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

[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."

[loficharm]

Martin is still staring at the table, until John gives him that little tidbit, and his gaze snaps back up. "Y-yeah, it sounded like it!" he says shrilly. Desperate, frustrated curiosity finally overwhelms him and the rest just tumbles out: "What were you doing?"

[statement_ends]

John looks up at Martin again, not furtive this time, but in sustained consideration. If listening to the tape constituted a violation of Martin's privacy, then discussing it in more detail might qualify, as well. Granted, it might be a pointless concern; Martin is the one asking, and John can't think of a way to refuse him that wouldn't sound incredibly asinine.

Maybe it's not really Martin's privacy that concerns him, but the more awkward question of just how much Martin currently knows about his own proclivities. If there was a reason to avoid this entire subject, it's this: John has not forgotten what a process it was for Martin to become comfortable with himself, to decouple his own desires from all the shame he'd been taught to feel about them. Perhaps this Martin hasn't internalized the shame, yet. Perhaps he isn't even aware of half the things he'll come to enjoy. But John dreads the distinct possibility that he's going to blindside Martin with something he currently finds mortifying, and that he might have to defend him from... well, from himself.

He sits up a bit straighter. If Martin is going to be embarrassed, then it will be his choice, and not something John encouraged by acting as if there's anything wrong with what he likes. His cheeks are still hot, but his gaze is cool and his tone level as he says, "I believe the common term for it is 'nipple play.'"

[loficharm]

For a moment it seems like John might not answer him. He seems to grow more serious; there's something almost stern in his expression as he sits up straighter, giving Martin a look like he's having some internal debate. And Martin can't really fault him for it. Maybe he shouldn't have asked; his curiosity is not necessarily justified by the intensity of it, and while it might be funny to know he stumbled on this collection of... of sex tapes, knowing he now feels entitled to the details is another matter.

But then John does answer him, so calm and composed that it actually causes a moment of cognitive dissonance between his tone and the words he's saying. Martin stares at him, his mouth hanging open as the answer takes root, and wonders if he's stupid for not having guessed it even as it shocks him.

"Th-y-we-" he babbles with no actual articulation in sight, and then he feels it, his damnably persistent blush deepening and spreading down his neck and up to his ears. He doesn't want to be a child about this. He knows that there are a lot of ways to get a person off, really, and he's the one who asked. But Christ, it feels embarrassing, and trying to picture himself in these circumstances is only getting more difficult the more gaps he fills in. "You mean you just—" he starts and stops himself immediately, the question both too juvenile and too personal for him to continue. Finally he just slumps, dropping his head into his hands with a groan.

"That's all it took?" he asks at length, sheepish and muffled through his hands.

[statement_ends]

Martin's jaw drops, and John's eyes narrow a fraction as Martin starts to stammer his way towards a response. He's ready to elaborate, if the situation calls for it, to insist that it's common enough, as normal as anything else beneath the fundamentally absurd umbrella of human sexuality. But while Martin does seem embarrassed, he's skewing more towards the incredulous end of the spectrum than anything approaching scorn.

John's expression softens as Martin buries his face in his hands. "That's all it took," he gently confirms. "I think it shocked both of us, rea— well, you probably gathered as much from the tape."

[loficharm]

"I... yeah." Martin breathes out slowly, trying to pull himself together, and lets his hands slip down from his face. "I, erm, didn't... know that about myself. Obviously, I guess."

He clears his throat and sits back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze wanders back down to the table. Only then does he remember his tea, and he grabs at it in belated relief, taking a fortifying sip. Thank god. He knows it might be largely psychosomatic, but it does feel like he's returning to some sort of normalized baseline, like it's suddenly easier to think about what he wants to ask, to imagine asking. The topic is still delicate, but they've come this far, and they're all right.

"I was also wondering, er... you don't have to answer this, any of it, really, just." He draws a breath and looks at John. "It didn't really sound like... you were getting anything out of it? Did I... rrreciprocate, or...?" He shrugs and hides himself behind another sip of tea. "Just didn't seem very fair," he mumbles.

[statement_ends]

John hums, soft and not unsympathetic. If it was a surprise to Martin at the time, of course it would be a shock now. But it's a shock he seems to be handling well, and John feels a little tension leave his shoulders as Martin turns his attention to his tea.

