loficharm | let me show you what you're worth

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jonathan sims

let me show you what you're worth

September 23rd, 2021

"The bloody arrogance," Martin snaps as he shuts the door and locks it with a sharp flick of his wrist. He has contained the rising boil of his fury, if barely, for the entire walk home from the thoroughly unpleasant encounter with Sylvie; limited it to silent (if practically visible) radiation until now, as they enter the relative privacy of their flat, and not a moment longer. "The sheer fucking — god, what is it about us that we attract the exact same type of magical arsehole every time?"

He stumbles out of his shoes and yanks off his coat and practically throws it over the back of the couch as he moves through the flat on a direct line for the kitchen. He grabs the kettle and starts filling it with the water at full blast. "It's always our fault for not just deferring to their ideas about how things work. Like they're so fucking superior and we're these funny little — i-insects she found on the sidewalk and decided to poke with a stick for a while. Talking to me like I'm a bloody child."

As angry as he is — he hasn't felt this angry in a long while, and he's not even totally sure why — it's starting to feel weird, swearing so much. He shuts off the water and sets the kettle on the stove as gently as he can manage and flicks the burner on before pressing a hand to his forehead and forcing himself to breathe.

"Sorry," he says, his tone still terse, his jaw still clenched. He drops his hand and finally looks at John. "I just hate it, I hate when people — when they act like that, and the way they talk to you, like they — like they know you, like they have any idea—"

He cuts himself off again, his gaze shifting quick and hot to a dusty corner of the floor. It takes him a moment to push out the unwelcome memory of Jacob Riggs, hand around his throat while he spewed all his ignorant assumptions. He shudders slightly as he forces it away, drawing another breath through his teeth.

"Not like it's even new," he says bitterly. "Everyone did this back home, too. They all reduce you to this, this title, this idea, like what happened to you was... like it's the only thing worth knowing, like everything else is just—" He gestures, a vague flap of his hand, frustration over the struggle to find his words. He can't keep up with his own anger, moving faster than he can speak, and yet he can't stop now that he's started. "Just details! Just a bunch of awful little footnotes nobody bothers to read. What are you, like it's — like that's the most interesting thing about you when it's not, and it never has been. Christ."

He stares balefully at the kettle, wishing it would get on his level, knowing he filled it too much and now he's bought himself an awkward amount of time to just stand there ranting. He needs to stop, but he doesn't know what that would even begin to feel like.

"Well they don't get to know," he snaps. "They don't get to know that you— you hum to yourself when you do the dishes and you have this very specific system for putting the mugs back in the cabinet. Or that you did improv in uni, or that you have a bunch of random bits of Shakespeare memorized, or that you know a frankly weird amount of facts about emulsifiers, or — or that you're funny, like really funny in the most ridiculous ways when you have the chance to show it. They don't know how much you hate auto-tuning, or that you're an incredibly pleasant drunk, or that you have this particular voice you use when you talk to cats. What you sound like in the morning, how good your hair smells after a shower. They don't get any of it, and they don't deserve it. Those things are mine."

He stops short, drawing a shaky breath and feeling a bit like he might be about to topple over. The kettle finally starts to work toward whistling, and Martin moves to switch off the burner. He stares at it for a moment, trying to imagine himself getting down cups, putting tea together, having a sit down and a cuppa like that might fix him right now. Then he breathes out slowly and turns back around.

"That's what you are," he says, making some effort to slow down, to soften. "All the messy little human things. Not what happened to you. Not what was forced on you and not the choices you had to make. And it's everyone else's loss."

Enough. Stop. He looks at John, blinking, breathing, not sure where things possibly go from here and unable to regret it.

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Martin spends the entire walk home seething. His anger is so potent that John has to make a point of not hearing it, as if Martin is simultaneously walking in resolute silence beside him and muttering furiously on the other side of a door. Minding his own business requires energy that John wishes he didn't have to expend; he is already tired, thrice depleted by the fraught encounter with an angry god, the unpleasant conversation that followed, and the healing of his own leg. The prospect of weathering Martin's impending outburst, even knowing the anger won't really be directed at him, serves only to preemptively exhaust him further.

Which probably makes him ungrateful, or something. He can imagine the shape of Martin's anger even without overhearing it; he knows that Martin wasn't just personally insulted by Sylvie's impressions of them both. But her impressions of John weren't wrong. Bluntly put, perhaps, but not inaccurate. And he can't quite convince himself that he's allowed to feel insulted when all she did was remind them that the comfortable little life they've built for themselves can only give the impression of normalcy. That there is something distinctly Other beneath the surface, and that it can't be hidden from everyone.

As if he has any right to object to being seen.

Christ, he just wants to lie down.

But that isn't an option. Martin is off to the races the moment they step inside, all of that barely-withheld frustration and annoyance bursting out of him at last. John sighs softly, divesting himself of coat and shoes with slow deliberation. He hears Martin's words at some slight, impersonal distance: they land like hailstones on the pavement outside, hard enough that he might wince over the damage they could do to his car, if he had one, which he doesn't. A problem, but not necessarily his problem. A part of him wants to just proceed to the bathroom as if Martin's rant isn't even happening, to rid himself of another ruined pair of trousers and mop the dried blood off of his leg, to do only what is strictly necessary before crawling into bed and trying again tomorrow. Old habits. Instead, he finds himself toeing the line where hardwood meets the kitchen tiles, watching Martin's aggressive tea preparation with a small, wary furrow between his brows.

It is only when Martin meets his gaze and apologizes that John feels entirely present, and he blinks, swaying a fraction as if he'd been physically shoved back into his own body. He listens more attentively, almost marveling at Martin's continuing ire: that he has the energy to keep venting steam over the idea that strangers might find John's abilities more interesting than anything else about him, that he finds that prioritization irritating instead of inevitable. John isn't sure he agrees with him — he is certain that he lacks the energy or inclination to begrudge anyone who doesn't know him such low-hanging fruit — but there is something undeniably bolstering about the reminder that to Martin, at least, it is the smaller things that matter more.

