Martin chuckles softly at the idea of a tip jar, comforted more by the return to humor than the humor itself. He pulls himself up with John's help, manages a little smile at the quick kiss to his brow, and allows John to guide him to the bedroom. He stops near the doorway when John releases his hand, as though without that lead he has nowhere to move, and watches rather indirectly, gazing more in John's general direction than athim, as John begins to undress. He doesn't intend to watch per se, certainly not to stare, but he feels a bit lost. It wasn't that long ago that they were in much this same position, comforting one another in the entryway, walking each other to the bedroom as though they could simply draw up the covers and protect themselves from all their worst fears.

They aren't too far from that, from John breaking down over the near loss of him, the very thing that engineered this situation. And that isn't all Martin remembers, as his eyes wander momentarily to the bed, where he'd lain afterward with John's arms around him and admitted how frightened he'd been. Where he'd realized as if discovering it for the first time that John needs no admission; that he simply knows. And it's with a sudden, unusual clarity that Martin remembers thinking of his fear as sustaining, more so than his love.

He thinks, now, that he was wrong about that. It can't survive under the weight of what John's just told him. His fear might sustain John in that the Eye requires it of him, has twisted him around so that it's become imperative to his survival. But that isn't John. And John...

John needed an anchor. John needs him.

He barely notices John's body language or the glance over his shoulder. He moves without thinking, coming close and touching his arm, his thumb brushing over the rough scar John once tried to pass off as a kitchen accident. Martin just leans against him for a moment, not entirely sure what he wants, just needing to be near him.

"Does it hurt?" he murmurs.