loficharm | Regression // for John

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jonathan sims

Regression // for John

[cw: gross!!!]

Through all the many and varied subjects that vie for his nightly attention, there is always a special allotment for Jane Prentiss, for the memory of her, that sick drop in his gut when he first glimpsed her, the constant writhing motion of shadow where her face should be. It is almost worse, he thinks, that sense of motion in the dark, what could almost be his eyes playing tricks, than to see her in full light. The little pieces shedding away, pooling at her feet, wriggling toward him.

Some nights he is still there, trapped in his pathetic little flat, eating from cans, struggling to sleep. The persistent weight of her at his door, thudding and scratching and squirming to be let in, to burrow, to claim and colonize. Some nights he couldn't eat. Some nights he threw up what he could. Feels stupid to still be so haunted by something that ultimately never touched him. To feel revulsion so strong it frightened him, frightens him still. She is gone now, long gone. And he is escaped. Not just her, not just his flat, but all of it, that life, that fear, that danger. Gone now, but for his dreams.

He dreamed of that then. That none of it was happening. That he was safe somewhere else. Once, one particularly embarrassing night, he dreamed of John coming to save him, burning her away, breaking down the door. Stupid.

He wishes he wouldn't let himself dream like that.

The thudding persists upon the door, rhythmic and heavy. Not a knock from a fist but a revolting mass of colonized flesh just beating itself upon the wood in tireless motion. Go away, he wants to scream. Go away, leave me alone. Find someone else to pick on. Ugly things. Cowardly things. Childish, lonely hopes that he could just be invisible long enough to go unnoticed by her or by anyone else.

He wishes he wouldn't let himself think that.

He almost thought he was dreaming this. He almost thought it wasn't still happening right now, real as anything, the cold terror and nauseating dread gripping him from the inside and dragging him back down into a brutal, malicious reality where no one is coming to save him, probably no one's even noticed he's gone.

The door starts to crack, or did he imagine it? Did he imagine it giving at the hinges? Or is this finally it, one more strike and it's going to go, she's going to flood in, pouring across the floor, swarming over him, covering him and filling him up—

He wakes up with a breathless shout, nearly choking on his own spit as he kicks off the covers and stares, frantic, sweating, at the ceiling. Jesus Christ, not even free in his dreams, he thinks, until he realizes three things very quickly: first, that the thudding is gone; second, that there is a body beside him, startled awake by his own rough awakening; third, that body is Jonathan Sims.

"What—" he blurts, sitting up sharply and nearly cracking his head on the — the headboard?

This isn't his flat.

Did — did John actually—

Is he still dreaming?

"John?" he just barely manages to fumble out.

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John pulls in a breath, compelled to argue or elaborate but not entirely sure how, what he can say. That four years is a long time? That things change, that he changed? Something else that might be true, but is too vague and dismissive to mean anything or convince anyone, the equivalent of telling an inquisitive child because I said so?

But then Martin saves him the effort, and John sits up a bit as well, unthinkingly echoing his posture. "Oh, r-right. It's just, just back down the hall." It feels ridiculous to be giving directions, not least of all because it's too small a flat for Martin to have not seen all of it by now, if only in passing. But he doesn't know what else to do.

Martin takes the directions with a distracted nod as he gets up, roaming back the way he came, feeling a bit in a daze. He doesn't allow himself to think much of anything until the WC door is shut behind him and he can sort of collapse back against it. He draws a few short, ragged breaths and stares around at the space, the pair of towels hung on hooks, the two toothbrushes in a neat little holder on the sink. He hesitates before going for the shower, pulling back the curtain and looking in at the contents. Only one set of hair care product, but that probably isn't too surprising, given how little he thinks either of them would fuss about that sort of thing. The brands are odd, looking nearly familiar but slightly wrong. He pulls the curtain shut and twists away to brace on the sink, staring at himself in the mirror.

