John stills under Martin's assessing gaze, distantly surprised by the familiarity of it. The surprise feels unearned; Martin has been giving him assessing looks for... well, probably for about as long as they've known one another (though it took John some time to notice them), and there's no reason for him to stop now. If anything, John's given him good cause for the concern. Perhaps the real issue is that he's spent the last few days so determined not to presume anything that it's listed into a fundamentally absurd refusal to read Martin at all, lest he spend too much time dwelling on all the aching similarities between the one he's still missing and the one he can't have now.

But there's no missing the care that Martin is taking with him, despite how uniquely undeserving he feels. He wants to object that Martin is entitled to the context — Christ, he ought to know who and what he's offering to share a bloody bed with — but he doesn't have the strength or the inclination to argue with Martin's enviable certainty that it's okay.

He's nodding along in weary acquiescence when Martin changes the tune, and the subtle variation is enough to cut him off at the knees. John looks at him, startled and stricken, and the breath that bursts out of him is far too close to a sob for his liking. Oh, Christ, not this. He lifts his hands to his face, mortified, and manages something a little closer to a laugh, though it's strained and rickety. "You’re sure about that?"