The last time that John told this story -- the only other time -- his audience had been a tape recorder (and, by extension, the Eye). The recorders don't exacerbate the horror by acknowledging it, which had been a sort of mercy. But they can't offer any comfort, either, and so John has learned not to expect it. Whether they're his stories or someone else's, there is never a response from anyone but himself, no horrified sympathy, no commiseration. He doesn't expect one even as Martin reaches for him, the motion of his arm cautious but deliberate. John watches Martin's hand with the tired, placid interest of someone watching a nature documentary, not fully connecting the movement to this moment, to himself, until Martin's hand actually slides warmly over his own.

Oh.

For a moment, John is afraid to move at all, as if the slightest twitch on his part will prompt a hasty retreat and an awkward tumble of apologies. But that's foolish. This is hardly the first time that Martin has offered him comfort -- an anchor -- and the acceptance won't scare him. Still, John's own movements are slow and careful: the loosening of one clenched fist, the slight pivot of a wrist, the slide of his thumb over Martin's knuckles, all culminating in a gentle grasp that Martin could withdraw from in an instant, if he wanted. Barely a hold at all.

And then he looks up, and he sees him. He sees the way Martin is looking at him, and he thinks: oh, Christ, and he thinks: I've been a fool, and he thinks: no doubling down on it, though. Just because the wanting is there, that doesn't mean it's right, or--or wise. Wanting is so often a mistake. Especially where Jonathan Sims is concerned.

Best to just let it go.

John looks back down with a quiet, rueful scoff. "Speaking of downers," he says as he releases Martin's hand.