And that's all John needs, really. He doesn't expect some unusually perceptive god or warlock or whatever to get some sense of his patron and ignore it in favor of inquiring about his bloody hobbies. He doesn't need random strangers to care about the things that only Martin is in a position to notice, let alone value. That discrepancy doesn't feel like a problem, or a shame, or 'everyone else's loss.' It feels natural, correct, that the person he kept his humanity for would love every tattered scrap of it with such stubborn ferocity.

Ferocity is still more than he has the energy for, and John's movements are still a bit cautious as he steps forward, his palms lighting on Martin's shoulders and then sliding down to rest just above his elbows. "Okay," he murmurs, both assent and reassurance. "It's okay. I mean, it doesn't— I don't care if random people don't... don't see that. As long as you do."

He rubs Martin's arms for a moment before giving the kettle a rueful glance. "Maybe the tea can wait? I just want to..." he breaks off with a weary huff, nodding down at his leg. Lifting his gaze back to Martin, he hesitates for a beat before setting aside his own instinctive embarrassment. Too tired for that, as well. "Come with me?"

John is tired; of course he's tired, and he wants to get out of his ruined clothes, and Martin should be prioritizing looking after him, not... all this. He feels disgruntled and overheated and embarrassed, mortified at having said so much only to have it land so flat. Did he allow himself to imagine for a moment that John would be grateful for all this fire and venom, moved by it, that he would find it attractive or even necessary?

It's selfish to even worry like that; selfish and grossly insecure, when none of this was supposed to be about him at all. John knows his feelings and Sylvie wouldn't understand any of this anyway, and by his own admission it's not for her at all. And John has just said it plain: it only matters to him that Martin sees all this. So who was it even for? For him, obviously, releasing pent-up tension; and John has more pressing needs right now. Martin huffs out a sigh, nodding a bit impatiently — impatient with himself, a nuance he hopes is self-evident — before the fire dies and he finds himself abruptly exhausted, and all he can do is pitch forward, letting his head come to rest against John's shoulder.

"Sorry," he murmurs. "I'm sorry. Yeah. Let me — let me help you."

He pulls himself back upright and sets his hand gingerly at John's back. John doesn't need help walking, but it feels like an overdue gesture nonetheless.

Edited 2022-06-07 18:16 (UTC)

Martin visibly deflates, and John finds that he isn't too exhausted to feel a sharp pang of regret. He hadn't meant to discourage the sentiment, or come across as unappreciative; he just... hadn't been able to match Martin's energy. Seeing Martin instead sink down to meet him feels like a miserable consolation.

For a moment, he remembers huddling beneath an awning, drenched and harried, and letting another romantic overture die an awkward, ignominious death beneath the weight of his own inability to focus on what mattered in the moment. He tries to imagine another belated, but still welcome, recovery. He cannot see the shape of it.

Martin's head lands on his shoulder, and John curls a hand around the nape of his neck. That, at least, is easy. "No apologies," he insists, and then, "thank you." Too-small acknowledgments, just like the arm he drapes around Martin's shoulders as they both make their careful way to the bathroom.

The time spent in the coffee shop did allow him to heal — the only thing that visit was indisputably good for — and most of what he feels now is just the discomfort of the bandages plastered beneath his trouser leg: the unbalanced sensation of one leg being swaddled while the other is not, and the persistent itch of loosening scabs. What he doesn't feel, thankfully, is any particular inclination towards either modesty or embarrassment when it comes to getting things dealt with. The prospect of Martin's assistance is only a relief, and John wastes little time before he starts to shuck off his trousers, getting them down to his knees before plunking himself down onto the closed lid of the toilet so Martin can help tug them off the rest of the way.

He almost makes a tired joke about them not being worth keeping, but he doesn't quite trust it to land. Too bloody derivative, at this point. Instead, he just murmurs another soft, "Thank you."

The thanks is both bolstering and a bit embarrassing, and Martin's answering smile is a little strained, but it's beside the point now. He helps John into the WC and out of his trousers, gentle as he can, then he crouches down to inspect the bandaged leg. He's about to start unwinding all that when John thanks him again, startling him softly. He looks up, catching John's eyes and holding his gaze for a moment, his hand coming to rest around the back of John's calf. It might be a supportive gesture if there was any indication John needed it, but there is something else driving him to make that contact, some compulsion gnawing at the back of his mind.

"I've got you," he murmurs, a reassurance that doesn't seem necessary, and yet. "Just relax."

He tips his head back down to examine the bandage. For all it was magically produced, it seems to be an ordinary bandage, closely wrapped but not adhered to him or anything awful. Small mercies. He tuts softly as he starts unraveling it, gradually revealing the scarred leg beneath. Most of the scars are old and familiar; shrapnel from the House of Wax. Today's wound seems mostly healed and with only a little left behind to show. John might have weathered much worse, but Martin's glad he didn't have to.

"Looks all right," he says, then sighs heavily at the torn trousers before looking up at John. Again there's that pull from somewhere in him, the back of his thoughts or behind his ribs. He hesitates, then reaches out to take John's hand, rubbing his thumb gently over his knuckles. "You're okay."

The curl of Martin's hand around his calf and the soft reassurance are faintly startling, though John has a hard time identifying why. The touch is too gentle (and too entirely within his sightline) to qualify as a shock, and Martin's tone is too soothing to unsettle him.

