Crash Course

[loficharm]

January 22nd, 2022


"How does that feel?"

Martin had not intended to snoop. He'd expressly intended not to, in fact, in a way that had taken some conscious effort. With John needing to go to work for a few hours — needing to record Statements, as he'd sheepishly implied — Martin knew the temptation would be stronger than ever. His curiosity about his life here, their life together, is almost overwhelming at times. But just because this is all technically his doesn't mean he has any right to it, really.

He'd assured John he'd be fine, that he'd find some way to occupy himself. He'd thought perhaps he might read, or poke around on this universe's odd simulacrum of YouTube. He should've anticipated it would be harder than that, and he has a hard time believing that John wasn't fully aware of the possibility. So in a way, being left alone in the flat might almost be tacit approval of his own urge to search it.

He'd decided to clean, instead. Something active, helpful, allowing him exploration in a limited capacity. It had worked, too. Until the bedroom. Until the box under the bed, specifically. Filled with tapes, just like the ones they'd used at the Institute, with labels in John's handwriting, proclaiming them to be... innocuous things. Personal things. He'd picked up one off the top of the pile. Christmas, it said. Simple. Straightforward. He'd noticed the cassette player, sitting there on the bedside table, had glanced at it suspiciously, almost sure it hadn't been there before. He should've just put it back. He should not have slotted the tape into the player, and he should not be listening to it now.

But that is what he's doing, perched on the edge of the bed, the player clutched tight in his hands as he stares down at it, tape spooling away as his own voice grits out a response to John's question amid some layers of rustling fabric and creaking wood. "Jesus Christ, John," he says.

There's a moment where there's nothing but his own audibly labored breathing, and the slight shifting of what can only be this very mattress; and then John says, in a voice quite unlike anything Martin's heard from him before: "Well, now you've gone a bit quiet. I suppose we'll have to do something about that."

This is not some sort of idle little recording made during a Christmas party, or anything remotely related to Christmas at all besides the date. This is private. It is incredibly, unutterably private, and he should not be listening to it. He should shut this tape off and put it back and pretend he never found it; better still, he should own up to having found it, apologize, and go from there. But even as his face reddens and his heart rate skyrockets, as he listens to his own gasps and moans and evident struggling, he cannot bring himself to interrupt it. He sits, swamped in mortified fascination, and he lets it play on.

"Going somewhere?" John asks, and Martin very nearly gasps just hearing his voice pitched that low, laced with a sort of playful authority. As agonizing as it is listening to himself, especially in such intense vulnerability, it is intoxicating hearing John like this. He finds himself desperately trying to piece together the details. It's clear he's been... restrained somehow. Was he tied up? Is he the sort of person who asks for that? And is John the sort of person who does it?

He's only barely begun to work this out when his recorded self lets out such a sharp, sudden yelp that he jolts and nearly drops the player. Christ, what was that, what the hell did John do? He listens for any clue, but there's nothing, no words exchanged between them, just an oddly protracted moment of silence and shaky breathing and then another cry, so intense and raw that it's almost distressing. Martin has... he's always been noisy, but he knows he's never made a noise like that before.

"Mister Blackwood," John says, silky and amused, sending a shiver down Martin's spine, "you've been holding out on me. Or did you not know?" He's still doing it, whatever it is, drawing a constant stream of frantic whines and murmurs out of the other him. "Is this a shock to you as well?"

Is what a shock? What is he doing? What the hell is he doing?!

Martin can't fucking figure it out. He keeps listening, growing both increasingly uncomfortable and uncomfortably aroused as John keeps... investigating whatever this is, and there's never any clarity given. What exchanges do occur are unspecific, providing only more confusing evidence: that whatever this is, it does seem like a surprise, and that it's so good he's beside himself, swearing and begging for more. Even without knowing the details, Martin knows he's never had sex like this before, but he doesn't think a lack of experience is at fault for his bewilderment. He cannot picture it. If John were just... touching him, it wouldn't be so bloody novel. He's talking often enough that he's not using his mouth. What is it?

And then John asks if this is all it takes, and Martin nearly drops the tape player again, or rather nearly throws it across the room. The following confirmation that yes, he was tied up, barely registers. The idea that this, whatever it is, could be enough to finish the job but they hadn't ever thought to try it, is completely baffling. And yet it seems like an idea they were both keen to pursue. It keeps going like that for what feels like forever, and he keeps listening, rapt and distantly horrified with himself. The only clue that ever comes as to what any of it was is just his own one-word request: Harder, which could refer to literally anything. The sweeter moments — when he stops to ask if John is okay, resulting in gentle reassurance somewhat like what he's experienced himself — are overshadowed by more questions: why wouldn't John be okay? Is this strenuous? Is it...

