"Well," John starts, prelude to some modest commentary about how it's far from the best specimen he's ever found, or how much relative practice he's had at learning what to look for. Whatever he might've said, it's only half-assembled before Martin cuts him off with an exclamation about the state of his hands, and a familiar, warming grip.
For a full second, John forgets that such a move should even be notable. Much like the earlier scolding, both the complaint and the response are pleasantly familiar, and John huffs out a sheepish laugh and curls his fingers around Martin's palm without thought or hesitation. But then he registers the oddness of Martin's expression as he stares at their joined hands, and realizes with a sudden lurch that this isn't normal at all, it's— it's bloody unprecedented. John goes very still, his expression slackening into astonishment, as if he'd felt a nudge against his shins while doing the dishes and looked down to see a thylacine instead of the presumed cat. There is probably a sensible way to handle the situation, one that will seem obvious in retrospect. But for the moment, all he can do is keep still and quiet, not wanting to startle or offend.
Martin's grip doesn't loosen. There is no stammered apology, just the deliberately casual suggestion that they head back. But this isn't— they don't do this. It feels absurd to suggest that they haven't earned it, as if every small pleasure has to be bought with ample time and misery, a fixed exchange rate. But he doesn't know what this means, what Martin wants or expects, or if it was just a thoughtless impulse and he's doubling down on it now out of embarrassment, or because he doesn't want John to feel awkward.
And he can't bear not knowing, and he can't read the answer in Martin's expression, and before he even realizes he's doing it, he Asks the helpless question: "Are you okay?"
no subject
For a full second, John forgets that such a move should even be notable. Much like the earlier scolding, both the complaint and the response are pleasantly familiar, and John huffs out a sheepish laugh and curls his fingers around Martin's palm without thought or hesitation. But then he registers the oddness of Martin's expression as he stares at their joined hands, and realizes with a sudden lurch that this isn't normal at all, it's— it's bloody unprecedented. John goes very still, his expression slackening into astonishment, as if he'd felt a nudge against his shins while doing the dishes and looked down to see a thylacine instead of the presumed cat. There is probably a sensible way to handle the situation, one that will seem obvious in retrospect. But for the moment, all he can do is keep still and quiet, not wanting to startle or offend.
Martin's grip doesn't loosen. There is no stammered apology, just the deliberately casual suggestion that they head back. But this isn't— they don't do this. It feels absurd to suggest that they haven't earned it, as if every small pleasure has to be bought with ample time and misery, a fixed exchange rate. But he doesn't know what this means, what Martin wants or expects, or if it was just a thoughtless impulse and he's doubling down on it now out of embarrassment, or because he doesn't want John to feel awkward.
And he can't bear not knowing, and he can't read the answer in Martin's expression, and before he even realizes he's doing it, he Asks the helpless question: "Are you okay?"