Maybe it's just the suggestion to relax that throws him, less because it's an unusual thing for Martin to say and more because it never would have occurred to him that he needed to. But of course he does. He should know, by now, that exhaustion is not inherently relaxing; lord knows how many times he has fallen asleep with his jaw clenched and his neck stiff in stubborn vigilance. And when Martin says 'just relax,' he can't help but take abrupt, embarrassed note of the tension still hunching his shoulders and coiling in his gut. No reason for him to still be holding onto it now except for miserable habit, but even miserable habits can be hard to break.

John pulls in a slow breath, then lets it out, his shoulders dropping and his head bowing forward a little as he deliberately follows Martin's advice. It's difficult for him to judge whether he follows it well — Martin can soothe him better than anyone ever has, but John is still too habituated to stress to reliably distinguish between the intention to relax and the actual achievement of same (especially when he's still upright and not being actively kneaded into their mattress) — but he tries. The removal of the bandage helps, as does the continued mundanity of the bandage itself. It doesn't turn into anything else or disappear in a flash of green fire; if he hadn't seen it summoned out of thin air, he wouldn't be able to distinguish it from the bandage in their own first aid kit. And the new scars left on his leg are, as he imagined, nothing to write home about. If not for their relative freshness, they wouldn't stand out at all.

Martin confirms John's silent assessment, and seems to also consider and reject a comment about the ruined trousers. Then he looks up at him and takes his hand, and John doesn't know why his breath should hitch, or why this simple, gentle care should strike him so deeply when all that righteous fire in the kitchen blew past him. He blinks, a soft sound gusting out of him, and looks down at their hands, turning his palm-up in thoughtless acquiescence. "I, um," he starts, too moved for a smart response and too thrown for a meaningful one. After a beat or two, all he can offer is a helpless, "If you say so."

Martin keeps his eyes on John, steadily observing the subtle change in his breathing, the way he seems to struggle with some unnamed thing that's just risen up between them. Martin feels it too, though it takes him a moment to settle on its source. It isn't a bad thing; and that's just it, anxiety doesn't even occur to him, no fear that there might be some unrealized misstep or something wrong he hasn't sussed out. He feels... stable, much moreso than he did in the kitchen. He knows John is all right because he intends to be sure of it.

He's not sure he's ever felt so certain of that before. And he's chasing a whim, an instinct more than anything, when he smiles and says, "I do."

He holds John's gaze a moment longer, and if pieces are falling into place in the back of his mind, he doesn't have time to worry about the picture they make. His hands stay where they are as he shifts his weight, easing himself up onto his knees. Only then does he break eye contact, looking down at John's hand, still held in his. He draws it up gently, brings it to his lips, presses a gentle, lingering kiss to the ridge of John's knuckles. It lasts until it doesn't, after which there is no hesitation: he follows the thread of instinct to climb to his feet, to let his hands fall away from their resting places, one coming to rest instead beneath John's chin, tipping his head up a small, meaningful fraction.

"You're okay," he says again, and leans down. "Close your eyes," he whispers.

This is new. It shouldn't feel so new, but it does; it is. The confidence that feels like calm, the complete lack of uncertainty as he waits for John to do as he says, the easy, natural impulse to press a featherlight kiss to each eyelid before resting his brow against John's. His hands slip down to John's shoulders, squeezing gently, the soft suggestion of a massage or a reminder to stay relaxed, he isn't sure which. He doesn't know what's come over him.

"I-" A stutter breaks loose, and he swallows. Asking this question will make everything solid. Will acknowledge something unspoken, something he's still not sure how to pronounce. Still, he has to ask: "Is this okay?"

Martin answers his rather fumbling remark with quiet confidence, and John blinks at him, stunned into silence. It's not that confidence is unprecedented, at least in some contexts: Martin hasn't been particularly shy about his managerial duties in the office for quite some time. But he makes requests far more often than he gives anything approaching an order, and isn't much inclined towards self-endorsement. Anything even adjacent to either of those things comes packaged in a cushioning layer of irony, an implicit nod to roles reversed. Even at home, orders feel like a private joke they share, or a game they play, not something delivered wholly in earnest. Martin doesn't speak to him like this: soft, gentle, and as inescapable as gravity.

Except he does. 'I do,' he says, and smiles at him. And that is simply all there is to it. John is caught fast, locked in Martin's orbit, surrendering to the pull. He watches as Martin lifts his hand to his lips, allowing the tender manipulation without a second thought. His trust in Martin was hard-earned, a choice that became a habit that became a reflex, and now it is as easy as breathing. Easier, even: an act that never pulls against the scars on his chest, an impulse that he feels no need to temper into something shallow and unobtrusive, lest it somehow distract him from whatever happens next. Martin stands, one warm hand curling beneath John's chin, the novelty utterly arresting, and John almost smiles as he lets his head tip back a few obliging degrees. He is okay, he is more than 'okay,' and it isn't until Martin tells him to close his eyes that there is any distant suggestion to the contrary.

John hesitates, his expression unchanging except for his gaze, which sharpens out of its earlier placidity. The request budges up against another instinct, older and just as powerful: one that tells him to keep his eyes open, to Watch, one that quivers with sudden urgency at the idea of not Knowing every detail of what Martin might intend, one that bristles at the indignity of passively allowing himself to be acted upon. One that frets and sneers and mutters too-familiar verses: what was the point of choosing this if you're going to just let things happen to you? What is the point of you, if you don't Know things, if you don't Know everything?

One that might have won out if he wasn't already tired enough for choice to feel like a chore and foreknowledge a burden he'd rather relinquish to the man who is handling him so gently. John trusts Martin more than he trusts the voice in his own head. And when he closes his eyes, he feels no trepidation, only relief.

