The Final Stretch // for John

[loficharm]

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.

Comments

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

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?"

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

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.

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

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.