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 hums, soft and contented, at the gentle trace of John's fingers. At the sudden reminder of what prompted all this, though, he blinks his eyes back open and lets out a small, embarrassed cough. "Y-yeah, erm... I take your point."

A point made so thoroughly he still finds it a little bewildering. He'd almost managed to forget his earlier confusion, might almost have overlooked it in the interest of simply counting himself lucky (luckiest man in the world) and hurrying to put it behind him. It might've just been a case where John wasn't interested in playing by the expected social rules in terms of his response to Martin being an arse. John doesn't typically put much stock in social rules, anyway. What point would there be in rowing over it when this was so much more enjoyable, so much more a definitive counterpoint?

But there's still something that leaves Martin feeling... curious. Not that John's reaction wasn't negative, not even that he chose to respond like this, but something about the response itself, the fervor of it, his... for lack of a better word, insatiability. Martin studies John for just a moment, but now's not quite the time to ask, his head still full of fluff and static and other matters slightly more pressing.

He lifts his hand, taking in John's awkward position with a sympathetic wince. "Here, this cannot be comfortable. Let me get cleaned up and we can relocate, yeah?" He lets his smile soften. "I'm going to give you such a backrub."

Once John's moved out of the way, he rolls off the couch, heaving himself up and picking his way over to the loo.

It's an astute observation, though John still lets out a noncommittal grumble before bracing a hand on the couch and levering himself upright. The motion grants him a handful (well, backful) of resentful twinges and two audible cracks, and he winces briefly until Martin's promise registers.

"Ooh," John says with an intrigued lilt, getting to his feet and stepping aside so Martin can toddle past him. "I'll just go and prepare myself, shall I?"

He heads for the kitchen, first, getting himself a glass of water, downing half of it, and refilling the glass to bring along for the ride — Martin might be a bit thirsty when he emerges, as well. The water is set carefully on the bedside table, and then John shucks off his top, mentally congratulating himself on having already dressed down before things got underway. It means there's nothing else to stand between him and pitching down onto the bed, which he does with a quiet oof and a gusty sigh. He could probably grab his pillow, but for the moment he just lets himself sprawl, eyes drifting closed as he listens for Martin's arrival.

Cleanup managed as efficiently as ever (with only a small pause to somewhat giddily examine his fresh bruise), Martin returns to find John already near to dozing, sprawled luxuriously across the bed. He pauses a moment at the threshold, taking in the sight with a small, pleased smile, then proceeds to sit down beside him, the mattress dipping under his added weight.

"All right, then," he says, letting his hands come to rest on John's back, giving him ample time to acclimate to the touch before he starts to press down. "There we are."

He gives John a healthy minute or two to really settle in and enjoy the process before he lets up a bit, doing a bit of lighter, gentler work as he says, "So what was all that about?"

Edited 2023-06-06 22:58 (UTC)

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.

Martin could almost feel guilty, the way John hesitates and seems to address the question with something approaching reluctance. Entrapment isn't really his intention so much as just making sure the promise of a massage does not get lost in the shuffle — or that he doesn't bother to give John his much-needed comfort before springing questions on him. But the bewilderment is funny enough to keep him on task, confirming that John either hasn't realized his approach to this whole situation was rather... unique, or has forgotten it himself.

"I was just wondering," Martin says, grunting softly as he presses the heels of his hands into the wiry meat of John's shoulders, "what it was, exactly, about me behaving like an idiot that made you want to... all that." He lets up again, not wanting to make the answering more difficult than it needs to be. "Not that I don't appreciate the reassurance, but it was... a bit more than that." He can't resist a bit of mischief sneaking into his voice and his grin when he adds lightly, "What, does me being a prat do it for you? Suppose I could play the part more often if you like."

Martin's initial attempt to elaborate is not particularly enlightening, and John furrows his brow at the suggestion that it was Martin's idiocy that served as his primary inspiration. Not that Martin wasn't, admittedly, being a bit of an idiot... but that seems incidental when measured against the why of it all. He thought it was clear enough that it was the subtext that delighted him, not the surface-level ridiculous behavior.

But perhaps he shouldn't have assumed, given the frankly appalling suggestion that follows. "Wh— I-I-I—" John sputters, stiffening beneath Martin's hands as his cheeks darken with a mortified flush. "No! You—" he bites back the insistence that Martin wasn't being a prat, because he was, but also because it's so beside the point that he can't believe that's what Martin's taken away from it all and turned into a bloody subject of discussion. He drags up one arm so he can bury his face in the crook of his elbow. "Th-that wasn't— don't be absurd."

Martin can't help laughing a little at John's initial response, though he softens immediately as his mortification becomes increasingly apparent. He still can't stop smiling, but with John hiding himself, that at least seems harmless enough.

"All right, all right," he says, he hopes soothingly; but he can't quite make himself pull off this line of questioning entirely. If he were wildly off base, he thinks there wouldn't be anything for John to be mortified about, and that only sharpens his curiosity. He hums thoughtfully, stroking his hand up and down John's back.