Martin's kisses land like a benediction, delivered with such care that John almost has to infer them, less feeling the pressure of them against his eyelids and more assembling the truth of them from the other disparate sensations and scraps of awareness at his disposal. The more decisive press of Martin's chin against his cheek; the warmth of his breath ghosting against his brow; the overwhelming and entirely mundane knowledge that this is exactly the sort of thing Martin would do, isn't it? He would wonder what he had done to deserve this if wondering was currently within his purview. Instead, he quietly luxuriates in the sensations, and in the intoxicating awareness that all he needs to do is accept it. And acceptance is so easy. The weight of Martin's forehead resting against his own is a familiar comfort; so is the solid pressure of his hands on John's shoulders, though John is once again struck by the implicit confidence of the gesture, the certainty of that unspoken suggestion to stay put, to wait.

The check-in, too, is unsurprising. He still doesn't respond for a beat or two, but only because it takes an extra moment for him to rouse himself into any sort of action. He hums, brief and quiet, as if he was near to dozing and Martin nudged him awake. He is not tired, though — or not that kind of tired. Certainly not in any danger of drifting off when that might not be what Martin intends for him. "Yes," he breathes. It distantly occurs to him that he could reach out, let his hand curl around Martin's leg or brace against his side. But exploration would require initiative, and that seems to be currently beside the point. He remains still, instead, patiently waiting for Martin's next move.

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."

Edited 2022-07-07 22:07 (UTC)

A faint smile graces John's lips as he continues to bask in Martin's affections, all of it familiar enough in nature to be comfortably borne, even in such unusual concentration. Martin cares for him in small ways all the time, and he often puts some single-minded focus into it: a shoulder rub at the office that goes beyond just 'in passing,' or losing the plot of whatever film they were ostensibly watching because he was too busy petting John's hair to pay proper attention. But this is still inescapably different, indisputably more. This isn't some idle diversion. There is no suggestion of another occupation, some quotidian duty that can only be delayed for so long. This is all there is, the span of it stretching beyond his reckoning — for Martin to decide, not him.

The uncertainty doesn't concern him, though he knows it would have, once. Martin knows him too well and loves him too carefully for John to regard acquiescence as a risk. That he doesn't know what he's acquiescing to feels like little more than semantics: he isn't sure what word would do this justice, and is less interested in terminology than in gathering more proverbial data. He is safe in Martin's hands, and that is enough.

If he were to voice any guiding preferences, it would have only been to suggest that they perhaps move this somewhere more comfortable than the loo: a detail that feels small and distant, but not quite distant enough to be wholly unembarrassing. But there is no need. Martin preempts any concerns, coaxing John to his feet with a murmured invitation, smiling up at him with breathtaking self-assurance, leading him out by the hand. John follows him into the bedroom, sparing The Bishop a brief look and momentarily entertaining the question of whether the cat might be getting himself in the way of whatever comes next. But Martin doesn't indicate that The Bishop's presence is anything but more company.

John follows Martin's hand with his gaze as he grazes a finger against one of his shirt buttons, and answers Martin's assessment of the garment with a small, rueful grunt. The shirt may not be damaged, but John's been sweating into it enough over the past hour or so that its physical integrity is about all it currently has going for it. He won't be sorry to take it off.

His arms have just begun the thoughtless motion of reaching for the button himself when Martin's next words pull him up short. John stills, frozen mid-motion, cheeks prickling with a blush he can't quantify. It isn't embarrassment; he doesn't feel as if he's made a misstep. He just requires clarification, 'best get comfortable' and 'I'm going to take care of you' leaving the question of who ought to remove the shirt unresolved. "Should I...?" he starts, lifting his hands a fraction in unspoken indication.

John's hesitation catches Martin off guard, a little stutter in his attempt at smoothness. He hadn't meant to imply he was going to undress John — Christ, that feels presumptuous — hadn't even considered it would be on the table at all. But the implication was there nonetheless, and now that John's seeking clarification, he finds himself caught between the automatic answer and the option he hadn't realized was there. He wants to seize that option, to take charge wherever he can; but this is all so new and happening so suddenly, without much actual forethought, that it's difficult to improvise.

"W- No, I can—" He lifts his hands before catching himself, hesitating just a moment too long. He tries to steady himself. There's been no misstep here. John hasn't resisted the suggestion; he's simply asking. Even still, it's best to be certain. Martin looks up, finding his eyes again. "Is that all right?"

Martin fumbles a bit, the implication that he would take charge in this, too, apparently catching him by surprise. It's a slight hiccup, but not enough for John to regret asking. He'd wanted clarification regarding Martin's intentions, and in a broader sense, that's what he got: clear confirmation that, even within the bounds of this new dynamic, Martin isn't presuming anything. Not even the relative neutrality of removing John's shirt, which could almost be considered outerwear given the undershirt he's wearing beneath it.

John lowers his own hands to make way for Martin's nascent reach. "Sure," he replies. His smile takes on a playful slant as he adds a lightly magnanimous, "By all means."

There's a little flicker of John's playful side, the sort of coy humor that tends to come out in moments like these. Martin smiles back, pleased with the answer, though he doesn't entirely want to encourage this mood. He wants John comfortable. He wants John to feel how loved he is, inescapably, without the slightest bit of artifice or theatricality. That little bit of humor is nice, natural, but it isn't something he intends to expand on.

So he just replies with a soft hum and gets to it, deftly unbuttoning John's shirt and slipping it down from his shoulders. He turns away to drop it in the hamper, then spies John's pajama pants folded neatly atop the dresser, and grabs them on impulse.

"Let's get you comfortable," he says, turning back. Ordinarily he might just hand them over and let John dress himself; it would be natural as anything, and the idea of offering help might even feel condescending. But now, they've sidestepped past that. Now, there are new options arrayed before him. It isn't just help he's offering; it's control, something John very rarely relinquishes to him, something he very rarely thinks to ask for. But now he wants it. He wants to do everything, to give John everything. So he crouches down to John's feet, holding his pajamas neatly on the floor, ready to be stepped into, and he looks up with quiet expectation, and a little playfulness too. A little won't hurt. "Whenever you're ready," he invites.

