loficharm | Snowfall

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Snowfall

Martin watches the snow come down with a pensive expression, chewing his lip and mindlessly cradling a half-drunk cup of tea to his chest. It is, as was predicted, really coming down. They’d sent Kat and Eliot home a little early so they could beat the worst of it, but now, as Martin waits for John to finish recording a Statement, he fears the worst of it is upon them. Or starting to be upon them. It may keep up like this for a while yet.

He ticks through the options in his head. Depending on how much longer John has to go—and Martin knows interrupting him is out of the question—they could forego most of the closing process and just head out as promptly as possible. Neither of them have outerwear particularly suited to this amount of precipitation, but they could make it home if they really needed to. The Bramford isn’t far; close enough to make calling a taxi overkill, and they might have better luck on foot anyway. But it wouldn’t very enjoyable; they’d get home cold and wet and it would be a whole thing.

Or they could stay late and try to wait it out. It isn’t a blizzard, it’s not like they’re trapped. The snowfall is gentle and actually rather lovely to look at. They have some provisions here if they get hungry; it’s warm and dry and there’s reasonably cozy seating scattered about. No reason they couldn’t just lock up and… allow themselves to be a bit snowed in.

The more he thinks about it, the more he finds he kind of likes that idea. There’s something sort of romantic about it, or adventurous in the most mild of ways; breaking their own routine, committing themselves to the whims of the weather. The sort of low-stakes spontaneity he tends to enjoy in small doses. This way, he won’t have to rush John out the moment he’s done reading his Statement. It’s usually better to let him soak it in a bit after. They can just take their time and… enjoy the quiet, and each other’s company.

So he heads back toward John’s office. The door is closed, and he can hear the low murmur of his voice from within. He waits a little while, making no effort to listen closely, until the drone stops and he hears John take a breath. A few seconds more, and Martin raises a hand to knock gently.

“All done?” he says as John calls him in, stepping in and around to settle a hand on John’s back. “So it’s really picked up out there, and I was wondering… maybe we ought to stay here for a while. Wait it out in relative comfort. I mean, at least until it’s not coming down quite so heavily. Could get some more work done, or just… kick our feet up. What do you think?”

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John had regarded the morning's forecast with some initial skepticism. Winter has been more wet than snowy so far, and he wouldn't have been surprised if the predicted totals were much higher than what they eventually got. But he supposes it would only take a few inches to make traffic a mess, and the downside to typically mild winters is an infrastructure that isn't built to handle the rare outliers.

So by lunch, he's already resigned himself to a slippery walk home. It could be worse: it's only a few blocks, and they'll probably make better time on foot than they would if they called a cab. And it's not like they haven't muddled their way to the Bramford in inclement weather before. It might even qualify as romantic.

But when Martin comes into his office and suggests a different approach, John's can't deny the appeal. "Has it?" he asks, leaning back into the press of Martin's hand — a move that requires straightening out of his habitual hunch, which in turn elicits a faint crack of protest from his spine. "I suppose giving them more time to clear the pavement before we strike out couldn't hurt." He looks up at Martin with a wry smile. "Unless you'd like to make 'struggling home through inclement weather' into a thing."

Martin smiles fondly as John leans back, and lets out a soft coo of sympathy at the familiar crack of his spine.

"Tempting," he says, humming fondly at the memory of their long ago run home in the rain. His other hand joins the first, one at each of John's shoulders, and he slips naturally into a gentle massage, something that's become a bit of a habit whenever he's collecting John after a long period hunched at his desk.

"But on the other hand," he says, "it is very warm and dry in here. I could make us some tea, or... no, wait. I could make cocoa." He grins, letting up on his subtle ministrations to instead offer John a hand up. "Would you like some cocoa?"

The little massages have become habitual, but John doesn't even begin to take them for granted. They're such a pleasant departure from a lackluster norm, and he sighs quietly as Martin works, his eyes falling shut. It might be a small thing, especially compared to the more thorough massages Martin might give him at home, but it's still enough to banish any tension he'd been unconsciously holding onto.

It's absorbing enough that his initial response to Martin's commentary is just a vague, drowsy hum. But then Martin draws his hands away, and John blinks his eyes open just in time to register the question.

