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martin blackwood

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John had thought that he was prepared for this. It's not unusual for muggy days to give way to stormy evenings, and he keeps a small umbrella in his bag in case the skies should open while he's en route from the Observatory to the Bramford. The arguable romance of getting caught in an unexpected downpour need not apply when one is alone, after all — and it's easier to recover himself after the fact if he can at least keep his head dry.

But this isn't just an unexpected downpour, and the deluge quickly grows beyond anything his little umbrella was designed to handle. The wind kicks up, forcing him to make some hasty adjustments to keep it from turning inside out or being whisked out of his hands — adjustments that don't really take keeping his head dry into consideration. Moments later, a flash of lightning and an almost immediate crack of thunder leave him questioning not just the umbrella's utility, but the wisdom of continuing to hold a metal implement over his head. He'd probably survive getting struck by lightning, but Christ, that doesn't mean he feels like extending it a bloody invitation.

Fuck it. He closes the umbrella and clutches his bag to his chest, hunching forward a little to try and shield it with his body, and breaks into an embarrassed (and increasingly waterlogged) shuffling trot.

By the time he reaches the Bramford, he's shivering, miserable, and hauling what feels like an additional stone of bloody water weight in every stitch of his clothes. Probably looks like he's just emerged from the goddamn ocean, too. He wrestles the front door open, then squelches down the hall, half-blinded by the rainwater still coursing out of his hair. He has to pick out the flat key and cram it into the lock by feel, and the doorknob squeaks under his hand as he wrestles it open.

"Ugh," he announces as he finally steps inside and then stops in his tracks, doing his best to contain his dripping to the little island of their welcome mat. "It's fucking sheeting."

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If he'd given much thought to anything beyond his immediate discomfort, he might have anticipated a ready cup of tea, but Martin meets him at the door with far more prepared than just a hot kettle. He's divested of the umbrella, which Martin pops open to dry — "Bad luck, that," John mumbles as rain drips off his nose — and then a towel is draped over his head, and his vision clears enough to see that Martin's got a second one standing by. "Oh — Christ, thank you."

It won't do much for him until he's out of his wet things, though. Well, one step at a time.

He offers his bag to Martin's waiting hands so he can give his hair a vigorous rub and pat his face dry, though clearing the rainwater from his vision has the drawback of allowing him a good look at himself. His shirt is doing a credible impression of cellophane, his vest beneath only offers a suggestion of increased opacity, and his trousers have gone from dove grey to something more like charcoal. He groans to himself, then drops the damp towel onto the floor. At least he can deposit his wet clothes on that instead of just letting them slap down onto the tiles.

A roll of thunder rumbles across the breadth of the city, and John winces, peeling his shirt away from his torso and picking apart the buttons. The sodden fabric clings to him as if it consciously objects to being removed, and as John clumsily divests himself of shirt and vest, shoes and trousers, his face screws up in increasingly petulant disgust. "This is awful," he says, mentally gearing himself up for the removal of his socks. Then, self-pity outweighing any lingering hope of dignity, he adds a dour, "I'm never going outside again."

Martin dutifully takes John's bag and sets it gingerly aside before waiting as he strips away all his wet clothes with clear discomfort. Martin clicks his tongue in soft sympathy, though he can't help smiling at John's absolutely pitiful remark.

"It must be bad if you're worrying about our bad luck," he teases gently with a nod to the umbrella. He waits for the socks to go before wrapping the other towel around John's shoulders, pulling it close in an effort to warm him. "Poor darling. We'll get you all sorted."

The kettle starts to whistle, and The Bishop roams over to investigate the pile of wet clothes at John's feet. "Now, now," Martin says as he bends down to scoop it all up, leaving The Bishop to dote on John instead. He straightens and makes for the kitchen, switching the kettle off before heading into the WC to drape the garments over the edge of the tub. Best to let them drip out a little before dumping them in the hamper. Then he bustles off to the bedroom, fetching John's robe and hurrying back to trade it for the other towel.

"You go and have a sit," he says firmly. "I'll get that tea."

"Can't be too careful," John says with an illustrative gesture at himself, his tone the only part of him that's as dry as he'd like it to be. Despite the second towel draped around his shoulders, he's starting to shiver. Giving himself a vigorous scrub with said towel helps a little, at least insofar as it keeps him moving and banishes the worst of the chill, but there's no chance of him starting to warm up while he's still stood in the entryway, mostly nude and only nominally dry. Even The Bishop can't do much for him; it would feel mean-spirited to cuddle the cat while he's still a bit damp, and while the way he rubs himself against John's shins is sweet, it isn't particularly effective.

He's having to work to keep his teeth from chattering by the time Martin returns with the very welcome sight of his robe. It's been too warm for him to wear it much lately, even with how cool he tends to run; now, he could about weep with gratitude at the mere sight of it. "Perfect, thank you," he sighs, wrapping it snugly around himself and tying the belt with minimal fumbling. It's an immediate improvement, and he bends to scoop up the cat, cradling him against his chest like a purring hot water bottle as he finally heads further into the flat to collapse onto the couch.