Holy shit, is it actually working?

He sits there, sweating, turned on, and appalled as he listens to himself achieve an orgasm the like of which he knows he's never felt. It sounds... it sounds like it was incredible. He couldn't shut up the entire time. Christ, the whole building must know what they get up to.

He asks to be untied, and John sheepishly tells him Happy Christmas, and Martin finally forces himself to stop the tape. He's not going to find out what happened here and he shouldn't know to wonder. This wasn't his. He has no business wondering, committing such a towering invasion of privacy.

...Why didn't it sound like John was getting anything out of this, apart from his own amusement? He almost considers resuming playback, but instead he rather aggressively ejects the tape, returns it to the box and returns the box beneath the bed. The tape player he sets back on the bedside table, nervously, like it might somehow give him up. Then he slumps over, his head in his hands.

"Fuck," he mutters, and shifts uneasily. He's hard, and he needs to not be. He could just deal with it in the loo, he probably even has time for a shower — John will surely be back soon, but a shower is innocent enough — but even that feels like a gross impropriety. He has no right to any of this, erection fucking included.

It takes some time just sitting there, but he wills himself to calm down. Mostly, at least. Enough that he can get up, shaky but no longer... encumbered. He needs to find something to do, something productive, something to pull him away from all this. Something helpful, like he set out to do.

Laundry. He can do laundry. The hamper's nearly full, especially with John having made up the bed for him with new sheets that first night. Which felt ridiculous at the time, but may have been necessary, in retrospect. He feels bad about it either way. Laundry is tedious, slow, and requires some physical effort. It will help.

He pokes around until he finds detergent and some of Darrow's unfamiliar coins, not sure what he'll need, but multiple trips wouldn't be the end of the world. Fortunately the laundry room is easy enough to find. He lugs everything down to a rather dismal little room in the basement, cracked concrete floor and peeling walls, lights that flicker occasionally. The machines don't appear to require money, which is nice, at least. He loads up the washer, takes his time figuring out the right setting, and turns it on. Then he stands there for a moment, staring at it, listening to the mechanical churn. It's comforting, in a way. He is still overheated, his heart still pounding too fast, his face probably still flushed. But he's calming down by degrees. Maybe he can just... ask about this. Maybe he can find a way to ask that won't make him want to walk directly into the sea.

He's about to head back upstairs when the lights flicker again, more dramatically this time, and he stills, looking up at them with slight trepidation. He's not sure why. Work has made him paranoid, he supposes. Jane Prentiss made him justifiably paranoid. There was something off about the lights just now, and...

And is he imagining it, or is there some sort of low tone, somewhere beneath the washing machine? Like a drone or a hum, or... whispers?

The lights flicker again and his gaze darts back to the washing machine, drawn by some nebulous sense that there is something out of place, settling abruptly on the tape player that, this time, he knows to 100% certainty was not there before. It's on, recording, and he stares at it, a cold dread pooling in his gut, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He feels, suddenly, intensely sure that he doesn't want to turn around. That he won't like what he sees if he does. He should just get out of here, get back upstairs to the relative safety of the flat.

But instead, perhaps inevitably, he does turn around. There's something on the wall that he's pretty sure also wasn't there before, a sort of spidering crack in it, with something moving underneath. He can barely see it; it's barely perceptible, but it's there. Movement in those awful black lines, like ink flowing behind the plaster. Like moving shadows.

He's not sure why, but he takes a hesitating step forward. Cursed by curiosity, in more ways than one today. He just wants to get a better look, to try and see what's making that weird sense of movement. Maybe it's... somehow, something normal and reasonable, and if he can just get a look—

There is someone else there.

He doesn't know how he didn't see them before, standing in the corner, shadowed but very present in his periphery. He jolts, just barely biting back a shriek as he looks at them more directly, except there's no one there after all. He stands there, breathing heavily and feeling like an idiot. Christ, he was sure... well, at least the whole situation has him spooked enough now that he has no intention of staying. Fuck this, he thinks, and he pivots on his heel with every intention of hurrying out and back up the stairs.