A bit of humor doesn't quite fix the mood — playfulness wasn't really what Martin seemed to be going for — but it makes it easier to settle back into it, equilibrium reestablished. John's smile softens as Martin unbuttons his shirt, his movements gentle but efficient as he slides the garment off his shoulders and plunks it into their hamper.

Then he retrieves John's joggers, and John barely has enough time to assume that he'll be handling that part on his own before Martin is crouching before him, as if... well, any obvious comparisons evade him. He doesn't feel patronized, like he's a child receiving necessary assistance. But Martin's attitude isn't what John would call deferential, either. He is offering help because he wants to, a little playful, but insistent.

John's blush deepens, but his smile widens as he obediently steps into his pajamas, setting a hand on Martin's shoulder to steady himself. "Thank you," he murmurs.

Martin smiles, equal parts sheepish and satisfied, as John steps forward with a hand on his shoulder; he manages to temper his reaction more to the satisfied side as he straightens up, pulling the pajamas up with him, finally tipping his head up to look back at John's face.

"There we are," he says. He looks past John to the bed, where The Bishop is watching them, waiting patiently; then his eyes flick back to John and he reaches up with a hand curling under John's chin to kiss him, gentle and sweet.

"Why don't you lie down," he suggests, soft and barely above a whisper. He's not quite sure yet what he intends to do, but that doesn't feel like an impediment. He knows how to make John comfortable; he knows how to express his affection. It's just a matter of pacing. Once John is settled, the rest will follow.

This isn't the sort of role reversal that John had ever thought to anticipate, for reasons that he thinks are fairly obvious. They have different needs, different wants, and while John is happy to play a specific role for the purpose of achieving a specific result on Martin's end, there's never been a tidy equivalent for him. Certainly not in terms of production value, for lack of a better phrase: for all the times that Martin has spoiled him or fussed over him, he's never done it quite like this before, leading him along with such insistence. It's gentle, and adoring, but there's no question of who's steering the proverbial ship.

And while John is finding that he quite enjoys Martin leading, he is still unaccustomed to being led. He moves to the bed without objection, nudging The Bishop a little to one side so he can position himself nearer the middle, and then catches himself before he can flop down onto his front. It's the most tempting move, inviting a back rub, but he doesn't want to presume Martin's intentions or nudge him in a direction that might differ from whatever he has in mind. He hesitates for a beat, then settles a little more deliberately onto his side: easy to guide one way or the other.

That's his thought process as it pertains to Martin, anyway. Whether The Bishop has any inkling of the power dynamics currently at play or whether he simply presumes himself to supersede them is impossible to judge, but once John has settled himself, the cat picks his way over the bedspread and enthusiastically hurls himself down into the little spoon position, his back against John's chest and his head nudging up under his chin. "Oh, I see," John murmurs, curling his fingers into The Bishop's belly fur and giving Martin a faintly hapless look. He has no idea if this qualifies as an interference or not, but for the moment, he lets himself enjoy the cat's rumbling purrs.

Martin's soft smile becomes more of a smirk as John settles in and The Bishop swoops in to claim his attention. John still seems a little uncertain about whether or not the cat is getting in the way, but this was more or less the idea. Martin wants John comfortable, and nothing's more comfortable than having a lie-down with the cat.

"Mm-hm," he says, giving them both a nod of approval, making a little show of thinking it over a bit. He almost wants to just spoon up next to John and complete the picture, but he holds off for now. He still wants to leave his options open. He may not have as broad — or as specific — an array of options as John has when their roles are reversed, but there are still several directions he might wander. A backrub is obvious enough as to be inevitable, but there's plenty of other little things John has been known to enjoy. No sense skipping right to the option that will require the cat to move, and will most likely leave John ready for a nap.

So after a moment Martin sits gingerly down alongside John, laying one hand on his arm and the other on his head, where he starts to sift his fingers through John's hair in much the same way as John is currently petting The Bishop. Nothing else for now. He looks down at John and smiles, soft and gentle again. "How's that?" he murmurs.

Martin gives no indication that the cat is a problem; if anything, he looks pleased, though he's still plainly weighing his options. John relaxes a bit, reassured that whatever Martin is considering, it seems it won't upset the cat or their current configuration. He can get comfortable.

Or as comfortable as he can get when there's a question hanging in the air — even one as innocuous as what lovely thing Martin intends to do to him. He finds himself biting back an anticipatory little smirk as the mattress dips, but there's no hiding the grin it blossoms into when he feels Martin's fingers slide into his hair. The sound that escapes him isn't that different to The Bishop's continuing purrs.

"It's perfect," he sighs, tucking his chin in so he can briefly nuzzle between the cat's ears. Then he returns Martin's gaze, his eyes already half-lidded from his ministrations. "Love you," he adds, the vowels drawn out in muzzy satisfaction.

Martin meets John's half-lidded gaze with a warm, satisfied smile. "I love you, John," he says, not so much a rote reply as a separate thought, a thesis statement. He bends down to press a kiss to John's brow, his temple, then again upon each of his eyelids. His fingers curl and uncurl slowly through John's hair, soothing and gentle but just active enough to keep John on this side of drifting off. "You mean everything to me. Every part of you."

