Fic: In His Image (Sherlock BBC/Sherlock RPF) (4/8)
Also at: AO3
In His Image (4/8)
The days continued to pass, long and slow, as February eased into March, and John’s life began to coalesce and harden into its new structures. John caught up with Harry again, and with Mike, but Ben’s name only came up once near the beginning, and only so Mike could get in a bit of good-natured ribbing about the possible dampening influence of John’s personality on Ben’s detective character. John didn’t bother telling Mike that they were still in touch.
Of the job applications John continued to send out regularly, two of them invited him to an interview, and he dutifully turned up at the appointed times at the appointed places and bored himself so much he couldn’t even remember what he’d said afterwards. While John was still not quite willing to concede the efficacy of therapy, it did seem that gradually he was cooking more, drinking less, and getting around a little better.
He wasn’t entirely sure about the dreams, though. The nightmares of gunfire and screaming had faded, only to be replaced by almost equally troubling dreams of Ben. They were disjointed, fragmentary, yet overlaid with an air of menace that was disturbing. It wasn’t clear to John exactly what the threat was, or exactly who was being threatened, but the feeling was there all the same. If he’d been a more fanciful man, John might have been worried, but it didn’t feel like a warning or premonition of any kind; if anything it was more like an old, forgotten memory. Of a man he would still claim he barely knew.
Nevertheless, John had made a point of watching the remainder of Ben’s detective series, which consisted of a second episode about a mysterious code composed of picturesque stick figures, and a final one where the arrival of a letter containing citrus pips somehow portended doom for the recipient. Neither of them affected him quite as much as the first, although John found himself drawn to some of the secondary characters as well - one being the hapless Scotland Yard detective who turned up now and again to beg help from Sherlock, and the other being Holmes’ well-meaning if slightly treacherous brother, who unsuccessfully tried to co-opt Irene into his plans. Again, it wasn’t so much anything that they did in the show; only that they were there. While they didn’t draw quite the same longing from him that Ben’s character did, there was still something about them that spoke to him.
Frankenstein continued its hugely successful run at the National - sold-out, the papers reported. Ben continued to drop by once or twice a week after work, always prefacing his visits with a text to check whether John was in and awake, which he invariably was. The visits were far more likely to occur when Ben played the Creature than Victor, partly because he was more likely to hurt himself during those performances, but also because it seemed to leave him far more hyped-up than the reverse role. John rarely texted him first; Ben seemed constantly busy during most of his off hours, and John was reluctant to bother him, especially since considering his ongoing dreams it felt uneasily like he was thinking too much of him already.
There was definitely a strange, tentative thing between them that John might have called friendship, except that he still didn’t quite understand why Ben kept coming back. Perhaps it was simply convenient to have a doctor on hand who consulted unofficially, even though John strongly suspected that if not for him Ben might not ever bother going to one at all. Still, John was happy to take Ben as and when he saw him. Maybe with his recent break-up Ben just wanted someone to act as a sounding board occasionally, which was also fine. Ben often seemed to find it relaxing to just sit and talk, rambling on in long, convoluted sentences, which might have been annoying to some, but John found it soothing to just let Ben’s voice wash over him, whether or not he was interested in what was actually being said. The parting handshakes turned into awkward hugs, which John accepted as being part and parcel of Ben’s unnecessarily extroverted personality.
The smoking ban was still in place, the alcohol kept in the cupboard. As time passed, their absences became easier to bear. John bought a handful of nicotine patches, just for the entertainment value of offering Ben one as a substitute. He also bought a few more varieties of tea. His blogging continued sporadically, although he had given up on attempting to recount his own pedestrian existence and turned his hand to picking apart research studies instead. Although he doubted anyone actually read it, it kept him occupied and seemed enough in the way of self-expression to satisfy his therapist.