Instead something lashes around his waist, catching him so sharply that he nearly chokes and topples over; there's nothing there, nothing he can see, but he can feel it, some sort of faint pressure twining around him, his legs, his arms, up to his chest. He tries to pull against it and it lifts him up off the floor with terrifying ease, holding him suspended for just a moment before it drags him back, slamming him to the wall. He gasps, winded, and looks down to see himself swathed in shadows, tendrils of intangible dark that are somehow, impossibly, holding him up, pinning him to the wall. The lights flicker violently, casting everything in a frenetic sort of stop motion. The noise is overwhelming now, like someone is whispering directly into his ear, not that he can make out a word of it. He struggles, his shoes scraping uselessly at the wall as he's pressed back against it like it wants to pull him inside somehow. And that isn't the only pressure exerted on him, neither the unyielding wall at his back nor the shadows weaving their way around him; there is also the overwhelming sense of some intense emotion, not quite malevolent but terrifying all the same. It feels... not even angry. Petty, which is almost worse.

"No—!" is the only cry he can muster once he's regained his breath, and only barely, as the response is immediate, another plume of darkness wrapping thickly around his mouth, muffling his voice so effectively he might as well be under water. He struggles harder, desperate and panicky and utterly ineffectual, and it just holds him there, motionless, like it's lying in wait.

Comments

[statement_ends]

John feels a little bad about leaving Martin at the flat for a few hours, though he tells himself there's no cause for it. Having Martin accompany him to the Archive would have been a more boring prospect from Martin's perspective, with the office lacking any sort of entertainment. There would also be the risk of an awkward encounter with someone who expects him to be the one managing the place, while John was too preoccupied with a Statement to step in. Besides, it's not as if Martin has to stay cooped up in the flat if he'd rather go for a walk or something. A little unstructured time won't kill him.

Granted, that all presumes the real source of John's discomfort is that he's worried that Martin might get bored, and not that he's so accustomed to a certain degree of codependence that being apart makes him sad. But being three blocks away for an hour or two won't kill him, either. And if he puts a few Statements away now, then he'll be good for the rest of the week.

It takes a little under an hour to commit two Statements to tape and file them away, and John is out the door with a bit of an extra spring in his step when it occurs to him that Martin might like having a bit of time to himself, and that barging back in early, while not necessarily a hardship, might also not feel like a favor. John sucks on his teeth for a moment, weighing his options, then pivots away from the Bramford and instead heads for a takeout place they both like. It's a little early for lunch, but far enough from breakfast that he doesn't think Martin will object to him coming home with food in hand.

He fiddles with his phone while he waits for their order, resisting the urge to text, or even to wonder what Martin might be getting up to with enough sincere curiosity to prompt an answer from his patron. He maintains that stringent self-control through acquiring their food and walking home. It isn't until he steps through the Bramford's main entrance, and sees a pale flicker of agitated movement out of the corner of one eye, that he lowers his guard enough to wonder why—?

And then he Knows.

John hurls himself down the basement steps as quickly as he can, circumventing the last few with an impatient leap that jars him all the way to his hips. He staggers for a few paces, regains his balance, and then shoves open the laundry room door.

The guttering lights are no impediment to John taking in the scene before him. He Knows as much as sees Martin pinned to the wall by the same dark presence he's fended off countless times, and he hears the rising, proprietary hiss of the tape recorder perched on the washing machine. A tremor runs through him — not fear, though he is powerfully aware of how much more breakable Martin is than he himself, but the furious restraint that accompanies his necessary caution. He cannot simply pull Martin down. This will have to be... a negotiation.

"I suppose you think this is cute," he sneers, setting the bag of takeout on the nearest dryer while his gaze remains fixed on the dark tendrils surrounding Martin. "Showing off, are you? Wanting to be seen?" The recorder spits out a burst of static, and John takes a slow step forward. The light above still flickers, but the spells of illumination are longer, less strobe-like; darkness is no longer the threat. "Is this enough for you?" John asks, low and deceptively soft. "Or would you like me to look closer?"

[loficharm]

It isn't long — scarcely enough time for the panic to settle and be replaced by fearful questions, what's going to happen to him, what does it even mean to do with him — before John practically lunges into the room, simultaneously startling Martin and flooding him with intense relief. He looks different in the flickering light and shadow, taller, more imposing. A bit scary, if he's honest. There's something hard and dark in his eyes, not just the fury etched into his features and his stiff, controlled bearing, but something dangerous and powerful. It's the first time Martin's ever seen the slightest hint of what John has told him, that he's not human anymore. The John striding slowly toward him is certainly still quite human in his estimation, but he's something else, too.

John speaks, not to Martin, but to whatever's holding him. There's some apparent history here, and he wonders with a distant pang of embarrassment if he should've known about this, if there was some way to circumvent it if he'd just been himself. At least John seems to know exactly how to deal with it, though it isn't a simple matter, either. Static crackles violently from the tape recorder as John asks his questions in a low, cold voice, not entirely different from what Martin had heard just moments ago. It's not the same, the context wildly different, but it's... similarly alluring, and now he's not just overhearing it. John is affecting this threatening persona for him. To defend him.

