loficharm | The Final Stretch // for John

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The Final Stretch // for John

September 24 - 26

A few days, Magnus had said. Martin had assumed he meant 'the weekend,' and when John had been so sick on Monday, he hadn't had time to consider it. Now, it's becoming uncomfortably apparent that this is still happening, John is still a cat, and they really have no idea when it's going to wear off. 'A few days' could mean anything to Magnus, and short of contacting him, something Martin still doesn't trust himself to do wisely, there's no way to determine anything more concrete.

If it lasts more than a week, he tells himself, they'll deal with it.

After their visit to the Archive, at least, John is doing much better. Blue's amplification abilities, along with her willingness to share her story, seem to really have done the trick. And with the carrier Eliot got them, going out has been easier as well, even if Martin still feels a bit foolish wearing it. It's better for John, and that's what's important.

By Tuesday night, they've spent their time together almost comfortably, though that might be easier for him to say than John. They'd gone to the Archive again, and afterward they'd just... let the day pass by, sharing the space. Martin's kept up his newly forming habit of just chatting at John, and John doesn't seem to mind - presumably it's better than no conversation at all. Apart from the ongoing concern of when this will be over, it's been... sort of nice. They've established a rhythm, and Martin is grateful to have the company, though the pleasure of it is mitigated a bit by knowing John is forced to be here. At least there's been no further hiding beneath the sink.

Tonight he finds himself sleepier a little earlier than usual, and as he gets up to make himself ready for bed, he glances down at John, sat in his little corner of the couch.

"I'm to bed, I think," he says. "I'll leave the door cracked as usual."

He can't be sure John is actually comfortable with it, but he has kept up the habit of sharing the bed, and Martin is glad for it. The nights are getting rapidly colder, and... well, Martin enjoys it, seeing John there in the morning. Which is sort of awful, really, and he's been trying not to think about it with limited success. After his rejuvenation yesterday, John had been much more of an active sleeper; Martin kept waking up to find him in a new position very time: sprawled out with a hind paw brushing at his thigh, curled up with the little curve of his back resting gently against Martin's, wedged neatly under Martin's arm or with his head pressed up against his shoulder - it's... it's adorable, and charming, and Martin couldn't stop thinking about it if he tried, but the point is, the point is John is comfortable. He seems comfortable. That's all that really matters.

At the very least, John tends to stay up later than he does, so he has a bit of time to settle himself first. Not like he's waiting for John to come join him, or something. He drifts off to the WC, then to the bedroom, puttering around a bit before finally crawling in under the comforter, curling up on his side and letting his breathing slow.

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John glances up from the book that he's slowly making his way through, paws braced on the pages to keep them from turning themselves before he's ready, and makes a half-distracted sort of mrrp sound in response. A bit early for that, he thinks, but that's probably just as well. He stays up later than Martin does as a rule, in part because he just does, and in part because the thought of climbing onto the bed while Martin is still awake is horribly embarrassing.

The whole sleeping situation is more than a bit ridiculous, actually. They both know what's happening, and they both largely behave as if it's not. Martin leaves the door cracked as if it's only in case of an emergency. John waits until he's fast asleep before he risks joining him, always maintaining a polite distance once he's actually up on the bed. One of them wakes first and carefully rises while the other either remains asleep, or courteously pretends to remain asleep until a few minutes have gone by. A ridiculous bit of pageantry that nonetheless seems to be working.

Though not without snags. The maintenance of polite distance being one of the larger ones. He always means to keep to his side of the bed, and then wakes to find himself much closer to Martin than he was upon dozing off, often outright touching him in some manner or other. A paw against his side, his back against his chest, the crown of his head against his shoulder. It's like John has a cat brain distinct from his own that's drawn inexorably toward warmth, and the moment he falls asleep, it activates. He doesn't think Martin's noticed; he's always asleep when John wakes just enough to reposition himself.

Christ, he hopes Martin hasn't noticed. There's really no telling if he has. It's not as if he'd say anything; the conversation would be mortifying for both of them, and he'd probably do whatever it took to avoid John ending up beneath the sink again.

Really, the simplest solution would be to just go back to the bloody couch. He always considers it, and always finds some excuse not to bother. That, too, has joined the horrible routine they've settled into.

He reads for another hour or so before growing tired of it, and he turns off the lamp -- by sheer coincidence, several of Martin's light fixtures have switches that are easily operated with paws -- and cautiously approaches Martin's cracked bedroom door. A minute of careful listening confirms that Martin is asleep, and he slips into the room, absurdly furtive considering he isn't doing anything Martin didn't explicitly welcome him to do. He pauses again on the floor by the bed, making sure nothing has changed, before landing lightly on the bedspread. Another pause, another anxious wait for any sort of reaction from Martin. But nothing happens, and John carefully curls up within a few inches of the edge, just far enough that he won't accidentally roll off, his back to Martin.

It's fine, he tells himself as his eyes slip shut.

Martin's back in the Archive, again - the proper Archive, the Magnus Archives. It's comforting, in a weird sort of way. He knows he's been away a long time, longer than he should have, longer than was safe; it was dangerous, but now he's back, and that's good. The others are avoiding him, and that's good, too. Or maybe it's just that the Archive is empty. Better. He can go where he likes.

He can feel the gentle embrace of the Lonely welcoming him back, curling around his hands as he drifts through the abandoned corridors. The chill isn't so bad; it's like a family member, difficult but familiar. The fog wraps around him, blanketing him in that serene empty quiet. Finally, he's home; finally, he can get back to work.

Martin keeps walking, no rush. He's behind on his work, but there's still time, and the Lonely trusts him to get on with it. It has always trusted him, even when he pulled away; it was always willing to wait for him. He knows that, doesn't he? He may have his wandering moments, but it will always be there when he's ready to return.

There's an office at the end of the corridor, which is strange. Martin can't remember there being an office there. Not at the back. It should just be a wall, a fire exit to the alley. But there's an entire office, its door open, beckoning.

He moves toward it. The Lonely shivers with seeming unease, but it does not try to stop him. It clings to him as he nears the open door, and as he draws closer that sense of safe belonging starts to curdle, and what was a tolerable chill becomes icy and awful. The Lonely doesn't drag at him, doesn't try to redirect him, but it does seem to press upon him more than it was. Still, Martin moves forward.

Inside the office is John, which makes sense, of course, because it is his office. Not the office he used to have; his new office, at the Archive they built together. John stands with his back turned, as though, impossibly, he doesn't seem to Know Martin is there. Martin stops at the threshold, and for a moment all he can do is study the sharp, slender length of him, the beautiful curve of his back, his shoulder blades just visible beneath a rumpled shirt.

John turns to face him, and Martin has a moment of fear, expecting something wrong, the wrong face, too many eyes, but - it's just John. It's just John, looking well, looking at him. He smiles, and it's a good smile. Soft and warm and for him.

A blast of wind hits his back, nearly pushing him to his knees as it breaks around him, rushing into the office that shouldn't be there. The fog pours in around him, filling the room, pooling in at John's feet and climbing up his legs, his waist, his arms and chest.

"John," he whispers, barely able to hear himself. He tries to reach forward, but the Lonely is gripping him now, like hands holding him back. "John!"

The feeling of grasping hands takes shape as much, becoming solid and firm, pulling him back, holding him close. A voice comes into his ear, a familiar empty voice from a man who looks like nothing, whose breath smells like nothing. He can hear the hollow smile as Peter whispers, "You were warned."

The fog thickens and rises around John, swallowing him until there is nothing left, and Martin is trying, he's trying so hard to scream, but he can't make a bloody sound.

Edited 2019-09-29 16:06 (UTC)

John had awoken with his forepaws gently braced against the curve of Martin's stomach, and had rolled away, quietly annoyed with himself. Why does this keep happening? After a minute of just lying in the dark, listening to Martin's steady breathing, he'd carefully hopped down off the bed and gone to get a drink. He wasn't even that thirsty, it was more that he wanted the excuse to just walk away for a few minutes, to collect himself. To reconsider the relative safety of the couch.

He drinks, wishing he could have something a bit stronger than water, quite frankly, and then just sits for a minute, tail twitching as he contemplates the darkened doorway of Martin's bedroom, and wonders what the hell he's even doing.

