John breathes out a soft, dismayed sound when Martin says he felt it, something John hadn't really considered. In that moment between his flash of insight and the flash of the blast, there'd been no time for a nuanced examination of every possible option and the potential fallout. That his body would have been knocked straight back into Martin's arms hadn't occurred to him, how that would feel hadn't occurred to him. Perhaps it's just as well, given that he woke up with more of an audience than usual, and there'd been a new arrival still to deal with. It's good that they weren't both beside themselves, that Padmé hadn't had to deal with that on top of everything else.
Now, though, his own eyes fill with sympathetic tears, and he squeezes Martin's hand. He lifts his head to press a kiss to Martin's brow, to nest another in his hair. It doesn't feel like enough.
And then Martin carries on, haring off on a horrible tangent that only trips John up for a moment before he understands. Oh, Christ. His heart plummets.
It had been difficult, given the varied but still broadly negative reactions he'd received when he finally woke up, to imagine anyone had sat by his bedside and tried to call him back before Oliver Banks had shown up. He wasn't unkind enough to assume anyone hadn't, but he hadn't wanted to dwell on the idea of all the tender concern he'd failed to repay. Christ, he hadn't wanted to think about Martin there, talking to him, trying and failing until there was nothing to do but stop.
"Martin—" John's own composure is starting to unravel, and he pulls back, wanting to seek Martin's gaze even as Martin covers his face entirely, sobbing into his own hands, spiraling down into a truly wretched conclusion that hits John like a blow. "B— th-that..." John lifts his free hand to Martin's shoulder, then exhales, defeated, and pulls him in. He can't keep holding him at arm's length, he can't. "Come here," he says, somewhere between coaxing and begging, shifting a little so Martin's head will end up against his shoulder, farther from the hole in the middle of his shirt. Martin is miserably tense under his hands, but he doesn't resist, and John slowly, carefully curls his arms around him.
"You've got it all backwards," he murmurs into Martin's hair, puffing out a damp, strained impression of a laugh. "You're the reason I'm here."
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Now, though, his own eyes fill with sympathetic tears, and he squeezes Martin's hand. He lifts his head to press a kiss to Martin's brow, to nest another in his hair. It doesn't feel like enough.
And then Martin carries on, haring off on a horrible tangent that only trips John up for a moment before he understands. Oh, Christ. His heart plummets.
It had been difficult, given the varied but still broadly negative reactions he'd received when he finally woke up, to imagine anyone had sat by his bedside and tried to call him back before Oliver Banks had shown up. He wasn't unkind enough to assume anyone hadn't, but he hadn't wanted to dwell on the idea of all the tender concern he'd failed to repay. Christ, he hadn't wanted to think about Martin there, talking to him, trying and failing until there was nothing to do but stop.
"Martin—" John's own composure is starting to unravel, and he pulls back, wanting to seek Martin's gaze even as Martin covers his face entirely, sobbing into his own hands, spiraling down into a truly wretched conclusion that hits John like a blow. "B— th-that..." John lifts his free hand to Martin's shoulder, then exhales, defeated, and pulls him in. He can't keep holding him at arm's length, he can't. "Come here," he says, somewhere between coaxing and begging, shifting a little so Martin's head will end up against his shoulder, farther from the hole in the middle of his shirt. Martin is miserably tense under his hands, but he doesn't resist, and John slowly, carefully curls his arms around him.
"You've got it all backwards," he murmurs into Martin's hair, puffing out a damp, strained impression of a laugh. "You're the reason I'm here."