For better or worse, he doesn't have much time to appreciate all the myriad implications of that; the creature, ghost, whatever it is, seems to shudder in response to John's interrogation, and Martin feels that sort of resentful pettiness in even sharper relief as it tightens its grip around him. It's like it's sulking, keeping firm hold of him like a coveted toy John is trying to wrest away, which would feel unbelievably stupid were it not for the very real danger of it. He doesn't think it means to hurt him, exactly; it's clear enough this is a show for John's benefit, but there's only so much comfort to be taken in that when he's still helpless, when the pressure around him is increasing to slightly uncomfortable degrees. He twitches, squirming as much as he can, his capacity for movement steadily decreasing as it continues to wind around him, pulling him even more flush against the wall. His eyes fix on John's and he tries to speak, unable to make any sound beyond a muffled, shapeless protest.

[statement_ends]

The thing's smoky tendrils shiver and tighten, and John grits his teeth. A distant part of him appreciates the irony of it all: that with Martin temporarily immune to the Lonely's covetous insinuations, some other entity should presume to fill the void — with a virtually identical technique, no less. That it's the fucking basement ghost, a creature rarely powerful enough to qualify as more than a pest, adds insult to potential injury.

And the potential for injury is certainly there. Martin is flush against the wall, held there by enough pressure that he can scarcely move. That much force could have other applications. It might throw Martin to the unforgiving concrete floor, or sling him towards the wall opposite. John doesn't think those are likelihoods, necessarily; he suspects the creature doesn't want to hurt Martin as much as it wants to upset him by proxy, what with John being relatively impervious to its usual torments. But as he meets Martin's gaze, the importance of the ghost's fucking motivations dwindle into insignificance. All that matters is getting him down as quickly and safely as possible.

There is another fractious hiss from the recorder as John growls, "I See you." It is a threat and a rebuke, not entirely dissimilar to how he might scold The Bishop for engaging in some mischief while directly in his sightline. It is also a plain statement of fact: the light is steadying, and the tendrils seem to be thinning in response, as if they were made of darkness and cannot maintain themselves in the uninterrupted glare of the fluorescence. As if all this power is only a facade, a puffed-up threat display with no substance behind it, all feathers and no meat — and he Knows, with sudden certainty, that if he stretched out his hand, those dark tendrils would be swept away as easily as smoke. "Now put him down, or I will make you."

[loficharm]

John meets his eyes and growls out a threat and a threatening demand, and Martin is almost glad his face is mostly obscured by the shadows pressed across his mouth, because he's sure he's blushing again. Christ, now of all moments. It's at least half fear-fueled adrenaline, but not entirely. He's not sure how John would force this whatever-it-is to let him go, but there is no doubt in his mind that he could, that he would do it without hesitation if pushed. And even caught in this precarious position — or perhaps because of it, because he has no choice but to watch and listen and wait it out — Martin doesn't know how to deal with that. Even after everything that's transpired these past few days, the idea of John forcing some ethereal shadow monster to bend to his will for Martin's sake is nothing short of astonishing.

There's an awful moment of literal and figurative suspension, where Martin can practically feel the weighing of options taking place, held up long enough for a considering vibration to pass through the swirling mass enfolding him. Then, with visceral, dismissive petulance, the shadows recede all at once and it drops him. He's not very far up, not even half a meter, but he'd been held so tightly that the sudden loss of tension is almost more like being thrown than dropped. He was not prepared, and has no recourse but to fall straight down, gasping sharply as it releases his mouth.

[statement_ends]

There is a beat of consideration, and then the shadows whip away, and Martin falls with a gasp. John darts forward; he anticipated this, but he still barely reaches Martin in time, and he doesn't manage to catch him as much as he cushions and slows the drop with his own body, letting Martin collapse against his chest and bracing his hands under Martin's arms as they both slump to their knees. Still, it's a gentler impact than it could've been, and John's whispered 'Christ' is more exasperated than pained.

"Are you all right?" he asks, low and urgent, the moment they have ceased actively crumpling. He checks Martin for any obvious damage, lightly touching his fingers to the back of Martin's head and glancing up at where he was pinned to the wall. There's no trace of blood on the peeling paint, or on his fingertips when he draws them away. Bracing his hands on Martin's shoulders, he levers him back a bit so he can look at him properly, searching his eyes for... he barely even knows what. It's not as if he knows what a concussion looks like, and at any rate, Martin doesn't seem to be having any immediate issues with focusing or remaining conscious. "Are you hurt?"

