So much for the knife's edge. John's question is more of a knife point, and it more or less tumbles Martin all the way off of that shaky metaphor and into the hardening reality that he is, in fact, going to have to make this a really bad, really obvious set-up. It was inevitable, and he can't even bloody complain. It's not the only thing that's hardening, again, already.

"Suppose it is," he says, his voice far too thready to really stick the landing of airiness he might have been going for. That isn't enough, anyway. He needs to get specific or they'll be dancing back and forth like this until he crumbles. He draws a short breath and barrels on: "It's just, you work so hard. And I've not been the best help." He lowers his head slightly to show some mildly theatrical contrition. "But I... well, I've been told," he swallows around thickening embarrassment and continues doggedly, "that I am exceedingly pleasant to touch."

It sounds so bloody stupid, just said out of the blue like that. He stares at John, flushing hotly as he keeps a desperate grip on his own composure. "And you could. If you think it would help. With the, erm." His mind struggles to keep up with the flimsy logic of his own ridiculous scene. He swallows again, his mouth terribly dry. "Stress."