![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
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.
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.