[loficharm]

John catches him, or maybe it's more correct to say John breaks his fall, rushing to him and bracing him with his entire body. Martin practically faceplants against his chest, can feel the hammer-strike of his heart, every point of contact between them absurdly heightened as they both sink down to the floor. John's voice remains low and close, still intense, but worried now more than angry. Fingers brush against the back of his head, and then John grips him by the shoulders and moves him back, just enough to look into his eyes, to check him over for his nonexistent injuries.

Martin is not hurt. Shaken, breathless, hopelessly embarrassed, but not hurt. Even the initial strike to the wall had been mostly absorbed by his back. There may be some light bruising, but nothing more. It takes him a moment to get himself together enough to answer, though, with John so bloody close, surely able to see how flushed he is, how disordered. Maybe he can pass it all off as shock and lingering fear. Maybe.

He swallows with some effort and stammers, "N-no, I— I'm okay. It didn't hurt me, just..." He makes a vague flapping gesture with his hand. John saw all there was to it, really.

"What the hell was that?" he blurts out, desperately willing himself to stop thinking about how close John is, how radiantly furious he just was and how gentle now, and that tape, and how actually nice it might be to be restrained in any other circumstances, to feel all this in a context that isn't terrifying. Jesus Christ, this isn't helping. "Has this happened before?"

[statement_ends]

John exhales, his shoulders slumping a little as tension finally starts to leave him. Not that either of them are out of the proverbial woods; it was still a frightening experience, and John can't help a sheepish wince when Martin asks what that was, and if this has happened before.

"That was the, er... the basement ghost," he says with an embarrassed hitch of his shoulders. "Building's been haunted for as long as anyone remembers. It's never gone after you before, but that's because I always handle the laundry." He sighs again, short and gusty, and gives Martin's arm an apologetic rub. "I'm sorry I didn't warn you. I just, er... I guess I didn't expect you to start doing chores." He sounds faintly scandalized by the idea, though he probably doesn't have a right to it. Conceptualizing Martin as a guest might've been accurate enough the first couple of days, but he really should have adjusted his expectations since then. And he especially shouldn't have expected Martin to be left to his own devices for a few hours and do absolutely nothing useful with the time.

Well, he can continue the mea culpa upstairs. The laundry room floor is growing increasingly uncomfortable, and he has no desire to continue fussing where the entity might enjoy the show. "Come on," he says, getting to his feet and offering Martin a hand. "Let's go back up."

[loficharm]

Martin huffs out a soft, fairly humorless laugh at John's audible incredulity over his choice of pastime. Fair enough, really, if he'd only had any other bright ideas for keeping his stupid nose out of intensely private matters. Basement ghost barely even manages to surprise him at this point. If anything, it just makes it all the more understandable why John didn't think to mention this, if normally he just never does this, never has to deal with it. Of all the stupid impediments to helping around the damn house.

"I just wanted to do something useful," he mutters without much conviction, and lets John help him up. He's nervous, adrenaline still coursing through him, but maybe he can just breathe through it and settle back down. John brought takeaway, he notices belatedly, eyes resting on the bag as John recovers it and leads him back out of the basement. That'll be good. He's not particularly hungry right now, but eating something will likely do him some good, as will the inherent normalcy of just sitting down to lunch. He just needs to level out a bit, and then maybe he can think more clearly about what questions he wants to ask, both immediately obviously relevant and otherwise.

When they get back into the flat, Martin allows himself to relax a little, breathing out slowly and willing his shoulders to loosen. He should say something. He should thank John for saving him from a bloody ghost, and it feels abruptly appalling that he hasn't yet, that that wasn't his first instinct. "John," he starts, a little uncertain, his eyes downcast as he slips off his shoes in the entryway. "I... Thanks. For coming when you did, and... yeah." He rubs the back of his neck, flustered and frustrated at his own lacking eloquence.

[statement_ends]

The muttered rejoinder doesn't really surprise him, and it's not as if he begrudges Martin wanting to help. If anything, he's irritated with himself for not anticipating the impulse and directing it somewhere a little less fraught to begin with. Not that he knows how he might've gracefully accomplished that, now that he thinks about it. It's not like he could've tossed out a few suggestions before he left without feeling like an arse. For the moment, he just hums in acknowledgment, and runs his thumb over Martin's knuckles.

It all feels desperately inadequate, and he's itching with the desire for something better, something more, by the time they make it back into their flat. He just can't decide what shape it should take until he hears Martin's fumbling thanks. For a beat, he just looks at him, considering and dismissing the absurdity of a straightforward 'you're welcome' — as if he simply did Martin a favor. As if that wasn't one of the most alarming things to happen to him this week; as if it couldn't have been so much worse than it was.