"You just seemed so..." He fumbles his words a bit, trying not to say 'insatiable' aloud; "eager? Not to mention delighted to find out I was jealous of— wait." He blinks, realizing: that was it. Not his being in a mood and certainly not all the unkind jabs at Norah. He'd been joking, but maybe he was closer than he thought: it was when John guessed at his jealous feelings that his mood spun around completely. Martin stares down at him, his hand going still in fresh shock.

"Wait," he says again. "Not a prat, but a jealous prat. Is that it? Y-you liked it that I was jealous." He says it more astonished than accusatory, but the implication is still there.

John is decidedly not soothed by the gentle passage of Martin's hand up and down his back; he can tell by Martin's tone that he's not going to drop the subject, and at this point, he rather thinks he ought to clarify his own feelings somehow. Except he isn't sure how to begin to unpack it all, and he can feel his mortification trying to transmute itself into a proper, unhelpful sulk.

So it's almost a mercy when Martin actually manages to get there on his own. Almost. John's blush deepens, more in response to Martin's audible shock than the belated bulls-eye, and he reaches up to grab his pillow, dragging it down to cover his head.

"... Maybe," he admits at length, muffled beneath the down.

He wants to feel delighted at having guessed right; he wants, in equal measure, to soothe John's embarrassment and to laugh outright at how ridiculous it is. But all he can really feel, in the end, is that same astonishment. He can't believe he was right. He can't believe that's really it. And if anything, John's embarrassment only solidifies his confusion as he blurts, "But why?"

It is, he supposes, a fair question. Not to mention one he wasn't closely considering when he made his move on the couch. But there's no need for him to grope blindly for the answer; it is so obvious that he'd be tempted to resent Martin's inability to guess at that, too, if it wasn't so quintessentially him to not understand it at once. His confusion on this front feels like a perfect bookend to him being jealous in the first place: both symptoms of his inability to appreciate how little John appeals to the overwhelming majority of humanity.

John pulls in a breath, then puffs it out in a slow, defeated sigh. "No one's ever..." he coughs out a laugh, his faintly wistful tone hardening into something a little more sardonic. "It-it can't surprise you that no one's ever been jealous about me before." After a brief beat of consideration, he adds, "Entities aside, anyway."

Any remaining shreds of Martin's amusement fade under the soft, ever-so-slightly bitter tone of John's eventual reply. It makes sense, now that he thinks about it; it would never have occurred to him not only because he hadn't been able to imagine it flattering that he harbored any apparent doubts about John's integrity, in addition to just... well, not realizing this might be a new experience for John.

For a moment, he's not sure what to say. A few options rise up only to be dismissed at once: surely that's not true doing no one any good, and any anecdote about how long he managed to feel jealous of Georgie — to say nothing of everyone John's ever got on well with — unthinkable for a variety of reasons. It doesn't change that this is, to John, something only Martin has, would ever experience.

But he's more than certain pity isn't the right response. He doesn't think anyone's ever been jealous over him, either, John included, but it isn't a feeling he thinks he misses, and the idea of anyone feeling sorry for him over it is kind of horrible. He imagines John wouldn't have felt that way either until suddenly presented with it. Perhaps, then, it has less to do with John's own relative likability and more to do with his, Martin's, own capacity to feel this way.

"Well," he says firmly after a moment, leaning down to plant a soft, lingering kiss at the base of John's neck. Despite his confident tone, he still doesn't quite know what he's about to say, and it surprises him slightly when it ends up being: "Perhaps that's because I defeated them all in single combat."

Absurd is better than maudlin, he thinks, and he decides to lean into it, sitting back up and resuming the care of John's back and shoulders. "So those entities had better watch out," he adds, "and Norah had better not get any ideas, either."

Edited 2023-06-07 02:48 (UTC)

John plucks at the bedspread in front of his nose, an anxious fidget, while he waits for Martin to respond. Deliberately flying in the face of whatever mood Martin was cultivating was more fun when he was stubbornly dragging things up, not down; now, he just feels like an arse. If Martin was able to set aside his own jealousy in the interest of having a good time, the least John ought to be able to do is to stop being so goddamn precious over his own reaction to it. As if liking someone else's jealousy is any more legitimate — or less ridiculous — than being jealous in the first place.

He can still feel the heat of his own blush, undiminished, but now it's solely because he knows he's being a child, and isn't sure how to steer things right again. It doesn't seem fair to expect Martin to salvage things on his own. So it's with a startled blink that he notes Martin's airy, matter-of-fact tone, and an even more startled bark of laughter over the remark that follows. Thank Christ. Sympathy or comfort would've ruined him; this, he can handle.

He nudges the pillow up a few inches with one hand; the other flaps a bit clumsily in Martin's general direction before finding his shin and then curling around his calf in a light, fond clasp. "I think I can about guarantee you that she won't," he replies drily, looking back at Martin over his shoulder. Then he lets his eyes fall shut, finally beginning to relax again under Martin's ministrations.

After a few moments, his tone lapsed back into a lulled hum, he murmurs, "It's only you, Martin. It'll only ever be you." That's all he'd wanted him to understand — something he would've otherwise sworn Martin already knew, no atypically enthusiastic reminders necessary.

