statement_ends | A Perfect Waste of Time

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martin blackwood

A Perfect Waste of Time

There is nothing to suggest that the number of Statements he might extract from the space beneath the Observatory is limited. From what they've gathered, there's far more to work with down there than a single box from the Institute could hold. He should be able to draw from that proverbial well for quite some time. But presuming that his problems have been decisively solved seems foolish, and he's still playing it safe. He visits only as often as he must (for that specific need, anyway; he still stops by for social calls lest Norah start feeling a bit used), and often draws multiple Statements per visit so he'll have tapes in reserve in case something should happen. He tells himself the reserves are for something like rubbish weather, as opposed to the far more upsetting possibility that he might head to the Observatory one day and find it gone.

Granted, it's not just vaguely superstitious caution that has him trying to limit his sojourns. He's started picking up on... something from Martin over the past few weeks. Something he can't quite pin down. It can't be anything as absurd as disapproval, and if it's concern, he can't imagine why. But he has been getting an odd, persistent impression that Martin isn't thrilled with his trips to 'the Ghost Hole,' necessary as they unquestionably are.

Said necessity is why he hasn't got up the nerve to poke the bear, yet. The prospect of them having some sort of spat over something they both know is indispensable is a little too ridiculous for him to go manifesting into reality. If Martin had a sincere concern, surely he'd air it without needing John to prompt him.

Maybe he's just imagining it. Or perhaps Martin is just... having an off day. Several off days. That just happen to coincide with his trips to the Observatory. Sure.

The weather today wasn't rubbish enough to justify staying home, but despite taking a cab for most of the journey, John still returns home with a wet coat and hair that's started to curl a bit from the rain. "Hullo," he says, both to Martin and to The Bishop, who trotted to the entryway to greet him before pulling up short and eyeing his dampened trouser legs with feline trepidation. He leaves his shoes on the mat, sets his bag on the floor, and shucks off his coat, giving Martin a slightly more assessing glance than he normally might. "I don't suppose the kettle's on?" he ventures, trying to gauge whether Martin's vaguely sour mood from this morning has improved in his absence.

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Martin shuts his eyes as John answers his embrace in kind, the scent and weight and closeness of him offering a familiar stability that finally has Martin settling back into himself. Then John speaks, and Martin focuses on listening, on letting it sink in, on believing it. It doesn't feel like enough — it never feels like enough — but a deeper part of him knows that enough doesn't exist, that it's a lie he clings to that only serves the vestiges of his own self-loathing. John's right; he has helped, and their relationship is more grounding than any single solution can be. He just has to keep reminding himself of that.

He smiles faintly at John's last remark, and answers with a slight nod against his chest. "Okay," he says eventually, and breathes out, slow and audible. "Yeah."

He lets his hands pass slowly up and down John's back in a mirror of John's hands on him; he holds him a little closer as if reassuring himself that he's here, he's all right, he'll be all right. When he finally lets go, he pulls back, but not far, a little embarrassed but much more relaxed.

"I'm glad I... that I've been able to help," he says, slightly awkward but sincere. "And that you're okay." He meets John's eyes briefly before glancing back at the stove. Tea does sound good now, the subsequent sit-down even moreso. "H-how about that tea?"

He knows better than to assume that Martin is entirely convinced. Some truths take longer to internalize than others — if they can be fully internalized at all — and John is intimately familiar with the subtle gradations between acquiescence and acceptance. But this is enough for now: air cleared, tensions eased, the prospect of a cuppa that no longer feels fraught.

"Please," John replies, not without feeling. Martin's embrace has banished some of the chill, but none of the damp, and a hot beverage and some fresh clothes sound perfect. He leans in to press a kiss to Martin's temple, murmuring, "I'll be right back." Then, he gently extricates himself and heads for the bedroom, The Bishop trotting alongside and making the occasional bid to rub up against his shin.

It only takes him a minute or so to exchange his trousers for some dry joggers and his button-up for one of his loose jumpers (longer than it would have if he didn't need to navigate around a very insistent cat), and he wanders back out with The Bishop in his arms, feeling a great deal more comfortable. "All right?" he asks, pausing at the edge of the kitchen to see how Martin's getting on.

