Prompt: Martin moves in with Douglas, and things are wonderful. Except Martin is constantly hungry because he was underfed for so long that his body just can't get enough food. Martin is embarrassed about his late night snacking. Douglas sets out to ensure Martin has enough to eat.
Here you are! This turned out very fluffy. And just a teensy bit sad in the subtext sorry what.
Hope you enjoy! :)
For Martin, With Love
"That the last of it, Martin?" asked Douglas as he set down a box next to the two suit cases already placed in the center of his living room.
Martin carted the box he was carrying over as well and took in the small pile. “Yeah, there wasn’t much room in the attic, so… yeah. That’s all of it,” he said, looking over his belongings.
"Splendid," drawled Douglas, stepping over and drawing an arm around the smaller man’s slim shoulders. He planted a kiss to ginger curls. "Welcome home, mon amour."
Martin flushed crimson, smiling and then turning to kiss his boyfriend properly. “Thanks, Douglas.”
He felt oddly giddy at that thought. This was his home, a warm well-furnished house with his lover rather than a drafty loft above six agricultural students. He could scarcely believe his luck. He hardly dared to actually, considering how his luck usually went.
"My pleasure," murmured Douglas in return, giving Martin a squeeze, "Well, I suppose that demonstrates the benefit of being your own man with a van."
Martin chuckled. “Yeah, I s’pose so. Trouble is there’s no one to pay me!”
"Perhaps not," agreed Douglas, smiling as well, "Dinner is on me then. I’ll go rustle us up a couple of rather excellent omelets I think." The first officer winked at his young captain and then ambled into the kitchen to set to work. Martin sat down on one of the boxes, a hand slipping to his stomach. It gurgled hopefully. Real proper food. A real home cooked meal that wasn’t toast, pasta, or the odd baked potato. Martin smiled and rubbed at his tummy. He was absolutely starving. But for once the thought didn’t make him miserable. There was a sizzle and a welcome smell of cooking egg coming from the kitchen.
"Ham and cheese alright?" Douglas called over the noise.
"Sounds amazing!" Martin shouted back. His stomach growled eagerly in agreement.
Douglas proved to be the master of omelets, and countless other dishes. The man clearly loved to cook which was a dream come true for Martin who had spent so much of the past few years living off of the same staple foods night after night. He’d almost lost his appreciation for different tastes and textures. Now however, that was back in full force. Martin ate, and ate, and tasted and sampled and gorged himself on whatever Douglas sat in front of him with glee. He didn’t bother to hold back his appreciation, groaning and complimenting nearly every bite. Once Douglas had made a chocolate souffle so good that Martin had positively moaned in pleasure. They ended up in the bedroom within five bites. Yeah, things were looking up. Martin still kept up with his van job, wanting to help pay the bills when he could, but it was a lot more tolerable when there was a nice hot meal and a nice hot boyfriend to come home to.
As the days went on, Martin began feeling more energetic and in brighter spirits. there was a better color to his skin, his hair shone again, but he was still painfully thin and ravenously hungry at every meal. One day Martin was musing on the fact that despite making a right pig of himself at every meal, he wasn’t really gaining all that much.
"Well, my ribs aren’t as visible anymore, but I’m still-"
"Sharp enough that I worry about waking up with lacerations from your hips and shoulders," Douglas supplied with a grin. It softened however as he saw Martin’s shoulders slump a bit.
"I’m only exaggerating, my dear," he amended, reaching over to take Martin’s hand, "Don’t worry about it so much. It takes time. We’re in no rush. I’m happy just to see you getting a good meal in you thrice a day."
"I know," Martin sighed, giving Douglas a small smile in return, "I’m just… So tired of being cold all the time. And hungry."
"Your body knows what it needs, mon amour. If you’re hungry, eat. You probably need an extra boost. You’re hardly eating more than what I would call the usual amount," Douglas said, giving his lover’s hand an encouraging squeeze.
"Yeah… You’re probably right," said Martin, leaning in for a kiss, "nearly tea time isn’t it?"
"Quite so, Martin my dear."
