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

"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."

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

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."