He looks older. Not by much, certainly not as drastically different as John, but it's noticeable all the same. The hint of bags under his eyes, the subtle contours of his jaw — his face looks a bit thinner than he remembers, but at the same time he feels like he's a bit heavier. He's aged. His body seems to remember, even if he doesn't.

He looks at himself, then at the pair of toothbrushes, then down at his unfamiliar, perfectly fitted pajamas. When he looks back up, he greets himself with tears spilling down his cheeks.

Christ, get a hold of yourself. He pulls away in disgust and ends up sat upon the closed lid of the toilet, his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with the effort of crying silently. He hates this. He hates how pathetic he is and he hates this whole bloody situation. How he's so miserably fixated on the status of his apparent relationship with his once-prickly boss he's barely even granted himself time to dwell on the rest — that they're supposedly in an entirely different city, 'taken' there, John said. Whatever that means.

No, all he can think about is this shared flat, and John making him a perfect cup of tea, and the cat, and the bed, and the sound of John's voice as he tried to offer comfort, the way it trembled and softened under his own dawning realization, the slump of his shoulders and the hurt evident in his entire being. The word boyfriend. The word love.

An entire sob almost escapes him and he covers his mouth tightly, curling over like he's trying to compress himself back into the right shape. Going to pieces over this, over something he might've dreamed about. What an idiot.

But it isn't anything like being given a gift. It's like being cheated. Something's been taken away from him. Six years' worth of something, the bad, the good, whatever the hell happened to land them here. He feels like he's grieving, like he's lost something he never knew he could have.

But he knows he can't keep wasting his energy on it. He needs to get his head round the rest of it, this memory loss and this... 'environment,' and all that's happened between Prentiss and now. He can't just stay here trapped and crying in the loo.

So finally, shakily, he gets up, regards himself with disapproval in the mirror, and washes his face. He realizes quickly he has no idea which towel to use, and the idea of getting it wrong is so mortifying that he almost physically flinches away from them. He ends up using his sleeve, dampening it noticeably, but he's beyond caring.

Finally, he comes back out, trying to look composed as he finds John again. "Okay," he says. "I, erm... I believe you, I think." He tugs nervously on the hem of his shirt, willing his voice not to tremble. "S-so, erm... this... Darrow, was it? You said we were taken here, wh-what does that mean?"

The bathroom door shuts, and John remains stiffly sat for a beat or two before getting to his feet. He can't sit still; he feels as if he ought to be doing something.

But, of course, there is nothing for him to do. What, does he think Martin would welcome it if he had the temerity to knock on the door? Does he even have the right to presume to offer comfort to this Martin, who never heard a kind word from him before tonight?

His restless pacing carries him into the living room before he decides that standing was a mistake, and settles heavily onto the couch, depositing The Bishop on the cushion next to him and hunching forward to bury his head in his hands. He doesn't have a right to the lump in his throat or the weight in his chest. He's being dramatic, teetering on the edge of some truly inexcusable self-pity. Whatever this is, it'll sort itself soon enough. Things will return to a normal he recognizes. Martin, his Martin, will wake up one day soon and be just as he's supposed to be, and they'll look back at all this from a comfortable distance away, and it'll be fine.

All he has to do is just... be decent to him in the meantime. That's not a tall order. Fuck, it's literally the least he can do.

John fists a hand in his hair, and the recriminating sting feels right, a non-verbal get it the fuck together. He sniffs once, his other hand smudging away the few tears that managed to fall. Christ, this'll be hard enough for Martin without him having to worry about John's feelings, as if their distress is even remotely comparable. He's being ridiculous.

The faint sound of running water emits from the bathroom, and John pushes out a bracing breath before getting back to his feet and returning to his chair. By the time Martin emerges, he has his hands curled around his cup, and... well, there's really nothing he could do to achieve the kind of 'normal' this Martin would anticipate. Too changed for that, in more ways than one. He hopes he's erased the evidence that he'd been crying, if nothing else.

He risks a glance up at Martin, the corners of his mouth twitching back in an expression that's more acknowledgment than smile. It's some small relief to be believed. At least it means they can probably wait until daylight before introducing Martin to the city itself.

