John doesn't know quite what he was expecting from Martin. More lingering caution, perhaps. A less thorough exploration. He is careful, of course — Martin is always careful with him — but he also takes his time, his fingers tracing over every ripple of scar tissue and the immediate surroundings. It's as if he's committing it all to memory, as if he intends to recognize it even in full darkness, even in his sleep.

It could have been too much. But John can easily recall a hundred little microshocks, that inner lurch he'd feel when washing or changing clothes, when his fingers would run over a patch of skin and not immediately register why it felt like that, where that bump or ridge or divot had come from, until he remembered afresh. And the thought that Martin might be trying to... to avoid that, to forestall some later flinch, strikes with enough force that John has to blink quickly to keep his vision from blurring. Christ, he can't have a bloody breakdown now, when things are finally starting to settle. And he especially doesn't want Martin to think he's hurt him, or done anything wrong.

Fortunately, he's mostly recovered himself by the time Martin looks up. Martin seems as if he might speak, but then he lowers his gaze again, and John realizes it's not the newest scar that has his focus, but rather the one between his ribs, where the knife had rested. Martin sways forward a little, and John blinks again, breath hitching as he realizes what Martin intends. God, it's like he's trying to make him lose his composure.

But he can't refuse — he doesn't want to refuse him this — and he swallows thickly before managing a slightly hoarse, "Yes."