"I wouldn't say no," he replies, taking the offered hand and letting Martin help lever him to his feet. It's a nostalgic choice of beverage, but that's rather the point: to indulge in their immunity to the weather by making themsevles as comfortable as possible. Part of him wonders if there isn't something a little perverse in the idea of framing the Archive as a cozy refuge, but if it's just the two of them... well, it isn't so different from hunkering down in their own flat.

"How bad is it?" he asks as they leave his office, and he lets go Martin's hand so he can amble up front and peer out the windows. 'Very bad' turns out to be the answer: the roads are a proper mess, and most of the sidewalk that he can see is just variably trampled, not cleared. It would make for a miserable walk to the Bramford, and John instinctively curls his arms around himself as he takes it all in. "Christ," he mutters. It might not be bad enough to snow them in, not really, but it might also be a long wait before braving the sidewalks becomes a tenable prospect.

"Yeah," Martin agrees, frowning briefly at the rapidly worsening mess of it before noting John's posture, hugging himself like he's caught up imagining the hunched, miserable walk home. Martin moves in close and slips his arms around him, drawing his attention gently. It's a rather tentative preamble to a proper embrace, as though he's not quite sure of his footing; this is a fairly foreign gesture at work, after all, even when it's just the two of them. But the pull to offer comfort to even a passing, imagined misery is far stronger than even the most instinctual propriety.

"I'll put the kettle on," he says with a reassuring smile, though he makes no move to pull away just yet. He reaches up with one hand, chasing a rather romantic whim, and cups his fingers around the back of John's neck, his thumb brushing through the edges of his hair. "Why don't you get the blanket from the cot, and we'll have a nice sit-in. I'm sure it'll pass in no time."

He isn't sure of that at all, both because he's not sure that's how snow works, and because he's quite sure that's now how Darrow works, but that isn't really the point. Time will pass quicker when they're just free to enjoy each other's company in relative comfort, and that's all he's presently interested in.

John isn't anticipating the embrace; they generally keep things professional at work, and any mild exceptions to that rule tend to occur in his office. But it's not as if he's going to object to it. No one else is here, and professionalism feels lower on the priority list than it might be otherwise. So he smiles, a little surprised but no less pleased for that, and turns to give Martin his focus, instead. He uncurls his arms from around himself and settles his hands at Martin's sides, his thumbs gently brushing against Martin's jumper.

He hums quietly, both in response to Martin's words and to the comforting pressure of his hand curling around the back of his neck. It's not unusual for them, but it's unusual for here, and he can't help feeling a bit spoiled.

It's an impression that only solidifies when Martin suggests he fetch the blanket. "Not doing this by halves," he murmurs, leaning in to press an impulsive little kiss to Martin's forehead. "Right. You handle the cocoa, and I'll handle the seating."

He doubles back to his office, already thinking of fetching more than the blanket. They could push a couple of chairs close enough together for sharing the blanket to be feasible, but it wouldn't be ideal. And if they really mean to hunker down here for a few hours, they might as well go all out. He haphazardly folds the blanket enough to make it easier to carry, and then bundles up the cot's mattress and pillow and carries the lot out front, near the larger of the two windows. Then he circles back for the frame.

By the time Martin's finished making the cocoa, John's reassembled the cot along the wall, where they'll have a comfortable view of the snow outside. "I thought this would make blanket-sharing easier," he explains, said blanket already draped over his legs. He draws it back a little in implicit invitation, canting his head towards the spot beside him.

Martin is aware of a great deal more movement and shuffling than he'd anticipated, but he just smiles to himself and keeps to his task, wanting to allow John to set up whatever it is he's setting up. Soon enough he's carrying two mugs carefully out to the front, where he finds John has brought not just the blanket but he entire cot. Martin almost laughs but stifles his amused delight to avoid spilling their drinks.

"I daresay it will," he says a bit primly, and leans down to offer John his cup before settling in beside him. The cot creaks a little beneath them both, but it's comfortable enough, especially tucked under the blanket and nestled alongside John. Martin gazes out at the snow for a bit, letting out a soft, approving hum, then lets his head come to rest on John's shoulder.

"Such decadence," he remarks after a moment, halfway to laughing at himself for it.

