A Perfect Waste of Time

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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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[loficharm]

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.

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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.

[loficharm]

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.

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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.

[loficharm]

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.