Martin's just finishing up preparation of their tea when John returns with the cat, both of them looking charmingly cozy. He gives John a quick smile before taking both mugs and guiding them over to the couch.

"Here we are," he says, setting John's mug down on the coffee table so he can get it after negotiating with The Bishop. He settles in beside them, taking a pensive sip of his own, quiet for a moment. He's not quite sure where to go from here, conversationally; it might be easy enough to share some gentle silence, but there is still something flitting around the periphery of his awareness, like something that didn't quite get settled with all the rest. It's without much thought that he eventually voices it.

"You and Norah don't... actually talk about me, do you?" Almost before he's even finished the question, he already regrets it. Christ, this is the last thing he needs to be prodding. He tries to hastily course correct: "I-I mean — Sorry, that's a stupid question. I'm sure you have much more interesting things to talk about." He frowns into his tea and takes another little sip before he can't quite help muttering, "Though what, I'm sure I don't know."

It's just as well that John's a bit preoccupied with his own tea when Martin puts his question: it gives him an excuse to not answer immediately, which gives Martin time to take a few bewilderingly hard turns, which leaves John with far more to chew on than either of them probably anticipated, and the tea is a useful prop to muck about with while he processes.

First, he blinks over the rim of his cup, riding out the initial burst of incredulity over the thought of Norah being inclined towards gossip, let alone gossip about Martin. It's a shame that the two of them have never really got on (and perhaps that excuses such a gross mischaracterization of Norah on Martin's part), but that generally translates to each of them only asking after the other to the extent that good manners would dictate. And even then, the lack of real interest is palpable. He wouldn't presume to natter about Martin to Norah anymore than the reverse — though Christ, perhaps he should, if only to correct some of these misconceptions before they can take root.

Martin dismisses his own question as 'stupid' before John can respond to it, though the backhanded self-deprecation strikes him as rather unfair. John takes a steadying sip of his own tea to prevent himself from responding a little too off the cuff, but his brows are drawn together in sharp disapproval. The uncomfortable truth of it is that Martin isn't an interesting topic of conversation to Norah, but that hardly translates to him being uninteresting as a rule, or uninteresting to John. If not for the awkward interlude in the kitchen (and even that was mostly about Martin's use as a bulwark against Statement withdrawal, not his overall value), he'd insist that they were well past that.

And perhaps they are, if Martin's final, muttered aside is anything to go by. John swallows his tea with conscious effort, eyes widening slightly as he considers this new piece of information, a square-shaped peg that doesn't quite fit in the round-shaped hole of Martin's usual anxieties. His tone was defensive, perhaps aiming for dismissive, but unable to stick the landing. John gets the distinct impression that Martin truly can't imagine what he and Norah might talk about, and that it bothers him for reasons that go beyond any niggling suspicion that they're talking about him. Maybe it's just that failure of imagination that troubles him — and John supposes that he, of all people, is in no position to fault someone for wanting to know something, even if it's technically none of his business. But this also doesn't feel like simple curiosity, not when Martin has been so stubbornly disinterested in actually getting to know Norah on his own.

He doesn't want to imagine that they talk about him. But he struggles to imagine what else they might talk about, because...?

There is a faint creak of fingers against ceramic glaze as a possibility occurs to him, but it is so outlandish that he cannot trust it, certainly not to the point of voicing it. Not on the basis of what little evidence he's gathered so far. But the thought is as tantalizing as it is completely fucking mental, and he has to lean hard away from the desire to simply Know. He doesn't want to do that to Martin; he has a long-standing policy of not Knowing how he feels. And there is also a small, preemptively giddy part of him that wants to earn this, if he's actually onto something.

John takes another sip of tea, then clears his throat. "I hadn't realized you were so interested," he says, light and faintly teasing. "Should I be recording that, too?"

All that hard-earned emotional stability he'd just found in the kitchen is already in danger of evaporating, and he has only himself to blame. It would have been so bloody simple to let them have a beat of shared silence, or at least to find something innocuous to dither about. The only thing that stops him feeling properly mortified — not to mention angry at his own lapse in reason — is the certainty John's about to offer him a way out with a change in subject rather than indulge more of his nonsense.