But Martin was still hungry even after picking up a few more snacks or an extra portion at dinner. Somehow his malnourished body was still clamoring for more even after he’d eaten his fill. He was hungry nearly every two hours and though Douglas didn’t seem to mind his lover’s frequent trips to the pantry, the man himself felt guilty for eating so much of the other man’s food. Of course, Douglas had bought it for them both, picked up some of Martin’s favorites specifically, but the guilt clung on. He tried to cut back on his snacks, but his stomach, grown demanding and greedy gave him away and then Douglas would get up and fetch him something instead, so there really wasn’t a benefit to that.
The worst was at night. Martin would lie awake long after Douglas had dozed off, trying to stop his tummy from growling by flexing his abdominal muscles. sometimes the growling grew so insistent that Martin worried they’d wake his bedmate. Eventually, Martin would give in and carefully slip from Douglas’s arms, get out of bed, and then pad to the kitchen to make himself a peanut butter sandwich and milk, or whatever else caught his eye. An apple with nutella, a tin of mixed nuts, biscuits, left over pastries… Anything and everything that he craved. Martin felt quite shy about this new habit. Wasn’t it enough that he ate constantly during the day? But he was hungry. And so he ate before crawling back under the covers, content and sated until morning when he would wake and be ravenous once again. He hoped his body would work out they weren’t in danger of starving anymore. This was getting ridiculous.
Well, at least Douglas was a heavy sleeper. He might just die of embarrassment if his lover walked in on him eating yet again. He already seemed to find Martin’s endless appetite amusing, though the teases were kinder, more to put Martin at ease than anything. If he were honest, he rather liked that attention. It was… sweet in a way. Martin took another bite of his toast and Marmite, humming softly as it settled his grumpy stomach.
The light clicked on and Martin started, then blushed almost completely crimson.
"Hello, I thought I heard a little mouse raiding the larder," drawled Douglas with his usual ease as he stepped into the kitchen, "Fancied a nightcap, eh?" He smiled in response to Martin’s splutters, his hair tousled rather attractively above deep brown eyes that were mirthful beneath their sleepiness.
"Martin, it’s fine. I’ve told you," he added gently, going to pour himself a glass of water, "Mi casa es su casa. Quite literally now. I’ll see you in bed." He smiled and then ambled back to the bedroom.
"Night," Martin called softly after him, then looked down at his plate. He picked up his toast again and nibbled at it. Eventually, as always seemed the case now, his hunger won out and he resumed eating with gusto.
Douglas didn’t bring up Martin’s Midnight Meals, much to the captain’s relief. He was still rather shy about the whole ordeal. He’d almost skipped his snack the night after, but well, it was hard to sleep with a grumbly tummy. The only change was that now Martin was more likely to find a plate of something covered in foil with a note on it reading: For Martin. At first Martin had wondered if this was Douglas making fun of him again, but then if it was a joke, at least it was a tasty one. He’d found everything from a sandwich to a piece of chocolate creme pie under that note over the next week. Douglas never said a word about it, nor about the missing dish in the morning. There was just always a new plate at night. They seemed to grow only more elaborate as time went on. Soon Martin was polishing off nearly a second dinner plate every night. It seemed to help though, his appetite was back to what he would consider normal and his body was strong, still slim, but with a layer or two of soft insulating flesh over everything. He was rather proud of it. And Douglas seemed to like it quite a lot as well.
Even as Martin’s appetite receded slightly and his daytime snacks became fewer, his midnight one remained and Douglas continued setting out plates for him. The only acknowledgement Douglas ever gave of his nightly gifts was one night when Martin climbed back into bed, stomach full and warm of a really excellent goulash. The first officer had woken at that, then hummed and turned over to spoon him as his captain giggled. A large warm palm had then settled on Martin’s slightly rounded belly.
"Good, you found it," Douglas rumbled, clearly still half asleep.
"Yeah, thanks," Martin murmured in response, feeling his cheeks warm as Douglas rubbed at his full stomach.
"You are perfect, mon amour," the other man sighed, his breaths becoming long and slow once again as he fell back asleep.
Martin grinned and laid a hand on top of Douglas’s. “You too.”
Had some extra money, so while I was out shopping, I bought Douglas a new DVD. It still makes me laugh that he's a sucker for romance films and novels, but I guess I'm a sucker for aeroplanes.
Bought some new models today as well. Can't wait to start building! The rest is a secret, for Douglas' eyes only.