Physically, at least. John sucks on his teeth for a moment, relieved that the topic has shifted to more neutral territory, though he isn't sure the explanations he might offer on this front will be satisfying, either. "We just sort of... appeared here," he says, hitching his shoulders in a small, helpless shrug. "Not like we were kidnapped or something, more like a— like a portal fantasy, like stumbling into fucking Narnia. It's happened to others as well — hundreds of people, all told. As far as I understand it, it's another universe. Close enough to our own that you can almost mistake the two, but not quite identical."

Martin almost laughs over fucking Narnia. That's both a somewhat helpful comparison and a comfort, in a sort of gallows humor way — that acknowledgment that this is ridiculous.

But he supposes there's some small novelty to be enjoyed in John just embracing the otherworldly, even under duress. He'll take what he can get, in the face of the facts being laid before him, which are rather terrifying. "O-kay," he says slowly. "That's... a lot. Is this something to do with... everything?" He makes a vague gesture, not sure how to expand on that idea. "I mean, with whatever we were getting into at the Institute? I mean, are those hundreds of other people like... other people who've made Statements, or something? Oh, are the others here? Elias, and Sasha and everyone?"

Right, see? This isn't so bad. Just like... like explaining things to a new arrival, not that he has any notable experience on that front. Martin — any iteration of Martin — is a far cry from Norah. He's even feeling good about the direction things are headed in, the inevitable comparison between the madness of home and the madness of Darrow, until Martin mentions Sasha, and John twitches in his seat as if he'd been kicked beneath the table.

Christ. He doesn't know. Not about Sasha, or Tim, or what the Institute really represented. How in the hell is he supposed to get into all of that?

John pulls in a breath, easing back from that proverbial ledge. He hasn't been asked to get into all of that, yet, and he is both tired and cowardly enough to take the easy exit, to focus only on what's been put before him and not the sea of implications beneath it.

"It is a lot," he says first, taking a sip of tea to buy himself a few seconds of breathing room. "But, er, not related to anything we were investigating. We thought it might be, at first, but... I think it's just a coincidence that we went from one strange place to another." He takes a slow breath, schooling his expression. "The others aren't here, though. Well— Daisy is, Daisy Tonner, but I-I don't believe you've met her, yet." He gestures, a bit weakly, towards the ceiling. "She's just a couple floors up, actually."

Martin's fairly certain he doesn't know anyone called Daisy, and would remember if he did. He shrugs, not sure how to feel about that — just another thing he doesn't remember.

"So... is it regional, at least? There must be some sort of connection. Some sort of... portal in London, maybe?" Maybe it's stupid to think he hasn't already looked into this, but Christ, speculating is better than just standing there in dumbfounded horror. At least it feels marginally useful. And it's... nice, kind of, in a distant way, to just... theorize with John Sims. Certainly nothing he'd ever have guessed he'd get to enjoy.

If Martin notices the slight start Sasha's name had given him... well, he must not have done. He plainly lacks the necessary context to spare John's feelings, even if he wanted to. A bullet dodged, then, at least for the moment, and John tentatively relaxes by a few scant degrees.

The theorizing is rather stale, and feels a little like a waste of time for reasons Martin, of course, wouldn't understand: that it doesn't matter how it works. That they have no interest in escape, or reverse engineering the circumstances of their own arrival. That it's better here; that they're better here. That this might be the only home their circumstances would've otherwise afforded them.

But it's easy, too, and far less fraught than several alternatives they might otherwise stumble into, if John's not careful. He even manages a faint snort of real humor at the idea of it being regional. "If only," he responds dryly. "Going by the geography, and the accents of the local population, I'd place us somewhere on the eastern seaboard of America. It's still off; the currency is... something else. But it's the closest match."

Martin frowns, growing a little more confused with each bit of information he gets. "Okay, but... you said this has happened to hundreds of people, right? Are they all from London? I mean, someone's bound to notice, regardless, surely there's..."

