Martin's open bewilderment confuses him, but only for a moment, before he remembers just how subtle all of this shit used to be, insidious and unguessable. To say nothing of how ignorant Martin is about it all — how ignorant John has kept him. So of course he wouldn't recognize a compulsion when it happens to him; of course he wouldn't even dream of anticipating such a thing. Christ, if John had kept his own composure, Martin wouldn't have even known it had happened.

But he can't possibly regret blowing his own cover when he had no fucking business hiding this in the first place. He owes Martin the truth. He always has.

"No, it— you didn't..." John trails off with a heavy sigh, scrubbing his hands over his face. He needs to do this right — as right as he can, at this point — and that probably means calming himself down a little. This will be unsettling enough without him acting bloody unhinged on top of it all. He takes one slow breath, and then another, before lowering his hands and forcing himself to meet Martin's eyes.

"You don't think it was odd, just now," he says, testing each word as if venturing onto very thin ice, "how easy it was to answer my question? You didn't say more than you intended, or more than you thought you would?"