When John instead needles him further, it's a bit of a rude surprise, even if it's arguably deserved. Martin blinks, his shoulders tightening into an automatic defensive posture, and he stammers, "Wh- N-no, that's not what I — Don't be ridiculous." He feels himself blushing and realizes there's nowhere to hide, nestled here beside John on the couch. He stares down at his tea, half-wondering if he should attempt to spill it as some sort of diversion and not quite having the nerve. "Look, just forget it."

He'd expected some degree of stammering indignation; well deserved as it might be, he's still teasing. Specifically, he's teasing more than he might have otherwise, with the subject ostensibly put to bed and Martin already having suffered through his fair share of embarrassment. If being gracious was his only goal, he would've limited his response to a pointed look before changing the subject.

But he's discovered a hook so fascinating that he has no intention of letting Martin off of it just yet. It's the blush that convinces him, and John sets down his tea so he can give Martin his full attention, pivoting on the cushions to face him, an incredulous grin tugging at his lips.

"Martin," he says with considerable relish, elbow propped on the back of the couch and eyes bright with interest, "are you jealous?"

He doesn't understand why John is still pushing him, rather than letting him take his own clumsy exit, and there's a split second danger of genuine indignation as John turns fully toward him with acute, disarming intensity. And then comes that question, and Martin freezes, hit with such outright shock that his jaw actually does drop open.

"Wh—" Alarm bells are going off in the back of his head, and the worst of it is, he has no right to the surprise. If anything, he'd become far too complacent. It's just he'd been so certain that if this hadn't ever come up before, it never would. Because John's not a child, and neither is Martin, and no matter how obvious he is, his failure to get along with Norah is a mutual affair. So why would John ever think this? Why would he ever ask it?

"N-no!" he sputters, and opens his mouth as if expecting more indignant denial to come forward. His voice betrays him though, and he just sits there like an idiot, clutching his tea.

If John was grinning before, Martin's stammering attempt at a denial has him outright beaming. The Eye's gifts have done nothing to diminish the satisfaction of making a successful, old-fashioned guess. He's right! He still can't quite believe it, but he knows it's true, and he communicates as much with a wordless little 'ah!' and a triumphantly accusing point of his finger.

Edited 2023-05-13 02:45 (UTC)

Oh, god. This is the worst thing that's ever happened. Martin gapes at John, at his evident glee, and feels himself bristling like an angry cat as John actually points at him. He struggles to speak, to make the denials he ought to make, to leverage indignation and offense in the face of John's outlandish triumph.

But that's the problem. It's not outlandish at all.

"...Okay, maybe," he grits out a moment later, wondering if he can spin this like he hadn't realized it himself, before he finally crumples: "Fine. Fine. Yes. A bit." He stares at his tea, then knocks most of it back like it's a shot, setting the cup aside so he can better bury his face in his hands.

Martin's discomfort is so evident that John's own delight feels, distantly, a little perverse, but he can't help himself. He isn't even sure why this delights him so much (beyond the satisfaction of a well-placed guess and the sheer novelty of it all), but Martin's eventual, begrudging admission is rocketing him straight to cloud nine.

"Since when?" John asks, or starts to, but he hasn't even hit the final consonant before his own, human intuition once again provides the answer. Martin has always been a bit weird about Norah, stiff and standoffish for reasons John had never bothered to interrogate. But this new information provides fresh context for all that unfriendliness, and the answer spills out of him in an incredulous rush before he can even draw breath: "This whole time?"

This is appalling. This is the best.

Martin supposes he ought to be grateful that John isn't angry about this, or hurt, or any entirely rational response that would require a more serious conversation. There is some bewilderment, some slight hint that he is, distantly, aghast — but mostly he just seems delighted. Martin could count himself lucky that John is getting some kind of pleasure out of this, that this isn't turning into a row. Instead, he just feels a growing sense of flustered indignation. John isn't exactly trying to tease him — and on some level he knows he deserves the incredulity — but the delight is just too much to bear.

He can't even get his next question out before he's already answered it himself, and Christ, it was over two years ago that he met Norah the first time, her unexpected arrival at The Archive. He barely remembers it, except that she'd called him out for his nosiness and his over-protectiveness, and he'd expected John to confront him about it then but it hadn't happened. Only for it to come out now?