He trails off, losing steam almost as quick as he picked it up. The whole thing suddenly feels a little hollow. Even if a mass disappearance were noticed, if this is really... another universe, what would anyone do about it? Does anyone even know how it all works, or are they all just getting by? His answer is laid out around him, it seems.

"I have no idea what I'm talking about," he says quietly. "I mean, we've probably been through all this, haven't we? If it's been years and we're just..."

He gestures vacantly at the flat. He can't really imagine just going with this, but Christ, he supposes it must have eventually seemed better than just railing against an unsolvable problem. At least it seems they made something nice out of it, however far that is from him now.

He wonders what he's supposed to do now. Can't just go on standing here while John sits at the table, all this distance, like they're strangers to each other. Thought right now, they might as well be.

"You said this sort of thing... happens sometimes," he says. "The... tampering. Does it..." He fidgets, the question making him nervous for some reason he's not keen to look closely at; not enough not to ask. "Does it ever... go away?"

Edited 2022-01-24 01:29 (UTC)

John hums in acknowledgment, soft and sympathetic. He can't say he necessarily minds retreading such familiar ground, given that it's firm enough beneath his feet. But Martin isn't wrong. They've already been as far down this road as they care to go, and if this Martin doesn't want to go further, John can't bring himself to drag him.

"It does," he says. He has to watch his tone again; he's wary of sounding too preemptively relieved by the prospect, as if Martin's a nuisance he can't wait to be rid of. "Things like this usually don't last much more than a week." He almost adds that it's happened to them before, both of them at once, and that he even has the photo album to prove it, but he's not sure it would be any particular comfort. Another staggering, life-altering experience he no longer remembers. More concrete evidence of what he's missed.

Instead, he looks down at his cup, fidgeting with it as he considers the practicalities, unable to meet Martin's gaze when he speaks. "Look, I-I understand how... how uncomfortable this must be for you. A-and I don't want you to think that you owe me anything, so if y— if it would be easier for you, I can— I can stay someplace else until things a-are back to normal." There's the cot in the Archive, and Daisy would let him sleep on her couch (though she might use the opportunity to bully him into more yoga, knowing her). Neither option is particularly appealing, but then, neither is the prospect of navigating around the awkward gulf that's reinserted itself between them. And Martin's comfort matters more than his.

Well, that's... something. He's not sure how to feel about it, actually. It seems like it should be a relief, but he has no frame of reference, nothing to miss, only wild imaginings and a sort of resentful feeling, like he's been cut out of his own life. It's good that these sorts of things aren't permanent, he supposes. Makes it... manageable. He wonders if anything like this has happened to them before.

John's carrying on before he can ask, and Martin blinks at him, momentarily stymied by the stammering as much as the content of it. It's... considerate, but also fairly absurd under the circumstances.

"Wh- no, that's ridiculous," he protests. "Technically I'm the one who doesn't belong here, I'm not going to put you out. I—I'm fine with the couch. Honestly, it's all the same to me."

He feels himself flushing faintly, embarrassed, though he's not sure why. Is he being childish? Is it reasonable to expect John to hold him at arm's length, any more than it would be fair to expect him to roll with all this? None of this is particularly fair to either of them, but he's not sure what he can do about it. He feels like he doesn't know this John — truth be told, he really doesn't know his John, either. Clearly. He thinks he'd like to. If only he had any idea how to start.

Not by standing here and fumbling all over himself, that's for certain. He needs more time to think, on his own. Ironic that after what feels like weeks of forced isolation, he just wants more of it.

He clears his throat. "I don't think I'll be able to sleep any more tonight, though," he says, faintly apologetic. "Though, erm... I could maybe do with a shower? Just..." He shrugs, not really sure he can put into words how unclean he feels right now, his memory still itching with crawling, wriggling worms. "I didn't really feel... safe doing that in my flat. I know it was a while ago, but..." He shrugs again, looking at the floor. "Would it be okay if I...?"

