At first, Martin looks so taken aback that John's certain he's going to refuse. Not that it was a particularly considered request — more of an awkward, blurted objection that took too long to acknowledge the possibility (if not the outright likelihood) that Martin would rather just put on the bloody shirt than humor John's sudden interest. John draws back his hand, anchoring it around his own elbow.

When Martin puts his startled question, all John can muster in response is an uncertain, "Y-yes?" Did he not know already? Well, that wouldn't be the strangest thing; it's not easy to get a good look at your own back. Maybe no one else had commented on it before (yet another mark against his previous entanglements, Christ).

But then Martin's surprise softens a little — not fading entirely, but not calcifying into embarrassment, either — and he comes over to the bed and sits, his back angled towards John for inspection. John blinks, a faint, cautiously optimistic smile tugging at his lips as he glances between Martin's curious face and the freckles in question.

"Well, it's not—" he pauses, wondering if there's any subjective means of measuring relative freckle amounts and then deciding he doesn't care, "excessive." Whatever that means. "But there are quite a few." His eyes drift over the spray of them scattered across Martin's shoulder blades, and he releases his own arm so he can reach over and brush the back of his index finger over a little group of them. "They're lovely," he adds with quiet, thoughtless certainty.