The hand on John's arm shifts to his chest, feeling the pulse of his heart. Martin continues his little exploration, his nose brushing against John's cheek in the lightest of nuzzles. The shape of his intentions is starting to form before him, even if it's still hard to quantify. Even as he feels pulled along by it as inexorably as a traincar slipping its tracks. He has never felt anything like this before, anything that could be construed as a desire to possess. Normally that skews in the other direction: he likes feeling possessed by John, and their differences have always made it simple to see that as a one way street. But that feels like hollow logic now, like a limit he set without really thinking about it. There is nothing inherently sexual about this; what he feels toward John right now is certainly not sexual. It's everything else, everything he'd tried to articulate in the kitchen, everything he's ever felt in flashes of anger over those who would try to boil away the whole messy human core of John with narrow-eyed focus on the things he can do and the ways he's been altered. There are only so many ways he can try to verbally describe his feelings; it's surpassed what language will allow now, leaving only an urgent need to show him.

Urgent, but not rushed. He remains slow and methodical as he draws his hand from John's hair to his cheek, his thumb rubbing gentle but insistent until John looks at him again.

"I've got you," he says again, and presses a kiss to his lips, wandering immediately to the corner of his mouth, to his cheek, and as tenderly as he knows how, he murmurs, "You're mine."

The first time Martin kissed his eyelids, John was arrested by the novelty of it. The second time, it's the inescapable symbolism that strikes him, and his breath hitches. Every part of you, Martin says — even the parts that have been hijacked and turned to other uses, made into tools by and for something else. John swallows thickly, his hand drawing back from the cat's chest as he pivots more towards Martin, as thoughtless and automatic as a plant turning towards the sun. One arm is still pinned beneath him, but he tentatively reaches out with the other, the back of his hand brushing against Martin's hip in quiet acknowledgment: that he has John's undivided attention, that he is all John wants.

He almost hesitates to open his eyes, as if, by keeping them shut, he can more easily keep this for himself. The warmth of Martin's touch and the care he's taking — the care he always takes with him — are things that don't have to be seen to be known. But Martin wants to see him, the suggestion communicated clearly through the brush of his thumb against John's cheek, and John cannot resist him. He looks up at Martin, gazing at him as if Martin is the whole world, rapt and unblinking.

The kiss doesn't quite muffle the small, broken noise John makes in response to Martin's reassurance. His wrist flexes, the desire to reach budging up against the desire to do only what he is told, and his fingers gently clasp a fold of Martin's shirt in compromise. "Okay," he breathes. "All yours."

John's immediate, unflinching reply is enough to dissolve the faint seed of anxiety that had sprouted up within him, barely identifiable until he feels its dissipation. This is new, uncharted, and he wants to be careful; but John trusts him, has accepted this every step. And he trusts himself to do right by him.

He hums softly and pulls one hand away to meet John's where it's clutching so gingerly at his shirt. Martin takes John's hand and draws it up to his lips, planting little rows of kisses along each finger before turning it palm upward and bestowing another kiss there, long and intensely devotional. He stays there for a long moment, drawing breath against John's palm, drawing in the scent of him, before he finally opens his eyes again, before guiding John's hand down to rest at his side.

He has no words and isn't sure he'd be able to speak them plainly if he did. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the cat curled up against John, head tilted up as if wondering where his attention has gone, and Martin smiles softly. He coaxes John onto his back, freeing up his other arm, and The Bishop promptly insinuates himself beneath it, politely demanding, as is his custom. Martin bends down over John and begins to trace his fingers over him in a loving path, by now familiar and well-trod: fingertips tapping lightly at his brow, his cheekbone, the scars that dot his cheek and his jaw, down to his chest, the hollow of his shoulder, tracking up the line of his arm back to his hand. For every acquiescence he plants another kiss, drawing out a map of his affection, a silent litany of devotion. When he is finally finished, he leans over a little more heavily, cradling John's face in both hands, anointing him with a final decisive kiss each to the brow, to the tip of his nose, to his mouth; and there he stays, kissing him properly at last. He parts his lips with gradual, gentle insistence, coaxing John to do the same.

John's eyes are heavily lidded, but he keeps them open, unable to resist the pull to watch as Martin lifts his hand and begins to favor it with kisses. It isn't anxiety that compels him, though he can distantly imagine why it might, under different circumstances. They've never done anything quite like this before, with Martin assuming such complete control. John first took up the proverbial reins out of caution and simple practicality, and has largely kept them out of habit: a habit that conveniently tended to align with Martin's own preferences. Deviations from the norm aren't unheard of, but they're usually approached with more preamble and careful discussion. It's rare for them to just do something new when too much novelty has the potential to backfire.

But is this too much? Should he be worrying about the intentions of someone who so plainly just wants to blanket him in the kind of affection that he has already happily received in more modest doses? No; this might be uncharted territory, but they've come too far for him to distrust not just Martin's intentions, but his ability to execute them. He has held the reins because it made sense, or because Martin preferred not to; he hasn't withheld them out of fear of Martin steering them straight into a proverbial ditch. And now, he relinquishes them as easily as breathing.

And Christ, the rewards are both immediate and considerable. Martin guides him to settle more comfortably on his back — the better to both enjoy Martin's ministrations and resume petting the cat — and begins to trace his fingers over John's skin, the journey interspersed with familiar, inquiring taps. John hums his acquiescence, warmed by every implicit is this okay? even and especially because Martin knows him so well, by now, that none of the spots he chooses give John a moment's pause.

An irrepressible smile has made itself at home on John's lips by the time Martin returns to them, and it stays there even as John parts them, letting the kiss deepen, eager to oblige. The hand that isn't absently petting the cat lifts off the bedspread to gently clasp Martin's arm, his thumb tracing a slow arc over the fabric of his shirt. Presumptuous, maybe, but he can't quite help himself, and he hums again, soft and satisfied.

John lays a hand on his arm, and Martin smiles against him, one of his own hands sliding back to delve into John's hair. He keeps kissing him, slow and luxuriant, until they come mutually to a natural terminus. He pulls away by scant degrees, their breath still mingling as his eyes flit over John's face as if checking his work; then he lays his forehead down against John's in some gentle punctuation.

