It's more of a relief than it should be when Martin sits down. He still towers over John, which is weird at best, but far more unnerving when he's standing up and downright brobdingnagian. John listens, gratified by Martin's indignation. At least one of them is saying what they're both thinking. John lets out a quiet huff of agreement when he pronounced Magnus a prick, another feline approximation of a human sort of sound.

Less pleasing is the apology, the more overt admission of guilt. Even if he could speak, John isn't sure how he'd go about reassuring him. There's no getting around the unfortunate truth of it: John was only at the party at Martin's behest, and this wouldn't have happened if he or both of them had just gone out to a pub or had a quiet evening in. But Martin isn't the one who actually did this to him. They couldn't have guessed Magnus would be so bloody unreasonable. Christ, given that Magnus is apparently the sort of person who does things like this, maybe it's just as well that John was there. He wouldn't have wanted something like this -- or worse -- to befall Martin, instead, because he'd gone without backup.

Martin has his head bowed, eyes fixed on his own hands, and John breaks his deliberate silence to get his attention, letting out a low, soft trill. Then he carefully shakes his head: no. This is already difficult and miserable enough without Martin sinking into self-recrimination. If nothing else, he doesn't want Martin to think he's angry with him, or holding him accountable for all this.