Oh god, oh no. Martin meets his eyes and answers, unhesitating and plainly honest, and John can't even do him the decency of averting his own gaze. Nor can he take any real comfort in the answer, given the mode of delivery — Christ, there's no patting himself on the back over Martin feeling safe with him now. The horrible irony of it all is that making Martin feel safe was all he'd really wanted, all he could have hoped to provide. And he's gone and shattered it.

Probably shouldn't have presumed it was possible in the first place, all things considered. Probably should've been honest sooner. Should've just told Martin what the Ceaseless Watcher made of him, instead of pretending the only notable differences were surplus scar tissue and an improved personality. Too late now.

Martin mercifully winds things up before he says too much, and John staggers back a step, jerking his hand away as if he's bloody infectious. "Fuck!" he hisses, grabbing a fistful of his own hair in self-recrimination and turning away, his face screwed up with the belated effort of fending off his own worst impulses. Too fucking late, again. Damn it. He jerks back around to face Martin and blurts, "I-I— I'm so sorry, Martin, I didn't m— I shouldn't have done that. A-are you all right?"