Awww man, I was seriously just supposed to try my hand at a quick Douglas/Martin drawing, but then an hour later I'm still drawing. And I haven't saved (ugh stupid!) and now the program won't respond. :(
I suppose I should be thankful it even allowed me to take a screen cap at all...
SAI is still open tho... it just won't respond. Here's to hoping if I leave it like that it'll just fix itself.
For imjohnlocked who wanted "one person gets burned and the other person takes care of them *irony upon irony* Fluffy with kisses :D"
Here's a Johnlock, a Martlas (Cabin Pressure), and a Mystrade (with a different type of burn).
___
John heard the cry, the curse, and the fumbling around from upstairs. Even though Sherlock had accidents fairly often, he didn't usually do anything except mutter under his breath. John recognized a cry of pain when he heard one.
He came downstairs to see Sherlock fumbling at the tap and doing the familiar muttering. John walked over to help him make the water cold. "Burn yourself?" he asked with concern.
John coaxed Sherlock's hands under the water. "Go on and stop the burning," he encouraged. "Is there anything that needs seeing to, like the cause of the burn?"
Sherlock shook his head. "No. I took care of it." He cursed again, lowering his head. He still ran his hands, especially his fingertips, under the water. John gently rested a hand on his back.
"Well, be more careful next time," John said softly. "You have nice hands. Keep 'em that way."
Sherlock flushed and stared at his hands, at the water as it fell over them. "Okay," he agreed.
When Sherlock nodded to the tap and said, "I think we're okay on the cooling," John turned off the water.
"I'm getting you a paracetamol and the aloe vera. Any objections?"
"None," Sherlock said, making his way to the armchair and sitting down. He looked at John curiously as John hand fed him the pill and tipped the cup for him. "You know, I probably could have done that," he said with a hint of suspicion.
John froze. "Oh. No, you're probably right."
"It's alright, John," Sherlock said quickly. "I'm not upset. You're free to offer to go above and beyond for me. I like it, actually. I like to worry you, just a bit."
"Was this on purpose?!" John stared at Sherlock.
Sherlock suddenly shut down. He bowed his head. John, wary that it might mean Sherlock had indeed burned himself on purpose, set about opening the aloe vera. "Hands," he ordered.
Sherlock slowly offered his hands, but didn't look up. John started to work the aloe into them. "This should help," he said.
Sherlock shivered pleasantly at the sensation of John soothing his burns with the aloe. Finally, he said, still avoiding eye-contact, "Is that what you really think of me, John?" His voice was low, careful. "In your picture of me, would I do that?"
John paused, taking Sherlock's hands in his for a moment. "Sherlock?" he said. He waited until Sherlock finally looked up. "Sherlock, I don't think you would, no. I mean, I wouldn't put it completely past you, but you sounded like you were in real pain. I rushed to help, if you'll recall."
"Of course you did. Ex-army doctor."
"And your friend. Don't forget that part."
Sherlock stared at him for a long moment. Finally, he said, "You've stopped."
John looked down at his hands, small and tan compared to Sherlock's large, enticing pair. "I really do love your hands," John said carefully.
Sherlock surged up and forward just a bit, pressing his lips to John's, pulling away to gauge his reaction after lingering for a moment. John stared at him blankly for long enough that he wriggled his burnt fingers out of John's grasp.
John reached out, leaning in, offering his hands for Sherlock to hold again if he wished. "I want to kiss you again," he said softly. "Only if you want to."
With an unaccountably open expression, Sherlock asked, "Will you burn me?"
"If I do, let me know. I'll get the aloe vera," John teased, but with enough sincerity that Sherlock deemed the answer sufficient.
"Then come and bring me your spark," Sherlock murmured.
***
"Nonsense. I'm going to be fine," Douglas huffed, somehow looking rather put together and at ease, despite the trepidation in his eyes and the fact he was in a hospital bed.
Martin had tears in his eyes. "I was so worried," he blurted out. "When I'd heard.... I mean, thank God you're okay," he said quickly. "You are...okay?"
"Better now that I've got company," Douglas admitted, looking round at the MJN crew, glancing at the macaroni collage Arthur put together for him, at Carolyn's practical (and cheap) card, at Martin's slightly dog-eared note of support.
