John relaxes in turn at Martin's initial response. He's acutely aware that this all began with Martin's repeated requests to not talk about it, while John was too busy fixating on what 'it' could possibly be to just leave it alone. He knows he owed Martin a more deliberate offer to drop the subject, but he can't help being quietly relieved that Martin isn't taking him up on it. It makes his earlier pressing feel marginally less asinine, though he still wouldn't go so far as to call it fair. To say nothing of kind.
But his relief, such as it is, is short lived. After another considerable pause, and a few conscious breaths, Martin brings up that tape, and John stills like a bloody rabbit in headlights. He doesn't know what's worse: the simple reminder of it all — those early days back after the hospital, trying to get his head around just how wrong everything had gone, turning to the tapes because at least they were there and available to him, trying not to think about how much easier it suddenly was to find exactly what he was looking for — or that simple, damning, 'didn't you?' That Martin has just... assumed, all this time, that of course John had listened to that tape, had heard Elias lay out the most painful, personal truths about Martin that he could dredge up for no other purpose but to punish him. Of course John had heard it all, far too late, and done nothing.
Actually, the worst of it isn't the reminder or the assumption. The worst is that Martin is right.
John sighs quietly, his gaze fixed on the coffee table. "Yes," he says, biting back any urge to elaborate or pad it with justifications. He knows there aren't any, just as surely as Martin knows what he is.
no subject
But his relief, such as it is, is short lived. After another considerable pause, and a few conscious breaths, Martin brings up that tape, and John stills like a bloody rabbit in headlights. He doesn't know what's worse: the simple reminder of it all — those early days back after the hospital, trying to get his head around just how wrong everything had gone, turning to the tapes because at least they were there and available to him, trying not to think about how much easier it suddenly was to find exactly what he was looking for — or that simple, damning, 'didn't you?' That Martin has just... assumed, all this time, that of course John had listened to that tape, had heard Elias lay out the most painful, personal truths about Martin that he could dredge up for no other purpose but to punish him. Of course John had heard it all, far too late, and done nothing.
Actually, the worst of it isn't the reminder or the assumption. The worst is that Martin is right.
John sighs quietly, his gaze fixed on the coffee table. "Yes," he says, biting back any urge to elaborate or pad it with justifications. He knows there aren't any, just as surely as Martin knows what he is.