"Wh — Look, listen," Martin says a bit desperately, "She's just — You're always — You get on so well and I just—"

"We get on so well," John echoes, incredulity making way for something more like charmed appreciation, as if it's a particularly witty turn of phrase and not just an absurd excuse for Martin to feel romantically threatened. He could point out that he gets on well with plenty of people — or, if not 'plenty' in an objective sense, certainly more people than he could've boasted back home — but not to a point where Martin ought to-to watch his back, or something. John isn't interested in anyone else that way, and, more to the point, he's reasonably certain no one else is that sort of interested in him. This, he'd guess, is the true source of his ongoing elation: the inescapably flattering implication that anyone else in this city would actually have any interest in sniping him. Only Martin, with his rather unique propensity for seeing the best in him, would even dream of such a thing.

John feels such an overwhelming swell of fondness for this ridiculous man that he can't resist reaching for him, one hand lighting on his back and the other on his arm, the first suggestion of a proper embrace. He also can't resist continuing to tease a bit, because honestly. "Me and the incorporeal woman who's old enough to be my great-great-grandmother. You think she's going to... what, lock me in the Observatory and have her wicked way with me?" He starts giggling, unable to imagine even joking about such a thing with her. She'd lose all respect for him in a heartbeat.

Something even funnier occurs to him, and he guffaws outright. "Is it, is— sh-should we stop using the phrase 'ghost hole'?" he manages to gasp, so overcome with amusement that it's a struggle to squawk the words out. "T-too suggestive?" At that, he fully lurches over, head landing on Martin's shoulder as he continues to quake with laughter.

Far from taking John's playful encroachment with any grace, Martin stiffens in his arms, not projecting discomfort so much as irritation. Somewhere, he thinks, in some distant part of him, legitimate frustration is being quickly supplanted with histrionics, as though maintaining a bad attitude is now a point of pride. If he truly wanted John not to touch him, he'd pull away. But lingering embarrassment and the sunk-cost-conviction that he can't cede any ground prevents him from giving in completely, and he answers John's mirth with a determined scowl.

But before he can muster enough stubbornness to make any point about how her technical age has really got nothing to do with it — from what he's seen, she still reads as a young woman to him — John swerves into making childish entendres and collapses onto his shoulder, and Martin can only gawp at the wall beyond them before mustering a scandalized, "John!"

The worst thing of all is he has to admit it is pretty funny, and John's laughter has always been infectious, so it's with a slightly unsteady quiver that he grits out, "For Christ's sake."

Martin tolerates John's physical closeness with all the forgiving grace of a block of wood, which doesn't even surprise him, really. He's never teased Martin quite so mercilessly before — never been presented with an exposed nerve that also served as such a rich vein — and while his intentions aren't mean, that probably only counts for so much. Still, there's a telltale hitch in Martin's voice that belies the steadiness of his resolve. He can't stay grumpy forever. John tempers his laughter with some effort, but allows his arms to curl a little more decisively around him.

"Can't believe you were worried," he says, lifting his head and pressing a warm, only faintly giggly kiss to Martin's temple. "As if anyone else in this city would put up with me."

"Wh—hey," Martin says sharply, now resisting John's playful advances out of distracted indignation on his behalf rather than some vague sense of personal pride. He squirms a little, trying to put just enough distance between them to meet John's eyes. "First of all, I wasn't — I wasn't worried, I trust you, it's just—" He huffs impatiently, forcing himself to admit the painfully obvious: "It's not like it's rational. But sh-she obviously cares about you, and she's right to, and — and she would be so lucky!"

The idea that Norah, or anyone for that matter, wouldn't put up with John is enough to make him annoyed all over again. "Anyone would be," he insists rather aggressively.

Well, that's successfully got Martin out of his little sulk, though the exchange of one sort of indignation for another wasn't exactly what John had in mind. He's not entirely sure what he does have in mind, besides an instinctive (and perhaps ill-considered) urge to just keep kissing him, but he restrains himself in deference to Martin's squirming, and his continued parceling out of an explanation.

Said explanation really does nothing helpful for the urge to kiss him, and John's expression takes a turn for the hopelessly besotted. "Martin..." he starts, and then flounders for a beat. He wants to insist that Norah is plainly not attracted to him — he has a hard time imagining her being attracted to anyone, honestly, but it feels presumptuous to speculate about her proclivities, or to trust his own assumptions on the matter. At any rate, he's confident that if she had such inclinations, and considered them to be any of his business, he'd have been made aware by now. His ignorance, then, could be taken as evidence that it's really none of his concern.

