John doesn't bother speaking as they walk to the Bramford. He's not sure there's any more to be said, really. But he does watch his pace, trying to keep it slow enough that Martin can keep up without straining himself. Given the way he'd jerked himself out of John's grasp, he doubts either one of them really want Martin to falter so badly that he requires physical support.
At least John's unit is on the first floor, sparing them the effort of climbing several flights of stairs or enduring an awkward elevator ride on top of everything else. He doesn't exactly feel better when they step inside the flat, but it's an undeniable relief to be someplace quiet, off the street. And while the flat is undeniably unimpressive, it's also not something that can be attributed to him.
Well. The bed is still conspicuously bare, but Martin wouldn't notice that unless he went poking into the bedroom, which seems rather unlikely.
John heads for the table, intending to pull out a chair for Martin, when he realizes his welcome packet has company. The tape recorder from the cafe is sitting there, too. As John blinks at it, it quietly clicks on.
"No," he says flatly, and after a considering beat, the recorder clicks off.
John sighs, then shuffles into the kitchen. He hasn't really explored the place yet, but has the vague hope that there might already be some non-perishables stocked. The sort of thing you might find at a hotel, perhaps. But the cupboards are largely bare, and in the end he just ends up fetching a glass of water, which he sets before Martin without a word.
no subject
At least John's unit is on the first floor, sparing them the effort of climbing several flights of stairs or enduring an awkward elevator ride on top of everything else. He doesn't exactly feel better when they step inside the flat, but it's an undeniable relief to be someplace quiet, off the street. And while the flat is undeniably unimpressive, it's also not something that can be attributed to him.
Well. The bed is still conspicuously bare, but Martin wouldn't notice that unless he went poking into the bedroom, which seems rather unlikely.
John heads for the table, intending to pull out a chair for Martin, when he realizes his welcome packet has company. The tape recorder from the cafe is sitting there, too. As John blinks at it, it quietly clicks on.
"No," he says flatly, and after a considering beat, the recorder clicks off.
John sighs, then shuffles into the kitchen. He hasn't really explored the place yet, but has the vague hope that there might already be some non-perishables stocked. The sort of thing you might find at a hotel, perhaps. But the cupboards are largely bare, and in the end he just ends up fetching a glass of water, which he sets before Martin without a word.