March rolled over into early April, and it was late on a Saturday night when his phone went off with a message. John was buried deep in the jargon of an online article, but he reflexively fished the phone from his jacket pocket as he continued to read. He was already fairly sure who it would be, despite Ben’s visits having tailed off recently - it had actually been well over a week since John had seen him last. In the back of his mind John knew Frankenstein was nearing the end of its run, and then Ben’s schedule would completely up-end itself. It wasn’t yet clear whether there would still be room for John in the midst of it all, and it was possible their friendship of sorts was simply coming to its natural conclusion. It had bothered him, but he felt there was little he could do about it. As much as he could fasten on and interpret the tiny details of things, the entirety of Ben was still an enigma to him. He glanced at the message.
Still up?
Well, I am NOW, he texted back.
Liar.
John smiled, and went back to his article. Twenty minutes later, the buzzer rang, and shortly after that Ben was once again unwrapping himself in John’s living room. John looked him over critically.
“It’s your shoulder, isn’t it?” he said, by way of greeting.
“Hello, John, lovely to see you too. Yes, it has a been a little while since I saw you last, hasn’t it? I’ve been fine, thank you for asking, and yes, it is quite cold out,” Ben said. “How have you been?”
John just looked at him. He was quite sure it hadn’t been that difficult a question. “The left one.”
“Lucky guess,” Ben finally said.
“I never guess. You came up the stairs exactly as usual, but even unwinding that scarf is giving you trouble. Okay, let me take a look.”
Ben stood there quietly and co-operated as John assessed the acromioclavicular joint and the separate muscles of the rotator cuff in turn, taking Ben’s arm through a variety of positions and then having him reach, lift, pull and resist applied pressure while standing. He made Ben sit for the remaining tests, using the wooden chair in front of his still-open laptop.
“So, what were you reading?” Ben said, glancing towards the screen, while his hand rested lightly on his shoulder as per John’s instructions. “Anything interesting?”
“Very,” John said absent-mindedly, his attention focused on testing the movement of Ben’s humerus within the joint. “A Chinese study on immunocamouflage. Bioengineering of red blood cells by grafting on biocompatible polymers in order to prevent transfusion reaction.”
“Sounds fascinating. Although it might just as well be in Chinese.”
“It’s just a disguise for incompatible blood types so they’ll get along,” John said. “Okay, that bit’s done. Now, I want you to rub your stomach with one hand and pat your head with the other.”
He very nearly got away with it. Ben began lifting his hand, but lowered it just in time, and glared. “Well?”
“Yeah,” John said. “Definitely your shoulder.”
“So glad I came to you.”
“Look, you’ve sustained damage to the rotator cuff through repetitive strain, and I’m sure it’s been like that for at least a week, getting progressively worse. You could have cortisone shots to get you through, but you know perfectly well that what you really need to do is stop doing things like this.” John raised his arm in the air and twisted it mock-theatrically. “Which I know you have no intention of doing in the very near future, so what do you want? A sticker and a boiled sweet?”
“I must say you’re not a very nice doctor.”
John considered him for a bit longer, then sighed. “Well, strangely enough I seem to be out of cortisone right now, but I could do you a massage, if you wanted.”
His suggestion was met with raised eyebrows and a wicked grin from Ben. “Really? But I hardly know you.”
“Not that kind,” John said. “Although it might actually have to be the bedroom, unless you like lying face down on hard surfaces.”
“I get enough of that at work.”
That actually did make John smile. “Come on, then.”
***
John stood with his arms folded as Ben took off his shirt, throwing it onto the far side of the double bed before climbing onto it and collapsing dramatically in a heap. His head was turned sideways on John’s pillow, which he’d requisitioned without a qualm. Up close, and minus the heavy makeup of scars, it was apparent that Ben really was in fantastic shape, injured or not. He was a little bumped and bruised in places, but not enough to spoil the general effect. John took a moment to appreciate the aesthetics before rubbing his hands together a little, warming them.
“I don’t have anything fancy,” he said. “Just hands. I’m not running a business here.”
“’S fine,” Ben mumbled, sounding like he was happy just to be lying down.
“Maybe I should just let you sleep.”
“Two shows on Saturdays. Bit tiring.”
Through luck or foresight, Ben’s left shoulder was the one closer to the edge, but the height of the bed meant that bending over it would be awkward. John considered the logistics for a moment and decided to sit instead, even though he’d have to twist a little awkwardly to do the job.
