The curl of Martin's hand around his calf and the soft reassurance are faintly startling, though John has a hard time identifying why. The touch is too gentle (and too entirely within his sightline) to qualify as a shock, and Martin's tone is too soothing to unsettle him.
Maybe it's just the suggestion to relax that throws him, less because it's an unusual thing for Martin to say and more because it never would have occurred to him that he needed to. But of course he does. He should know, by now, that exhaustion is not inherently relaxing; lord knows how many times he has fallen asleep with his jaw clenched and his neck stiff in stubborn vigilance. And when Martin says 'just relax,' he can't help but take abrupt, embarrassed note of the tension still hunching his shoulders and coiling in his gut. No reason for him to still be holding onto it now except for miserable habit, but even miserable habits can be hard to break.
John pulls in a slow breath, then lets it out, his shoulders dropping and his head bowing forward a little as he deliberately follows Martin's advice. It's difficult for him to judge whether he follows it well — Martin can soothe him better than anyone ever has, but John is still too habituated to stress to reliably distinguish between the intention to relax and the actual achievement of same (especially when he's still upright and not being actively kneaded into their mattress) — but he tries. The removal of the bandage helps, as does the continued mundanity of the bandage itself. It doesn't turn into anything else or disappear in a flash of green fire; if he hadn't seen it summoned out of thin air, he wouldn't be able to distinguish it from the bandage in their own first aid kit. And the new scars left on his leg are, as he imagined, nothing to write home about. If not for their relative freshness, they wouldn't stand out at all.
Martin confirms John's silent assessment, and seems to also consider and reject a comment about the ruined trousers. Then he looks up at him and takes his hand, and John doesn't know why his breath should hitch, or why this simple, gentle care should strike him so deeply when all that righteous fire in the kitchen blew past him. He blinks, a soft sound gusting out of him, and looks down at their hands, turning his palm-up in thoughtless acquiescence. "I, um," he starts, too moved for a smart response and too thrown for a meaningful one. After a beat or two, all he can offer is a helpless, "If you say so."
no subject
Maybe it's just the suggestion to relax that throws him, less because it's an unusual thing for Martin to say and more because it never would have occurred to him that he needed to. But of course he does. He should know, by now, that exhaustion is not inherently relaxing; lord knows how many times he has fallen asleep with his jaw clenched and his neck stiff in stubborn vigilance. And when Martin says 'just relax,' he can't help but take abrupt, embarrassed note of the tension still hunching his shoulders and coiling in his gut. No reason for him to still be holding onto it now except for miserable habit, but even miserable habits can be hard to break.
John pulls in a slow breath, then lets it out, his shoulders dropping and his head bowing forward a little as he deliberately follows Martin's advice. It's difficult for him to judge whether he follows it well — Martin can soothe him better than anyone ever has, but John is still too habituated to stress to reliably distinguish between the intention to relax and the actual achievement of same (especially when he's still upright and not being actively kneaded into their mattress) — but he tries. The removal of the bandage helps, as does the continued mundanity of the bandage itself. It doesn't turn into anything else or disappear in a flash of green fire; if he hadn't seen it summoned out of thin air, he wouldn't be able to distinguish it from the bandage in their own first aid kit. And the new scars left on his leg are, as he imagined, nothing to write home about. If not for their relative freshness, they wouldn't stand out at all.
Martin confirms John's silent assessment, and seems to also consider and reject a comment about the ruined trousers. Then he looks up at him and takes his hand, and John doesn't know why his breath should hitch, or why this simple, gentle care should strike him so deeply when all that righteous fire in the kitchen blew past him. He blinks, a soft sound gusting out of him, and looks down at their hands, turning his palm-up in thoughtless acquiescence. "I, um," he starts, too moved for a smart response and too thrown for a meaningful one. After a beat or two, all he can offer is a helpless, "If you say so."