"How's that?" Martin says softly, profoundly pleased with himself and in no rush to hide it. He straightens up a little so they can better look at one another. He keeps one hand in John's hair and moves the other down to rub gently at the junction between shoulder and neck. "Anything else I can do for you?"

It's as much an invitation as a formality. He knows his business; John's various methods of inducing the noises he likes to hear might be more of a production between the two of them, but it goes both ways. Martin likes hearing John groan and swear and purr just as well, and he's been hinting at it since this began. But there is some pleasure in having John request it, just as John delights in soliciting him to ask or plead. He smiles, warm, devoted, and just a little bit smug.

Knowing that Martin intends to spoil him is one thing; experiencing it is another. He can't quite squash the feeling that this is excessive — not in the sense of being too much to bear, but in an 'embarrassment of riches' sort of way, with emphasis on 'embarrassment.' It's not enough to override the fundamental delight of being so openly treasured, but it is certainly enough to make him blush and even giggle under Martin's fond scrutiny.

"It's perfect," he replies, his tone just dry enough to suggest that Martin already knew as much and hardly needs the verbal confirmation. Nor does he need John to float the idea of what he ought to do next, judging by the way he's already rubbing at John's shoulder... but he supposes he has no right to begrudge Martin stealing some of his tricks, given the general role reversal they've settled into. If he wants it, he'll have to request it.

John settles a hand just below Martin's wrist, subtly encouraging him to keep his hand where it is. "Well, if it's not too much to ask," he murmurs, "I think I could stand a bit more of this." He sweeps his thumb over Martin's wrist for emphasis, then lowers his hand to pluck at his undershirt. "Might need some help taking this off, though. I'd understand if that's a bridge too far."

It is tempting, with the sort of indulgent mood he's adopted, to make a show of considering the request; to hum and tip his head thoughtfully, draw it out. A little teasing, a little nod to all the times John's done that sort of thing with him. But he thinks better of it. It's not the same kind of circumstances. It's not a game, really; this has all stemmed from a robust and earnest desire to make John feel good, to know he is beloved. So, while his smile remains a little, coy, there is no hesitation when he answers, "Of course."

He bends down to kiss John once more, a brief parting peck, and gently insinuates one arm beneath John's back, coaxing him to sit up. "It's no trouble," he murmurs, his hands slipping to John's sides, clutching the hem of John's undershirt in much the same way as John had tentatively touched his earlier. Here he does hesitate, drawing back a few scant but critical inches to look John in the eye. Always wanting to be sure. "May I?"

Even with Martin's assistance, John still lets out a grunt of effort as he sits back up. Being upright feels like far too much work, especially after how magnificently Martin had just been treating him, and he has to fight the urge to let his momentum carry him forward into a slump against Martin's shoulder.

He successfully fights the urge long enough to parse Martin's question, and long enough to remind himself that giving in would be fundamentally unhelpful. But then it occurs to him that Martin could certainly get his shirt most of the way up as long as he remains upright-adjacent. Getting it off the rest of the way could be a bridge they cross when they come to it, and in the meantime, he could be enjoying what a nice resting spot Martin makes.

Well, he can't argue with that logic. "Mhmmm," he agrees even as he lets himself slowly pitch forward, draping himself over Martin's shoulder with a sigh of relief.

Martin stifles a laugh as John sort of collapses against him, less concerned with the logistics of getting his shirt off than he is with being comfortable. Fair enough. This is a situation Martin engineered; he can maneuver his way through it. "As you wish," he says wryly, and shifts a little to nestle John a little more easily against him, reaching around to pull up the undershirt. The Bishop meows at them, mildly perturbed by the disruption to his own comfort, and Martin answers with a sympathetic, "I know, I know," as he carefully pulls John's shirt up to his shoulders.

At this point, it would be easiest to have John sit up properly, but Martin instead places one hand round the back of John's head, easing him into a supportive cradle as he undresses him — first over the head, then one arm at a time. It's a little awkward, but Martin finds himself smiling as he does it. He likes it when John becomes too comfortable to move. That was the point. No sense disrupting that.

With him finally divested, Martin lays him back down, slow and gentle, his smile only warming as he bends over him.

"There we are," he says, no rush to move ahead, just wanting to look at him for a moment.

As expected, Martin gamely works John's shirt up to his shoulders before pausing to consider his next move. John remains patiently, passively slumped, his eyes closed and a contented smile fixed on his face as he waits to see how Martin proceeds. That smile soon blooms into a grin when Martin ends up cradling him like an overlarge child to finish the job, supporting him carefully as he draws the shirt over John's head. He grins at the inescapable awkwardness as Martin works the shirt down one arm at a time, and he grins because it's such a tender, sweet solution to a silly problem that John engineered on purpose. Even being a bit of a shit hasn't thrown Martin off his stride; he is still making sure that John feels openly, flagrantly treasured. If he wasn't so thoroughly soothed on top of all that, he thinks he might burst with it.

John cracks his eyes back open after Martin lowers him back onto the bed, and his grin softens at the way Martin's looking at him. "You spoil me," John murmurs in fond accusation. He reaches up, his fingers drifting a drowsy passage down Martin's arm until they reach his hand and curl around his palm.

The Bishop stands, the better to turn a half-circle and flop decisively back against John's side. "Oof," John mutters, giving the cat a placating pat before telling him, "You don't spoil me enough."

"Mhm," Martin agrees with a certain amount of pride, and chuckles at the cat's mild histrionics. He curls his fingers around John's, lifting the other hand to brush through his hair. After a moment's indulgence, he says softly, "Let's have you on your front, then."