“Shove over a bit,” he said, and waited for Ben to comply.
John started with stretching of the overlying myofascial structure, which involved positioning his hands a little distance from each other on the surface of the skin and then applying pressure as though trying to draw his hands apart. He held each stretch for nearly a minute, just relaxing the area beneath. It was only a preliminary to the actual massage, but Ben was already making appreciative noises that vibrated through his fingertips.
“I haven’t actually started yet.”
“Mmmf,” was the only response he got.
After he’d covered the surface, John moved onto the supraspinatus, which ran over the shoulder blade from spine to shoulder. He pressed his thumbs in near the attachment to the spine, rolled up over the muscle and then stroked firmly outwards to the shoulder. Again it was mostly a matter of repetition, long, slow strokes in order to cover the full width of the muscle from top to bottom. Then onto the infraspinatus, which ran below the shoulder blade, and this time John used his knuckles, palm up, to draw deeply along the lines of the muscle fibres. Despite its lack of intellectual challenge, there was something about using his hands John always found soothing, and his attention was for the most part firmly focused on his work. However, at some point the moaning sounds that Ben was making had passed through appreciative and were verging on obscene.
“Oi,” he said. “Not that kind of massage, remember?”
“Oh, that’s looovely,” Ben said, sounding like he’d had a little too much to drink. “Can I hire you by the week?”
John made a small scoffing noise. “You couldn’t afford me. Okay, I’m going to use my elbow now on the knots.”
In order to apply maximum leverage, he shifted so that one knee was on the edge of the bed, with his other foot on the floor. Positioning his elbow above a likely spot, he put his weight behind it and began to bear down.
“You’re going to have to tell me if it hurts.”
Ben just hummed in his throat, a noise that sounded much like a human version of purring as John pressed down harder. It was actually quite tiring work, and he was sweating, although it wasn’t something he minded terribly. He felt the muscle twitch sharply and then relax under his elbow.
“Ah,” Ben said, although it was more a sound of surprise than pain.
“Anyone would think you’d never had a massage before,” John said, starting again with another likely spot, feeling the same twitch and release. “You should have them in your contract.”
“They’re for wusses.”
“Should I stop?” Push. Twitch. Release.
“Except this one.”
“Yes, because pain builds character.”
Ben was quieter now as John finished up with the trigger points and moved onto the teres major and minor, which were located even further down, around the armpit. John used his fingers to just push in and relax them, upper and then lower.
“Almost done. Turn over.”
He almost laughed at the completely dazed expression on Ben’s face when he complied. Just one more part to go, and then John thought he’d have done his good deed for the day. “Now I’m going to bring your arm up so I can get to the subscapularis.”
Now that Ben had flipped over, John was on the wrong side, so he went around the other half of the bed, moving Ben’s shirt away to drape over the wooden board at the foot. He then sat cross-legged on the bed, and pulled at Ben’s upper arm until it was straight out from his body, although still in contact with the bed. Ben’s forearm came up as though he were waving.
“Hello,” Ben said, waggling his fingers. John rolled his eyes.
“Just hold your arm like that for a minute,” he said, and then pressed in and around with his fingers, directly into the armpit.
“Now that’s just weird,” Ben said.
“And yet a strangely useful muscle if you ever want to move your arm around at all. Right. Done. Now I need a nap.”
Since he was already conveniently on the bed, John turned himself around and lay down next to Ben, stretching as best he could. It was a fair way past midnight by now, and after the additional exertion he really was getting sleepy.
“That was wonderful. Thank you,” Ben said quietly.
“Good, I’ll lie here and you can see yourself out.” John grinned.
“So, where did you learn to do that?” Ben had turned on his side, towards him. “I can’t see you taking a class, somehow.”
“It’s mostly basic anatomy, with a little common sense thrown in. Which you’re clearly lacking, since you’re just going to go out and damage yourself all over again on Monday.”
“Tuesday.”
“Oh, well, that’s completely different, then.”
“John?”
“Mmm?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you.”