John sits up with a sharp frown, half-formed objections about Martin still belonging here and how if he refuses to see himself as a resident he at least qualifies as a guest (one that John isn't about to relegate to the bloody couch) clogging his throat. But he can't quite voice them, balking at the bedrock of his own reasoning. Is he supposed to tell Martin that he doesn't need as much sleep as a normal person, anymore? Because of what they were unwittingly doing at the Institute, and what it made him?

Christ, this is all too much for four in the morning.

Martin clears his throat, changing the subject, and John gives his head a short, self-recriminating shake, as if he should have anticipated this. "Y-yes, of course. Um. Let me get you a fresh towel." He levers himself to his feet. "And there are clothes in the bedroom; you can just..." he gestures, vague and embarrassed, in the bedroom's general direction, "pick whatever you like."

Once Martin is settled and he can hear the water running, John wanders back out into the dining area. He regards the table and the two cups of tea for a few moments, thinking that perhaps he ought to clear them away. Instead, he gravitates over to the couch, collapsing onto the cushions in a bone-weary sprawl. The Bishop leaps up onto his chest a few moments later, and John sinks his fingers into the cat's fur with a quiet sigh. "It's fine," he tells him, as if fine is an idea he's taking for a spin. Kicking the tires, and so on. "It'll be fine."

Whatever you like feels like a bit much, but Martin doesn't have the energy to ask for more specific directions. He just nods his thanks and wanders back to the bedroom while John fetches the towel.

It's easy enough to tell their clothes apart, anyway. Once he's found what seems to be his part of the dresser he fishes out a reasonably comfortable pair of joggers and a t-shirt. It takes a bit of digging to find a jumper that seems to be the right fit; with all this in his arms, he goes back to the WC to find the fresh towel waiting for him.

He feels like he ought to hurry, and has to remind himself this is technically his shower and he's presumably entitled to take as long as he likes. And he needs the time. The heat helps him feel a little calmer; for a little while he can close his eyes and just switch himself off. It doesn't last very long. There's too much to think and wonder about, ranging from enormous questions about the world he's apparently found himself in to hopelessly granular, embarrassing inquiries about himself. This... relationship.

Christ, he's really in a relationship with John. It doesn't feel real. And, well, it isn't. He isn't. He hasn't earned any of it. He hasn't done any of the growing necessary to become appealing. It's hard to imagine what that Martin must look like. Hard to imagine how John could have softened on him to this extent. Only to be saddled again with him as he is now.

He sighs and tries to focus on washing. He's just about finished when his fingers skate over something on his waist, and he hesitates, looking down through steam and blinking away water.

There's... a line on his waist, long and thin and... raised. A scar.

He shuts off the water and towels himself off as quick as he can, twisting at a slightly awkward angle to try and get a better look, waiting impatiently for the mirror to clear.

It's definitely a scar. He has no idea what from, though. It doesn't look like a surgical thing, it's... a little bit too rough for that, he thinks. And not really in the right spot for it to be his appendix or something.

He stares at it until he starts feeling cold, then he gets dressed in a hurry, pulling the jumper on while he steps back out into the comparative chill of the flat.

"John—" he starts, stopping short as he rounds the corner and finds John sprawled over the couch with the cat curled up on his chest, both dozing. It's sort of startling to see him like this; it almost feels like something he shouldn't be seeing. He looks comfortable, almost... relaxed. It's...

It's nice.

"S-sorry," he says, and tries to speak a little louder despite his increasing sense of wrongfootedness. "John?"

He wouldn't have thought he was capable of drifting off, given the circumstances, but between The Bishop's purring and his own desire to turn his brain off for a few minutes, he manages to sink into a light doze. The sound of Martin's voice startles him back into full wakefulness, and he blinks owlishly up at him for a few moments as his brain stutters like a recalcitrant engine.

Martin's wearing one of his jumpers.