But he's getting bogged down in the details, and he gives his head a small shake. "I suppose it's lucky that I'm madly in love with you, then," he murmurs, lifting his hand to Martin's cheek and leaning forward until their foreheads touch. "Though if you needed a little extra... reassurance," he adds, voice dropping to a purr, "I would be more than willing to oblige."

Martin stares into John's unabashedly sweet expression with something approaching defiance, as if daring John to argue with him over his own merits as a romantic partner, only to find John listing toward him, leaning even more pointedly into the suggestion of... of sensuality. This has all become completely ridiculous, but even still, he wasn't expecting this. Martin's mouth drops open and then snaps shut as he flounders for a moment, not quite pulling away, but still rather frozen in place.

"I—" he blurts, not even certain why he has any instinct to push back against this. Perhaps for the same reason that he refused to abandon his own sour mood: he's pretty sure he doesn't deserve to be let off the hook for all this, much less rewarded for it.

But that's too many words to get out just now. For a few beats he just stammers silently, then he finally manages a completely bewildered, "What?!"

Martin is no stranger to John's methods, and he thinks his intentions have been made clear enough to be getting on with. Still, he can see how this might be a bit surprising — emotionally speaking, Martin has a considerably larger pivot to make — so John summons the requisite patience to not simply push Martin back against the cushions. Christ, he wants nothing more than to treat him as magnificently as he knows how, to show him exactly how little it would matter if anyone else ever took a shine to him. If Martin insists on prizing John's attentions so highly, the least John can do is be generous with them.

He begins by bending to press a delicate kiss against Martin's jaw, his hand drifting back so he can gently curl his fingers in Martin's hair. "I think you know what I mean," he replies, still tucked close enough for his lips to brush against Martin's neck as he speaks.

The stiffness in Martin's body no longer has anything to do with embarrassment or ridiculous irritability; now, he is frozen as if the tiniest movement will shake them out of this reality and back onto a path he might've more easily anticipated. As if he might somehow startle John out of wanting to kiss him.

Resisting has absolutely no appeal, but simple acquiescence also lies just beyond his reach. Instead, a nearly imperceptible shiver runs through him as John's lips brush along his neck, and his lips part as if to answer with a little whine, like he ordinarily might. He can't muster a sound, but his breath trembles and his fingers flex as if he wants to reach out and doesn't quite dare.

"I—" He swallows thickly, his chin tipping up ever so slightly in what might be an attempt at a nod, or a half-conscious request. "I'm not sure I deserve that," he says, his voice dry, his tone teetering somewhere between facetious and wary.

Edited 2023-05-14 05:44 (UTC)

The quality of Martin's stillness changes, subtle but unmistakable, and then clarified by the bob of his throat as he swallows and the slight, suggestive lift of his chin. Still, it's not quite acquiescence. He insists, his tone unsteady but not entirely playful, that he doesn't deserve it.

What Martin may or may not deserve is beside the point. John has absolutely no desire to sit here and unpack all this, as if they haven't grown beyond the need to preemptively justify every single move they make lest either of them put a toe out of line (the worst of all possible disasters). He can't make out the shape of any real risk. He can't imagine Martin actually crafting some simple, stimulus-response connection between acting like a prat and getting 'rewarded' with a bit of fooling around on their couch, and concluding he should act like a prat more often.

He considers and rejects both a flippant 'I'm not sure I care' and a fervent 'you deserve everything,' neither of which serve his current purpose. Too open to argument. Instead, he blazes a slow trail from the juncture of Martin's neck and shoulder up towards his jawline, laying out his justifications in between kisses. "Let's compromise, then: you be the judge of what a catch I am, and I'll be the judge of what you deserve." He pauses long enough for a solicitous, "How does that sound?" before taking Martin's earlobe between his lips and sucking gently.

Martin sucks in a sharp breath which then catches in his chest as John kisses and murmurs his way up the line of his throat. The inane impulse to say something flustered and incredibly stupid like Wait dies on his lips, replaced by a soft moan that almost surprises him. Why it should be surprising is beyond him; as if John isn't now sucking on his ear. He still can't quite believe this is happening, but Christ, that in no way translates to wanting it to stop.