Martin approaches his next question with a bit more caution, swaddling it in the insistence that John needn't answer, but the question itself is almost a relief. He's been half-anticipating and half-dreading how this might come up since they first kissed, and in the context of an already somewhat awkward conversation while sat at the table is preferable to anything more... in media res. He still finds himself frowning, both at the notion that he wasn't getting anything out of the exchange and the accompanying idea that it wasn't fair. Maybe he shouldn't be shocked that things have taken a turn for the regressive, all things considered, but Christ.

"I wasn't interested in reciprocation," he says, taking care to not let indignation creep into his tone too early. "Personally, I'm not interested in sex at all." He has another sip of tea, giving that a moment to sink in, before adding, "That doesn't mean I wasn't getting anything out of it. Did I really sound like I was having a bad time?" One eyebrow arches in a subtle rebuke as he sets his cup down.

[loficharm]

For a fraction of the second there's just more confusion as John claims he wasn't interested; then clarity hits and Martin sits up straight again with another "Oh—!", a fresh wave of embarrassment rolling over him as he feels like he should've known this, too. It feels like an affront somehow, to have made such an assumption. He could tell himself that learning John was with him, when he hadn't even known whether John was interested in men at all, had consumed his attention and blocked him off to other possibilities. But that would probably be a lie. He would never have considered this possibility, because it isn't one he generally thinks about, and it would have — inaccurately, it seems — spoiled his daydreams. Now that just feels like an indictment, like proof of how unimaginative, how closed-minded he actually is.

Further and perhaps more earned indictment comes at John's next question and the rather pointed gaze that accompanies it. Martin's heart sinks a little and he looks down, chastened and uneasy as he fiddles with his cup.

"W-well—no," he admits. He hadn't meant it like that, but it doesn't much matter when he'd essentially equated 'getting anything out of it' with sexual gratification. Which just feels stupid, now. "You sounded like you were having fun. I just..." He lifts a shoulder, now feeling thoroughly out of his depth. There were so many tapes in that box, and now he can imagine their contents even less. "So you just... do things for me? You like it?" He peeks back up, nervously seeking John's gaze. "It doesn't... bother you?"

[statement_ends]

Martin seems to shrink before him, and John feels an immediate stab of regret. Yesterday, he had highlighted the fundamental unfairness of expecting Martin to just intuit information he had no way of knowing; that hasn't changed just because he said something that put John's back up. The disparity between their experiences has never been so apparent as it is now, and the last thing he wants is to make Martin feel small over it. He can do better.

The questions, parceled out with halting incredulity, just serve to twist the knife. John sits forward in his chair, leaning on the table that now feels like an obstacle as much as a support. "Of course it doesn't bother me," he says, any trace of indignation now scrubbed from his tone and replaced with soft sincerity. "I-I like making you happy, helping you feel good. Christ, I—" he ducks his head, huffing a laugh at the dark suggestion of his own reflection in his tea. "I thought I was going to be so useless," he murmurs, barely above a whisper. "That I couldn't offer you anything. I've never been so— so fucking ecstatic to be wrong."

[loficharm]

John's tone gentles, and Martin keeps looking at him, furtive and anxious at first, then gradually more direct as John seems to sink into his own little mire. He looks so vulnerable, and his quiet admission is so heartbreaking, that it would become immediately imperative to offer comfort were it not for the sudden weight of the implications carried by it all.

John thought he was useless. That he had nothing to offer. This feels so patently ridiculous, so obviously untrue, that it takes Martin a moment to recognize how familiar it all is, and not just in that it's how he's always felt about himself. John is so different now, so wonderfully kind and gentle, that Martin almost forgot he's still the same man. The one he'd known, with his thorny exterior, his snide remarks, his cold distance, carried all this potential in him; and he carried, too, the insecurity and hurt that inspired all that unkindness. Martin always suspected that it wasn't just outright cruelty, that there was some hidden pain, that his attitude was a defensive overcompensation for something unseen. It's the same now; it just shows differently. John lets it be seen, rather than covering it with sneering nastiness. John trusts him with it, even now, when he's at his most woefully ignorant.

Christ, what is he supposed to do with all that? He lacks the shared history necessary to make any rejoinder meaningful. He can't just agree with John's relief over being wrong, as that would imply he, too, had ever harbored such a fear; he can't argue against it, either, without specific knowledge of how very much John does have to offer. Even if he knows, intrinsically, that there is plenty. Knows that John could never be useless, never. He doesn't know what all John does for him beyond these past several days; he wishes, more than anything, that he did.

But he has to say something. He isn't going to just sit there silent, not after all that.