The prospect of tea is just enticing enough that he refrains from immediately whining at Martin to come join him. But he still allows himself to be theatrically wretched, his head lolling back against the cushions as the cat purrs against his chest. Rain lashes the window behind him as if the storm is still trying to target him, specifically, and both John and The Bishop start as another crack of thunder rings out, this one close enough that he actually feels it through the bloody floor. "Jesus," he mutters, lifting his head to look back at the kitchen. "All right in there?"

Edited 2024-08-11 03:50 (UTC)

Martin has, quite fortunately, only just finished preparing their tea when the thunder erupts, and he jumps with a little shriek of surprise that is mostly lost in the continuing rumble. That was a narrowly avoided disaster; if he'd had the tea in hand, it would've ended up on the floor, and possibly the mugs as well.

"All right," he answers, a bit harried but only more determined to get sorted as fast as possible. He grabs a small dish for the teabags and carries the whole lot over, managing to keep steady even as another great crash rings out around them.

"Christ, it's right on top of us." He sets down his own mug and the dish, offering John's to him directly, so he might start warming his hands a little faster. The poor Bishop has by now fled beneath the couch, but he may come back out once they're both settled. Not quite yet, though. "I'm just getting a blanket," he says, heading into the hall for their linen closet. It hasn't been blanket season for a while, but this is a special case.

He rummages around in the closet for the softest, largest blanket they have, and no sooner has he found it than a third thunderclap startles him as badly as the first, and then the closet light abruptly switches off, plunging him into deep and sudden darkness.

"Oh, come on," he says, lifting his voice so John can hear him down the hall.

John takes the cup with a murmured, "Cheers, love," though he doesn't do more than hold onto it. Aside from being too hot to drink, he doesn't fancy attempting any delicate maneuvering when there's decent odds that an ill-timed thunderclap will have him just spilling it right down his front.

Sure enough, moments after Martin bustles off to retrieve a blanket, there's another almighty crash from the heavens, swiftly followed by a total loss of power. The living room falls into a deep gloom, the cloud cover so heavy that only a faint suggestion of daylight ekes its way through the windows. Which means that the hall closet — from which Martin's peevish complaint emerges — must have hardly any light at all.

"Hang on," John calls back, setting down his cup. His phone is still in his bag, but Martin left his on the coffee table, and the flashlight function doesn't require mucking about with passcodes. Aiming the LED glow at the floor, John makes his way to the closet.

Martin's found their best blanket, at least. "Here, I'll trade you," John says, offering him his phone and tucking the blanket under one arm. Then, as much because he's annoyed by how long this has already been deferred as because they're both rattled now, he wraps his free arm around Martin and pulls himself close, answering a deeper rumble of thunder with a grumble of his own as he nuzzles into Martin's hair. "Now it's just being melodramatic," he says in the tone of someone who is above such histrionics, always has been, and always will be. "Embarrassing, really."

Martin doesn't much fancy the prospect of fumbling his way back through the dark with a blanket big enough to trip on, but John is quick to come to his rescue, lighting their way with his phone. Martin takes it gratefully, handing off the blanket, but before he can start back to the relative comfort of the couch, John pulls him in for a much overdue hug. Martin lets out a soft murmur of surprise before wrapping his arms around John's middle and eagerly pressing close.

"It's ridiculous," he agrees with a little grin, tipping his head to the side so he can more comfortably rest against John's chest, listening to his heartbeat. They can't stay like this for long — he needs to conserve his phone's battery, if nothing else — but it's worth just a few extra moments.

"My hero," he says, unable to keep a straight face as he looks up at John with a cheeky smirk. He's been moving nonstop since John arrived, so focused on helping him get comfortable that he hadn't even realized how much he'd missed the usual opportunity to just appreciate his return. Now, his smile softens and he leans up to kiss him gently, steadfastly refusing to flinch even as the storm continues its onslaught.

Despite all the fussing and pampering, it isn't until Martin's arms are around him that John feels as if he's actually arrived home. The tension he'd been carrying finally eases, knots loosening in his shoulders and back, and he hums softly against Martin's lips. The next clap of thunder still jangles his nerves, but he manages not to physically start at the sound (though it does prompt him to break the kiss, slow and gentle, to avoid tempting fate).

"I suppose we should grab some candles as well, since we're in the neighborhood," he says, scanning the shelves in the indirect glow of Martin's phone light. They aren't in the habit of burning candles often, but this just means they've amassed a small but respectable collection that have yet to be used up, both of the 'romantic dinner' variety and the 'seasonally scented behemoths with at least two wicks' subtype. He reaches for one of the latter and hefts it long enough to read the label: Mulled Cider, apparently. "Here's one for the kitchen," he says, pressing one last kiss to Martin's hair before exiting the closet and picking his way towards the slightly brighter gloom of the living room with the blanket bunched under his arm and the candle clutched against his chest.

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