And then he hears Martin say his name.

It's quiet, enough that he's not sure his human ears would have picked up more than the faint note of it. But his cat ears catch the whole word, and it doesn't sound like some bewildered half-awake question -- as if Martin would wake to find him gone and object. It sounds terrified.

John bolts back into the bedroom, his fur puffing out in alarm, and looks up at the bed to find Martin wreathed in that bloody damnable fog again. Not as bad as it was in the Archive, but what does that matter? It's here, and that's bad enough. John leaps up onto the bed, an angry growl rising from his throat. Of course, of course it would have a go at him while John's like this, no hands to push the fog away, no voice to try and call Martin back.

He'll just have to work with what he has.

He braces his paws against Martin's shoulder, noting with some small satisfaction that the fog still writhes away from him. He wishes he could just say Martin's name, but the best he can do is yowl, trying to wake him with the sheer bloody din. Lifting one paw, he reaches out and gently bats Martin's cheek. Wake up.

Fingers clench tighter over his shoulder, and somewhere in the distance he hears John scream. It's an awful sound, one he's heard only on tape, and it sounds so terribly far away and - strained, like it's being filtered through something else. Martin fights harder to get free, to get near him, but it's like he can't control his body, like something more than Peter's hands is holding him back. Something raps against his check, light but faintly sharp, maybe the wind, maybe something carried on it.

He can't fight, he can't scream, he can't even form the words he wants, the demand to be let go, the fury over this betrayal, that Peter promised, he promised John would be safe. Peter pulls him closer, and without him needing to speak, Martin knows his answer. That at this distance, it's out of his hands. That he cannot, as he said, protect John from his own stupidity. That the promise was contingent on Martin's cooperation, and the further he pulls from this, the worse it will be.

Martin wavers between settling, allowing the fog to enfold him, and continuing to resist it. He's tired, he can barely move, he can't speak, he can't even see, and he's so tired, and it would be so easy to just surrender, but... John's still screaming, somewhere, and it sounds... wrong.

If he could just see - Peter's hand is covering his eyes, or, or is it just the fog that's - are his eyes closed somehow? He tries to open them and it doesn't work. He can't fight it, he can't scream, he can't-

Please, he tries to say, desperate and frightened, not sure if he's pleading with the Lonely or trying to reach John or simply begging his own helpless body to wake up.

It's not working. Martin sort of whimpers, strained and awful, but he doesn't wake. John gives his cheek a sharper rap with his paw, knowing even as he does so that it probably won't be enough, then growls again in frustration. Christ forbid this ever be straightforward, or that he ever banish the Lonely for good.

He starts to move, then checks himself, wavering for an instant before deciding: fuck it. He can apologize for the presumption after Martin's awake and all right, presuming either of them are in any position to be embarrassed. He clambers up onto Martin's chest and hunkers there, his tail lashing, sweeping at the fog twining around his waist and belly. His forepaws hook over Martin's shoulders, and after a moment's frantic consideration, he lets his claws out, thinking that maybe the pain might be enough to wake him. Then, not even pausing to consider what the neighbors might think, he opens his mouth and yowls as loudly as he knows how.

Something changes. The screaming gets louder, and the longer it goes on the less like John it sounds, and it's no longer hands or the impossible clutching fog Martin feels at his shoulders, but something small and sharp. There's a weight on his chest, and the fog splits around it, and the terrible noise takes shape, makes him want to recoil, Jesus Christ, what is that-

His eyes fly open suddenly and it's like he can feel the fog clear, not entirely, but retreating enough that everything crashes chaotically back into place, his bed, his flat, the harsh suddenness of being awake, and the cat on his chest, claws dug into his shoulders, screaming its head off.

"Shit-!" he yelps, flailing back in panic that's mostly carried over from the dream - he hadn't even realized he was dreaming, which only adds to his disorientation as he struggles to sit up, breathing heavily, blood pounding in his ears along with the ring left behind from John's desperate yowling. At some point he must have kicked the sheets off, and he can see the fog still winding its sullen way around his legs. All he can do is stare balefully at it before pressing his hands over his face and trying to regulate his breathing.

Martin wakes with a start and a sharply uttered curse, and John unhooks his claws and scrambles off of his chest at once, landing awkwardly on the rucked-up sheets. His fur is still puffed out in lingering fear and indignation, and his tail continues to lash irritably as he looks up at Martin, at the wisps of fog still clinging to his hair as he buries his face in his hands.

Well, at least he's awake. Nor does he seem to be as far under the Lonely's influence as he was when it attacked him at the Archive. Once John's cleared away these lingering bits, that might be that. So while Martin steadies his breathing, John picks his way around his legs, swiping and batting at the fog with his paws until it dissipates. That done, he stops and sits by Martin's side, his fur beginning to settle as he looks Martin over. He seems... all right. Not happy, obviously, but... recovering. John trills softly, then sits up on his haunches and stretches one paw up towards Martin's hair in pointed indication.

It's a matter of moments for John to clear away the fog, again, this time with the much more absurd context of being a cat, but Martin can't find much humor or comfort in it. He feels like he's going to be sick. The memory of the dream clings to him, how real it had all felt, how easy it was to fall back into that mindset of being... comforted by the Lonely's cloying presence. The look on John's face and the nauseating plunge in his gut when he'd been taken away. He can't tell if that was a real threat or just his own subconscious tormenting him, maybe pulling the image of John having been transformed while he looked on, helpless; either way, it sticks in his mind, difficult to shake. Christ, he's trembling. He wishes he could just calm down. It was just a dream. It was just a dream.

John gets his attention with a soft noise, and Martin sees him pointing one paw up at his hair.

"Oh," he says, his voice coming out weak and tired, and he reaches up distractedly to try and brush the lingering fog away himself. It doesn't work, of course - it just gives the Lonely purchase, something to climb onto, and his hand comes away wreathed faintly in that mist. He makes an annoyed, shapeless sound and offers John his hand, to be cleared again, then he leans down so John can better reach the rest of it.

"John-" The name stumbles out of him, and he draws a shuddering breath. The last thing he wants to do is fall any further apart. "Christ, I - I thought you'd - I thought it had taken you."

The fear is irrational; the Lonely can't really touch John here. But that hardly matters. He feels some measure of relief that it was all a dream, but it's not really sufficient. There's so little he can do to actually reassure himself. He can't see John, not the real John, not while this stupid spell lasts. He can't feel John's hands, which isn't even something he should be letting himself want, and yet. His fingers twitch in an abortive desire to reach out and touch, but he can't, and he just stays there, slumped over and shivering and entirely pathetic.

John can't help a soft sigh of exasperation as Martin attempts to clear his hair himself, coming away with nothing but a handful of clinging mist for his efforts. He presses a paw into the cup of Martin's palm, that bit of fog twisting away into nothingness. Then, once Martin leans down a little, he rises onto his hind legs, one paw braced against Martin's shoulder as the other bats at his hair, finally, finally clearing away the last of it.

He drops back into a sit with another soft huff, this one weary but satisfied. There's that done. But Martin is still trembling and miserable, and when he speaks, when he explains what his nightmare consisted of, all John can do for a few moments is stare.

It shouldn't surprise him, not really. He remembers Basira telling him what the Lonely had done to some of the Institute's staff, shortly after he'd returned from the hospital. And you don't call out someone's name mid-nightmare unless they're in it, unless something is happening to them. John might be Lonely-proof in Darrow, but this is hardly the sort of situation in which logic might prevail. Hell, considering John's current state, Martin could be forgiven for forgetting that he might be immune to any sort of otherworldly meddling.

He just... doesn't know what to do about it, is the thing. He wouldn't have known in his human shape, either. There are precious few things people-in-general do in these situations that John does with any ease or grace. Something as simple as a hand on Martin's shoulder would feel awkward and presumptuous, not least of all due to the still-mortifying memory of sitting in Martin's chair with that gulf yawning between them, and blurting a thoughtless offer that was soundly rebuffed.

And now he's a fucking cat. Which might open several new avenues of potential comfort, sure, but it's not as if any of them are particularly dignified, and dignity has become a precious commodity these past few days.