“You say that like it’s a meant to be a compliment, but it’s really only a statement of fact.”
Ben laughed softly. “See, that’s pretty much exactly what I meant.”
It seemed natural enough that Ben should reach for him then, taking him by the arm in a friendly way, but when it was followed by Ben’s mouth suddenly pressed softly against his own, John panicked. Despite the joking earlier, he truly hadn’t been expecting anything of the kind. John’s offer of a massage had been a purely therapeutic one, based on the discomfort Ben had clearly been in when he arrived. Perhaps he had been hoping it would lead to a continuation of his friendship as well, but no more than that. He hadn’t been trying to seduce Ben, or lead him on. It was true that he found him attractive to look at, beautiful, even, in his own way, but John also admired classical paintings, and sculptures, and sunsets, and you didn’t go around wanting to get up close and personal with those. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said relationships - or sex, for that matter - weren’t really his area. It had been an interesting phase, but quite enough to last him a lifetime. However, apparently he hadn’t been quite clear enough.
“What are you doing?” John said, although it was really perfectly obvious. He just couldn’t quite come to terms with it that quickly. One moment he’d been feeling relaxed and happy, and in the next everything had turned itself upside-down. Before he could even think, he’d instinctively wrenched himself up and away from Ben, pushing himself to a sitting position. He could hear the shocked sharpness in his own voice that at that moment sounded very like anger. Ben was staring at back at him, wide-eyed, appalled.
“S-sorry,” Ben said, and even in the midst of his confusion John noticed that the trace of a lisp became more pronounced under stress. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…” Ben held up a defensive hand, although John hadn’t made any move towards him; in fact quite the opposite. “Nothing. You’re right. I’ll…see myself out.”
John just kept staring at him as Ben scrambled off the bed, almost comically trying to grab his shirt off the footboard without going too near John. His socks and boots lay near the door, and he stooped to gather them too. Seconds later, Ben had left the room without looking back. As John slumped back onto the bed, now exhausted beyond words, he heard the door close soon after, and then the careless, creaking rush of Ben’s flight down the stairs.
***
(part 5)
In His Image (4/8)
The days continued to pass, long and slow, as February eased into March, and John’s life began to coalesce and harden into its new structures. John caught up with Harry again, and with Mike, but Ben’s name only came up once near the beginning, and only so Mike could get in a bit of good-natured ribbing about the possible dampening influence of John’s personality on Ben’s detective character. John didn’t bother telling Mike that they were still in touch.
Of the job applications John continued to send out regularly, two of them invited him to an interview, and he dutifully turned up at the appointed times at the appointed places and bored himself so much he couldn’t even remember what he’d said afterwards. While John was still not quite willing to concede the efficacy of therapy, it did seem that gradually he was cooking more, drinking less, and getting around a little better.
He wasn’t entirely sure about the dreams, though. The nightmares of gunfire and screaming had faded, only to be replaced by almost equally troubling dreams of Ben. They were disjointed, fragmentary, yet overlaid with an air of menace that was disturbing. It wasn’t clear to John exactly what the threat was, or exactly who was being threatened, but the feeling was there all the same. If he’d been a more fanciful man, John might have been worried, but it didn’t feel like a warning or premonition of any kind; if anything it was more like an old, forgotten memory. Of a man he would still claim he barely knew.
Nevertheless, John had made a point of watching the remainder of Ben’s detective series, which consisted of a second episode about a mysterious code composed of picturesque stick figures, and a final one where the arrival of a letter containing citrus pips somehow portended doom for the recipient. Neither of them affected him quite as much as the first, although John found himself drawn to some of the secondary characters as well - one being the hapless Scotland Yard detective who turned up now and again to beg help from Sherlock, and the other being Holmes’ well-meaning if slightly treacherous brother, who unsuccessfully tried to co-opt Irene into his plans. Again, it wasn’t so much anything that they did in the show; only that they were there. While they didn’t draw quite the same longing from him that Ben’s character did, there was still something about them that spoke to him.