Because John is a catch; and what's more, John is his. Why the hell would he want to deny himself that, under any circumstances?

"O-okay," he manages to get out, breathless and quivering slightly, feeling himself list back a bit like he might actually topple over. His body finally seems to wake up, one hand going out to brace against the back of the couch and the other grasping onto John's shirt like he wants to pull him closer. Another layer of that silly, reflexive stubbornness that had been holding him back fractures, and he answers again, his voice shaky but still more decisive: "Yes."

That's more like it. Martin finally starts to relax, one hand reaching out to grip John's shirt front, and then pleasantly surprises him with some tremulous but decisive verbal agreement. John hums, the arm around Martin's shoulder dropping down to his back and drawing him closer.

He pulls back enough to meet Martin's gaze and murmur a low, satisfied, "Good." Then he leans in to kiss him properly, palm cradling the back of Martin's head as he slowly, inexorably bears him back towards the cushions.

Martin's breath catches as John's arm curls around his back, and a terribly soft squeak slips out as he lets himself be drawn in, his hand leaving the couch in favor of reaching up to John's shoulder, both hands curling loosely and rather coyly into his shirt. And almost immediately, he feels a surge of embarrassed self-recrimination: what right does he have to act so innocent now, when John's just caught him at his worst? Acting so delicate, painting himself in sweetness as if it wasn't a deeply sour revelation that led them here? The noises he makes are still largely involuntary, but over time, with John's encouragement, they have become easier and more automatic. This is the first time in a while that he's actually regretted one of them. That squeak was far too cute for what a little shit he was just being.

But John catches him before he can spiral, his low voice and the kiss that follows more than enough to drag Martin back into the moment. John's already made it clear that he wants to do this; Martin doesn't have to understand why, and doesn't really want to disrupt things long enough to find out. Enough unnecessary dithering. He isn't being demanding; he's following John's lead, because John wants to lead him, and it's ridiculous to pretend he doesn't want to be led, no matter what he thinks he deserves. So he relaxes a little more, his hands sliding up to frame John's face, his touch still delicate, tentative, wanting to leave room for John to redirect him if he so chooses. If John wants to have him, then Martin wants to offer himself, and he wants John to have him however he likes.

He lets himself be pushed back, gentle but firm, until his back meets the cushions and he gasps softly, breaking the kiss just long enough to whisper, "Please."

Edited 2023-05-15 17:44 (UTC)

Martin's little squeak is darling, and the way he loosely grips his shirt is enough to leave John smiling against his lips. This is all he wants: to demonstrate just how little Martin ever need worry about the possibility of losing him to a romantic rival, of all things, and for Martin to let him demonstrate as much without sinking into the familiar rut of self-recrimination, or insisting he doesn't deserve it. As if it would really be better if John had found some way to punish him for being so head-over-heels in love with him that he can't help fretting that other people might be, too. John can't imagine that, and he doesn't want to. Not when he has this: Martin warm and pliant in his arms, against his lips, Martin's hands lighting so gently against his cheeks.

John slides his hand to Martin's side in lieu of leaving it pinned between him and the cushion, and he responds to that whispered plea with a low hum and another slow, ponderous kiss. He could easily escalate, guiding Martin down onto his back, but there are a few things he'd rather do, first. He allows himself another kiss, soft and brief, then draws back enough to look Martin in the eye. The hand that was in his hair drifts down, fingers still curled, the backs of his knuckles cresting over the curve of Martin's neck and the small swell of his collarbone. Then he hooks a finger over the top button of Martin's shirt, giving the garment a light, illustrative tug. "May I?"

Martin doesn't know what he was pleading for; he frequently doesn't, when often enough the plea itself is all that matters. John doesn't always need direction, and he never disappoints. Martin shivers as John's hands drift over him, the light passage of his knuckles down Martin's throat and the ridge of his collarbone. He tips his chin up again, a little further, equal parts impulse and invitation.

It's no surprise when John settles at the top button of his shirt, though Martin's breath still hitches over that suggestive little tug. It's easy enough to assume John plans to mark him, and will need to pull his collar aside for it; the question is both courteous and coy, and Martin is quick to answer it with a soft whine and an eager little nod.

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