He watches the way Martin's fingers twitch, the gesture so hastily aborted that it's only John's own hypervigilance that allows him to read the intention behind it. He looks at what a sorry fucking picture Martin makes, hunched and shivering, and considers his own shape, furry and lanky and big-eared, and he wonders what the illusion of dignity is worth.

John sighs again, then reaches out a paw, hooking it over Martin's thumb and drawing his hand closer, steering Martin's arm with little tugs and bats until, with stubborn deliberation, he can press the crown of his head against Martin's palm.

Martin startles a bit when John grabs onto his hand, pulling it toward him, to what end Martin cannot fathom. He sits up a little, staring at John in bewilderment, almost opening his mouth to ask what in the world he's trying to do when John gets him where he wants him, where he can shove his head under Martin's palm.

Martin goes completely still, for a moment just paralyzed by the sheer incongruity of it. He would wonder if John had somehow lost his wits if the action wasn't so pointed and intentional. It's not like yesterday, when he had unthinkingly started to pet John and John had leaned into it; that had been instinctive, quickly corrected. Now, John is... he's choosing to do this. He's offering.

"John," he starts to say, not quite protesting so much as amazed, but his voice betrays him and instead of continuing he just huffs out a quiet breathy sound that is caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. It's - that John would allow him this, something Martin is certain he finds undignified and uncomfortable, it's so astoundingly, overwhelmingly kind that Martin isn't sure what to do. There are tears welling in his eyes, and he doesn't think he has the wherewithal to stop them. He's too tired and too moved, and what's more, if John can allow this, then Martin can surely handle a bit of crying in his presence.

So, sniffing softly as a few tears escape, Martin does as directed: far more gingerly than if it had been an ordinary cat demanding affection, he stretches his hand out over the soft warmth of John's head, cautiously testing the waters as he runs his palm down the slope of his neck, his thumb rubbing just once at the base of his ear. He pulls back almost at once, his breath coming in shaky, though his hand hovers there like he's waiting for the next cue.

God, but it did feel good. It felt immediately good; exactly like petting any animal when one is feeling low. Simple and calming and nice. He wants to do it again, and it would be so easy, but he won't, not without the reassurance that he can't quite believe he'll get: that he's allowed.

The only thing harder than actually doing it, pushing his head against Martin's hand in clear, implicit offering, is waiting for Martin to respond. Every microsecond of inaction feels like confirmation that this is the stupidest thing he's ever done, that after a long line of foolish, impulsive decisions, this is his crowning achievement: urging Martin to fucking pet him like the animal he isn't. After Martin, more than anyone, has been so bloody careful to treat him with as much dignity and respect as the situation allows, spilling over with apologies whenever circumstances require him to do anything that might be perceived as invasive or patronizing, snapping at warlocks and coworkers alike in John's defense.

But then Martin says his name, sounding more astonished than anything else. And then -- Christ, and then he's weeping a bit, in what John can only assume is gratitude. It's a little bit appalling. More than that, though, it's a horrible sort of relief. Because the only thing that could make this worth it is if it helps, whether it's comforting or merely distracting. And if Martin's weeping over John's sudden generosity, that's better than weeping over whatever horrible visions the Lonely saw fit to show him.

He does not expect to enjoy the sensation of Martin's palm slowly passing over his head and down the back of his neck, the brief arc of his thumb rubbing the base of one oversized ear. He's not doing this for his own sake, after all, and he's never exactly been tactile. And he doesn't enjoy it; the whole situation is too weird and fraught for that to even be an option. But it's... bearable. Less unpleasant than he'd anticipated, if he's being honest. And when Martin lifts his hand and hovers there, the offer to stop immediately despite not really wanting to stop as clear as day, he can't help but feel a little swell of warmth in response.

He could... tolerate a bit more, surely.

John reaches his paw up again, gently pulling Martin's hand back down.

John pulls him back down, and Martin gets a little closer to a laugh this time, overwhelmed but earnestly grateful. It's just so stupid, or it feels like it should be, but they both know how much it means. And John could not be clearer about his willingness.

So he repeats the motion, stroking gently down John's neck, over his back, and again. Simple, repetitive, nothing surprising or overly invasive. John is incredibly soft - he'd known this already, having had to pick him up a few times, but he'd never allowed himself to enjoy it. It's extremely comforting, and it isn't long before the tension and horror of the dream starts to dwindle into nothing. All the while he keeps his eyes on John, unable to meet his gaze directly, but searching for any sign that he's having regrets.

It's really, very weird. The oddity of being touched like this at all is compounded by the fact that Martin's hand is over twice the size of John's head. He's had Martin's hands on him before, of course, but not like this, and his touch encompasses far more of him, proportionally, than he expects. But Martin keeps his motions slow and repetitive, predictable, and that helps to... put John at ease, a little.

He can't bring himself to even seek Martin's gaze, though he can hear his breathing slow, and the tell-tale sniffling eventually tapers off. Christ, this is actually working. John blinks down at the bed, the intrinsic embarrassment of the whole situation wearing away under the dawning certainty that it's--that he's helped, that he's actually made Martin feel better. And maybe it says something about him that it took turning into a bloody cat and allowing Martin to pet him to actually manage such a thing, but the achievement still feels... it's nice.

He doesn't quite realize what the rumbling sensation building in his throat and chest even is until it's loud and obvious enough for Martin to notice. Daine's lessons hadn't covered how to purr, and there'd never been any cause for it before. He's not even sure there's cause for it now, but it's happening, and he's not entirely sure how to stop.

John is... purring. John is purring.

Martin has no idea how to process this. For a moment his hand stills, but John doesn't... he doesn't exactly seem uncomfortable. In fact, quite the opposite, if this, well, function has been activated. Surely John's not doing it on purpose.

It might be better not to draw attention to it at all. This is already a bizarre concession John is making for him, no need to scrutinize it. After a moment's hesitation, Martin resumes the motion, a bit more cautiously.

"I..." he says softly, but he's afraid of saying too much, or the wrong thing, so he falls silent for a few seconds before amending, "Thank you, John. F-for waking me, and... for this."

He keeps it up for a few more seconds and then, feeling exposed and a bit lightheaded, clears his throat and draws his hand away, settling both hands into his lap. "I'm all right now."

Martin's hand stills when he notices the purring, but he says nothing, and cautiously resumes stroking down John's back as if nothing has changed. It's a small, absurd relief -- as if they can just ignore the issue out of existence. To the extent that it's even an issue.

He turns an ear towards Martin's voice, letting out another soft trill (it warbles a bit more than usual, with the purring beneath it) by way of reply. There was no question of waking him, obviously. And this... well. It's helped. That's all that matters.

John glances at the bedside clock, noting that it's not even three in the morning, yet. Too early to be starting the day, even considering when Martin turned in. He puffs out an audible sigh, then picks his way up to the head of the bed, setting one paw on the pillow and pointedly looking up at Martin. He should at least try to get more sleep.

Martin watches John as he moves back up the bed, as he indicates the pillow and gives him a look. Martin can't help laughing softly; he just looks so damn serious.

"Yes, all right," he says. "I'll do my best."

He leans back down, slow and a bit unsteady. He is much calmer than he has any right to be, really, but he's still quite awake after that whole experience, and if John hadn't been so stern about it, he'd probably have gotten up and puttered around a bit. But John's right; better to just settle back down, so he's not a complete wreck tomorrow.

He just hopes it doesn't take too long. Even after all that, he's still a bit nervous about the idea of lying awake with John just... there.

It takes him a moment after getting settled to realize John is still purring, like either he doesn't know how to stop or he's just... keeping it up. Martin doesn't look at him, just lets his eyes close as he listens to it. It's... weirdly comforting. Or not that exactly; not weird that it's comforting. Comforting and weird.

As with the rest of it, though, it does the trick. The low, steady rumbling has Martin drifting off only moments later, until his breathing slows and he is, once again, asleep.

They arrive home a little later than usual, thanks to the brush with the mad Irishman on a bench. Martin sighs as he steps in, relieved to be home and relieved that nobody else stopped them en route, including his landlord. Peter seems to have backed off a bit since the encounter with Eliot - or maybe it was Martin actually managing to snap at him. A mercy either way.