"John..." He hesitates, trying to consider his words carefully, though it ultimately feels improvisational, a bit like he's picking his way through a minefield. "I don't know what all goes on between us, or how exactly we got here, any of that. But I know that this was never about what I thought you could offer. It's about who you are. Christ, if I'd known this, I just would've thought I had even less of a chance with you than I already did, it wouldn't change how much I... care about you."

This feels stupid. He huffs impatiently and says, "Look, I'm sure I've already said things like this. I hope I have. I don't want to make you retread all this stuff, I just... I want you to know I—I'm so glad that I kept trying to reach you, that I kept wanting you, no matter how weird and bad everything seems to have got back home, because you—you deserve it, John. Today, this whole stupid week, you've been so good to me, better than anyone, better than I thought I deserved, and I... You could never be useless, John. I'm glad you know that, now, too."

It still feels inadequate. It feels like there should be more, with more grace behind it. He stares at John, trying to imagine the right words, the right sentiment, all the weight of what he wants to convey a building pressure in his chest, like water behind glass. Then finally he breaks away, slumping back once again, sighing as he reaches up to massage his brow.

"This is probably the best relationship I've ever had," he says. "Like, any kind of relationship. And it's like I missed it, or... or I don't really get to have it yet. Something."

[statement_ends]

John looks back up as Martin says his name, offering him reassurances that shouldn't be necessary. It's not just a question of retreading old ground, as Martin puts it, though it's true that none of the sentiments he's expressing are shockingly novel. He certainly has nothing to make up for as far as 'making John feel worthy of affection and care' is concerned; he's always been rather adept at that, and all this proves is that he's a goddamn prodigy.

But John had confessed his old insecurities for context more than sympathy, and hadn't anticipated either the phantom pain or how much Martin would naturally want to soothe it. He does, though — of course he does, and John takes in the effort with a faint, fond smile that just grows increasingly besotted the more Martin speaks. Christ, this was always there, always just waiting for the excuse to emerge. Under different circumstances, that might be an excuse to get maudlin over the time they wasted, but he can't get hung up on that now, with a Martin who hasn't had to slog through several miserable years' worth of bloody circumstances to get here. He feels foolish, certainly, but more than that, he feels fortunate: that despite everything Martin has forgotten, they've still managed to fall into something so close to what they struggled so much to achieve the first time around.

That struggle makes Martin's last comment more amusing than he could have anticipated, and John ducks his head in a bid to hide his grin. "For what it's worth," he says, recovering his cup, "you're actually getting a very abridged version of things, as far as timing is concerned. It took us a couple of weeks to get round to kissing, and nearly a month before we shared a bed for the first time. Two more after that before you moved in." He smiles crookedly across the table. "We’re practically breaking the bloody sound barrier at the rate we're going now."

[loficharm]

Martin lifts his gaze again to find John smiling at him, so warm and fond that it could just undo him where he sits. He still feels a bit like an interloper in all this, and he certainly still wishes he knew the full long version of things. But knowing he's apparently taking several shortcuts is rather charming in its own right, and he smiles back, relaxing his shoulders once again.

"Well, it's been nice," he says. "All things considered."

He takes a moment to focus on his tea, on the returning sense of balance and peace between them, before looking back up thoughtfully. "So... what sort of things are you interested in?"

[statement_ends]

"It has," John agrees, likewise relaxing as they settle into a more comfortable silence, the air finally cleared. Martin might have more questions, but the most immediately daunting are behind them, and John is content to just drink his tea, neither desperate to break the silence nor anxious over what Martin might say next.

The question, when it comes, sparks a faint smile. The last time Martin had asked him about his likes, his answer had been rather insubstantial. It's sort of nice to have it put to him again, now that he can conjure up more than an uneasy shrug and the creeping conviction that it was pathetic to not already have an itemized list.

"There are a few tactile things I enjoy," he says, idly turning his cup between his fingers. "You give excellent back massages, and sometimes you'll sort of... play with my hands? That's nice. Hugs are good, too." His cheeks color a bit in spite of himself as he adds, "And I, er. I like it when you stroke my hair, which... I imagine you've already gathered." He clears his throat, then takes another bracing sip of tea.

[loficharm]

Martin perks up with a little grin, delighted to hear he gives such good massages, charmed by the rest of it, too. Particularly the way John seems to get a little nervous about the one thing Martin had, indeed, already worked out. Is he blushing a bit?

"I did piece that one together," he says playfully, and sips his tea for a moment, considering. Now that they're out of the woods of that conversation, the table feels like an unnecessary barrier. He wishes he could reach out and touch John, perhaps gingerly test some of this new information.

