The silence is a bit hard to bear, and Martin is still struggling to find the words to put John at ease, if they even exist, when John beats him to it with a calmer, more thorough explanation of affairs. It is a relief to hear him talk, and to have all this information offered up, as much as it is all rather difficult to absorb. It sounds mad, and then it sounds terrifying; the more plausible he finds it, the more frightening it becomes. He glances up at John when he ties it back to their work, in more ways than one.
He keeps his questions limited and as brief as possible, only prompting where necessary. As much as John is telling him, he gets the sense it's still only an overview, that there's much more and far worse to be found if he were to really dig in. He connects some dots himself, as John describes each of these so-called Entities, several of them putting specific Statements to mind. There's more than the wind chilling him at this point. He pulls his coat a little closer round himself as John trails off again, and he wonders what comes next.
If he allows himself to start asking more specific questions he fears he'll never stop. Did anyone really know how involved the Institute was? Did Elias, or Gertrude Robinson, for that matter? How did Tim and Sasha make out? What other changes have there been?
These questions scare him. He's not sure he wants to know all that, at least not yet. This is too much to cover on a walk, and... and god help him, he can't stop thinking about how cold John's hands were, likely still are. And about the burn on his palm. The scars that cover him. The implications of them all starting to expand from vague, disquieting notions to something much more concrete. Several awful somethings, equally horrible to imagine, but unlike any fearful curiosity about their friends and colleagues, their home, this is right here, walking beside him. Tangible. Reachable.
It is not thoughtless when he reaches out this time. It is with slow, careful intent that he lets his fingers brush along John's hand, and when he isn't rebuffed, that he takes it again. And it isn't just to warm him, though his thin fingers are still bitterly cold. It isn't even for anything so absurdly self-indulgent as just wanting to (though there is that, too, much as he tries to shove it aside). He takes John's hand in both of his and turns it gently so the palm is facing upward, brushing one thumb tentatively across the scar tissue there. It looks horrible. It looks like it hurt like hell.
"Was this... one of them?" he says softly, and peers back up at him. "Did they all... do these things to you?"
no subject
He keeps his questions limited and as brief as possible, only prompting where necessary. As much as John is telling him, he gets the sense it's still only an overview, that there's much more and far worse to be found if he were to really dig in. He connects some dots himself, as John describes each of these so-called Entities, several of them putting specific Statements to mind. There's more than the wind chilling him at this point. He pulls his coat a little closer round himself as John trails off again, and he wonders what comes next.
If he allows himself to start asking more specific questions he fears he'll never stop. Did anyone really know how involved the Institute was? Did Elias, or Gertrude Robinson, for that matter? How did Tim and Sasha make out? What other changes have there been?
These questions scare him. He's not sure he wants to know all that, at least not yet. This is too much to cover on a walk, and... and god help him, he can't stop thinking about how cold John's hands were, likely still are. And about the burn on his palm. The scars that cover him. The implications of them all starting to expand from vague, disquieting notions to something much more concrete. Several awful somethings, equally horrible to imagine, but unlike any fearful curiosity about their friends and colleagues, their home, this is right here, walking beside him. Tangible. Reachable.
It is not thoughtless when he reaches out this time. It is with slow, careful intent that he lets his fingers brush along John's hand, and when he isn't rebuffed, that he takes it again. And it isn't just to warm him, though his thin fingers are still bitterly cold. It isn't even for anything so absurdly self-indulgent as just wanting to (though there is that, too, much as he tries to shove it aside). He takes John's hand in both of his and turns it gently so the palm is facing upward, brushing one thumb tentatively across the scar tissue there. It looks horrible. It looks like it hurt like hell.
"Was this... one of them?" he says softly, and peers back up at him. "Did they all... do these things to you?"