It's an easy mistake to make, he thinks. Certainly not one he has any intention of correcting. But he still feels a tug in his chest at the sight of him. Stealing John's jumpers is something Martin still occasionally does, often with a cheeky sense of purpose: as much because he knows John likes it as because he needs the extra layer. Knowing it was a complete accident, in this case, doesn't entirely diminish the charm.

John clears his throat, then pushes himself up a few degrees. His progress is hampered by the cat, who shifts to cram himself a little more decisively beneath John's chin, and he huffs out an exasperated breath before sheepishly meeting Martin's gaze. "All right?" he asks.

John takes a moment to fire up, as it were, blinking at him for just a hair long enough that Martin feels almost scrutinized, though there's not really any scrutiny to speak of in his gaze. Then John starts to sit up and is treated immediately to the cat impeding his progress with unspeakably adorable stubbornness. Christ, this is weird. It's cute, and that's so bloody weird.

"Er..." Martin gives his head a little shake, more to stir himself than in reply. "I... I have a scar, just here?" He touches the spot delicately, though he can't feel anything through the jumper. "Do you... know how that happened?"

It isn't the only scar he could ask about. But for it being on him, it wouldn't even be the most pressing. John is covered with them, he feels like he spots a new one every time he looks, and that's just what he can see. But this is the only one he has a right to knowing about; the one, comparatively simple little line on his side.

"Oh," John says, a perplexed furrow appearing between his brows. "Really? I mean—" he winces over how easily that might be misconstrued, and lifts one arm to support the cat as he uses the other to bully himself upright. "Sorry, I-I do know how it happened. I'm just surprised it's still there." Last time anything like this occurred, it was a physical transformation in addition to a mental one (and thank Christ for that, given that 'mental transformation only' appears to be an option). He'd assumed that was the case here, as well, and that any subtle physical differences between his Martin and this younger one were just lost in the shuffle of his own hazy memories and the recent trauma Martin had been through.

But apparently not. He considers how to answer the question for a moment or two before deciding that vaguer is probably better. "We were, um... attacked, a-a couple of years ago," he says. "You wound up needing some stitches."

John's initial confusion is a bit disarming, only more so when he explains himself. Does he expect Martin to have reverted physically in addition to having his memory altered? That seems considerably more far-fetched than all the rest, and yet his surprise is so matter-of-fact, Martin's not sure what to think.

The explanation for the scar itself is little better, though it does take immediate precedence. "Attacked?" he repeats. "You mean here? By what?" The next question is already forming before he can stop himself, though he hesitates slightly, awkward and uncertain. "Is that... is that the same thing that... did all that to you?"

Not particularly graceful, and he winces immediately. "S-sorry, I just... you look... like a lot's happened." Right, because that's so much better.

It's a testament to Martin's recent ordeal that he goes with 'by what' instead of 'by whom.' Or perhaps the apparent presumption that John sustained all of his scars at once makes 'by what' the inevitable question. Christ, he can barely even imagine what sort of thing could have done all this to him in one go without killing him outright.

"Ah. No," he says, dropping his gaze to the cat in his lap. "I, er, I got most of these back in London, actually. And not... all at once." He considers the possibility of a full recounting with a frown; aside from his own disinterest in going over every misadventure, he doesn't want to upset Martin with such a miserable load of exposition when he's already reeling. Here's what you have to look forward to, and it starts with more bloody worms. Christ.

"I do have a scar from that particular incident, too," he says instead, lifting his gaze and nodding subtly at the spot where Martin's fingers rest against his jumper. "But it's... well." He drops his gaze again, and breathes a soft, sardonic gust of laughter. "A bit lost in the shuffle, I suppose. At any rate, it was, erm. It was just a man. And he’s gone, now."

"Oh." He supposes he hadn't really assumed all of them were sustained within a single incident, but then again, attacked could have meant anything, considering what he's seen. Knowing 'most' of it happened in London is... perhaps not surprising, but disheartening to say the least.

And all that he has to show for it is one little mark, sustained here. From 'just a man.'

