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“This is nice.”
“I have a front door for a reason.” Martyn responds. He doesn't look away from the boat he’s nudging towards the edge of the room, ignoring the way the creeper struggles towards him, attempting to headbutt him again. He pushes it away with a cautious hand to join its companions in the small pen he’s slowly constructing.
“No you don't.” Scott says, he turns around the corner, footsteps echoing off the stone and ice. “There’s just an open hole. It’s a wonder no creepers have wandered in here and blown you up yet.”
Martyn turns around, trying not to look as guilty as he suddenly feels, hearing Scott’s footsteps come to a stop.
“Nevermind,” Scott says. “You're apparently friends with the creepers that wandered inside through your front door that doesn't actually exist.”
“I don't think friends is quite the word for it.” Martyn glances back at the creepers, noting and wincing at the way all of them are glaring at him. “They don't explode though, so I'm safe.”
“No, they're just planning your murder with their eyes,” Scott notes. The rings on his arms rattle slightly, glowing in warning of his teleportation. He reappears beside the creepers, crouching down to peer closer at one of the closest ones.
“Wait, don't-”
Scott yelps before he can even finish his warning, popping away in a shower of sparks, reappearing further away from the creepers, clutching at his face.
“-get too close.” He finishes with a sigh, hand dropping back to his side. “Did you not see the horns and think to yourself, hm, if they don't explode, they must have some other way to try and kill me ?”
“I don't sound like that,” Scott protests, voice nasally and high. His hands remain firmly pressed over his nose, small sparks skittering off his shoulders every few seconds.
“Not right now you don't. Right now you sound like you just got headbutted in the face.”
“Comedic genius right here, everybody.” Scott comments, voice dry. The sparks continue to fall from him, sinking into the floor, leaving little pockmarked holes in the ice there, before fading away again. “Don't suppose you have anything to help with this?”
“If you're looking for potions, then no. Ice, remember? How d’you reckon I’d fare in the nether?”
“You’d be a little puddle.” Scott grins, obviously imagining it, and then winces. He has blood over his chin and on his teeth. It would be a horrifying look if Scott didn't just have a baby creeper knock the shit out of him. “And then we’d all be very sad, because we would miss you.”
“I'm sure you would. Sit down, away from the ice features, you're melting everything.”
“Not my fault you chose to live in a meltable place.” Scott does sit down, a nice, comfortable distance away from all the ice that decorates his home. Martyn collects his measly supplies, pulling the cloth from his cupboard and hoping that Scott doesn't mind cold water. It’ll probably help, right? He wouldn't know- he never managed to pass basic first aid training.
He dampens the cloth, crouching in front of Scott. Scott leans down for him, pulling his hand away from his nose. Some of the blood cupped in his palm spills out, splattering over the floor. The red is a shock against the dull whites and greys of his home, and Martyn’s eyes continue to be drawn back to it as he cleans the blood from Scott’s face.
He’s careful to keep his ministrations gentle, dabbing delicately at the skin around Scott’s nose, wiping the blood away before it can dry and begin to flake. But his fingers are stiff with cold long settled into his bones, and his gloves make the movements clunky and difficult.
He hisses out a breath, murmuring an apology the third time Scott winces as he presses too hard, or knocks against something sensitive. He rocks back on his heels, pulling the cloth away from Scott’s face as he debates his next move.
He doesn't debate for long, watching as Scott cups a hand beneath his nose again, continuing to bleed.
He tugs a glove off with his teeth, discarding it and pulling the second one off as well. He picks the cloth up again, flexing his fingers and getting a new feel for his slightly increased dexterity.
Scott’s eyes follow his hands, no doubt taking in the purpled skin at the tips of his fingers. He resists the urge to pull his gloves back on, knowing it is only curiosity that causes Scott to stare rather than anything more malicious.
When he raises a hand to Scott’s cheek, going to cradle his chin in one hand. To make it easier for him to hold Scott in place as he takes a proper look at his nose (he hopes it’s not broken, he wouldn't know what to do if it was broken, and he doesn't know anyone in the area that would know what to do if it was) , and he expects Scott to wince, or maybe to grimace, at the thought of his skin being touched by something blackened by frost.