Martin grins broadly, delighted (and relieved) that his jokes seem to have landed; he hums his acknowledgment of John's rejoinder, part acceptance and a smaller, facetious part more of a 'see that she doesn't.' Then he settles as John does, mystery solved, equilibrium re-established, easing back into the simple pleasure of kneading John gently beneath his hands.

That might've been that, if John had remained quiet. But he speaks again, soft and deeply, unbearably sincere, and Martin goes still, his breath catching his chest, not quite making it out for the Oh shaped by his lips.

It's only a brief hesitation. That it's being uttered at all, and with such intensely tender phrasing, is more a surprise than the sentiment itself. But it cannot go without answer, and Martin leans back down, redoubling his efforts to loosen John's muscles even as he presses a kiss to John's hair; then finds that lacking, and keeps kissing around toward John's cheek until he drags his hands back up and coaxes John to turn into him, needing him, just for a moment. "Come here," he murmurs as their lips finally meet.

There is a brief pause, during which the corners of John's mouth tick up the faintest fraction in anticipation. It might not be a shocking sentiment — it shouldn't be, really; that it ought to go without saying is the afternoon's thesis statement — but he still expects it to net an agreeable reaction. 'What kind' is the only real question, and he lets out a pleased little coo when Martin resumes kneading him with a vengeance and leans down to kiss his hair. And the kisses continue, Martin blazing a deliberate trail towards John's mouth, and any further attempts to be facetious collapse in favor of a bashful giggle. Even for the sake of lightening the mood, he can't pretend he was angling for anything, or that his delight is anything but sincere.

John barely needs to be coaxed to turn over. He follows Martin willingly, his hands lighting on Martin's arms and drifting up to his shoulders as he hums softly against his lips.

Martin kisses him, slowly, gently; Martin kisses him, warm and close. Martin kisses him like he's the only thing that matters (and he is). He echoes the hum with one of his own, an answer and an invitation, yes, you, this. He lets his weight shift; he lets his body down, curled up alongside John's, pressed to the long line of him. One arm fits neatly around the small of John's back, hands close, holding him steady. He does not stop kissing him.

Martin meets him with gratitude and with care, with humor, with playfulness, with wonder and devotion, with deepest sincerity and above all, with trust. He whispers, "I love you," to John's lips, because there are no other words. He lets his forehead come to rest against John's, their noses brushing, a small, astonished smile touching his lips. He never thought he would be so happy and he never thought he would bear it with such grace. "I love you."

He isn't finished with the massage, does not want to indicate that he is. He stays there a moment, but his hand wanders up toward John's shoulder, gentle but intent. A soft nudge is all, a suggestion of more, if John is ready.

It is John's turn to simply acquiesce, his hands curling loose and almost demure against Martin's chest as Martin settles himself alongside him, a parallel sprawl. Fitting, a distant part of him thinks, that he should also have the opportunity to give himself over, to place himself in Martin's hands because there is nowhere else he would rather be, and because that is where Martin wants him. Less dramatic than what happened on the couch, perhaps, but no less necessary to complete the larger picture. John wants him, but also wants to be his — to surrender himself to Martin's keeping, to extend a measure of trust that no one else's fond feelings could or would ever wring from him. Christ, what could anyone else hope to offer him that would even begin to compare with this?

So he meets each kiss readily, open and pliant beneath Martin's hands and lips. His pleasure is telegraphed through quiet sighs, as if anything louder might constitute an interruption. It isn't until after Martin's whispered pronouncement that he feels compelled to speak, his nose brushing against Martin's in a small, gentle nuzzle as he whispers back, "I'm yours."

This is where things tend to wind down, the two of them breathing softly together until sleep takes them (and never mind that it's getting on towards dinner time; a nap would take precedence). So it's a slight surprise when Martin's hand returns to his shoulder. A surprise, but not an unwelcome one. John's not about to say no to more back rubs, and he gives Martin a small, bright smile before rolling back onto his front. The smile lingers as he resettles himself, feeling very pampered indeed.

John's soft reply has no business feeling as profound as it does; it's a sentiment they've each shared before, in many ways. But in light of the afternoon they've had, it seems unusually momentous. It's the final word on the matter; a closing statement so powerful there can be no argument. Martin answers it only with a tender smile, warmth swelling in his chest; then it's back to work as John reorients himself. Taking care of him is imperative, more important than anything else ever could or will be.

Martin always tries to be thorough with these, to devote as much care and attention as John's just devoted to him. He wants John to feel him; he wants to mend as much as he simply enjoys touching him. No one else gets to have this, and it is a privilege not to be handled lightly.

So he takes his sweet time. No more questions, no more disruptions. He allows John to rest, feeling him gradually relax by softening degrees beneath his hands like a physical proof of intense mutual trust. He works until he can feel John starting to drift, and then he slows, gentles, draws his hands away and settles down alongside him, curling an arm around him to pull him close. There, he thinks.

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A Perfect Waste of Time

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