"All right," he grunts, sliding the carrier off his back and setting it gingerly down on the floor, tipping the lid open to let John out. "There we are. Blessed quiet." He knows John would have liked to get home much earlier, and he's pretty relieved himself, though he'd rather not go into it now. He takes the board out of the carrier as well, unfolding it carefully and setting it down. "Can I get you some dinner, orrr would you rather have a book first?"

It's still a bit strange, the casual domesticity they've fallen into, but it's quite comforting, too. He tries not to think about it too closely.

John hops out of the carrier, then gives himself a little shake to dispel the vague, niggling sense that his fur's out of place. Christ, but being covered in fur certainly does give him what sometimes feels like an infinite number of new ways in which to feel just a bit mussed.

His tail twitches as he considers Martin's question, but he doesn't think long before patting "BOOK" on the board. He could eat -- he's feeling a bit peckish, actually -- but they just got in, and Martin's already been hauling him around for a while. It would be unkind to immediately send him into the kitchen, and John hasn't grown so comfortable with their whole arrangement that he's forgotten he's a guest, or stopped caring about at least trying to be a good one.

With that, he wanders over to peruse the bookshelf.

Martin smiles, just watching John for a moment as he drifts over to the bookshelf. Martin is still working on getting an actual collection going; he's managed to scrape together a number of titles for cheap, though if he's being honest with himself it's more to keep the bookshelf from being a stark empty space than any ideas about reading. But it gives John something to do.

"Let me know when you've found one," he says. "I'm going to change." John could bat the book off the shelf himself with enough willpower, but Martin would prefer he didn't.

He gets up and pads into the bedroom, intending to change promptly into non-work clothes and head right back out, but once he's changed he instead finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at nothing. It is hard, having constant company for this long. Even if the company is welcome - and John is welcome, even under the circumstances - it wasn't anything he'd been prepared for. He's tired, and the desire for privacy wrestles uncomfortably with the desire to have John back. It's nearly been a week now. He misses talking to him properly, hearing his voice.

The irony being that if he were himself again, he wouldn't be here wrestling with this at all.

A knock at the front door of the flat startles him out of his thoughts, and he gets up hastily. Moving out into the main area, he spots John still near the bookshelf, tucked a bit behind the sofa in a cautious crouch.

Martin draws near the door, though he's a bit nervous. There's really only three people it could be - Daine, Eliot, or Peter. And he's fairly certain Daine or Eliot would have texted first.

"Who is it?" he ventures, and grimaces openly when the answer comes: "It's Peter."

He glances at John, then at the door. "Yes?" he says stiffly.

"Can you open the door, Martin?" Peter sounds as mild and friendly as ever, a little too much like the other Peter in Martin's life. "I need to speak with you."

Martin restrains himself, just barely, from an audible sigh. "About what?"

There's a bit of a pause, and then, sounding just the slightest bit less friendly, Peter says, "About The cat you've been harboring in your apartment."

Oh, Christ. Weirdly, it's almost a relief to hear him get colder. It's nearer the relationship he wants and expects with a landlord - all vaguely antagonistic business. The downside being he has less of an excuse to keep Peter out.

He shoots another look at John, shrugs and gestures for him to stay hidden. Maybe they can just ride this out; and if not, well, at a push it won't be hard to prove John isn't a cat. He'd just really rather it didn't come to that.

But there's no delaying, so he opens the door.

Ugh, the fucking landlord. John's tail lashes, but at Martin's hand signal, he tucks himself a little more behind the couch, well hidden from the door. He doesn't like it, but he can see the sense of it easily enough. Aside from the carrier and a bowl of water on the kitchen floor -- and John's own rather damning presence, of course -- there's nothing in the flat that screams 'cat ownership.' No scratching posts, no toys, not even a litter box. The communication board is a bit weird, but absent the larger context, it should just be inexplicable and not indicative of anything in particular.

All of which is to say that Martin might be able to just lie to Peter about there being a cat at all, and see him out in under a minute. Provided John stays hidden, that is. And provided Peter is inclined to leave.

He has his doubts about that last part, which is why he doesn't hide himself more thoroughly, bolting beneath the bed or something. Even if he's no longer capable of being imposing, he wants to at least be able to keep an eye on things.

Peter strolls in with the same insipid confidence as always, and Martin hides a scowl from him as he shuts the door. He manages to school his expression into something more neutral as he turns around.

"As you can see," he says, "no cat here."

Peter eyes the carrier, which is still on the floor, and nudges it with his foot.

"That is," says Martin, "a backpack."

Not his best effort, and Peter gives him a look for it, but Martin remains as steadfast as possible. It's not a particularly well-considered ruse, but it's the one he's doing.

"Martin, I saw you," says Peter finally. "Almost a week ago, remember? You were holding a cat. And you were quite rude to me." He adds this casually, like the memory only just occurred to him, as opposed to something Martin's sure he's been stewing over. "You've been in and out several times since, and I haven't come to you about it, because I was hoping you'd come to me. You're not in any trouble," he raises his hands as if to show peace, "but there are steps to be taken here."

Martin sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment. The relief of this being a business call has quickly evaporated until the realization that Peter is every bit as insufferable as always and now he has no immediate call to try and make him leave.

"Look, he's - he's not my cat," he says, which is technically incredibly true. "I just have him temporarily, not even that much longer." Probably. Christ, he hopes.

"Hm." Peter cocks his head, then scans the flat again, still looking for John. "Petsitting?"

"Kind of," says Martin, his tone a bit chilly.

"You still should have come to me," says Peter, a bit stern, but in kind of a friendly way. Christ, he really is a lot like Peter Lukas in a few too many ways.

"Okay, I'm sorry," he says with the same impatience he tended toward with his erstwhile boss. "It's been a bit of a week, all right?"

Christ. Well, Martin might have lied convincingly, but apparently that isn't in the cards. Not that John's really in any position to criticize, given what a godawful liar he makes anymore -- too close to the Eye to be adept with deliberate falsehoods. But Martin might have at least shoved the bloody carrier into the closet before he opened the door, rather than try to pass it off as a backpack.

John watches with increasing irritation as Peter ambles in like he owns the place (which, technicalities aside, is still fucking rude), and proceeds to give Martin a difficult time, all beneath that watery veneer of ostensibly friendly concern. He'd roll his eyes if he wasn't so focused.

Peter leaves off scanning the flat to focus his full attention on Martin. "You know, Martin, I think we got off on the wrong foot," he says -- oozes, more like, as he centers himself in the entryway, making it functionally impossible for Martin to get past him without having to brush right by.

Whatever dubiousness John might have felt at Peter's ludicrous pronouncement is overshadowed by the anger that accompanies seeing Martin penned in like that. With Peter's back now to him, he creeps out from behind the couch and slinks beneath the coffee table, using that for cover as he sneaks a few feet closer to the two of them.

Martin stiffens as Peter shifts his weight, leaning in without actually leaning; it's very subtle, but it's unmistakable, too, that quiet posturing. He's pulled this kind of thing before, but now Eliot isn't here with his sword and John can't exactly intimidate him into leaving, so Martin is left at an impasse, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and a small burst of nervous adrenaline under his skin.

"Did we?" he says, faintly dubious.

Peter chuckles evenly and without malice, like Martin's said something genuinely funny. "I know I can be a little... off-putting," he says, and it's a bloody miracle Martin doesn't just outright laugh in his face at that. "I'm more hands-on than people expect from just a landlord. But I only want the best for all of you. Whenever someone comes here, it always seems to mean they have nowhere else to go. I can see that in you. Can you blame me for wanting to help?"

Martin can barely pay attention to the bland garbage coming out of this man's mouth, as busy as he is struggling not to grimace directly at him. Christ but he is laying it on extra thick today, and it's a small comfort that John is at least witnessing this, if unable to do anything about it. There is something to be said for not being alone. The grand irony.

That does make him laugh, a bit bitterly, which is just as well. "So you want to help me now," he says, his body still on alert, still intensely aware that Peter has him casually cornered. "Is that it?"

Peter sighs, and somehow there's something uncomfortably theatrical about it. "I just want to clear the air," he says. "I know I haven't made the best impression."

Well, that would almost be a welcome shift for the genuine if it weren't immediately followed by Peter settling his hand on Martin's arm, and the calmly uttered, "Let me make it up to you."

