Martin spends the entire walk home seething. His anger is so potent that John has to make a point of not hearing it, as if Martin is simultaneously walking in resolute silence beside him and muttering furiously on the other side of a door. Minding his own business requires energy that John wishes he didn't have to expend; he is already tired, thrice depleted by the fraught encounter with an angry god, the unpleasant conversation that followed, and the healing of his own leg. The prospect of weathering Martin's impending outburst, even knowing the anger won't really be directed at him, serves only to preemptively exhaust him further.
Which probably makes him ungrateful, or something. He can imagine the shape of Martin's anger even without overhearing it; he knows that Martin wasn't just personally insulted by Sylvie's impressions of them both. But her impressions of John weren't wrong. Bluntly put, perhaps, but not inaccurate. And he can't quite convince himself that he's allowed to feel insulted when all she did was remind them that the comfortable little life they've built for themselves can only give the impression of normalcy. That there is something distinctly Other beneath the surface, and that it can't be hidden from everyone.
As if he has any right to object to being seen.
Christ, he just wants to lie down.
But that isn't an option. Martin is off to the races the moment they step inside, all of that barely-withheld frustration and annoyance bursting out of him at last. John sighs softly, divesting himself of coat and shoes with slow deliberation. He hears Martin's words at some slight, impersonal distance: they land like hailstones on the pavement outside, hard enough that he might wince over the damage they could do to his car, if he had one, which he doesn't. A problem, but not necessarily his problem. A part of him wants to just proceed to the bathroom as if Martin's rant isn't even happening, to rid himself of another ruined pair of trousers and mop the dried blood off of his leg, to do only what is strictly necessary before crawling into bed and trying again tomorrow. Old habits. Instead, he finds himself toeing the line where hardwood meets the kitchen tiles, watching Martin's aggressive tea preparation with a small, wary furrow between his brows.
It is only when Martin meets his gaze and apologizes that John feels entirely present, and he blinks, swaying a fraction as if he'd been physically shoved back into his own body. He listens more attentively, almost marveling at Martin's continuing ire: that he has the energy to keep venting steam over the idea that strangers might find John's abilities more interesting than anything else about him, that he finds that prioritization irritating instead of inevitable. John isn't sure he agrees with him â he is certain that he lacks the energy or inclination to begrudge anyone who doesn't know him such low-hanging fruit â but there is something undeniably bolstering about the reminder that to Martin, at least, it is the smaller things that matter more.
And that's all John needs, really. He doesn't expect some unusually perceptive god or warlock or whatever to get some sense of his patron and ignore it in favor of inquiring about his bloody hobbies. He doesn't need random strangers to care about the things that only Martin is in a position to notice, let alone value. That discrepancy doesn't feel like a problem, or a shame, or 'everyone else's loss.' It feels natural, correct, that the person he kept his humanity for would love every tattered scrap of it with such stubborn ferocity.
Ferocity is still more than he has the energy for, and John's movements are still a bit cautious as he steps forward, his palms lighting on Martin's shoulders and then sliding down to rest just above his elbows. "Okay," he murmurs, both assent and reassurance. "It's okay. I mean, it doesn'tâ I don't care if random people don't... don't see that. As long as you do."
He rubs Martin's arms for a moment before giving the kettle a rueful glance. "Maybe the tea can wait? I just want to..." he breaks off with a weary huff, nodding down at his leg. Lifting his gaze back to Martin, he hesitates for a beat before setting aside his own instinctive embarrassment. Too tired for that, as well. "Come with me?"
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Which probably makes him ungrateful, or something. He can imagine the shape of Martin's anger even without overhearing it; he knows that Martin wasn't just personally insulted by Sylvie's impressions of them both. But her impressions of John weren't wrong. Bluntly put, perhaps, but not inaccurate. And he can't quite convince himself that he's allowed to feel insulted when all she did was remind them that the comfortable little life they've built for themselves can only give the impression of normalcy. That there is something distinctly Other beneath the surface, and that it can't be hidden from everyone.
As if he has any right to object to being seen.
Christ, he just wants to lie down.
But that isn't an option. Martin is off to the races the moment they step inside, all of that barely-withheld frustration and annoyance bursting out of him at last. John sighs softly, divesting himself of coat and shoes with slow deliberation. He hears Martin's words at some slight, impersonal distance: they land like hailstones on the pavement outside, hard enough that he might wince over the damage they could do to his car, if he had one, which he doesn't. A problem, but not necessarily his problem. A part of him wants to just proceed to the bathroom as if Martin's rant isn't even happening, to rid himself of another ruined pair of trousers and mop the dried blood off of his leg, to do only what is strictly necessary before crawling into bed and trying again tomorrow. Old habits. Instead, he finds himself toeing the line where hardwood meets the kitchen tiles, watching Martin's aggressive tea preparation with a small, wary furrow between his brows.
It is only when Martin meets his gaze and apologizes that John feels entirely present, and he blinks, swaying a fraction as if he'd been physically shoved back into his own body. He listens more attentively, almost marveling at Martin's continuing ire: that he has the energy to keep venting steam over the idea that strangers might find John's abilities more interesting than anything else about him, that he finds that prioritization irritating instead of inevitable. John isn't sure he agrees with him â he is certain that he lacks the energy or inclination to begrudge anyone who doesn't know him such low-hanging fruit â but there is something undeniably bolstering about the reminder that to Martin, at least, it is the smaller things that matter more.
And that's all John needs, really. He doesn't expect some unusually perceptive god or warlock or whatever to get some sense of his patron and ignore it in favor of inquiring about his bloody hobbies. He doesn't need random strangers to care about the things that only Martin is in a position to notice, let alone value. That discrepancy doesn't feel like a problem, or a shame, or 'everyone else's loss.' It feels natural, correct, that the person he kept his humanity for would love every tattered scrap of it with such stubborn ferocity.
Ferocity is still more than he has the energy for, and John's movements are still a bit cautious as he steps forward, his palms lighting on Martin's shoulders and then sliding down to rest just above his elbows. "Okay," he murmurs, both assent and reassurance. "It's okay. I mean, it doesn'tâ I don't care if random people don't... don't see that. As long as you do."
He rubs Martin's arms for a moment before giving the kettle a rueful glance. "Maybe the tea can wait? I just want to..." he breaks off with a weary huff, nodding down at his leg. Lifting his gaze back to Martin, he hesitates for a beat before setting aside his own instinctive embarrassment. Too tired for that, as well. "Come with me?"