Jonathan Sims

He doesn't quite manage a doze, but he also doesn't manage to rouse himself until Martin sits beside him; and then, with the almost immediate warmth of Martin's hands against his back, he decides he can't be bothered with pillow-fetching. As if there's more exquisite comfort to be had than what he's already receiving.

For a minute or so, Martin works in silence — or near enough, minus the appreciative groans he's coaxing out of John. Christ, this is exactly what he needed, not just after their interlude on the couch, but after hunching over the hole in the Observatory basement for an hour or so. And Martin is so very good at it. John melts into the bedspread, all but purring as Martin kneads away the aches of the day.

And then Martin eases back on his efforts, and asks a question John isn't entirely sure how to parse. He makes a soft sound that's part bewildered grunt and part muzzy protest over being expected to think under these conditions, and cracks his eyes open. "What was what about?" he asks, uncertain and vaguely wary for reasons he can't quite pin down.