"Martin..." he starts, before abandoning the notion of words with a small, impatient shake of his head. The takeout is dropped unceremoniously to the floor, and then he's stepping forward, lifting his hands to Martin's cheeks and dipping his head to kiss him, meeting him with enough force to drive him back half a pace. The kiss lingers, but not gently; it is thorough and deep, laced through with the anxiety of what might have been and the relief of what was avoided.

[loficharm]

Martin only just manages to look up before the takeout bag hits the floor, before John closes in on him, so forceful and sudden that it startles a yelp out of him, muffling against John's lips. He staggers back, his hands rising to grip John's arms, his eyes wide open at the shock of it. He's not entirely used to this yet, to John just... kissing him, and even if he was, he would never have expected to be kissed like this. This is forceful, almost rough in how desperate it is, like John is a man starved. Martin feels as though he's missed several steps, tripped up the stairs, even though it feels like it should have been obvious in retrospect. Perhaps John had seemed almost distant about the ordeal with Jane Prentiss, but that's because to him, it was years ago, over and done, and god knows what else has filled in since, or how much worse it all was. Martin might feel a certain rooted eagerness to just shake this off and pretend he's fine, but that probably isn't how they do things anymore. John isn't starving, he's relieved.

It's still a lot. Martin can't quite bear the weight of him, and allows himself to sink back another pace, his back not quite meeting the wall, but so, so close. He lets his eyes fall shut and relaxes his jaw, letting his lips part, trying to welcome it all. He shouldn't, Christ, he shouldn't; it's too intense, too forceful, he wants it too badly. He wants John to... to push him back, to hold him against the wall and ruin him, to do whatever the fuck he did on that tape and make him scream the same way. He wants to be trapped, not by some awful monstrous creature, but by him, to feel possessed and protected, safe and controlled and cared for, no-no-no, shit, shit, shit—

He pushes John back suddenly, gasping for breath, his hands still gripping John's arms him to hold him steady at arm's length. Desperate, even in his addled state, to make it clear he's not pushing him away so much as putting up a sudden boundary, far too late. There's no point trying to hide it; if John doesn't see what the problem is he will soon, and Martin's too busy blushing and gulping for air and trying to find the wherewithal to speak to pretend it away.

"I—" he blurts, frantic and mortified. "I'm sorry, I—"

[statement_ends]

John tenses when Martin pushes him back, abruptly convinced that that was too much, too forceful, his face going ashen as Martin starts to babble apologies. "N-no, no," he starts, the words tumbling out of him and overlapping with Martin's own stammering. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have— are you okay, c-can I...?" His gaze roves over Martin's reddened face, and it isn't until he eases back a pace that the actual source of Martin's embarrassment appears in his periphery.

Ah.

John stills, blinking a bit foolishly at the wall just to Martin's left, as if not looking directly at it will ease whatever discomfort Martin must be feeling at him noticing it at all, at it... being an issue. It's a ridiculous impulse, and he forces himself to look back up at Martin's face.

Right. This is a bit awkward, but it's not the end of the world; they've handled the issue in a wide variety of ways in the past, and surely one of those ways will be acceptable to Martin now. It's fine. It'll be fine. He just has to take all of these sensible, reassuring thoughts and verbalize them.

"Um," he says. "I, um."

[loficharm]

God. It's immediately clear when John notices, and in a just world, the embarrassment would be enough to kill his arousal (and maybe him) on the spot. No such luck, and as John tries and fails to come up with something to say, Martin lifts his hands away as though he's become radioactive, sliding out from between John and the wall and stumbling awkwardly toward the WC. He keeps his hands raised and his gaze fixed anywhere else.

"I, erm, I'm gonna take a shower?" he says, his voice pitching up though it's not really a question. "Sorry, I just..."

He cannot possibly explain himself now. He blows air through his teeth and turns away, his shoulders tensed right back up again. "I'll be quick," he says feebly.

[statement_ends]

Martin lets go his arms, and John immediately follows suit, allowing him to make his escape. "R-right, okay," he replies to Martin's retreating back, caught between mortification and relief as Martin disappears into the bathroom. That probably is the best way to handle it, and god knows the expediency is easier on both of them than talking it out and reaching a consensus would've been. But while he doesn't regret the conclusion, he certainly regrets his own culpability — Christ, he should've known that being too... too intense would get that sort of reaction.

And god, he wishes he could've provided even a shred of reassurance before Martin fled the scene like he might be infectious.