"When I heard about the fire, when...I was...I mean, we all could have lost you!" Martin said, voice edging on panic.
"True," Douglas said, forcing his voice to stay calm. "That's very true. But, you didn't. I'm still here."
"In hospital," Martin choked.
"Yes. Right now, there's no place I'd rather be," Douglas said wryly. "They are, after all, the experts." He noted Martin's tears starting to fall. "Martin," he said gently, "I really am alright." He offered his hand, bandaged a bit as the burns healed. "Here."
Martin stood and took the hand carefully, looking at the hand, afraid of hurting Douglas. "I, er. Douglas," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, "I need to. There are things I was afraid I'd never get to...." He bit his lip.
Douglas looked up at Martin in surprise. "I thought about you," he admitted. "All of you, but especially you, Martin. I was in danger of not getting out, and I thought of you. Is that...what you mean?"
Martin reached up with his other hand, cradling the bandaged one between both of them. "Yes! Exactly. I need to say. I mean, it's embarrassing, but I need to say...that my life wouldn't be the same without you, and that...and that I care about you, maybe too much. I'm so glad you're alive." He sighed, closing his eyes, another tear falling.
"Martin, do me a favor."
Martin's eyes snapped open. "Do you need the bed adjusted? Should I call the nurse? What is it, what?"
Douglas quirked his lip. "Nothing so involved. Just, come, lean over me a bit, yeah? And I'll rise up a bit, and...."
"Oh," Martin breathed against Douglas's lips, and then they were kissing, and Arthur gasped and cheered and Carolyn announced that she'd left something important in the car and she needed Arthur's help to fetch it.
And Martin looked dazzled when Douglas lay back against the pillows again. "Was that to your liking, sir?" Douglas murmured.
Martin gaped, staring down at him. "A-are you okay? Are you hurt?"
"A bit, if you don't say you liked it," Douglas teased.
"I love you," Douglas said firmly, looking at him.
Martin went quiet, just staring, at a loss but looking very touched and overwhelmed.
"Thank God for near-death experiences," Douglas said. He nodded to the telly remote. "Put something on, will you? Maybe it'll help settle your nerves, Captain Crieff."
***
Greg buried his face in Mycroft's shoulder, sobbing into the fabric of the expensive suit, and Greg didn't notice that he was dampening it, and Mycroft didn't say a thing about it, didn't really even care.
Mycroft pat and rubbed at Greg's back warmly, soothing him. "Shhh," he said.
"God, I'm a fucking mess," Greg sobbed, pulling away enough to speak, tears spilling down. "No wonder she...."
"No," Mycroft said, voice firm and just a bit harsh. Greg jumped slightly to hear it, looking up questioningly. "Don't you dare let her cause you to think less of yourself. She's unfaithful because that's her choice."
Greg sighed, chuckled a bit, wiped at his face with his own sleeve. "True, that's her choice. But it's not like I'm gonna find anyone else. Who'd want me?"
Mycroft looked absolutely stricken, staring at Greg wordlessly.
"What?" Greg asked with a nervous lick of his lips. "What is it?"
"Anyone with half a brain would be perfectly happy to have you."
Greg frowned at his friend a bit. "My?"
Mycroft reached out, pulling Greg against him again. "Sorry. Ignore me. This is about you," he said smoothly, rubbing at Greg's back again.
He nuzzled a bit. "You really care about me like that?"
Mycroft paused, movements slowing, considering his words. "Yes," he finally said.
Greg pulled away, noting the disappointment and fear sitting in Mycroft's eyes, painted across his face. "So, you wouldn't mind if...if I gave you a snot-filled kiss?" he said.
"I'm not a fan of snot," Mycroft pointed out. Seeing the disappointment in Greg's eyes, he smiled softly. "But, Greg, there's always this." He handed over the handkerchief he'd had in his hand and hadn't had time to offer before Greg had been sobbing into him.
Greg blew his nose and wiped his eyes, smiling when he received a kiss to the cheek that warmed his whole being.
"She has no idea what she's taking for granted," Mycroft said. "She has no idea what kind of heart she's burnt time and again."
"The same goes for your ex," Greg said honestly.