Martin flinches back, stumbling in his haste; his free hand flies out to brace against the wall of the entryway, and in the effort to keep him upright, Peter's hand actually grips.

It only gets worse as Peter continues. What began as an ostensible attempt to start over slides into what looks like a goddamn proposition, his hand closing on Martin's arm. John's already moving by the time Peter starts to reach for him, ears flat in feline fury, no thought in his head but putting an immediate stop to this. Martin's flinch -- which John registers when he's already mid-leap -- can probably be taken as a hopeful sign that Martin won't be too angry about what's about to happen.

And then John latches onto Peter's arm, his claws finding purchase in both his sleeve and the flesh beneath.

The attack is both sudden and completely silent, and by the time Peter realizes what's hit him, John's already raked his hind claws down his arm twice. "Wh--FUCK!" Peter yelps, releasing Martin at once and shaking his arm wildly, trying to dislodge him. John redoubles his efforts, muzzle wrinkling as he finally lets out a feral growl, and Peter, still frantically swearing, reaches around with his other hand and grabs him by the scruff. Only then does John release him, twisting furiously in an attempt to reach the hand that's grabbed him, and that gives Peter the split second's clearance he needs to hurl John halfway across the room.

It's probably just as well that John isn't really thinking by that point; his body twists instinctively, righting itself mid-throw, and he lands on all fours with only a brief stagger, his fur standing on end and an angry yowl rising from his throat.

John's abrupt and unceremonious crashlanding onto the scene startles Martin just much as Peter; he had been so focused on his landlord, his eyeline mostly blocked, he hadn't seen John creep up, and he sure didn't anticipate John literally hurtling himself into the fray, creating a fray.

"Jesus-!" he shrieks, staggering back as Peter releases him, his attention sharply redirected to his small assailant. For a few breathless seconds Martin can only stare, his eyes wide with something adjacent to horror as John claws Peter up with vicious abandon. He can't say he's not grateful; part of him is even a bit astonished that John would go to such intense lengths for him without hesitation - but that is folded in with a larger sense of mortification and downright exasperation that John would do something so incredibly stupid. Before he can get his bearings enough to find a course of action, Peter is reaching around to dislodge John himself, and Martin doesn't even have time to form an objection before Peter's hand closes over the scruff of John's neck. He rips John away from him and throws him, hurls him at full strength across the room.

"No!" Martin cries, panic momentarily overtaking the swell of rage over seeing Peter lay a hand on John like that; he shoves Peter aside, pushing his way back into the flat until he can see where John's landed. He's on his feet, mussed and angry, but standing. Martin lets his breath out in a heavy burst, nearly lightheaded from the rapid shift from terror to relief.

"What the fuck!" Peter demands, all that performative niceness stripped away now. He stares at his bleeding arm, looking like he's struggling to calculate the distance from that to the floor before he turns on Martin. "Is that cat fucking feral?"

"Get out," Martin snaps without even thinking about it.

"I'm bleeding," Peter protests, somewhere between shocked and furious; distantly, Martin feels some satisfaction over that. "That little piece of shit jumped like five feet just to attack me, y- I want it out of here today."

"He's not going anywhere." Martin rounds on Peter, several inches shorter and yet there's such a foreign ferocity in him that it is Peter who flinches this time. "You, meanwhile, are leaving. You're leaving right now and I don't want you in here ever again. You have business with me, write me a fucking letter. Is that clear?"

Peter stares down at him, clutching his arm, red streaking over his fingers. He seems more shocked than anything now; there's a moment where it looks like he's struggling to find some retort, where he's weighing his options against the two of them.

Martin takes a slight step forward, crowding into his space this time. "Get. Out."

Peter's expression hardens, but he abandons the option of speaking; he just turns around and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

All of the fight goes out of Martin in such a rush that he sways a bit, feeling lightheaded again. He follows his own momentum to wheel around, crossing the room to John in several quick steps and nearly collapsing down to a kneel beside him.

"John," he says, looking him over fretfully, "Jesus, are you all right?"

It isn't until after John's got a look at the blood streaking Peter's arm -- and heard the feral accusation -- that he starts to realize how badly this could go for the both of them. Loathsome as he is, Peter does technically have every right to demand John's removal from his building. That wouldn't be the end of the world; he could wait the rest of this out in the Archive comfortably enough. But he knows Martin wouldn't like that solution. And then Martin would be alone in his own flat again, with a landlord possessing a bloody grudge, and there wouldn't be a damn thing he could do to help if he was locked in the Archive and a cat.

But before John can plunge into outright nervousness, Martin rounds on Peter with sudden, startling ferocity, and proceeds to throw him out. That, too, should probably be a bit alarming, but all John can do is stare, wide-eyed, at first simply astonished, and then rather enjoying the show in spite of himself. He swore, even. Christ, but it's gratifying to see him finally give Peter what for.

And it works. Peter storms out, slamming the door behind him, and if he does rally, John doubts it'll be soon.

After all that, it's mildly embarrassing to have Martin immediately drop to his knees and start fussing over him. John sits, his fur starting to settle, and lets out a sheepish little maow by way of reply. He probably looked ridiculous -- still does, in all likelihood. But he isn't hurt.

John seems a bit embarrassed, now that everything's settled back down, and the regrettably adorable little noise he makes only confirms that assumption. More importantly, he seems well - landed on his feet, like a proper cat and all, and even if he'd been hurt, Martin has to imagine the Eye wouldn't let it stick anymore than if he'd been human. Still, it's a relief to see him only mussed for his trouble.

Relief and the rapid loss of tension give over to a delayed burst of amusement as the full absurdity of what's just happened hits him. He relaxes a bit and starts to laugh, putting a hand to his face as his shoulders begin to shake with it.

"I can't believe you-" he says before cutting himself off with a slightly manic giggle. "That was brilliant. Christ, I'm probably in so much trouble." He says this without a trace of concern, too busy enjoying the ridiculous novelty of it all. John attacked his horrible nosy creep of a landlord. As a cat. He refuses not to enjoy it.

"I definitely owe you a bloody drink when you can drink again." He takes off his glasses to rub at the mirthful tears in his eyes, and breathes out heavily, settling down once again. Resetting his glasses, he gives John another once over and, without even thinking, reaches out to brush a bit of his fur back into place. "Can't believe he grabbed you like that, the nerve of - oh." He pulls back sharply, his expression suddenly hardened and horrified. "Oh, Christ, I'm so sorry, I - I forgot, er-"

There's no excuse that sounds very good to him, so he just clears his throat awkwardly and sets his hands firmly in his lap. On a suggestion filtered from John to Daine and back to Martin via text, he'd set up a brush taped firmly to the bottom of his dresser in the bedroom, so John could sort of straighten his own fur without the indignity of being brushed. John can manage himself.

The laughter is a surprise, and it only takes him an extra moment to decide that it's a pleasant one. It's more relieved than anything else, from what he can gather. And even if Martin did decide it was finally time to start laughing at him, well... it's not as if he hasn't earned it. The whole thing was absurd, and he hadn't thought through any of it, optics included. All of which isn't to say that he regrets it; there's a horrible sort of satisfaction in having drawn blood, in being in a shape that had precluded any other form of intimidation or effective defense. And it's not as if he really hurt Peter that badly when all was said and done. His dignity is probably the most wounded part of him, and serve him right for being such a fucking creep.

He's looking up at Martin, watching him recover himself, feeling as if he might be on the verge of purring again and trying to decide if it would be mortifying or not, when Martin very unexpectedly reaches for him. John stills as Martin's fingers brush over his fur, the gesture carrying the same sort perfunctory thoughtlessness as straightening someone's collar or tucking in a wayward shirt tag. There's an easy familiarity to it that he thinks might be nice, actually... except for the part where it's both unestablished and unexpected. This isn't--they don't do things like this for each other. It isn't even one of the myriad concessions they've made to John's current shape: Daine had pointed Martin towards a self-groomer that would spare John both the unthinkable task of licking himself and the embarrassment of being brushed. But it's happening now, and John is too surprised by and too wholly focused on the sensation of Martin's hands gently moving over him that it doesn't even occur to him to flinch away.

