John waits patiently for Martin to speak, his thumb brushing gently over Martin's knuckles. He deliberately sets aside his own inability to anticipate what's coming, refusing to give himself the opportunity to wonder about it. After everything that's happened, Martin deserves to assemble the words himself, to share as much or as little as he wants. Even if it's harder.

And it is, clearly: Martin falters on the finer points of how he'd felt in favor of another, more explicit apology, and John gives his hand a gentle squeeze. "It's okay," he says. "I mean, it's not—" he flaps his free hand dismissively, aware that it wasn't okay just as he's aware that this isn't about him. Martin didn't all but flee their flat out of a sudden resentment for John's fucking coma, and his apologies, while appreciated, feel a little beside the point. "I know you didn't meant to—to take it out on me."

He watches sidelong while Martin struggles, lips twitching in a faint, sympathetic wince. "Do you want to?" he asks carefully. "It's okay if you don't." Christ knows he hadn't the last time they were both sat here, and John doesn't want him to dredge up old miseries out of some sense of obligation. "You don't... owe me."