But he doesn't even hesitate, leaning into his palm like a cat, watching him from beneath heavy-lidded eyes.
“It’s not broken,” Scott tells him, a murmur of assurance as Martyn tilts his head in several directions, trying to figure out if Scott’s nose was always that shape. (-It was, he’s spent enough time tracing the profile of Scott’s face to recognise the shape of his nose, the way his eyes curve, the small dimple he gets on one side of his face, and the-)
“I know that,” Martyn responds. He’s not certain where to move from here, reluctant to pull away when Scott still seems content to lean into his space. His nose has begun to stop its bleeding, and the cloth is only smearing more red-pink over Scott’s face again, not wiping the blood away anymore. “You're lucky, you know.” He taps a hand against the side of Scott’s face before pulling back, fingers twitching for a moment as he considers pulling his gloves back on, then dismissing it again.
“Oh?” Scott leans forward, smiling again despite that action definitely pulling at tender skin. “And why is that?” He bats his eyes, still grinning that cheshire-cat grin. The smile, too sharp at the corners, is far more endearing than it has any right to be.
“Not for any reasons that you're thinking,” he pushes at Scott’s face, shoving him backwards. Scott goes with the action easily, leaning back in his seat. He looks as though he’d rather be nowhere else in the world, even with small flecks of blood still decorating his face and several creepers raring to bash his face in a second time. “You're just lucky nothing broke, they can pack quite a punch.”
“That one sure didn't,” Scott snorts, then seems to remember that his nose is still feeling sensitive after his close encounter with a creeper.
“Because that one was a baby.” He says. His cloth, previously a light cream, is now stained pink with Scott’s blood. He rubs at it with a thumb for a moment, before setting it aside with a sigh, abandoning it as a lost cause. “The adults would have caved your skull in with very little hesitation, and then we’d all be very sad, because we would miss you.”
“I love it when you quote me,” Scott leans back into his space, eyes flicking downwards for a brief moment, then focusing back on his eyes again. Martyn grins at him, not missing the way pink heats Scott’s face, nor does he miss the few sparks that flicker on his shoulders.
“You just like the sound of your own voice.”
“Perhaps,” Scott grins. “I do have quite a nice voice, after all, someone has to appreciate it.”
“Of course,” he nods sagely, as though Scott has just imparted the wisdom of the world upon him. He hasn't, obviously, but it makes Scott grin in a pleased little way, and that’s all Martyn was hoping to achieve.
The creepers seem to enjoy sweet berries the most, which is a relief, as it’s something easily grown, even if he’s managed to trip into the bushes three times in as many days already. The scratches and tears in his coat are worth it though, as the creepers are beginning to regard him with a little less hostility than before.
Only slightly. They’d probably still murder him in his sleep if he gave them a chance.
He turns his back on the creepers, leaving them with their meal of sweet berries, beginning to peer into his chests for what he might eat himself. They're rather sparse with supplies, the few things knocking about in the bottom not looking incredibly appetising.
He pulls a half-stale loaf of bread out with a grimace, brushing the dirt away from the edges of it. He’d meant to put the kitchen cabinets in yesterday, but he’d gotten caught up in other, more important, things- like finding more creepers and getting them settled in their new home.
The creepers…might be living a life with more luxuries than him at this point.
His scarf tightens a little around his neck as he continues to stare down at the loaf of bread, considering how willing he is to break his teeth trying to bite into it. He tugs at his scarf, loosening it again with a finger against his neck.
Something tugs at the end of his scarf again, winding it tighter around his neck once more. He pulls it away from his neck, spinning on the spot to find the culprit.
An empty room stares back at him, echoing in its silence and the leftover sounds of his footsteps. It bounces around the room for a few more moments, before that leaves him too. Staring off into the emptiness around him, looking for whatever it was that was slowly winding his scarf tighter and tighter around his neck.
Something snags at the loose end of his scarf again, pulling it slowly tighter. He grabs for the end of it, yanking it free from thin air. It leaves him looking like an idiot, the end of his scarf clutched tightly in his hand, and staring at it like it holds the answers.
