Martin, mercifully, doesn't comment. John doesn't think he'd be able to stand it if he did; the weight of Martin's sympathy would shatter him. It's not that he thinks he doesn't deserve it — actually, it's the opposite that scares him. That's the real source of the itchy discomfort he feels at the prospect of Martin fussing over all of these old injuries, as if he only acquired them yesterday. They shouldn't be able to horrify him anymore. He doesn't want to be plunged back into mourning over something he lost before they even arrived here. He doesn't want Martin to be appalled on his behalf, because he doesn't want to confront the idea that Martin is right to be appalled, that it is appalling. He'd rather just... put it away, tucked back where he won't have to think about it.
But Martin limits his reaction to a faint tsk, and though he lowers their hands, he doesn't let go. His fingers remain curled around John's palm, and after a moment of inert hesitation, John tentatively returns the gesture, his fingers warming themselves along the familiar contours of Martin's hand.
He responds to Martin's thanks with a soft hum, not quite trusting his voice. He isn't sure what he could say, regardless; what he's offered so far feels too inadequate and belated to tie up with a magnanimous 'you're welcome' of a bow. Besides, they've nearly reached the Bramford. Whatever comes next will keep until they're out of the cold.
They complete the journey in silence, and John carefully extricates himself so he can open the front door. Once they're back in the flat, The Bishop chirping and winding around their ankles, he finds himself at something of a loss. He doesn't know what comes next, doesn't think he has the right to plot their course, and he watches Martin uncertainly as he sheds his coat. "Do you, er..." is as far as he gets into a half-hearted suggestion of tea before he loses steam.
no subject
But Martin limits his reaction to a faint tsk, and though he lowers their hands, he doesn't let go. His fingers remain curled around John's palm, and after a moment of inert hesitation, John tentatively returns the gesture, his fingers warming themselves along the familiar contours of Martin's hand.
He responds to Martin's thanks with a soft hum, not quite trusting his voice. He isn't sure what he could say, regardless; what he's offered so far feels too inadequate and belated to tie up with a magnanimous 'you're welcome' of a bow. Besides, they've nearly reached the Bramford. Whatever comes next will keep until they're out of the cold.
They complete the journey in silence, and John carefully extricates himself so he can open the front door. Once they're back in the flat, The Bishop chirping and winding around their ankles, he finds himself at something of a loss. He doesn't know what comes next, doesn't think he has the right to plot their course, and he watches Martin uncertainly as he sheds his coat. "Do you, er..." is as far as he gets into a half-hearted suggestion of tea before he loses steam.