John drags his gaze back up at Martin's first question, furtive and miserable. "It was an accident," he says, an excuse that has always been feeble and has only weakened further with time. It was bad enough when he barely knew what he was doing, his new abilities insinuating themselves alongside his instincts in a way that he found difficult to distinguish. Now, he knows better, and every subsequent slip-up feels less and less defensible. He has always been careful with Martin, and especially so with this one. What the fuck was he thinking?

Martin's next question has such broad implications that John isn't entirely sure what is even meant by it, and he stammers for a few moments before he pins it, a little uncertainly, to the question of what he's just done. "It, uh— I-I just, I wanted to know. If I want it badly enough, that's, that's all it takes, really. It just... happens."

He looks back down at the beach, shivering a little as the brisk winter air worms its way beneath his collar and chills his skin, now dampened with nervous perspiration. The cold hadn't bothered him when he'd been on his ridiculous little mission; now, it feels appropriately wretched. "I should have told you sooner," he admits. "I just..." he trails off, shaking his head at himself. Just... what, hadn't wanted to crack open the door between the relative comfort of the life they lead here and all the fucking misery that preceded it? Just preferred the childish fantasy that he'd only changed in ways that flattered him? Christ.