He stares at it a moment longer, eyes narrowing, squinting almost shut, before opening again. He grips onto it a little tighter and stands still. Waiting.
Something catches on the threads of his scarf, just barely brushing against them- not something he would notice unless he was looking for it, waiting for it. He twists on the spot, seizing the wrist that has begun to disappear again, yanking it hard enough to almost pull the shoulder from its socket, on the other side of the portal.
The hoop widens, Scott gracelessly falling through; he’s on his feet within moments, one wrist still caught in Martyn’s grasp, as though to make up for the way he flopped through the portal.
“Hello,”
“Martyn,” Scott grins up at him, rocking up onto the balls of his feet, then back again, “how can I help you?”
He continues to smile up at him, going for innocence and missing it by about four miles.
“Just wondering what your new fascination with my scarf was,” he responds. Scott’s wrist is still caught in his grip, tight enough that Scott cannot slip away and escape. “Unless you just felt like tugging on it for fun?”
“Oh, no reason at all,” Scott says. “Are you sure it was me? I don't recall touching your scarf, was it the wind?”
“I doubt it was the wind,” he shakes Scott’s hand, watching the way his hand flops back and forth. He’s almost a little surprised that Scott is still letting him hold on, then thinks about it for a moment longer and isn't surprised at all. “The wind doesn't have much interest in choking me, hm?”
“Who said I had an interest in choking you?”
“You left particles behind on the fabric,” he reveals, watching Scott’s face twist, first in embarrassment then in disappointment. “Kinda gave away the game before it could really start.”
“Did they get caught in the fabric?” Scott asks. He grabs at Martyn’s scarf with both hands, ignoring the grip Martyn has on one of his wrists, peering closely at the knitwear. “Is it because of how it’s woven?”
“Your particles get everywhere,” he corrects. “You've melted many, many holes in my floor with them.”
“No I haven't!” Scott protests, apparently ignoring the small pockmarks in the ice below his feet. “I've been very careful.”
“Sure, you gotta be more careful if you don't want everyone else to catch you in the act.” He releases Scott’s wrist, though the man continues to hold onto the end of his scarf, fiddling with the loose bits of wool at the end. Martyn lets him, if only because it means he isn't teleporting every three words.
“I don't do it with anyone else,” Scott says. He doesn't look up, head tucked downwards to focus on Martyn’s scarf. “It stopped working after the first time.”
“It stopped working for me after the first time, too,” he reminds. Scott laughs, poking a finger through the scarf, wiggling it around before going back to twisting the tassels.
“Your reactions are much better than everyone else’s.”
“Then I guess I better be honoured.” Scott looks up at him in question, so he continues, “That you continue to come and see me, despite how easily you could catch a cold here.”
“Have to be colder than this for me to even start feeling it,” Scott says, despite the slight chattering of his teeth and the goosebumps on his arms. The clothes he wears hardly cover his arms, draping loosely around him in a way that gives him a vaguely floaty appearance.
“Sure,” he says, glancing back at the loaf of stale bread. He considers trying to cut it, or even trying to eat it. He can almost imagine the way his teeth would break against it, like trying to eat rocks. “Hey, I just had a great idea, you have a garden, don't you?”
Scott looks nervous, eyes narrowing suspiciously at him. “Yes,” he manages, after several long seconds. “Why?”
“Treat me to dinner?” He places his hands over Scott’s, halting the way they fiddle with his scarf and forcing Scott to look up at him. “As an apology for scaring me.”
“You said I didn't-”
“Oh, no, you definitely did,” he squeezes Scott’s hands. “Shivered me right out of my skin, I was so scared.”
Scott continues to stare at him with clear suspicion. “I only have vegetables.”
“Not a problem for me,” he grins. This doesn't seem to be the response Scott was expecting, but his sigh sounds purposefully overdramatic when he pulls his hands away from Martyn’s. He steps back, pulling himself away from Martyn rather slowly, before he opens one of his portals. He’s still smiling, just slightly, not at all his cheshire-cat grin that he normally wears.
Martyn takes the win, even if Scott’s home is far warmer than his own.