John buries his face in his hands with a heavy sigh. Then he retrieves the takeout bag and carries it into the kitchen, setting it on the counter. He sincerely doesn't know when they're going to get round to eating, but it's still too hot to put right in the fridge, so he leaves it while he puts the kettle on. However Martin's feeling when he emerges, John's reasonably certain he won't say no to tea.

He takes his time making it, letting the kettle heat slower than he otherwise would, and by the time Martin reappears, John's just finished fixing his cup. "Hey," he says, setting the tea down on the table like an offering and taking a cautious step back, as if worried Martin might not want to approach him. He looks down at his own cup for inspiration, then ventures, "I, er, I think I owe you an apology. I shouldn't have been so..." he winces faintly. "I didn't mean to... to wind you up."

[loficharm]

The shower is a relief in more ways than one. He had sort of been planning on it even before it became a distant necessity — nothing like a shower after a day of cleaning. Now it's the reset button he desperately needs, both for his own autonomic nonsense and as a sort of soothing cleanse after that whole basement experience. He finishes himself off as quickly and perfunctorily as possible, doing his best not to think about anything in particular, then pours his focus into the simple act of cleaning himself, washing away grit and sweat until he almost feels normal again.

He towels himself off a little quicker than he might usually, so he's still a bit damp when he emerges, but his clothes are dry and comfortable enough, and he doesn't think he can bear to put this off any longer.

John is fixing them tea, and instead of handing it over directly he just sets it on the table, stepping back like he needs to grant a wide berth. Christ. Martin represses a sigh, but then John starts talking, laying out an apology that feels outlandishly unnecessary, and there is no more repressing anything.

Martin holds up a hand to stop him, his eyes briefly shut as he says, "John—no. You don't have to apologize, it wasn't—just—"

He breathes out heavily and rubs both hands over his face, then pulls out his chair and collapses into it, gesturing wearily for John to join him. "I was trying to clean," he says. "I wanted to do something helpful, and — I wasn't trying to poke around, I swear I wasn't, but... I thought, well, under the bed's always a terrible spot to have to sweep, but I don't mind, so I might as well, and instead I... found... the box." He clears his throat and nervously lifts his eyes to meet John's. "Of tapes. And there was a tape player just sitting out, and I—I know I shouldn't have, I don't know why I did, but I... I was just... curious."

His voice drops to an embarrassed murmur as he runs out of steam, his gaze lowering back to the table. "So that's... I thought I'd try and do laundry to keep my mind off it, and..." He lets out an abrupt, hysterical laugh and presses a hand over to his face. "Christ."

[statement_ends]

A faint, bewildered furrow appears between John's brows as he lowers himself into the chair opposite. It seems he's missing something — something he couldn't have anticipated, if the complete non-sequitur of a lead-in is any indication. So he listens, letting Martin lay the pieces out for him, his eyebrows starting a slow creep upwards the moment Martin references 'the box.' Ah. Well. That would certainly... impact things.

For a few moments, he sincerely isn't sure how he feels about it. 'Surprised' hardly seems fair; he probably should have anticipated some poking around while he was out, and he cannot, on principle, fault anyone for being curious. 'Embarrassed' barely even occurs to him; he is generally not the one making himself vulnerable on most of those tapes, so if Martin was violating anyone's privacy, it was his own future self's far more than John's. And there's something inescapably absurd about the idea of getting defensive about Martin to Martin, not least of all because he doesn't look like he needs any help from John in feeling humiliated about it all.

He realizes with dawning alarm that his primary emotion might actually be amusement, and he clamps his lips together in an attempt to forestall a grin. Martin's desperate laugh does little to help his composure, and he casts about for something to say that isn't the question at the forefront of his mind, but he can't, he can't not ask, he's desperate for that missing scrap of context and has no idea how to proceed without it.

"Which tape?" he asks, struggling to sound merely curious and not like he's on the verge of a fit.

[loficharm]

Martin is expecting the question — if anything, it's a relief compared to the possiblity of any sort of reprimand for his snooping — and there's no hesitation when he looks up and says with a nervous wince, "Christmas?"

He assumes, given the everything about it, that John will know exactly what that means.

[statement_ends]

John manages — barely — to transmute the laugh he wants to let out into a cough. Jesus Christ, even in complete ignorance, Martin has managed not to do things by halves.

"Right," he says, quivering with the effort of containing himself as he looks resolutely down at his cup of tea. Then, unable to resist: "A classic."

Which is as far as his composure will extend, and he lets out a snort of helpless laughter as he lowers his face into his hands.

[loficharm]

Martin blinks, on the precipice of indignation before he realizes that makes no sense as a reaction here. John's laughing, not at him, but at the situation, and Christ, it probably is funny, isn't it?