They have left normality in the dust with this whole arrangement, but it still manages to surprise him when Martin settles himself right beside him, his head eventually coming to rest on John's shoulder. It's only the location that makes it atypical, John knows that, but he's quietly charmed by it all the same. And when he turns to nuzzle Martin's hair, he can't help doing so as if it's some precious new thing that he's only just been allowed — or like they're both getting away with something.

"And in full view of the window," he adds, not lifting his head, but staying close to breathe him in. "It's almost obscene."

"Mmm." Martin smiles, resettling himself softly as John nuzzles into his hair. He chuckles at the mention of the window and turns his head as if he can hide himself against John's shoulder.

"Suppose we'll just have to behave ourselves, then," he offers playfully, withdrawing with a small, slightly reluctant sigh, and straightening up to have another sip of his cocoa.

"Suppose we shall," John agrees with a similarly rueful air, leaning back against the wall and cradling his own cup in his lap.

Not that his concern is the least bit genuine. For all that they're sitting so close to the window, he reckons the odds of them being observed are rather slim. There are few people struggling down the thoroughfare by now, and those who are are probably far more concerned with not falling over than they are with peeping into shop windows with prurient interest. But that hardly matters for the purposes of the game they're playing, and John lifts his cup to take a small, polite sip.

"Bad enough that we're unchaperoned," he says. "We're already no better than we ought to be." He takes another pensive sip. "Though I suppose, if we're already ruined..." he tips his head with a playful little frown, glancing over at Martin and leaving him to fill in the blank.

Martin blinks at him, a little bemused at his rather archaic turns of phrase, though that isn't enough to stop the blush that colors his cheeks at the way John looks at him. The playfulness of his frown, the look in his eyes. His own eyes dart away quickly, his lips curling up in a warm smile as he takes another sip.

"Mr. Sims," he says, lightly scandalized. "Giving up our integrity so easily?" He leans over ever so slightly, nudging John with his shoulder. "Just what kind of man do you think I am?"

He has to bite back a grin at Martin's little nudge, and he takes another slow sip of cocoa while he considers how best to answer the wonderfully broad question Martin's just put before him.

"Oh, an honorable one, I assure you," John says. "And far too principled to engage in any inappropriate workplace behavior." He takes another prim sip before laying down his next proverbial card. "Regardless of how often you may have... considered the idea."

It's more of a bluff than Martin might guess. Despite the occasional accident, John really does try to keep his potential omniscience to himself as much as he can. And that especially applies to their relationship: honest communication is too important to both of them for John to take the lazier route of plucking information out of the air.

But he doesn't have to Know Martin to know him, and he's well aware that Martin often considers the idea of something well before he gets around to asking for it. He also knows Martin is far too professional to request something like 'fooling around in the office,' irrespective of its personal appeal. Just because it hasn't come up doesn't mean Martin hasn't thought about it. At length, even.

"Hypothetically, of course," John adds, watching Martin out of the corner of his eye. "You are a consummate professional."

Martin's little smile turns to an outright grin as John carries on with the lofty back-and-forth they've started; it's ridiculous, they're ridiculous, and he loves that, how easy it is to slip into this sort of nonsense, how natural it's become and how little it scrapes against the near-constant backdrop of his self-consciousness. He looks at John, about to lay down some retort, but John beats him to the punch, adding a throwaway aside that promptly wipes out whatever clever things Martin might have said.

His blush deepens to the point where his ears feel quite hot, and he can only stammer for a moment, struggling for a response when his mind is unhelpfully abuzz. Is that a guess or something he's directly intuited? Except John would never be so smug about it if it were something he'd Known, so...

So it was a guess, and Martin is as obvious now as he presumably always is.

John speaks again, teasing him even more pointedly, and Martin looks away, far too late to hide how flustered he is. Still, his embarrassment doesn't come anywhere close to mortification — it's the kind of being caught that feels sort of thrilling, despite how much he also wants to hide himself fully under this blanket.

"I-I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he manages anyway, not wanting to break character, so to speak, and lifts his cocoa for another, more generous sip.

Martin turns a rather fetching shade of pink, and it's all John can do to keep from grinning outright. He's well aware that he's being a shit, but it's not as if that's so unusual, really. Particularly where games such as this one are concerned. So he waits, patient and unrepentant, for Martin to scrape together enough wherewithal to respond. And he does, once again lobbing the ball squarely down the center of the proverbial court, leaving John with a wealth of options on the return.