"Sounds nice," he says instead. Later, maybe. He doesn't feel quite bold enough to suggest they move now. He settles into the lull that follows, sipping more of his tea and tentatively enjoying the novelty of a non-awkward shared silence. It's nice enough that it could almost make him forget the whole thing in the basement, the whiplash of having recovered so fast from the terror of it. Almost.

"Suppose you'll need to go and rotate the laundry soon," he murmurs, fidgeting with his cup. "So that thing just... doesn't bother you?"

[statement_ends]

John blinks when Martin mentions the laundry, and then sucks in a self-recriminating breath through his teeth when he remembers that he brought lunch. "Christ, we got sidetracked. Forgot all about the food, too." He gets to his feet and retrieves the takeout bag; the styrofoam containers within are still warm enough to the touch that after a few considering moments, he just brings it all back to the table. It's not like it's been sitting out for that long.

"Anyway, it certainly tries to bother me," he answers as he settles back into his chair and starts unpacking the bag. "Sometimes, anyway. I'm not its preferred target. Between the whole Eye thing and... and everything else, I think I'm a little too hard to impress."

They pass the mealtime in a comfortable, companionable manner, and when John does nip downstairs to rotate the laundry, the only sign of the basement ghost is a brief, baleful flicker of the overhead lights that halts the moment John gives the fixture a pointed look. By the time he returns to the flat, he's recovered the spring in his step that he'd had when he first left the Archive.

"Well," he says has he shuts the door behind him, "that gives us another hour to kill. D'you want more tea?"

[loficharm]

It is nice, comforting, to slip further into collective normalcy over lunch, putting more and more distance between him and the events of the day. And yet there is still something eating at him, something that feels just out of reach until John heads downstairs to rotate the laundry.

Left alone with nothing to do but fixate on his own thoughts, he finds himself straying back to the one particular detail of the tape he hadn't asked about. He's not particularly keen to get back into all that after they made such a clean escape the first time, but it's still on his mind as John returns, and it takes Martin a moment to parse his question, idly running his finger up and down his empty mug.

"What?" He blinks and looks up. "Oh, yeah. Yes, that'd be lovely. Do you want me to make it?"

[statement_ends]

John's first thought is 'absolutely not' — between the tidying he's already done and the whole ordeal in the basement, he's of the opinion that Martin deserves a break. The only reason he hesitates is because he's aware that Martin sincerely enjoys making tea, and taking that task off of his hands isn't always the favor it would appear to be on paper. But then again, lunch went a long way towards establishing an equilibrium. And more to the point, John just wants to dote on him a bit.

"I'm already up," he says, swinging by the table to retrieve their cups, lingering by Martin's chair long enough to sweep his fingers through his hair, now dry and gone a bit fluffy. "Could relocate to the couch, though, if you wanted." It's more comfortable, and god knows Martin's earned some comfort.

[loficharm]

Martin smiles, faint and fond, as John insists on taking care of it. At the light touch to his hair, he sits up a little straighter, almost leaning into it, but it's over before he can properly enjoy it. It was such a brief, affectionate touch, and he feels a burst of warmth in his chest as well as another blush coloring his cheeks, too distracted by how much he'd liked it and how badly he wants more to really hear John's next remark.

"Mhm," he answers, vaguely affirmative, but doesn't get up. Without his cup to fiddle with, he just folds his hands back together, trying to keep his fidgeting to an unobtrusive minimum.

[statement_ends]

Martin doesn't seem in any particular hurry to move, but having him sat at the table makes the tea preparation feel more companionable than it otherwise might, so John doesn't give the inertia much thought as he goes about refilling the kettle and setting it to boil. It isn't until he has everything set out and reaches that waiting-for-the-kettle lull that he looks back over at Martin, and notes how preoccupied he seems.

Said preoccupation isn't a shock, all things considered, and he isn't sure it's necessarily even a concern. The day — well, the whole week — has given Martin rather more to process than usual. He eyes him with a gentle sort of curiosity for a moment or two, then offers, "You look pensive."

[loficharm]

Martin looks up as though coming out of a dream, blinking at John for a moment, noting the softness of his expression before registering the comment.

"N-no, it's just..." He stops, not sure why he's trying to hide it when they've just been establishing so much honest and open communication. He looks at the table for a moment. "There was just... one other thing I was thinking about. From the tape."

He peeks back up, a sheepish little wince crossing his features as he says, "But I—I'd understand if you don't want to get back into that."