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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.
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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."
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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."
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"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."
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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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.