That isn't really the sort of how Martin had meant, but it was such a hopelessly vague question on such a broad topic that he wonders if any interpretation would have satisfied him. He wants to know how this happened, how their work changed them, what that really means. But he doesn't want to know so badly, so immediately, that he's willing to continue this like a damn interrogation, while John shivers miserably in the wind. He can't bear it.
"Okay," he says, letting out a soft huff of a sigh as he pinches the bridge of his nose, less to rub out a headache and more to get himself together. "Okay, let's... let's go. You can tell me more on the way, or... or later."
Perhaps John should have told him sooner. He isn't really going to argue with that. But it also isn't entirely fair to expect John to just have given him the entire rundown of everything that has happened to them in the years he's forgotten. The Martin John knows — the one who lives with him, who loves him with far more history and context than he can possibly manage — lived all this. Why should John have to account for all that when there's no bloody guidebook for how to manage this situation? Why should it be his responsibility to predict what will come up when, when by his own admission this was a bloody accident? Even setting aside the alarming implications of it, the clearly unpleasant background behind it. He doesn't have enough information to be angry, or even afraid. And he doubts that would hold much appeal even if he did.
He's not sure how to articulate all this just yet, but he'll just have to figure that out on their way back to the flat. It's not going to get any easier out here. "Come on," he says, a little more gently, and slips the fossil into his pocket. "It's okay. I'm okay, see? Let's just get out of the cold."
no subject
"Okay," he says, letting out a soft huff of a sigh as he pinches the bridge of his nose, less to rub out a headache and more to get himself together. "Okay, let's... let's go. You can tell me more on the way, or... or later."
Perhaps John should have told him sooner. He isn't really going to argue with that. But it also isn't entirely fair to expect John to just have given him the entire rundown of everything that has happened to them in the years he's forgotten. The Martin John knows — the one who lives with him, who loves him with far more history and context than he can possibly manage — lived all this. Why should John have to account for all that when there's no bloody guidebook for how to manage this situation? Why should it be his responsibility to predict what will come up when, when by his own admission this was a bloody accident? Even setting aside the alarming implications of it, the clearly unpleasant background behind it. He doesn't have enough information to be angry, or even afraid. And he doubts that would hold much appeal even if he did.
He's not sure how to articulate all this just yet, but he'll just have to figure that out on their way back to the flat. It's not going to get any easier out here. "Come on," he says, a little more gently, and slips the fossil into his pocket. "It's okay. I'm okay, see? Let's just get out of the cold."