Martin blinks at the man, not sure yet whether to feel scared or grateful. He looks kind, and it's nice that he crouches down, but the ongoing awareness of all eyes on them makes it hard to relax. He still feels trapped.

John manages to answer the man, and Martin manages a little flinching nod of agreement. And then, before he can stop himself, even though he knows he ought to be good and quiet and not a bother and just follow John's lead, it all pours out of him: "W-we've been kidnapped, someone dressed us in these big clothes and left us in a bed in this weird flat and, and we don't know where they are or what they—or, or how we got there, and we couldn't find our real clothes, and—and—"

Oh, no. He stutters to a halt when he runs out of steam, realizing he's finally started to cry. He doesn't sob out loud, but quietly, his breath hitching and his shoulders quaking as tears streak down his cheeks. He pulls his arm free from John's grasp and reaches up with both hands to cover his face, miserably ashamed.