"Oh?" he starts, eyebrows lifting in apparent surprise. "You mean to say you've never considered... ducking into the stacks, or shutting us both in one of our offices, away from any prying eyes? Never imagined me, say, pinning you against one of our desks?" Both options are such established stereotypes that they require no great feats of imagination on his part; surely they've already occurred to Martin. Tipping his head a little in ostensible consideration (and taking care to school his expression), John adds, "And that's to say nothing of the creative uses we might find for the very cot upon which we sit."

He takes another sip of cocoa, mostly to stop himself laughing, then clears his throat. "Well, of course you haven't. Too honorable, as I said. I do hope I haven't ruined your good opinion of me by airing such scandalous ideas."

Martin wasn't fishing for anything — Christ, he didn't think he was. It was a colloquial response, not a literal grasp for information, and John bloody well knows that, of course. But it's all too obvious and easy for John to provide such information anyway, leaving Martin with his shoulders tensed up around his ears, frozen with his mug still raised to his lips as John outlines the possibilities.

Martin has imagined all of that, of course, particularly the pinning, the mention of which draws an almost hiccup-like sound that just manages to break through his otherwise desperately maintained silence. If John had really delved into his head on this, he would find all that and far more: a particularly embarrassing notion of John sweeping everything off his desk, for example, or the latent thrill Martin feels over the danger of discovery, the struggle to keep quiet lest the others should hear. These are among the oldest fantasies he's ever entertained, originating from a time long behind them now, when the Institute was the only place he had to imagine them, when he didn't know much about John or his particular proclivities, allowing for a range of daydreams that now feel grossly out of character. He never would think to suggest acting on them, not only because of how outdated they feel, but because he is a professional. Even at their most indulgent, it simply isn't practical: it's too small here to imagine getting away with much, and he's far too loud to allow for 'keeping quiet' to be a plausible challenge. But none of that really matters, because these aren't really suggestions. John is just doing what he does best — tormenting him, just with idle chatter instead of his hands or his mouth.

And it is working much the same. Martin has the same fluttery feeling in his stomach as his thoughts all too easily slip down the path John's drawn for him; he can't stop imagining it now, being held down on this cot, helpless, breathless, while John does whatever he likes with him.

Which is not helpful, but certainly not unwelcome. Martin shuts his eyes briefly as he takes a moment to pull himself together; not now, perhaps later, something nice to think about when he has a moment. Then he clears his throat, unintentionally echoing John, and after a few false starts he manages to say, "O-of course not."

For a moment he thinks that might be all he can manage, but there's still a thread of playfulness that runs through him, and he seizes onto it, venturing a sidelong glance and a wary smile. "I've always known you were a bit of a bastard."

'Bastard' is right, and John lets the facade slip just enough for a brief, shit-eating grin to shine through. "A bit," he agrees. It's only fair to concede the point, not least of all because even without the constraints of their collective professionalism, practicality imposes its own limitations on what they might reasonably do here. Their current configuration is a comfortable one that John is loathe to actually disturb, and while he enjoys winding Martin up, following that path to its inevitable conclusion would require a bit more pre-planning, here, than has ever been their habit.

In short: while he may be a bit of a bastard, he doesn't want his mouth to write any proverbial cheques, etc.

So he softens, and gives Martin a light nudge, as if to physically steer them into calmer waters. "Hardly deserving of you, really."

Martin chuckles, relaxing into John's affectionately telegraphed peace offering. It isn't difficult to let his more inconvenient fancies slip away for the moment; he hadn't been so wound up as all that, yet, and it is far easier and more desirable at the moment to return to a shared equilibrium.

John's last remark, though, simply won't do. Had he not said it so gently, Martin might be inclined to let out a heavy, put-upon sigh, to scold John for his self-deprecation, walking the line between playful and sincere. But now, playful doesn't quite fit anymore, and instead he just says softly, "I wouldn't go that far," and catches John's eyes with a bit more intent. He smiles, small and fond, studying him for a quiet moment. Then he leans over toward the window sill, setting his cup there carefully, turns back to John to take his cup and set it aside as well. Once they're both out of the way, he gives John another brief, assessing look before leaning in to kiss him.