A classic, however, brings to the fore a whole other set of questions he hadn't even fully considered yet, and he narrows his eyes suspiciously. "So do we just... record... ourselves regularly? Is that a thing we do?"

[statement_ends]

John is still giggling helplessly, and he has to lift a hand in a 'hold, please' gesture until he's got himself under control. Christ, this is ridiculous, but there's also an undeniable appeal to the turn things have taken. It is easier, more natural, to lapse into a simple exchange of question and answer instead of tiptoeing around the elephant that's been lurking in the room all bloody week.

"Not exactly," he replies, still shuddering with little spells of irrepressible amusement. "I mean, it's not deliberate. The recorders just sort of..." he gestures vaguely with one hand, the other wiping mirthful tears from just beneath his eyes, "show up."

[loficharm]

John's amusement would be infectious under different circumstances; it's charming, the way he has to pause before answering, how much the absurdity of all this seems more relevant to him than anything else. Martin doesn't feel like he quite has access to that yet; to him, this is still an awkward situation of his own making, and he still has a lot of bloody questions about it. He sits up a little straighter, lacing his hands together on the table, his eyebrows quirking in bewilderment at John's eventual explanation.

"They just sort of..." he echoes, until it clicks into place, how he hadn't been sure the tape recorder in the bedroom had been there before, how he'd been sure the one in the basement hadn't. He opens and shuts his mouth in a moment of baffled indignation, then says, "Is this an... Entity thing?"

[statement_ends]

"It is," John replies, peeking over at Martin's much more businesslike bearing and struggling not to let it inspire still more helpless snickering. He pulls in a breath, trying to steady himself, and then takes a careful sip of his tea. "Back home, they mostly showed up when something awful, or... or significant was about to happen. I think here, the bar has been, er... lowered, somewhat."

He shrugs, small and sheepish. He's not sure he can answer for the Eye's apparent interest in their bedroom activities; honestly, he's not even sure how much of the interest really is the Eye's, and how much of it is his own. But that might be getting a little too into the weeds, and the fact of the matter is that he isn't in the habit of consciously setting up a recording on purpose (though, Christ, now that he thinks about it, it might be an effective technique to try out later).

[loficharm]

"O-okay," Martin says haltingly, not entirely sure how to process the idea that this evil fear-eating entity apparently likes watching them fuck. There's too much more to get through, and he shakes his head slightly as he moves on: "And we just... keep them? Do we listen to them?"

[statement_ends]

Martin's next questions are ostensibly more innocuous, but John finds himself sobering with much less conscious effort than he'd been employing thusfar. The answers, for him, are a bit more... delicate.

"Well," he starts, still staring into his tea, now less because he's trying to contain himself and more because he's not sure he wants to see how Martin reacts to what's coming, "because of my, um... my whole thing, I find it difficult to— to destroy information. Of any kind. It... hurts."

He rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks starting to prickle with belatedly burgeoning embarrassment. "You don't listen to them. I, er... do. Sometimes." Christ, he's probably gone crimson. "I like your noises," he stubbornly insists, as if that will help, or provide any sort of useful clarification.

[loficharm]

"Oh." Martin blinks, startled by the initial answer, that there's actually a very good reason why the tapes are just all piled in a box. It's hard not to feel an immediate pang of distress, or even distant outrage, at the idea that John could be hurt by such a thing. It makes him want to ask a whole lot more questions, how did they first discover this, could it ever be used against him, is he all right? But he recognizes how ridiculous, even patronizing that would be. John's fine; just knowing he can be hurt by something doesn't mean he needs to be comforted about it or protected from it now.

In the end, though, Martin doesn't have to work very hard to dismiss those concerns, as the next thing John tells him knocks him all the way back into the well of embarrassment, and he reddens again, sitting up straighter like he's been stung. "Y—oh," he blurts awkwardly, and immediately stares at the table, his fingers twitching in a nervous fidget. "S-so... right. That one, erm..."

He trails off, not sure how to ask what he's trying to ask. Christmas could refer to the one that would've just happened, which might explain the tape being on top of the stack. Or it could mean it's been listened to, recently, or a favorite. As if it even matters, when all he really wants to know is what the hell was happening on it, and John was there.

[statement_ends]

"Ye-es," John says, glancing up at Martin, furtive and uncertain. It's plain that Martin still has questions. It isn't obvious what those questions might be, and like hell does John intend to just Know them. Which leaves him grasping for something both informative and relatively neutral to say about said tape, and he wraps his hands around his mug before venturing, "That was, er... by your reckoning, 'the best you'd ever had.' At the time, anyway."