It's uttered with the air of a joke, and on top of that it's funny, but Martin can't keep from grimacing when John refers to himself as a 'professional kidnapping victim.' It's good John can laugh about it, he supposes, but that humor remains inaccessible to him. All he can think about is how it all happened, over and over and over again. Even on those rare occasions John wasn't looking for trouble, trouble still found him. It isn't just the pockmarks crawling up his neck; there's the faded burn on his right hand, the thin slice he can barely make out beneath the edge of John's collar, the pale line ringing the fifth finger on his left hand - Martin's not even sure what did that. He is certain that there are more he can't see, and that there were occasions that left no scars at all.

It isn't funny to him, even in a dark-coping-mechanism kind of way, that John's been hurt so many times and that no one ever did anything to help, him least of all. It never will be.

He endeavors to keep these thoughts at bay as he slides into the little booth opposite John. He sips his water slowly, looking at the menu without really reading any of it.

"It has," he says, a bit awkward about it, not even sure what exactly John's referring to. Since what - he went out? They spent time together? He's eaten? All equally plausible, Martin thinks dryly. He'd like to not feel awkward. He'd like to relax, and perhaps to get a little drunk. But there's still air that needs clearing, at least on his end. There's still the way he can't quite meet John's eyes without wanting to escape them, and the fury that rises in him every single time.

"John-" he starts without knowing where to go, and is saved for the moment by the server, wanting to know if they'd like drinks. He orders his yakisoba and glances at John. "How do you feel about sake?" he asks. "Could go halves on that."

If he's going to get drunk with Jonathan Sims, he's going to bloody well do it right.