Martin's eyes are locked on Jacob's, and he doesn't realize anyone else has come into the alley until John's voice hits him with full force, harsh and sharp and furious. Jacob's expression changes rapidly, from cold malice to something closer to fear, and that would be satisfying if Martin weren't busy looking at John, all the fight and conviction instantly draining out of him and leaving only a miserable, deep well of shame. He looks at John, but his gaze doesn't, can't linger; he's so angry, and the anger is papering over a sort of panicky energy that is only too understandable. Martin knows with a painfully abrupt clarity that he's messed this up, in more ways than one, that he shouldn't have done this, that he shouldn't have kept it from John, and that this outcome was both horribly predictable and completely avoidable. Christ, he feels so stupid.
Jacob does let him go on John's command, releasing his coat roughly and taking a healthy step back. It's not entirely clear if he's done so of his own will or if John made him do it, and Martin doesn't entirely care. The moment he's free, he takes a healthy step back of his own, skirting nearer to John. He doesn't move in front of him, though part of him wants to; he doesn't hide behind him either, though an equal part of him wants that. He stands beside him, his hands pulled into fists, staring at Jacob's shoulder with a hard, haunted expression.
"What the fuck," Jacob says softly, inching back a bit more from John. "Y-you can't—I killed you. I made sure." Martin looks at his face just long enough to catch his eyes dart, openly horrified, to the scar on John's neck, and a little of his rage boils back up, and it's hard not to snap at him right there. He can't help twitching a little like he intends to move forward, wanting furiously and ludicrously to throw a punch or something that'll definitely get him killed. He can't move, he can't speak; he shouldn't more or speak. He knows he's done enough.
no subject
Jacob does let him go on John's command, releasing his coat roughly and taking a healthy step back. It's not entirely clear if he's done so of his own will or if John made him do it, and Martin doesn't entirely care. The moment he's free, he takes a healthy step back of his own, skirting nearer to John. He doesn't move in front of him, though part of him wants to; he doesn't hide behind him either, though an equal part of him wants that. He stands beside him, his hands pulled into fists, staring at Jacob's shoulder with a hard, haunted expression.
"What the fuck," Jacob says softly, inching back a bit more from John. "Y-you can't—I killed you. I made sure." Martin looks at his face just long enough to catch his eyes dart, openly horrified, to the scar on John's neck, and a little of his rage boils back up, and it's hard not to snap at him right there. He can't help twitching a little like he intends to move forward, wanting furiously and ludicrously to throw a punch or something that'll definitely get him killed. He can't move, he can't speak; he shouldn't more or speak. He knows he's done enough.