Martin does not miss the thickness of John's voice, the slight shudder of his breath, and it's almost contagious, a little hiccup of emotion building in him as well, but he stays his course, his eyes falling shut as he leans the rest of the way forward and brushes his lips against the scar left by the knife.

The reverence of it is not incidental. Martin has never done anything quite like this before, never kissed John's chest, never acknowledged that near death with such clear intensity of focus, and he takes his time with it. He lingers, his breathing steady and slow, his hands settling lightly at John's arms, and when the moment finally feels complete, he doesn't pull back, only tips his head forward to let his forehead rest against John's chest, his eyes still shut.

"Thank you for coming back to me," he says, and it is about more than today and more than after Riggs was through with him. It is both those scars and more, the ones that tell less obvious stories, the pockmarks, the shrapnel. Martin can't elaborate any further, not verbally; there is only the slightest hitch in his breath, but it's enough to give him away as tears start to well up in his eyes once again. This time, at least, there is no despair; he is still very shaken and he is beyond tired, but the tears are of gratitude, and of relief.