It is fairly chaste but slow, thoughtful, an impulse pursued with great care. He lets himself linger, his mug-warmed fingers reaching up to brush along John's cheek, to lightly trace the line of his jaw. When he draws back, he doesn't go far, studying John again and smiling warmer still.

"You're everything I need," he murmurs, and lets his hand drop, settling back and reaching out to recover his cocoa as if that's all there is to say.

Edited 2021-01-25 18:19 (UTC)

He can't help but soften further under Martin's gentle, assessing gaze, a warm counterpoint to the sense of scrutiny he usually feels when he's at work. And when Martin deliberately sets his beverage aside before divesting John of his own cup, he lets out a soft, low chuckle. Martin's intentions are plain, and John's not about to argue with them. On the contrary, he sinks readily into the kiss that follows, his hand settling on Martin's middle and staying there, even after Martin has drawn back and recovered his cup.

"Well," John murmurs after a moment, his fingers idly drifting over the fabric of Martin's jumper. "How am I supposed to come up with a droll rejoinder to that?" He leans in a little, just enough to nuzzle into Martin's hair. "You've left me with no other option but sincerity. Dreadful."

He supposes he could retrieve his own beverage as well, but the more immediate pleasure of indulging in Martin's softness is difficult to deny himself — and warms him just as much, for that matter. So he stays put, puffing a soft, satisfied sigh against Martin's hair as his hand wanders a ponderous little circle against his middle.

Martin allows himself a rather smug smile as John settles in alongside him, a soft sigh and a hum sliding out as John nuzzles into his hair and strokes his belly. "S'right," he says, attempting to sound triumphant and coming out a bit sleepy. "Fell right into my trap, you did."

He takes another careful sip of his cocoa, presses a little kiss to John's hair, and leans against him to look out the window. Where moments ago he'd felt a bit playfully sheepish about the possibility of being seen by passers-by, now he can't find it in himself to care. Let them be seen, if anyone should look up in their struggle through the weather. They're fucking adorable and he's not ashamed about it.

Actually he's fairly certain if anyone does look he'll feel quite embarrassed; it's more that he doesn't want John to move or stop what he's doing. Hopefully the two won't conflict.

"Comfortable?" he asks, glancing at John's cocoa where he knows it's likely to sit until it's cold.

John's focus is narrowing to a point that no longer includes the window or anything beyond it — or the mug of hot chocolate, for that matter. He leaves off stroking Martin's belly in favor of simply pulling himself close, slouching a little so he can both curl his arms around Martin and rest his head on Martin's shoulder.

"Mmmhm," he replies, both to Martin's assessment and his question. It's a somewhat generous response to the latter: his back will probably start protesting the current arrangement before too long. But he's comfortable enough for the moment, and he thinks he's struck a good balance of being obnoxiously demonstrative without veering into anything inappropriate. Martin will simply have to put up with him.

"Mmhm," Martin echoes a bit dryly, knowing all too well that this positioning can't last long. But that won't be the end of the world either, he thinks. There might be some compromises they can find.

He resettles as John does, draping one arm loosely around around him and leaning over to kiss his head where it rests. He rubs a hand gently up and down the length of John's arm and sips his cocoa quietly, watching the snow fall outside.

An older man in a thick coat struggles into view, bullying his way through the thick of it, and as Martin watches him idly, something draws his attention and he does glance in.

Immediately Martin flushes bright red, tensing ever so slightly, staring back like a startled deer; but the man can hardly stop, barely taking more than a second to take in the tableau before moving on with his day, thinking god only knows what.

Martin clears his throat a bit more loudly than he'd have liked and takes another, heftier sip of his cocoa, giving John a bit more of a firm, companionable pat.

There's a justifiably dubious note to Martin's echo, but he still curls an arm around him and presses a kiss to John's hair, which is a victory as far as John is concerned. He shuts his eyes, humming in quiet acknowledgment when Martin runs his hand along his arm, and thinks that he's successfully dozed off in less comfortable positions than this.

And then Martin tenses beneath him. It's slight, but impossible to miss with John draped around him as he is, and John lifts his head just in time to catch the pedestrian struggling onward and out of sight. Presumably after looking through the window at them.

