Martin grimaces, not just at the answer itself but the way John says it, the thickness of his voice belying a heavy pain that Martin cannot hope to soothe. Christ, there is so much he has borne, it is written all over him, and was there ever anyone to care for him in the wake of it all? Did he? He can't imagine he would, coward that he is, that he's always been. Certainly wouldn't fit with the rough timeline John gave him, how long it apparently took them to get together. So all these... people, these Entities, did all that to him, and he probably carried it all on his own the same way he seemed inclined to carry everything. And now he's tearing himself up over — over asking if Martin is okay, over wanting to know so badly that it became supernaturally imperative. It's ridiculous, and the more Martin turns it over in his head, the angrier it makes him. How much John has suffered, and how much he seems willing to castigate himself for, in this moment, causing no suffering at all.

But he suspects anger won't do either of them much good. Any reaction he might have is weakened by his piecemeal understanding of the situation. So he just clicks his tongue and lowers their hands, letting them rest at their sides. He keeps hold of John's, stubbornly and without the earlier panic of self-doubt. He keeps it, because he cannot imagine a reason to let go.

"Thank you for telling me," he murmurs after a while. There are still questions and still things he could stand to be told, but those can wait. It can all wait.