Mycroft looked at him, touched, very surprised. "Thank you," he said. "Er...thank you."
Couldn't decide on just one pairing, so have three drabbles: a Martlas (Cabin Pressure), a Janto (Torchwood), and a Mollcroft (Sherlock).
___
Simple
Everything Martin owns fits right in. And he's used to moving boxes, so that's not difficult, but it's nice to have Douglas's help.
"Much better than your attic, isn't it?" Douglas says with a smirk, but he really wants reassurance; Martin can tell.
"I'm making dinner tonight. No protests," Douglas informs.
"Are you...are you sure this is fine?"
"Martin, I've honestly wanted you to move in for a very long time, nearly since the first time I saw your dire old attic. You deserve more." He pauses, wondering whether he should have said that, wondering if he's revealed too much.
"Er...thank you," Martin says, confused.
Martin's confused and a bit touched when Douglas says he's making his favorite for dinner. "That's...that's my favorite," he announces.
"Yes, I know," says Douglas with amusement. "You know what they say about a man's stomach. You can watch telly while you wait, if you like."
"Alright," Martin agrees, standing. Then, hand on the back of the chair as he pushes it in, he freezes. "Douglas?"
"Yes, Martin?"
"Is what they say about a man's stomach...that it's the way to his...his heart?" He turns, face questioning.
"Ah, is that what the saying is?" Douglas's lip quirks. "My mistake."
Martin frowns. "Are you...I mean...why would you want to find a way to my heart?"
"Why indeed?" Douglas says mysteriously. "Now, weren't you going to go watch telly?"
Martin flushes red and carefully makes his way to the sitting room. Funny, but he thought this'd be really straightforward.
***
Impossible
They can't move in together. Ianto is a firm believer in having some sort of solace outside the workplace, and Jack doesn't want to live anywhere but the Hub, doesn't feel safe, doesn't feel right anywhere but the Hub.
And, plus, they aren't at the "moving in" stage, are they? They'll probably never be.
But that isn't to say that Ianto doesn't stay over sometimes. That isn't to say that he doesn't have an extra toothbrush and extra clothes at the Hub. That doesn't mean they don't sit around and eat or drink in the conference room.
That doesn't mean they don't order food to Ianto's. That doesn't mean Ianto's never cooked for him. That doesn't mean they haven't cuddled on the sofa, falling asleep to the telly. That doesn't mean Jack doesn't keep a few of his purely ornamental, supplemental, sentimental relics lying around Ianto's here and there, like he's secretly claiming the place as part his.
Because moving in would be impossible, they're pretty sure. But pretty sure isn't one-hundred percent.
***
Disheartening
Molly looks around, surrounded by packed boxes, a newlywed with no husband. He's out on official business. He'd apologized multiple times, looking sorrier each time, and she'd hugged him and drank a cup of tea, and hugged him and told him it was alright.
It isn't completely alright, though, because she misses him. He'd had emergency flights when they'd been dating, but some small part of her had perhaps imagined that married life would be a bit more stable. It is, too, in many ways, including that they'll be sharing a household.
But his place is so large, and she's only ever had the one flat, and all of her things will fit in this house, they do fit into this house, and Toby's already made himself at home, but Molly feels wary of the vastness, of the fine decoration.
"How are my pillows and dolls going to fit in?" she asks of Toby, who pauses and stares up at her.
She sighs heavily and sits down cross-legged on the floor. She opens the box next to her. "I don't fit in," she says. "Already, my stuff is just...well, it's not...." She gestures to the house. "Oh, why did he even pick me?" she scoffs.
When she finally makes her way up to the master bedroom with a couple glass figurines she'll place on the sparsely-filled shelves, she sees a bouquet of flowers on the table by the window.
She sets the figurines down next to the vase and reaches for the little card.
Sorry, again, my dear, the card says, in a scribbled mockery of his typical writing; he must have really been in a rush. She thinks that makes the card more human, thinks it suits the moment. I'm disappointed that I can't be with you to find a place for your things. In time, you'll see that they truly belong here, as do you. My house has been empty for far too long. - Mycroft
Slipping the card into her pocket, Molly goes down to get more of her things, momentarily overwhelmed by the sea of boxes. But she knows the card is in her pocket.
