Martin's eyes widen, his lips parting in a moment of abject shock. He couldn't have imagined that John would pull from something so specifically real, though given a moment to consider it, it isn't all that surprising. It's easier, surely, to play around with facts, especially ones that are so old, so far beyond any hurt they may have once carried. Martin hasn't even thought about that in years. It mattered so little by the time it came out.

Now, though, he plays his part dutifully, letting that shock turn to a sort of nervous helplessness, letting himself stammer: "O-oh. Right. That. I, erm, th-that is—"

Christ, what had it been about? Fudging his qualifications and his work history, as he recalls, though the exact specifics feel so far away, especially now, pinned under John's stare, where it's all set dressing anyway. None of that matters. What matters is how sorry he is, and how desperate to make it up.

"I-I'm so sorry," he says, trying to walk the line between pathetic and sincere. "I, I promise I'll do better if you—" He swallows, struggling not to lay it on too thick. "If you'll let me stay on," he finishes, averting his gaze.