He is expecting — or perhaps it would be more accurate to say 'dreading' — more questions about their work, about the impact it had on all of them. Even if he wanted to lie about it, he doesn't think he'd be capable of selling any softer approximation of the truth, but Christ, the last thing he wants is to have to gently inform Martin that the two of them are all that's left of the archival crew he remembers.
The prospect so preoccupies him that he starts at the gentle brush of Martin's fingers against his hand. He starts, but he doesn't pull away, though some distant part of him wonders if he ought to. He hasn't earned the comfort. But neither has Martin earned the scorn, and so John offers no resistance as Martin takes his hand, gently manipulating it until it lies cradled in his much warmer palms. There's a dull sheen to the burn in the thin winter light. It isn't something he notices much anymore, certainly not the way he notices it now, as he realizes how awful it must look through Martin's eyes: the unnatural waxy smoothness, the discoloration, the way his skin faintly puckers at the edges, as if it's still protesting the original offense. It is horrible, and for the first time in years, his stomach lurches over the inescapable fact that this is part of him, now and forever. That his hand will never be right again.
It's too much. He has to look away, his eyes cataloguing street signs and shop fronts and grit-encrusted gutter debris, desperate for any other point of focus. But he still feels the impossibly gentle passage of Martin's thumb over his palm, and he still hears the question, and he still can't bear to refuse Martin anything.
"Yes," he replies, soft and hoarse in a way that might pass as simple fatigue, if he's lucky, or if Martin is feeling particularly generous. "That one was Jude Perry. The Desolation. I made the mistake of shaking her hand."
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The prospect so preoccupies him that he starts at the gentle brush of Martin's fingers against his hand. He starts, but he doesn't pull away, though some distant part of him wonders if he ought to. He hasn't earned the comfort. But neither has Martin earned the scorn, and so John offers no resistance as Martin takes his hand, gently manipulating it until it lies cradled in his much warmer palms. There's a dull sheen to the burn in the thin winter light. It isn't something he notices much anymore, certainly not the way he notices it now, as he realizes how awful it must look through Martin's eyes: the unnatural waxy smoothness, the discoloration, the way his skin faintly puckers at the edges, as if it's still protesting the original offense. It is horrible, and for the first time in years, his stomach lurches over the inescapable fact that this is part of him, now and forever. That his hand will never be right again.
It's too much. He has to look away, his eyes cataloguing street signs and shop fronts and grit-encrusted gutter debris, desperate for any other point of focus. But he still feels the impossibly gentle passage of Martin's thumb over his palm, and he still hears the question, and he still can't bear to refuse Martin anything.
"Yes," he replies, soft and hoarse in a way that might pass as simple fatigue, if he's lucky, or if Martin is feeling particularly generous. "That one was Jude Perry. The Desolation. I made the mistake of shaking her hand."