He doesn't even appreciate the irony of Martin accompanying the behavior with a comment on how presumptuous it was of Peter to lay a hand on him. It soon registers for Martin, though, and he jerks his hands back as if he'd been burned and starts spilling out apologies. John sways a little, his body belatedly wavering between pulling away from and chasing after the lost sensation, then blinks. He forgot? Christ. He's... not entirely sure how that's possible, or if he should take it as a strange sort of compliment or an insult -- if Martin forgot he wasn't a real cat, or if he merely forgot that they're not in the habit of casually touching one another.

... Not that it necessarily matters. He supposes sharing a bed could easily lead to one or the other.

Regardless, Martin looks completely mortified, and John isn't so unsettled by the odd gesture that he wants Martin feeling bad about it. It's not as if he wasn't gentle, and aside from the weirdness, it... well, it wasn't unpleasant. He sighs quietly, then reaches out to rest one paw against Martin's carefully folded hands. He blinks up at him once: it's fine. Then he turns and withdraws to the bedroom so he can straighten himself out the rest of the way.

Martin can't believe himself, that he got so thoughtless after all this time and care, and he's on the verge of spiraling into frustrated anxiety over it when John surprises him by touching him back. Just a simple gesture, a paw against his hands, and Martin looks at him, tension draining away to be replaced by cautious hope, that this is reassurance, or at least forgiveness. John blinks slowly, a catlike gesture to relay just that, that it's okay. Martin manages a faint, half-hearted smile, and doesn't watch as John retreats to the bedroom.

Well. That likely could have gone more elegantly, but it's nice to know John isn't upset with him. It's... more than nice, really. It's comforting, it's reassuring, it's... he doesn't know what. He's not sure he should be trying to suss it out, actually. He's overstepped enough for one day, and he should be grateful that John is willing to let it go, and leave it there.

He gets up, a little shaken from the still-fading adrenaline of the whole confrontation and the residual embarrassment at his slip-up, but determined to have a nice evening in spite of it. He heads to the kitchen. He can't buy John a drink yet, but he can make him a nice little dinner.

It's a bit weird how something can become both a day-to-day comfort and increasingly fraught, but that is what waking up with John curled up on the bed has been. Martin often wakes first, for whatever reason, and sees him close by, a soft little bundle breathing gently, and he feels a mixture of emotions too complex for the first thing of the day. How reassuring it is to see him there, how disappointing that this spell is still upon him, how content Martin actually feels to have him this close, and how guilty he feels for that, using this affliction for his own selfish little gains. The morning previous, he'd awakened with John's head tucked so close to his shoulder that his massive ears were the first thing Martin saw, and in his half-asleep daze he'd very nearly leaned in the inch it would have taken to kiss the top of John's head, as though he were an ordinary cat. Before he'd even had time to process his own mortification, John had lifted his head with an unperturbed little trill, and Martin had shakily asked if he wanted breakfast, and that had been that. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so surprised later when he'd forgot himself and tried to straighten out John's fur.

This morning is, ostensibly, no different. Martin wakes up rather peacefully; his internal clock has become reassuringly regular, such that he rarely needs his alarm anymore. And John is there beside him, turned onto his side to face Martin, breathing slowly, looking beautifully and unusually peaceful himself.

John is there.

Martin goes incredibly still. He hadn't considered this, that John would just... change back over night. He's still in his clothes from the party, even his shoes - he looks a bit rumpled, but no worse for wear. And he's just... there, lying so close to him, like it's the most natural thing in the world. And for a moment, that little half-second before Martin had realized, it was.

He knows he should say something. He should wake him. This is exciting; John will be so relieved to be back in his body, to be able to go home and shower and eat something different and have a proper drink of some kind. To be able to speak again, and read his own Statements, and go places all by himself, without the constant dependence upon Martin.

Instead he says nothing. He does nothing, apart from lie there scarcely daring to breathe, watching the subtle movements of John's own breathing and the relaxed expression on his face, something he's not sure he's ever seen, and wishing - in some small, carefully controlled part of himself, wishing - that this would last, that it would stay, and that he could keep it forever.

John has spent the bulk of the past week compiling a list of excuses and rationalizations for why it isn't that weird to be sharing a bed with Martin. The list includes things like 'at his current size, it's really more like sharing a decent-sized, soft-floored room,' and 'it's more dignified than a cat bed and a hot water bottle,' and 'it's cheaper than asking Martin to buy more cat-specific accoutrements that he won't have any use for in a few days' time.' 'Martin repeatedly insisted that it was okay' is a little lower on the list, if only because John was hiding beneath the sink at the time, and a concession made under duress is only worth so much.

But in the end, it wasn't his own rationalizations that eased the awkwardness. It was habit. He's just... got used to it, waking up in Martin's shadow, having Martin's face be the first thing he saw in the morning. His initially deliberate attempts to mask any discomfort and behave as if everything was fine, to bully the situation into normalcy, grew steadily less forced. Maybe it was working. Or maybe there was an implicit, mutually agreed upon decision that if they both pretended well enough to passably fool the other, their actual feelings could remain safely unaired.

So when John drowsily blinks his eyes open, and finds Martin both already awake and watching him, he squashes the impulse to flinch with practiced efficiency. Of course Martin's staring: he's a fucking cat. He starts to lift his head, making a vague sound of acknowledgment in the back of his throat. But what he emits is a sort of sleepy grunt, so far from the trill he anticipated that for a moment, he just looks astonished. The fuck was that?

Wait. Wait.

John rolls awkwardly onto his back, his body much larger and far less graceful than it has been for (most of) the past week, and raises his arms to look at his hands. Christ, his hands are back. His whole body has returned to him, right down to the outfit he wore to the party. As he turns his hands and flexes his ankles, his brain sluggishly recalibrating itself to its new-old settings, he coughs out a dry laugh.

"Christ." He presses the heels of his hands over his eyes, breathing deeply. "Oh, thank god."

He really should get up, he realizes, but he's also not entirely certain that if he tried, he wouldn't just end up falling over and landing awkwardly on all fours. So he waits, breathing evenly, letting the memories of what it felt like to be a cat fade into the background, like details from a dream. Letting his new-old body reassert itself.

A minute drags itself by before he risks sitting up, slowly swinging his legs off the edge of the bed and just sitting there for a moment, hands gripping the edge of the bed, staring at the floor until it no longer feels as if he's hovering improbably in mid-air. Then, he takes a slow, steadying breath and levers himself to his feet, swaying a little before finding his balance.

"I'm going to go brush my teeth," he announces, shaping the words carefully, as if he might have forgotten how, "for the next two years or so." He doesn't look back at Martin. He doesn't know how to school his expression, yet, and he had no idea what the other man might see. With unsteady determination, he makes his way to the WC.

He's expecting John to startle when he wakes to catch him looking. He's expecting John to get up quickly, eager to rid himself of the shared space, to hurry elsewhere, to his home or the Archive. Away from here, away from this.

He doesn't do any of those things. He catches Martin's gaze and just holds it, and Martin is quick to realize it's because he thinks he's still a cat, but even when that illusion is shattered - a low grunt, his voice so rough from sleep that it feels appallingly invasive for Martin to hear it at all - even then he doesn't get up. He rolls onto his back, studies his hands for several agonizing seconds before he laughs, he covers his face, he speaks.

He just lies there.

It lasts for such a long time, John lying there and breathing softly, taking his delicate bloody time with it, and all the while Martin stares at him because he can't possibly look anywhere else. He wants to speak. He wants to say something he shouldn't. He wants to reach out and touch John for himself, as if he needs more than visual confirmation that this is no longer the small furry body he'd been allowed, under some very particular circumstances, to touch. That it is real John once again, and once again, he is no longer allowed.

It's such an intense relief when John gets up. Martin finally looks away like a string's been cut and gives the faintest of chuckles in response to John's pronouncement. He stares at the ceiling while John leaves, and continues to stare at it while the water runs in the WC and John finally makes use of the spare toothbrush Martin had bought in preparation for this inevitability.

This is a good thing. John's back. John's back, and he'll be back in his own flat, in his own bed, and everything will go back to normal. As normal as it gets around here.

Martin lets out a slow, long sigh, tired and carrying a little murmur of his voice on it, and the room is so quiet he can hear exactly how pathetic it sounds, all full of longing and wistfulness like he's some sort of consumptive poet wasting away from heartache before the consumption can actually get to him.

