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The flat is dark when John finally lets himself back in. It's neither a surprise nor a disappointment, really — it was already edging towards 'late' when he left a few hours prior, and he hadn't wanted or expected Martin to wait up for him. But after the relative hubbub at hospital, the quiet stillness feels pronounced; every faint creak of the floorboards or jingle of his keys is an intrusion that makes him grimace like a child caught sneaking out of bed.
Not that anyone's awake to catch him, save The Bishop, who appears at the end of the hallway as John edges his way towards the loo. He bends to give the cat an apologetic scritch before slipping into the bathroom, where he brushes his teeth without bothering to turn on the light. He reminds himself that he doesn't resent the summons — there was no one else to call, and while Mizu's behavior had been... dramatic... they'd also had a more difficult arrival than most — but Christ, it could've been better timed.
Well, it could have been worse, too. At least it's edging into Sunday and not a weekday. He can have a lie-in. It'll be fine.
He still feels increasingly disgruntled as he shucks his outer layers and then makes his careful way into the bedroom. It's complacency, he realizes as he sets his shirt and trousers in the hamper: he hasn't been keeping intentionally odd hours in quite some time, and while he's still capable of getting by on little sleep, he doesn't want to. He wants to go to bed with Martin, as has become their habit. Slipping between the covers at some ungodly hour and trying not to rouse his partner isn't a practice he misses, and having to resort to it for reasons he didn't anticipate or choose feels just a bit unfair.
The bedroom's relative silence is broken when John goes for his pajamas — even with the care he's taking, the drawer rumbles like the bloody boulder rolling away from Christ's tomb — and he winces outright before hurriedly fishing out a pair of joggers and letting the drawer shut. Doesn't even bother with a shirt. He's caused enough trouble. Once he's managed to pull the joggers on, he moves to his side of the bed and gingerly slides beneath the covers, keeping an anxious eye on Martin to see if he's accidentally roused him.
Not that anyone's awake to catch him, save The Bishop, who appears at the end of the hallway as John edges his way towards the loo. He bends to give the cat an apologetic scritch before slipping into the bathroom, where he brushes his teeth without bothering to turn on the light. He reminds himself that he doesn't resent the summons — there was no one else to call, and while Mizu's behavior had been... dramatic... they'd also had a more difficult arrival than most — but Christ, it could've been better timed.
Well, it could have been worse, too. At least it's edging into Sunday and not a weekday. He can have a lie-in. It'll be fine.
He still feels increasingly disgruntled as he shucks his outer layers and then makes his careful way into the bedroom. It's complacency, he realizes as he sets his shirt and trousers in the hamper: he hasn't been keeping intentionally odd hours in quite some time, and while he's still capable of getting by on little sleep, he doesn't want to. He wants to go to bed with Martin, as has become their habit. Slipping between the covers at some ungodly hour and trying not to rouse his partner isn't a practice he misses, and having to resort to it for reasons he didn't anticipate or choose feels just a bit unfair.
The bedroom's relative silence is broken when John goes for his pajamas — even with the care he's taking, the drawer rumbles like the bloody boulder rolling away from Christ's tomb — and he winces outright before hurriedly fishing out a pair of joggers and letting the drawer shut. Doesn't even bother with a shirt. He's caused enough trouble. Once he's managed to pull the joggers on, he moves to his side of the bed and gingerly slides beneath the covers, keeping an anxious eye on Martin to see if he's accidentally roused him.
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Date: 2024-09-05 11:02 pm (UTC)From:"Is that so?" John lifts his head, shifting in the circle of Martin's arms until he's able to prop himself up, Martin's face below his, Martin's rather self-satisfied expression just visible in the faint, ambient city glow that leaks through the blinds. "Well." John bends to give Martin a leisurely kiss, tasting a faint trace of mint from their shared toothpaste, then draws back just enough to murmur, "I suppose I could be persuaded."