He wants to ask more about that, but something stops him. Something about the tired laugh, the way John is speaking around it... whatever happened, it was probably bad, and his own curiosity doesn't feel like enough of a reason to force John to revisit it.

He stands there a moment, awkward but not so much that he wants to pull away. He ends up taking a few steps closer, not sure where to go, saved from having to make a decision by drawing the attention of the cat. It stares up at him until he comes nearer still; he ends up settling down on the floor, and it leaps down from John to sniff at him, instead.

"Hullo," he murmurs softly, lifting a hand gingerly. The cat instantly shoves its entire head into his palm, and he chuckles. "Guess I must smell about the same."

It seems like a weird thing to say the moment after he's said it, and he's quiet a moment longer before looking back up at John. "What's his name?"

Martin, mercifully, doesn't ask him to elaborate. There's still something sort of awful in his silence, though — in the way he slowly picks his way across the room without any real direction, eventually settling on the floor as if it would be too presumptuous to use the furniture. John shifts a little, half scolding himself for not offering Martin a seat more explicitly, and half appalled by the sudden awareness that he might need to. But before he can say anything, The Bishop jumps down to give Martin his full attention.

John smiles faintly at the picture they make, even as part of him aches over the uncertainty that suffuses Martin's body language. "That's The Bishop," he says. "He was your cat first, actually." He watches as The Bishop plasters himself against Martin's side, then adds, "He's always like this after a shower. Probably thinks you don't smell enough like him."

"The—" He doesn't get very far with his surprise over that name, as The Bishop immediately stands up in his lap, his forepaws braced on Martin's shoulders, and starts nuzzling under his chin. Martin lets out another soft laugh, indulging the cat with more vigorous pets, receiving a low, persistent rumble of purring in turn.

"Never had a cat before," he says. "Or any kind of pet, really." His attention stays on The Bishop, the odd comfort inherent in that animal recognition. This cat doesn't know Martin's forgotten himself; just loves him all the same. It's reassuring, in its own way.

He's quiet for a while, just petting the cat, not certain what to say next. Which of the many questions still buzzing around in him take precedence. Which ones he's brave enough to ask.

In the end it's not a question at all: he lifts his head to peer at John still sat there on the couch and says softly, "You're so... different."

Edited 2022-01-28 18:11 (UTC)

John hums in quiet acknowledgment, the response that sits tidily between a tiresome 'I know' and an embarrassing (and, despite the morning they've already had, a bit too outlandish) tangent about the inciting incident that steered him towards getting The Bishop in the first place. Neither would be helpful — certainly not more than the simple, grounding pleasure of petting a cat. John watches The Bishop lean into Martin's touch, and feels an almost desperate gratitude that there's such a convenient source of uncomplicated comfort and reassurance in the flat. However Martin might feel about everything else, the affection of a small animal isn't a difficult thing to accept.

He's edging towards wallowing over the realization that The Bishop will be doing some comparatively heavy lifting in that regard over the next few days when Martin looks up at him again, his expression difficult to read, and says that. John blinks, a little thrown. It's not an insult, and Martin's willingness to voice it might be more surprising than the sentiment itself. But he didn't anticipate having to... what, account for himself?... and he shifts a little on the cushions.

"Erm. Yes. I-I... I suppose I am. I mean," he rubs the back of his neck, cheeks prickling, "I know how awful I used to be, t-to you in particular. And there's no excusing it. You— you always deserved better." He brings his hand around so he can half-bury his face in it, sighing quietly. He really doesn't know where he's going with this, how much his apologies are even worth to a Martin who remembers the awfulness so clearly, and who hasn't even really met the John who worked so hard to deserve him. There's an undercurrent of bitter amusement in his tone as he looks down and adds, "Frankly, I don't know what you saw in me."

He scarcely has time to regret the remark before John is answering it, fumbling and awkward, and Martin ends up staring at him, his hands going still even as the cat continues to nuzzle and purr at him. Even having said something to this effect once already, it's odd to hear it again; but none of it quite compares to the next remark, coming out dry and slightly bitter.

