[ This was not Martin showing off the backbone he’d developed once the comforts of people pleasing no longer served him. It was not him pressing a finger to the boundaries he’d established to cobble together enough fortitude to endure, as he’d done with John once he no longer needed written statements to digest the fear from within. No, this was simply Martin not wanting to make a fool of himself for somehow having it in his lizard brain to find John teasing him unfairly charming.
Blame coming down from the adrenaline rush of having to stab John off his actual pedestal. Sure.
The stern affectation softens, as it often does around Martin since they came together. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it, but he has precious time that wasn't there hours (???) ago. Martin was gearing up to tackle that issue, already tabulating a list in his head on how to best explore vast unknowns, when John slowly drew himself up to sitting once more. A test, Martin knows, but God, if he doesn't make a choked sound of concern anyway. ]
Do you understand the concept of bedrest?
[ He’s in pain because of you. The snag of self-hatred does not keep him from responding to John’s adjusted position, shifting to sit on the cot behind John’s back with one foot planted firmly on the floor to keep himself steady. ] Lean back, you maniac. Felt better? [ John healing, even at a drastically slower pace than he’s used to as the Archivist, was a complicated blessing. It makes Martin fret, but he tries to keep his touch and tone steady. ] Who gets stabbed and says they’ve felt better?
[ It is rhetorical, because who else but John? The following sigh is low and drawn out as if he’s slowly deflating – lungs and heart and woe wrapped neatly in imagery of a balloon in the hands of a bored child. Here’s where the fight and tension actually release. He wants to just be in this moment, ribs pressed against John’s spine due to the angle he’s taken. He can feel every breath; he tries to match the tempo. ]
Fine. Pet rock. I’m sure they have those scattered all over. [ They’re not facing one another, but the smile is obvious until it’s concealed by John’s shoulder in a kiss (and don’t they fit the trope of black cat/golden retriever to a T?). ] I just pray that we don’t have to walk to wherever it is we end up.
no subject
[ This was not Martin showing off the backbone he’d developed once the comforts of people pleasing no longer served him. It was not him pressing a finger to the boundaries he’d established to cobble together enough fortitude to endure, as he’d done with John once he no longer needed written statements to digest the fear from within. No, this was simply Martin not wanting to make a fool of himself for somehow having it in his lizard brain to find John teasing him unfairly charming.
Blame coming down from the adrenaline rush of having to stab John off his actual pedestal. Sure.
The stern affectation softens, as it often does around Martin since they came together. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it, but he has precious time that wasn't there hours (???) ago. Martin was gearing up to tackle that issue, already tabulating a list in his head on how to best explore vast unknowns, when John slowly drew himself up to sitting once more. A test, Martin knows, but God, if he doesn't make a choked sound of concern anyway. ]
Do you understand the concept of bedrest?
[ He’s in pain because of you. The snag of self-hatred does not keep him from responding to John’s adjusted position, shifting to sit on the cot behind John’s back with one foot planted firmly on the floor to keep himself steady. ] Lean back, you maniac. Felt better? [ John healing, even at a drastically slower pace than he’s used to as the Archivist, was a complicated blessing. It makes Martin fret, but he tries to keep his touch and tone steady. ] Who gets stabbed and says they’ve felt better?
[ It is rhetorical, because who else but John? The following sigh is low and drawn out as if he’s slowly deflating – lungs and heart and woe wrapped neatly in imagery of a balloon in the hands of a bored child. Here’s where the fight and tension actually release. He wants to just be in this moment, ribs pressed against John’s spine due to the angle he’s taken. He can feel every breath; he tries to match the tempo. ]
Fine. Pet rock. I’m sure they have those scattered all over. [ They’re not facing one another, but the smile is obvious until it’s concealed by John’s shoulder in a kiss (and don’t they fit the trope of black cat/golden retriever to a T?). ] I just pray that we don’t have to walk to wherever it is we end up.