Martin twitches, clenching his jaw as John looks at him directly, reaches out, touches him. Talks to him with a tone Martin has never heard from him. Calls him that. We.
"Stop," he snaps, so sharply it startles him distantly, that he actually possesses the self-righteousness necessary to hit those consonants so hard. He finally lurches back, staggering out of the bed, standing on shaky legs and pulling away as far as he can. "Stop it. Don't do that, why would you—"
It doesn't make sense. John doesn't act like this. He doesn't... doesn't make fun. He doesn't even know what fun is. He doesn't speak so softly. He doesn't look at Martin like that. He doesn't look at Martin at all, if he can help it.
And he isn't covered with scars, either, those awful pockmarks that make Martin's stomach turn, even if he can imagine where he might have gotten those, what might have transpired, he still doesn't know how he got from his flat to here, wherever here is. And it doesn't explain the rest.
"Look, I—I don't know what's going on here but I need to talk to you. I need to make a Statement. I've just been trapped in my flat for two. Weeks." He draws a shaky breath. Feels dizzy just thinking about it. "I've been held there against my will by an entity that I—" Even with all that he can't account for here, even with those scars covering John's face and neck, he still feels that old nervousness kick in. John's about to scowl and sneer at him. Can't even blame him, really. Steady as he can, he continues, "That I believe to be Jane Prentiss." He fixes John with a hard stare. "And I need you to tell me where we are and how I got here."
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"Stop," he snaps, so sharply it startles him distantly, that he actually possesses the self-righteousness necessary to hit those consonants so hard. He finally lurches back, staggering out of the bed, standing on shaky legs and pulling away as far as he can. "Stop it. Don't do that, why would you—"
It doesn't make sense. John doesn't act like this. He doesn't... doesn't make fun. He doesn't even know what fun is. He doesn't speak so softly. He doesn't look at Martin like that. He doesn't look at Martin at all, if he can help it.
And he isn't covered with scars, either, those awful pockmarks that make Martin's stomach turn, even if he can imagine where he might have gotten those, what might have transpired, he still doesn't know how he got from his flat to here, wherever here is. And it doesn't explain the rest.
"Look, I—I don't know what's going on here but I need to talk to you. I need to make a Statement. I've just been trapped in my flat for two. Weeks." He draws a shaky breath. Feels dizzy just thinking about it. "I've been held there against my will by an entity that I—" Even with all that he can't account for here, even with those scars covering John's face and neck, he still feels that old nervousness kick in. John's about to scowl and sneer at him. Can't even blame him, really. Steady as he can, he continues, "That I believe to be Jane Prentiss." He fixes John with a hard stare. "And I need you to tell me where we are and how I got here."