His suspicions are confirmed by Martin's blush and the bracing pat he gives him, and John has to bite back a grin. "Oh, dear. Were we spotted?" He lets his head drop back onto Martin's shoulder, apparently unconcerned, though a part of him can't help but wonder just what he missed — and, as often happens, the suggestion of a question is enough to earn him an answer. "For what it's worth, he nearly fell on the ice before he could form any opinions about us, which interrupted his train of thought entirely. Now he's just thinking about how he should've gone shopping earlier in the day."

Martin lifts his hand from John just long enough to bury his face in it for a moment, stifling an embarrassed giggle. He's honestly not sure if John is making this up or not, but it's a modest relief either way. He settles after a moment and drops his hand back down, smiling at John quite fondly before he leans over a kisses him again, one-two-three along his hairline. It's a little awkward, and after a moment more he says, "You can't really be comfortable like this, John."

"Hm? Are you encouraging me to get more comfortable?" John turns his head to press a kiss to Martin's shoulder, all the while considering a few loose interpretations of that implicit suggestion. All of them involve rather more embarrassing configurations than the one they're currently in, but then again, John's more than happy to rank comfort over potential embarrassment.

His own, anyway. If Martin finds this all a bit too much, that's another matter.

But for the moment, no one is passing by, so John allows himself a slow, dramatic slide into Martin's lap. "Like this?" he asks as he rolls gracelessly over, his legs tangling in the blanket a bit as he pivots on the mattress. "Something along these lines?" It takes some maneuvering, but he eventually manages to settle himself on his back, his head in Martin's lap and his legs sprawling off the foot of the cot. He grins up at Martin from this new vantage point, making a halfhearted attempt to tug the blanket back over himself. "Cozy."

Martin starts giggling helplessly as John answers him more or less the way he'd been hoping: by letting himself slip and wriggle down until he's settled more or less in Martin's lap, the whole process so ungainly and ridiculous that Martin only starts laughing harder when John pronounces himself Cozy. He curls over and presses a kiss to John's forehead, the angle a little too steep for it to be comfortable for him, but it's worth doing so once; then he reaches out and helps with the blanket, pulling it over John's legs to haphazardly tuck him in.

"Yes, exactly like that," he says, his amusement dissolving into pure fondness as he gazes down at John with a tender smile and starts absently stroking his hair. He knows John might easily fall asleep like this, but that wouldn't be so terrible. He'd quite like it, he thinks. Just taking care of him while he has a nap, the two of them waiting out the storm. So his smile deepens a bit, and he adds softly, "Perfect."

"Oh, good," John replies, turning his head to give Martin's belly a brief nuzzle. "Glad we've reached a compromise."

Any additional commentary he might have made is discarded when Martin slides his fingers into his hair. John hums softly, his eyes slipping shut, lifting one hand to brush his fingers against Martin's middle in drowsy reciprocation.

He could fall asleep like this easily. Martin probably wouldn't mind — John suspects he knows exactly what he's doing whenever he employs such soothing tactics, and welcomes the consequences — but they're still in front of the window, so he still feels compelled to offer a muzzy warning: "Mm. Might doze off." He shifts subtly, then settles with a sigh. "Whatever will the pedestrians think?"

Martin draws a light, pleasantly startled breath when John nuzzles into his belly — mostly surprised at how nice that feels — and answers the following brush of fingers with a soft hum. He grins at the warning, such as it is.

"Don't care," he says, and even after that little start just moments ago, he thinks he really doesn't. His fingers delve deep into John's hair, drifting warm and gentle over his scalp beneath. "If it's not how nice a picture we make then I don't want to hear about it."

Edited 2021-02-13 00:55 (UTC)

John huffs softly, amused, and tips his head to both rest against the gentle curve of Martin's belly and give Martin better access to his hair. "That's the spirit," he replies, half-muffled against Martin's jumper.

It isn't long at all before his breathing slows, and his smile fades into something smaller and effortless. The absent curling of his fingers against Martin's side lasts a little longer, but he can't really compete with Martin's practiced ministrations. He's too deliciously comfortable to resist the pull of slumber, even if he'd wanted to.

He's asleep before his abandoned cocoa has had time to fully cool.

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Snowfall

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