The Bishop lifts his head to stare at them in vague accusation as they reorient themselves again, but he stays put, mollified once John's settled back down alongside him. Martin is grateful as ever that the cat is so generally tolerant, enough that having him in the bedroom for this was a perfectly feasible idea. And that he's content enough to remain curled up at John's side, leaving Martin to his work.

He relishes this work; cherishes every low, satisfied groan he can draw out, delights in the way John just sort of melts beneath his hands. The implicit trust, the considerable reward of seeing him pampered and comforted. Being allowed to touch him and being able to do some real, tangible good. Even outside the sort of reverent mood he's set for himself, he will never take this for granted. He moves his hands slowly over John, warming him, attending patiently to each point of held tension until he can feel the muscles loosen, moving on to the next. Studying the sharp lines of him, the pattern of scars dotting his back and sides, the way his spine arches when he finds a particularly good spot. Christ, he's beautiful. If Martin were not so focused — if treating John right, spoiling him, weren't such a high priority, he might lose himself in the desire to start kissing him again, the back of his neck, his shoulders, before turning him back onto his side and laying down beside him to kiss him properly until they pass out together. That may be the ultimate destination here, a foregone conclusion from his current ministrations, but this isn't about him or his wants, and he has no intention of taking for himself. Not right now.

There is a curious sort of liminality that John sinks into whenever Martin gives him a proper back rub like this. Part of him could just doze off, the passage of Martin's hands leaving warmth and relaxation in their wake. Nothing is required of him — certainly nothing that demands conscious thought or deliberate intention — and he knows Martin wouldn't begrudge him if his drowsy hums of pleasure dwindled into actual sleep. But he can't. Soothing as this is, the ignorance of slumber is unimaginable. He is too curious to know what happens next, what Martin's next move will be. Early in their relationship, the uncertainty might have unnerved him; now, it intrigues. He may not know exactly what's coming, but he knows he doesn't want to miss it.

So he lies there, too focused on Martin's ministrations to sleep, too soothed to make coherent commentary about it. He feels as if he ought to demonstrate his continued wakefulness, though, perhaps with something more salient than his usual groans of appreciation.

"We really don't talk enough about your hands," he muzzily observes, half-muffled against his pillow. (The Bishop, apparently mistaking the comment as being for him, lets out a soft trill.) John cracks a smile, but keeps his eyes shut. "Always going on about mine. Not half as clever."

No matter how intent his focus or confident his approach, Martin still feels himself blushing a little. It's true, his particular fondness for John's hands usually takes center stage, while John's appreciation of his physicality is often more general than that. It's surprisingly nice to be on the receiving end, and were he less locked into his task here, it might make him falter. Instead, it's only the work of a moment to pull himself back together, drawing a breath and pressing down between John's shoulder blades, gently, slowly pushing out the lingering tension.

"Don't know about that," he says idly once he's let up. "I'm rather of the opinion you're at least as clever with yours. Don't know where I'd be without those fingers." He smirks, distantly surprised he's reached the point where he can talk around this subject so easily. "Considerably less satisfied on a regular basis, I suppose."

John lets out a low chuckle, half delight at Martin's willingness to compliment him about this so casually, half bashful self-satisfaction over the compliment itself. He still marvels, sometimes, over how compatible they turned out to be along that particular axis; it had initially felt so unlikely — if not outright impossible — that he doesn't think he'll ever take it for granted. But they've earned this ease, this ability to treat it lightly. And he's far too physically comfortable to get maudlin about it.

"Perhaps," he allows, "but let's not erase your own hands' contributions. They usually play an important role." He grunts softly as Martin locates another knot, then spends the rest of his current lungful of air on a contented purr. "Unsung heroes," he concludes, muzzy but decisive.

Martin smiles softly, accepting John's murmured convictions with a little hum and a fresh bloom of warmth in his chest. He takes his time with the massage before replying, drawing patiently to a natural conclusion as he works his way down to the small of John's back, then back up to his shoulders as if checking his work. He lets up gently, gradually, until he finally comes to a halt, breathing out in quiet satisfaction.

"True enough," he says finally. "I can't think of anything more important, really."

He bends down and, at last, indulges himself with a soft kiss pressed to John's hair. He stays there a moment, breathing him in, before lowering himself down to lie alongside the long angle of his body. "Come here," he whispers, his fingers settling tenderly on John's cheek as he moves in to kiss him properly.

The balance between curiosity and torpor can be delicate, and it swings a little more towards warm lethargy as Martin bends to kiss his hair. Taken as a whole, it's been a novel evening — but this, here and now, is so soothingly familiar that what happens next feels less like a question and more like a scene they've rehearsed a hundred times: so solid and comfortable that even a little light improvisation isn't enough to throw them off their stride, or change the direction in which things are headed.

John's eyes remain shut, but he can feel Martin shift his weight on the mattress, and he hardly needs the encouragement to turn towards him, snuggling near the comforting warmth of his body as if on instinct. The kiss is telegraphed through the brush of Martin's fingers against his cheek and the whisper of his breath against his skin, and John meets him with a quiet hum. One hand lights on Martin's side, then drifts round to his back as John pulls himself a bit closer.

They fall into a comfortable synchronicity as John moves in, as Martin folds his arms around him and hugs him close. There may still be a facet of novelty to the exact particulars, but when all is said and done there is still nothing that feels more natural or familiar than this: the two of them holding each other, warm and safe.

There is still a piece of Martin that feels astonished — he suspects it will never truly fade away — that this is familiar, that it's so natural, that John trusts and loves him so much. But it's a quiet background murmur, scarcely worth his attention. John has his attention right now: how nicely he fits in Martin's arms, how peaceful and relaxed he feels, the warmth of his breath, his lips.

"Love you," Martin whispers between each slow, patient kiss. And again: "Love you."

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