He glances toward the door, thinking he'd better pull his sorry shit together before John reappears, which is when he notices the tape recorder. It must have fallen out of John's pocket, or... had he actually been holding it when Magnus transformed him? Martin sits up a bit, peering closer at it, and can see that it's recording. Christ, has it been recording this whole time?

Not possible, and not something he wants to waste a minute more on besides. He huffs out another breath and switches it off. Then he gets up and gets dressed, quick and perfunctory, and thinks some offhand, normal thoughts about how he really ought to change the sheets.

Edited 2019-10-08 14:35 (UTC)

He feels a little more human after brushing the hell out of his teeth, splashing some water on his face, and getting a good look at himself in the mirror. Everything more or less as it should be, with the addition of a faint five o'clock shadow and the impression of some blanket creases still pressed into one cheek. He's rather rumpled just in general, but it seems more like the 'sleeping fully clothed' sort than the 'wearing the same outfit for a full week' sort. He still rather desperately wants a shower, but a cursory, self-conscious examination confirms that he isn't in outright offensive shape. A proper wash and a change of clothes can wait until he gets back to his flat.

Christ, he's missed his own flat. He becomes suddenly aware of the weight of his keys in one pocket and his phone in the other. The latter vibrates suddenly, and he pulls it out to find a very belated text from Eliot regarding his own feline presence in the Archive. Snorting, he repockets the device, then runs his fingers through his hair until it looks a little less just-rolled-out-of-bed. That's about as presentable as he can make himself under the circumstances, and he gives himself one last look, as if to make sure his reflection isn't about to switch itself back to something feline, before finally stepping back out.

Martin still seems to be in his bedroom, and John's not about to wander back in there if he can help it. He makes it as far as the living room, one hand tracing along the wall in case his balance fails him, before it occurs to him that he has no idea what he's doing, where he's headed. His own flat is the obvious first choice, the Archive the second. Martin probably doesn't expect him to stick around now that he's capable of independent functioning again. And after the week they've had, John imagines they're both eager for a break from each other, and to enjoy some actual privacy for a change.

But he also can't shake the conviction that it would be somehow cowardly to just... slink out the door with a perfunctory farewell. To walk out without a backward glance, or proper thanks, as if Martin had done what anyone would do, and is worthy of no more recognition than someone who says 'bless you' in response to a sneeze.

Christ, the really maddening thing is that Martin probably would classify his efforts as 'what anyone would do.' A warlock turns your colleague into a cat, you take care of them: it's the done thing. But John knows that he owes Martin with just as much certainty as he knows Martin would wave off the very idea of being owed. And he knows he can't leave without doing something to tip the scales back towards a proper equilibrium. Anything less would be just... appallingly selfish.

He frowns for a moment, then makes his way into the kitchen. It only takes a minute to fill the electric kettle and start it heating. While he waits for the water to boil, he begins to root around a little. He already has a clear idea of what Martin has in terms of food -- or raw ingredients -- but he's a little less familiar with the assorted kitchenware he has at his disposal, and it takes him a bit of searching to find a skillet. He examines it critically, gives it a quick wipe with a dishtowel, and sets it on the stove.

He'll make Martin breakfast. That'll be a start.

Martin's waiting to hear the door, he realizes, just wasting his time in the bedroom until the open and shut of the front door. There are certainly things to discuss, and perhaps John isn't keen on making a quiet departure like a thief in the night, but after that awakening, Martin can't help hoping to be alone for a bit, to sort himself out if nothing else.

But he doesn't hear the door. Instead he hears a bit of light clattering from the kitchen. Christ, is John making tea? After so many breakfasts together, Martin supposes he shouldn't be surprised, but he is.

He glances at the tape recorder, still on the bed, and decides not to bother bringing it with. There's no Statement on it; John doesn't need the record of Magnus being a shit, or that appalling sigh Martin just let loose. It can join the other tapes he's hoarding, the one from his trip through the Buried and the duplicate of his Statement about Tim and the Spiral.

Martin runs a hand through his mussed hair and steps out, shutting the door gingerly behind him. John is in the kitchen, and he's... he's not just making tea, he's got the skillet out and he's going through cabinets now.

Martin just stands there a moment, at a bit of a loss. A few questions bubble up: 'what are you doing' seems needlessly confrontational, especially when it's pretty clear what John is doing; 'you can cook?' is more apt, but even worse. It's just nothing Martin would ever have pictured him doing, when John so rarely looks like he's ate or slept or done anything to care for himself for days at a time.

But he is clearly preparing to cook something, standing in Martin's kitchen with his rumpled clothes and the faint shadow of stubble darkening his jaw like it's the most normal thing in the world. For several arduous seconds Martin can only stare, wondering what on earth he did to deserve this morning, that John should wake up beside him like that and now, this.

"John?" he says softly, more to announce his presence than anything else; he has no idea what else to say.

John stills at the sound of his name, caught midway through a cursory examination of a box of pancake mix. He sets the box on the counter, and turns to find Martin watching him in undisguised bewilderment. Even though he'd already figured that Martin wouldn't expect him to stay long enough to make tea, let alone breakfast, the visual confirmation still gives him a guilty little twist. Maybe it's too much.

But it doesn't feel like too much. 'Not enough,' if anything.

"Martin," he replies with more steadiness than he feels. "I imagine we're both a bit tired of eggs."

"Oh," he says, a bit offhand, as though this clears everything up. "Yes, I suppose so."

John's found his pancake mix, he sees. He can't quite reconcile this with himself: that John is about to make him not just dinner, but pancakes. This is terrifyingly uncharted territory, even following the week they've had. He wants to ask what this is, what it means, why John is doing this. But he imagines the answer is just something about returning the favor, and he doesn't want to know that - like if he leaves the question unasked, he can pretend the explanation is whatever he likes.

Like that John just wants to.

Well for Christ's sake, he does, just not for the reasons Martin wants, which is no one's problem but his. He's being ridiculous. John's being kind; he's expressing gratitude in a way Martin's never seen before, and that's good. It feels good. It doesn't have to be something it's not for it to feel good.

Having reasoned himself into submission a bit, he dips his head down to hide a sheepish grin. "I... I'd say you don't have to, but... well, you know you don't." He folds his arms to keep himself from fidgeting. With a nervous little chuckle he adds, "And I don't think I fancy denying myself the chance to tell people Jonathan Sims made me pancakes."

Actually, Christ, maybe that was too much. He hastens to add something else without much forethought: "Besides, I imagine you... miss working with your... you know. Hands."

He laughs again, though it's a bit desperate. "I've got to go, erm - I'll be right back, if you need any help."

He escapes into the WC and shuts the door behind him. "Idiot," he whispers, rubbing his face and trying very hard not to think about John's stubble and his perfect stupid hands.

There's a rather anxious moment in which he isn't quite sure what Martin is going to say, or how he might take it, but the answer soon proves to be 'in stride.' More or less.

John cants his head in silent acknowledgment of his first point. This feels too necessary, to him, to qualify as wholly optional, but it's true that no one's holding a gun to his head. The next earns Martin a quiet snort. He's not in the habit of making breakfast for anyone -- himself included -- but that just means Martin should probably wait to see how said pancakes turn out before he pencils bragging about them into his schedule.

He's about to hazard a joke along those lines when Martin barrels onward, and he looks down at his hands, flexing them a little self-consciously. "Er," he starts, and that's about all he manages before Martin's dashed back to the WC, leaving him blinking as the water in the kettle starts to roil.

Well, that was... something. At least Martin doesn't seem upset, hasn't outright asked him to leave. John gives himself a little mental shake, then goes about making tea, privately pleased that he knows how Martin takes his. He'd been wondering for weeks, his own ignorance on this front a faint but persistent annoyance. Martin has had his preferences memorized for bloody years, and John just... hadn't bothered to learn Martin's. He could have just asked, but he hadn't wanted to; he'd wanted to already know, to be the sort of person who would have returned that basic courtesy far sooner. But it wasn't until being twisted into cat shape that he finally found himself able to observe Martin's tea preparation without it being creepy or obvious, and he's glad those companionable hours spent sitting on Martin's counter have yielded a tangible result.

