"We could put out a tip jar," John suggests, pleased that Martin is steady enough to play along a bit. It suggests that the worst is over, and that there's little standing between them and an extended cuddle on the couch. Besides the need for a new shirt, that is.
John steps back a little as Martin crouches to pet The Bishop, one hand resting lightly against the wall as he steps out of his shoes. By now, the pain in his chest has mostly faded, leaving behind a faint itch that might be psychosomatic — or even just a result of the hole in his shirt and the corresponding draft. He's not accustomed to being able to feel the bloody breeze on one relatively small portion of his chest.
He knows it'll help to just put on a fresh shirt. That doing so doubles as hiding the evidence is a slightly uncomfortable convenience, but perhaps it's just as well. Having the new scar on bloody display doesn't seem likely to ease Martin's mind, and he prefers to do his own morbid examinations in private.
He also knows now would be a bad time to just leave Martin alone, so he waits until Martin has finished greeting the cat, suppressing the urge to push his own fingers into Martin's hair while his head is at such a convenient height for it. When Martin offers his hand, John takes it with a faint smile, helping him back to his feet.
"Come on," he says, leaning down to kiss Martin's brow before leading him back to the bedroom, keeping ahold of his hand until he has to release him so he can undo the surviving buttons. Feels a bit ridiculous, the way his shirt sort of falls open as soon as the top two buttons are undone, and the way he still has to keep unbuttoning the damn thing below the hole — as if it forfeited any right to structural integrity once the blast hit, and has no business being so obnoxious now. Not that he has any right to complain when the alternative would've been him losing his shirt in the middle of the damn park.
He shucks the remains of the garment off and rolls it into a small bundle (the easier to stuff into the nearest bin), glancing over at Martin as he does so. He's made no real attempt to turn away — he's largely past that particular sort of modesty, and he thinks that attempting to hide things would be just as bad as overtly showing them off. But he does want to make sure Martin's okay, and if a hasty quarter-turn would help, he'll do it.
no subject
John steps back a little as Martin crouches to pet The Bishop, one hand resting lightly against the wall as he steps out of his shoes. By now, the pain in his chest has mostly faded, leaving behind a faint itch that might be psychosomatic — or even just a result of the hole in his shirt and the corresponding draft. He's not accustomed to being able to feel the bloody breeze on one relatively small portion of his chest.
He knows it'll help to just put on a fresh shirt. That doing so doubles as hiding the evidence is a slightly uncomfortable convenience, but perhaps it's just as well. Having the new scar on bloody display doesn't seem likely to ease Martin's mind, and he prefers to do his own morbid examinations in private.
He also knows now would be a bad time to just leave Martin alone, so he waits until Martin has finished greeting the cat, suppressing the urge to push his own fingers into Martin's hair while his head is at such a convenient height for it. When Martin offers his hand, John takes it with a faint smile, helping him back to his feet.
"Come on," he says, leaning down to kiss Martin's brow before leading him back to the bedroom, keeping ahold of his hand until he has to release him so he can undo the surviving buttons. Feels a bit ridiculous, the way his shirt sort of falls open as soon as the top two buttons are undone, and the way he still has to keep unbuttoning the damn thing below the hole — as if it forfeited any right to structural integrity once the blast hit, and has no business being so obnoxious now. Not that he has any right to complain when the alternative would've been him losing his shirt in the middle of the damn park.
He shucks the remains of the garment off and rolls it into a small bundle (the easier to stuff into the nearest bin), glancing over at Martin as he does so. He's made no real attempt to turn away — he's largely past that particular sort of modesty, and he thinks that attempting to hide things would be just as bad as overtly showing them off. But he does want to make sure Martin's okay, and if a hasty quarter-turn would help, he'll do it.