Frankenstein continued its hugely successful run at the National - sold-out, the papers reported. Ben continued to drop by once or twice a week after work, always prefacing his visits with a text to check whether John was in and awake, which he invariably was. The visits were far more likely to occur when Ben played the Creature than Victor, partly because he was more likely to hurt himself during those performances, but also because it seemed to leave him far more hyped-up than the reverse role. John rarely texted him first; Ben seemed constantly busy during most of his off hours, and John was reluctant to bother him, especially since considering his ongoing dreams it felt uneasily like he was thinking too much of him already.
There was definitely a strange, tentative thing between them that John might have called friendship, except that he still didn’t quite understand why Ben kept coming back. Perhaps it was simply convenient to have a doctor on hand who consulted unofficially, even though John strongly suspected that if not for him Ben might not ever bother going to one at all. Still, John was happy to take Ben as and when he saw him. Maybe with his recent break-up Ben just wanted someone to act as a sounding board occasionally, which was also fine. Ben often seemed to find it relaxing to just sit and talk, rambling on in long, convoluted sentences, which might have been annoying to some, but John found it soothing to just let Ben’s voice wash over him, whether or not he was interested in what was actually being said. The parting handshakes turned into awkward hugs, which John accepted as being part and parcel of Ben’s unnecessarily extroverted personality.
The smoking ban was still in place, the alcohol kept in the cupboard. As time passed, their absences became easier to bear. John bought a handful of nicotine patches, just for the entertainment value of offering Ben one as a substitute. He also bought a few more varieties of tea. His blogging continued sporadically, although he had given up on attempting to recount his own pedestrian existence and turned his hand to picking apart research studies instead. Although he doubted anyone actually read it, it kept him occupied and seemed enough in the way of self-expression to satisfy his therapist.
March rolled over into early April, and it was late on a Saturday night when his phone went off with a message. John was buried deep in the jargon of an online article, but he reflexively fished the phone from his jacket pocket as he continued to read. He was already fairly sure who it would be, despite Ben’s visits having tailed off recently - it had actually been well over a week since John had seen him last. In the back of his mind John knew Frankenstein was nearing the end of its run, and then Ben’s schedule would completely up-end itself. It wasn’t yet clear whether there would still be room for John in the midst of it all, and it was possible their friendship of sorts was simply coming to its natural conclusion. It had bothered him, but he felt there was little he could do about it. As much as he could fasten on and interpret the tiny details of things, the entirety of Ben was still an enigma to him. He glanced at the message.
Still up?
Well, I am NOW, he texted back.
Liar.
John smiled, and went back to his article. Twenty minutes later, the buzzer rang, and shortly after that Ben was once again unwrapping himself in John’s living room. John looked him over critically.
“It’s your shoulder, isn’t it?” he said, by way of greeting.
“Hello, John, lovely to see you too. Yes, it has a been a little while since I saw you last, hasn’t it? I’ve been fine, thank you for asking, and yes, it is quite cold out,” Ben said. “How have you been?”
John just looked at him. He was quite sure it hadn’t been that difficult a question. “The left one.”
“Lucky guess,” Ben finally said.
“I never guess. You came up the stairs exactly as usual, but even unwinding that scarf is giving you trouble. Okay, let me take a look.”
Ben stood there quietly and co-operated as John assessed the acromioclavicular joint and the separate muscles of the rotator cuff in turn, taking Ben’s arm through a variety of positions and then having him reach, lift, pull and resist applied pressure while standing. He made Ben sit for the remaining tests, using the wooden chair in front of his still-open laptop.
“So, what were you reading?” Ben said, glancing towards the screen, while his hand rested lightly on his shoulder as per John’s instructions. “Anything interesting?”
“Very,” John said absent-mindedly, his attention focused on testing the movement of Ben’s humerus within the joint. “A Chinese study on immunocamouflage. Bioengineering of red blood cells by grafting on biocompatible polymers in order to prevent transfusion reaction.”
“Sounds fascinating. Although it might just as well be in Chinese.”
“It’s just a disguise for incompatible blood types so they’ll get along,” John said. “Okay, that bit’s done. Now, I want you to rub your stomach with one hand and pat your head with the other.”