By the time Martin returns, his tea is ready and waiting for him at the end of the counter, and John is all but huffing the steam from his own cup as he waits for it to cool enough to drink. His first cup of tea in a week. Christ, he'd missed it.

"Tea's ready," he says with a nod towards Martin's cup. Then he takes a careful sip, and his eyes briefly fall shut as he savors the taste. Everything had tasted different as a cat; even the things he should have recognized were bit off. But the tea tastes exactly as he expects it to, and for a moment, he could almost weep with relief. He limits himself to a whispered, "Christ, that's good."

Martin spends a few minutes washing his face and fixing his hair as best he can, trying to calm himself down a bit. After a week of mostly talking at John within a simplified set of parameters, it's like he's forgotten how to go about this without making an outright fool of himself. Though to be fair it's always been like that, ever since they both found themselves here. Their relationship has taken several strange turns by now - why not this.

Martin draws in a breath and heaves it out quickly as if to forcibly excise any lingering awkwardness, and he steps back out, determined to behave like a normal bloody person.

"Oh," he says, a little surprised, but before he can even reach for his cup he's caught watching as John frankly luxuriates in his own. It feels a little obscene, watching him enjoy it so openly, when Martin is quite certain he's never watched John enjoy anything, much less tea (which could feel like a personal failing if he wants to be ridiculous about it). He just looks so... so happy. Martin bites back a charmed smile but he also feels like he could cry. Because it shouldn't feel this rare to see John happy, because he so easily could have never seen it at all, because he didn't make it happen and it isn't his to keep, and so much else besides. Christ, what a pitiful mess he makes.

He turns his attention to his own cup and takes a small sip, and he's startled by how nice it is - how perfectly John made it. He likes his sweeter than most, nobody puts the right amount of sugar in when making it for him, but it's exactly right.

Martin takes a slow, thoughtful sip, glancing at John again, but only briefly. "Ooh, that's lovely," he says, as casually as one might remark on a cup of tea anyone had made them, though he's sincere when he adds, "Thank you."

Edited 2019-10-14 03:32 (UTC)

John opens his eyes in time to surreptitiously watch as Martin takes his first sip. He's not expecting a strong reaction -- certainly nothing like what he just did, which he belatedly realizes was probably a bit much -- but he catches the brief flicker of surprise. There's no displeasure, which isn't surprising: he'd paid careful attention over the last week, and he's certain he got it right. Nor is there the flat neutrality with which he generally used to accept an unsolicited cuppa, which he probably would have deserved. Martin just looks pleasantly surprised, though his response is mercifully casual (as opposed to something like 'oh, it only took you three years, well done').

"Course," John murmurs, as if it's all only natural and not more or less unprecedented. He can't help a faint smile, though.

He takes another sip, still slow but with a bit less savor. "Things... tasted different, as a cat," he says by way of explanation. "Even the things I was familiar with weren't quite right. It's nice to finally have something turn out exactly as anticipated." He lifts his cup a little for emphasis, then looks over at the box of pancake mix. "I suppose we'll see if those follow suit," he adds wryly. "I probably can't make any promises."

Martin nods thoughtfully as John explains, trying to keep his expression neutrally interested. It is interesting, but it's also difficult to remain objective when this is something John lived through, and he's still so angry that it happened at all. Mostly he just feels relieved to have him back, as much as it's left them in this strange nebulous space of interaction, intimate but not intimate.

He smiles at John's light bit of self-deprecation. "Well, I won't hold you to anything, then," he says. "But I'm sure they'll be fine."

It's hard not to feel like everything out of his mouth is somehow the wrong thing to say. The situation is as tenuous as it is charming; he still can't quite accept the plain truth of it, that John is cooking for him. Yes, he's cooked for John several times now, but that... that was different. It was necessary. Though he supposes it's only fair to assume John feels this is necessary too, in its own way.

He moves away to give John more space, leaning instead against the wall, out of the way but still near in case John needs anything.

"It's good to have you back," he says after a moment, a bit nervous, looking very fixedly at his tea. "I mean. Properly."

After one last bracing sip, John sets his tea down on the counter and starts to go about mixing the batter. At least that part is all but impossible to fuck up: just add eggs and milk and some melted butter and stir. As he fetches things out of the fridge, he hums in acknowledgment of Martin's comment.

For half a second, that's all the response that occurs to him. He's grown so accustomed to his half of any given 'conversation' just consisting of trills and chirps and other wordless indications that he's listening. Or, that failing, at least having the time to deliberate that a slower method of communication, like the board, had provided. Being able to respond in a way that's both verbal and immediate throws him, and it takes him a little longer than it should to figure out what to say.

"It's good to be back," he replies at length. "Properly." He measures out the milk, then adds a dry, "I'm sure you'll be glad to have your flat back, too." Martin had been a generous host, and never once complained, but a week of precious little privacy has, he presumes, worn on both of them.

Martin chuckles at that. "Oh, it wasn't so bad," he says lightly. "I mean, apart from all the circumstances, it... you know. Good company."

He can feel his cheeks warming a bit and he takes a hurried sip of his tea, keeping his eyes elsewhere. Why is this so bloody hard? It's like he's forgotten how to behave, how to talk to John as... as... as he usually does. As whatever he is to John - somewhere between assistant and manager and friend. A relationship cobbled together from the trauma of shared experience that's left them no room at all for this kind of casual pleasantry. And now that feels like it's been shorn away and he's left... floundering.

"Bet you're excited to get back to yours, though," he hastens to add, finally risking a glance at John, not entirely willing to just not watch him while he works.

'Good company' is enough to have him glancing up at Martin in some surprise, one corner of his mouth curling up in a bewildered smile. It's not the sort of compliment he'd ever have anticipated. With the notable exception of Daisy (and the Admiral, if you really want to scrape the bottom of the barrel), no one seems to classify his company as good anymore. Certainly not to the point of seeking it out -- which isn't even what happened here. Someone had to take him in, and Martin had volunteered; there'd been no expectation of pleasantness, surely.

Martin's probably just being kind. In a worse frame of mind, John might even wonder if it was a backhanded sort of thing, implying that he was good company precisely because he was small and furry and ostensibly cute and, most importantly, incapable of speech. But he doesn't want to undermine what is almost certainly a well-intentioned remark, for no other reason than because he could. It's... rather nice to think that Martin might actually mean it.

Still, his decision to take it at face value doesn't mean he can't still lightly poke at it, as if testing its solidity. "I suppose it helped that I couldn't talk much," he says dryly, though he's still smiling a little as he stirs.

He has missed his own flat, but even with Martin's lead-in, it feels a little ungrateful to say as much. "Not looking forward to finding out the state of the fridge," he says instead.

A laugh startles out of him at John's dry remark, though it's more from surprise than anything. "John," he scolds with good humor, before growing rapidly embarrassed and hiding himself away in his tea. It's difficult to understand the full shape of his embarrassment; just that that felt too familiar somehow, too forward, too intimate. He much prefers John being himself, being able to communicate without undue effort, to say nothing of John's voice, but none of that is something he can offer casually.

John's follow-up provides a much needed escape hatch, and he laughs again, softly this time. "I don't imagine that'll be pretty, no," he says. "Even so."

He shrugs. John may not want to outwardly admit that he wants to get back to his own space, but Martin knows he must, and that's fine. It's to be expected, more than... this. Nice as it is.

Because it is nice; it's just that it's so hard to prevent himself from imagining what it might be like if this were normal, if this were something they just did for each other regularly. He'd fought so long to take care of John when John wanted nothing from him; and then there was no time for it, with John off doing his own dangerous missions and leaving Martin with little recourse but to worry. And then... well, he'd thought that was all done with. But here they are.

It's been a profoundly odd week.

He drinks his tea studiously, letting his thoughts wander a bit, then hums brightly as a thought occurs to him. He sets his cup down on the counter and steps back out into the living room until he finds the book John had left on the couch. He'd only just started this one. Martin can't be certain if he was reading from actual enjoyment or just as something to do, but it can't hurt to check. He brings the book back to the kitchen and sets it gingerly on the counter near John, far enough that it won't get messy, but within reach.

"In case you'd like to borrow it," he says, a little sheepish. "So you can finish."

He avoids John's eyes as he slips back past him and recovers his tea.

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The Final Stretch // for John

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September 25th

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September 26th

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