Martin feels himself flushing, his mouth dropping open even though there are no words set to come. Christ. Christ. He knows — or knew? Has since learned? Whichever it is, it feels abruptly mortifying, regardless of their alleged relationship status. Martin wishes suddenly his hands were not so occupied, so he could bury his face in them.

"O-oh, er..." he stammers, and quickly redirects his attention to the cat. "I, erm... well—"

Christ, say something, don't just babble like a frantic idiot. He swallows and mumbles sheepishly, "I-I mean, it seems like I was right, in the end."

That feels appallingly forward, but it's out now, and he doesn't disagree with it. He just keeps his head down, petting the cat with undue concentration. At least The Bishop seems to love the attention.

It takes him a beat longer than it should to understand why Martin looks so poleaxed: that as far as this Martin is concerned, John just casually let slip something he wasn't meant to know. Maybe it was a closely guarded secret at the time, or maybe it was something Martin just assumed that John, specifically, hadn't realized — the utter obliviousness he'd suffered at the time makes it difficult to hazard a guess. And while it feels a little absurd to get hung up on it now, given that it's the sort of information you might expect your partner to know as opposed to an outright bombshell, John still feels his blush deepening.

He stammers out a few formless syllables, caught between the instinct to apologize and the inherent ridiculousness of the accompanying implication that Martin's crush is something he should have treated like an illicit secret, circumstances notwithstanding. And then he gets caught up in the fresh realization that this Martin — even this Martin! — has a crush on him, one that John hasn't even begun to deserve, as far as the temporal technicalities are concerned, and is almost overwhelmed with a desire to stroll calmly into the nearest peat bog. Christ. How is he supposed to handle this?

Martin saves him from any real contemplation of that question by making a startlingly pointed remark, and John resumes stammering for a few beats before he finally manages a flustered, "W-w— yes, eventually. I was still— I-I hadn't..." He lifts his other hand, the better to properly bury his face, the strained, pitiful conclusion leaking out from between his palms. "I haven't earned it, yet."

Martin keeps his head turned down, but there's something undeniably... adorable? about the way John stammers around this. Not to mention the utter absurdity of his final assertion. It's almost enough to let him forget his own overwhelming embarrassment; almost. At least he's not alone in it. There's something nice about not being alone in it.

"W-well," he says, a little uncertain, "I mean, you... you're you right now, just because I don't remember doesn't mean you... haven't..."

He trails off in the mortifying realization that he was about to imply John has earned his feelings for him, which, even if that's exactly what John was saying, still feels like far too much for him to say.

"Er—I mean—" His shoulders hunch a little tighter as he grows more and more obviously flustered. He can feel a progressively hotter flush spreading all the way to his neck. "Sorry, I—I don't know what I'm saying." Not entirely true, but it seems like a preferable exit to veer into rather than just sinking further into the hole he's dug himself.

John peeks out at Martin from between his fingers, lips twitching in a hapless, sympathetic smile as Martin attempts some sort of... reassurance? The whole tangent is fundamentally ridiculous, and he feels more than a bit foolish over his own part in steering them here. All he owes Martin is basic fucking decency, and Martin owes him nothing; there's no reason for them to be sat here stammering at one another, as if the current state of their bloody feelings needs to be excused on either side.

"Christ," John breathes, the consonants just audible enough to distinguish the word from a sigh, before dropping his hands. "It's fine," he adds more bracingly, though he's not quite sure if it's Martin he's trying to convince, or himself. "It'll just be a—an odd week, that's all. We'll survive."

He levers himself to his feet, thinking that he can surely find something better to do than lean into how hideously awkward this all is. "Would you like more tea?" After a beat, he adds, "And I suppose I could, er, give you a more comprehensive tour, if you like. Show you where things are." Still awkward, probably — the flat isn't that large, and there's little John could show him that Martin couldn't find himself inside two minutes — but in a more bearable sort of way.

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loficharm - 2022-02-10 22:37 (UTC) - Expand

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