John peeks out at Martin from between his fingers, lips twitching in a hapless, sympathetic smile as Martin attempts some sort of... reassurance? The whole tangent is fundamentally ridiculous, and he feels more than a bit foolish over his own part in steering them here. All he owes Martin is basic fucking decency, and Martin owes him nothing; there's no reason for them to be sat here stammering at one another, as if the current state of their bloody feelings needs to be excused on either side.

"Christ," John breathes, the consonants just audible enough to distinguish the word from a sigh, before dropping his hands. "It's fine," he adds more bracingly, though he's not quite sure if it's Martin he's trying to convince, or himself. "It'll just be a—an odd week, that's all. We'll survive."

He levers himself to his feet, thinking that he can surely find something better to do than lean into how hideously awkward this all is. "Would you like more tea?" After a beat, he adds, "And I suppose I could, er, give you a more comprehensive tour, if you like. Show you where things are." Still awkward, probably — the flat isn't that large, and there's little John could show him that Martin couldn't find himself inside two minutes — but in a more bearable sort of way.