John's answer comes at a distance, preceded by a few slow breaths before being softly carried on breath itself. But that little fracture in Martin's composure seals itself up even before it arrives. John is so steady beneath him, his breathing so quiet, that it invites no fear or doubt, and Martin finds himself expecting the acquiescence before he hears it. Warm certainty seeps back in, shoring up the nervous edges of his awareness; a deep sense of internal comfort he intends to push outward, to press upon John like the softest of blankets. "Good," he says, and presses his lips gently to John's brow, his hands coming to cradle his scarred face, thumbs brushing lightly across the contours of his cheekbones. He considers his options for a beat, then lets his hands drift, fingertips tracing back down to John's shoulders before pressing a little closer, rubbing at the lingering signs of tension there.
He's not sure what else to say. Possibilities float by, little affirmations and reassurances: Forget about them, None of that matters, It's just you and me. He doesn't think he needs to say those things. He has drawn enough attention to the disparity between the way the world sees John and the way he does. Too much, in fact. Here, with John's eyes closed and his breathing slowed, they are beyond acknowledgments and verbal reminders. All that's left is for him to act on it. To demonstrate.
He lets himself stay curled over John for a moment before he shifts slightly and murmurs, "Come with me." He straightens up, drawing John up with him, keeping his hands braced on his arms until John seems balanced on his feet. He can't help smiling a little, sheepish with just a little hint of personal pride, before taking John's hand and turning around to guide him out of the bathroom.
The moment they enter the hall, The Bishop bounds around the corner, having been apparently waiting for them to emerge. He pursues them at a trot, polite enough not to get underfoot but clearly relieved by the lack of shouting. When they arrive in the bedroom, the cat jumps up onto the bed and looks up at them, his tail twitching expectantly. He frequently seems capable of distinguishing, with some sort of particular feline intuition, when they are heading to the bedroom for privacy as opposed to respite. This feels like it lands somewhere in the middle, Martin thinks, but the cat's presence certainly isn't a problem.
"Well," he says, looking back up at John. "Seems you're expected. Best get comfortable."
He hesitates before letting go of John's hand, raising his free hand to touch a button on his rumpled shirt. "Won't be needing this," he adds, and meets John's eyes with as much seriousness and sincerity as he can muster. "I'm going to take care of you."
no subject
He's not sure what else to say. Possibilities float by, little affirmations and reassurances: Forget about them, None of that matters, It's just you and me. He doesn't think he needs to say those things. He has drawn enough attention to the disparity between the way the world sees John and the way he does. Too much, in fact. Here, with John's eyes closed and his breathing slowed, they are beyond acknowledgments and verbal reminders. All that's left is for him to act on it. To demonstrate.
He lets himself stay curled over John for a moment before he shifts slightly and murmurs, "Come with me." He straightens up, drawing John up with him, keeping his hands braced on his arms until John seems balanced on his feet. He can't help smiling a little, sheepish with just a little hint of personal pride, before taking John's hand and turning around to guide him out of the bathroom.
The moment they enter the hall, The Bishop bounds around the corner, having been apparently waiting for them to emerge. He pursues them at a trot, polite enough not to get underfoot but clearly relieved by the lack of shouting. When they arrive in the bedroom, the cat jumps up onto the bed and looks up at them, his tail twitching expectantly. He frequently seems capable of distinguishing, with some sort of particular feline intuition, when they are heading to the bedroom for privacy as opposed to respite. This feels like it lands somewhere in the middle, Martin thinks, but the cat's presence certainly isn't a problem.
"Well," he says, looking back up at John. "Seems you're expected. Best get comfortable."
He hesitates before letting go of John's hand, raising his free hand to touch a button on his rumpled shirt. "Won't be needing this," he adds, and meets John's eyes with as much seriousness and sincerity as he can muster. "I'm going to take care of you."