He very nearly got away with it. Ben began lifting his hand, but lowered it just in time, and glared. “Well?”
“Yeah,” John said. “Definitely your shoulder.”
“So glad I came to you.”
“Look, you’ve sustained damage to the rotator cuff through repetitive strain, and I’m sure it’s been like that for at least a week, getting progressively worse. You could have cortisone shots to get you through, but you know perfectly well that what you really need to do is stop doing things like this.” John raised his arm in the air and twisted it mock-theatrically. “Which I know you have no intention of doing in the very near future, so what do you want? A sticker and a boiled sweet?”
“I must say you’re not a very nice doctor.”
John considered him for a bit longer, then sighed. “Well, strangely enough I seem to be out of cortisone right now, but I could do you a massage, if you wanted.”
His suggestion was met with raised eyebrows and a wicked grin from Ben. “Really? But I hardly know you.”
“Not that kind,” John said. “Although it might actually have to be the bedroom, unless you like lying face down on hard surfaces.”
“I get enough of that at work.”
That actually did make John smile. “Come on, then.”
***
John stood with his arms folded as Ben took off his shirt, throwing it onto the far side of the double bed before climbing onto it and collapsing dramatically in a heap. His head was turned sideways on John’s pillow, which he’d requisitioned without a qualm. Up close, and minus the heavy makeup of scars, it was apparent that Ben really was in fantastic shape, injured or not. He was a little bumped and bruised in places, but not enough to spoil the general effect. John took a moment to appreciate the aesthetics before rubbing his hands together a little, warming them.
“I don’t have anything fancy,” he said. “Just hands. I’m not running a business here.”
“’S fine,” Ben mumbled, sounding like he was happy just to be lying down.
“Maybe I should just let you sleep.”
“Two shows on Saturdays. Bit tiring.”
Through luck or foresight, Ben’s left shoulder was the one closer to the edge, but the height of the bed meant that bending over it would be awkward. John considered the logistics for a moment and decided to sit instead, even though he’d have to twist a little awkwardly to do the job.
“Shove over a bit,” he said, and waited for Ben to comply.
John started with stretching of the overlying myofascial structure, which involved positioning his hands a little distance from each other on the surface of the skin and then applying pressure as though trying to draw his hands apart. He held each stretch for nearly a minute, just relaxing the area beneath. It was only a preliminary to the actual massage, but Ben was already making appreciative noises that vibrated through his fingertips.
“I haven’t actually started yet.”
“Mmmf,” was the only response he got.
After he’d covered the surface, John moved onto the supraspinatus, which ran over the shoulder blade from spine to shoulder. He pressed his thumbs in near the attachment to the spine, rolled up over the muscle and then stroked firmly outwards to the shoulder. Again it was mostly a matter of repetition, long, slow strokes in order to cover the full width of the muscle from top to bottom. Then onto the infraspinatus, which ran below the shoulder blade, and this time John used his knuckles, palm up, to draw deeply along the lines of the muscle fibres. Despite its lack of intellectual challenge, there was something about using his hands John always found soothing, and his attention was for the most part firmly focused on his work. However, at some point the moaning sounds that Ben was making had passed through appreciative and were verging on obscene.
“Oi,” he said. “Not that kind of massage, remember?”
“Oh, that’s looovely,” Ben said, sounding like he’d had a little too much to drink. “Can I hire you by the week?”
John made a small scoffing noise. “You couldn’t afford me. Okay, I’m going to use my elbow now on the knots.”
In order to apply maximum leverage, he shifted so that one knee was on the edge of the bed, with his other foot on the floor. Positioning his elbow above a likely spot, he put his weight behind it and began to bear down.
“You’re going to have to tell me if it hurts.”
Ben just hummed in his throat, a noise that sounded much like a human version of purring as John pressed down harder. It was actually quite tiring work, and he was sweating, although it wasn’t something he minded terribly. He felt the muscle twitch sharply and then relax under his elbow.
“Ah,” Ben said, although it was more a sound of surprise than pain.
“Anyone would think you’d never had a massage before,” John said, starting again with another likely spot, feeling the same twitch and release. “You should have them in your contract.”
“They’re for wusses.”
“Should I stop?” Push. Twitch. Release.
“Except this one.”
“Yes, because pain builds character.”
Ben was quieter now as John finished up with the trigger points and moved onto the teres major and minor, which were located even further down, around the armpit. John used his fingers to just push in and relax them, upper and then lower.
“Almost done. Turn over.”
He almost laughed at the completely dazed expression on Ben’s face when he complied. Just one more part to go, and then John thought he’d have done his good deed for the day. “Now I’m going to bring your arm up so I can get to the subscapularis.”
Now that Ben had flipped over, John was on the wrong side, so he went around the other half of the bed, moving Ben’s shirt away to drape over the wooden board at the foot. He then sat cross-legged on the bed, and pulled at Ben’s upper arm until it was straight out from his body, although still in contact with the bed. Ben’s forearm came up as though he were waving.
“Hello,” Ben said, waggling his fingers. John rolled his eyes.
“Just hold your arm like that for a minute,” he said, and then pressed in and around with his fingers, directly into the armpit.
“Now that’s just weird,” Ben said.
“And yet a strangely useful muscle if you ever want to move your arm around at all. Right. Done. Now I need a nap.”
Since he was already conveniently on the bed, John turned himself around and lay down next to Ben, stretching as best he could. It was a fair way past midnight by now, and after the additional exertion he really was getting sleepy.
“That was wonderful. Thank you,” Ben said quietly.
“Good, I’ll lie here and you can see yourself out.” John grinned.
“So, where did you learn to do that?” Ben had turned on his side, towards him. “I can’t see you taking a class, somehow.”
“It’s mostly basic anatomy, with a little common sense thrown in. Which you’re clearly lacking, since you’re just going to go out and damage yourself all over again on Monday.”
“Tuesday.”
“Oh, well, that’s completely different, then.”
“John?”
“Mmm?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you.”
“You say that like it’s a meant to be a compliment, but it’s really only a statement of fact.”
Ben laughed softly. “See, that’s pretty much exactly what I meant.”
It seemed natural enough that Ben should reach for him then, taking him by the arm in a friendly way, but when it was followed by Ben’s mouth suddenly pressed softly against his own, John panicked. Despite the joking earlier, he truly hadn’t been expecting anything of the kind. John’s offer of a massage had been a purely therapeutic one, based on the discomfort Ben had clearly been in when he arrived. Perhaps he had been hoping it would lead to a continuation of his friendship as well, but no more than that. He hadn’t been trying to seduce Ben, or lead him on. It was true that he found him attractive to look at, beautiful, even, in his own way, but John also admired classical paintings, and sculptures, and sunsets, and you didn’t go around wanting to get up close and personal with those. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said relationships - or sex, for that matter - weren’t really his area. It had been an interesting phase, but quite enough to last him a lifetime. However, apparently he hadn’t been quite clear enough.
“What are you doing?” John said, although it was really perfectly obvious. He just couldn’t quite come to terms with it that quickly. One moment he’d been feeling relaxed and happy, and in the next everything had turned itself upside-down. Before he could even think, he’d instinctively wrenched himself up and away from Ben, pushing himself to a sitting position. He could hear the shocked sharpness in his own voice that at that moment sounded very like anger. Ben was staring at back at him, wide-eyed, appalled.
“S-sorry,” Ben said, and even in the midst of his confusion John noticed that the trace of a lisp became more pronounced under stress. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…” Ben held up a defensive hand, although John hadn’t made any move towards him; in fact quite the opposite. “Nothing. You’re right. I’ll…see myself out.”
John just kept staring at him as Ben scrambled off the bed, almost comically trying to grab his shirt off the footboard without going too near John. His socks and boots lay near the door, and he stooped to gather them too. Seconds later, Ben had left the room without looking back. As John slumped back onto the bed, now exhausted beyond words, he heard the door close soon after, and then the careless, creaking rush of Ben’s flight down the stairs.
***
(part 5)