Martin shuts his mouth immediately, the moment John snaps at him, and as the rest of it unravels he just stands there and takes it, staring at the wall just beyond John's curled, shaking body. The sting in his eyes doesn't subside—if anything it gets worse—but he remains steadfast, not letting the tears come, not letting anything show but quiet, grim acceptance. It's been a long time since John shouted at him, and he doesn't think he's ever deserved it quite so much as he does now.
When John demands what he hoped to accomplish, Martin lets his eyes fall shut, tipping his head down a fraction. He has answers, but they aren't worth much now. It's no good to argue that he tried to do this smart, he wanted to keep his distance, when he failed in such a spectacularly thorough manner.
When John finally stops, his head in his hands, Martin waits a few moments more, just listening to him breathe.
"I know," he says at length. "You're right. I—" His voice trembles a little and he swallows thickly, forcing himself to keep steady. "I didn't think. I, I thought I could—I wanted to keep my distance and just—I dunno, find out where he lived, or..." He shakes his head with a little murmured grunt, rakes a hand through his hair and keeps it there. "It doesn't matter. I know it doesn't, I—I know I should've... should've told you, or someone, or I, I should have just listened to you, but I—"
He's rapidly losing the thread of this, as well as his grip on himself. He clenches his jaw briefly, but it's a losing fight, and his voice finally cracks when he says, "I was just so fucking angry, John, he hurt you and I wanted to make him sorry. I wanted to do something, and there isn't anything I can do, except... except make it all worse, I guess." His little huffed exhale might qualify as a humorless laugh if it didn't sound so pathetic. His hand is still fisted tight in his hair as he stares at the ground.
"I'm sorry," he says finally; he doesn't want to, because it still feels so pointless and empty, even moreso now that he's said it aloud. But as soon as it's out, he feels like he can't stop, and his resolve crumples, his shoulders sagging, his hand shifting down to the back of his neck, now clutching like he's holding himself together. "I'm sorry, I—I shouldn't have—I didn't—" His voice finally betrays him, gives out into a sob that he immediately does his best to cover, pressing his hand to his mouth, his shoulders hunching. He feels so miserable and so angry, none of it reserved for Jacob anymore, not when there's so much to be angry at from himself.
"Oh, God," he whispers, muffled against his palm, and he feels like the ground could open up beneath him and swallow him whole, he feels dizzy, like the space around him is contorting itself, like he's drowning in a sudden depth that doesn't make sense. He's shaking and he wishes more than anything he could stop.
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When John demands what he hoped to accomplish, Martin lets his eyes fall shut, tipping his head down a fraction. He has answers, but they aren't worth much now. It's no good to argue that he tried to do this smart, he wanted to keep his distance, when he failed in such a spectacularly thorough manner.
When John finally stops, his head in his hands, Martin waits a few moments more, just listening to him breathe.
"I know," he says at length. "You're right. I—" His voice trembles a little and he swallows thickly, forcing himself to keep steady. "I didn't think. I, I thought I could—I wanted to keep my distance and just—I dunno, find out where he lived, or..." He shakes his head with a little murmured grunt, rakes a hand through his hair and keeps it there. "It doesn't matter. I know it doesn't, I—I know I should've... should've told you, or someone, or I, I should have just listened to you, but I—"
He's rapidly losing the thread of this, as well as his grip on himself. He clenches his jaw briefly, but it's a losing fight, and his voice finally cracks when he says, "I was just so fucking angry, John, he hurt you and I wanted to make him sorry. I wanted to do something, and there isn't anything I can do, except... except make it all worse, I guess." His little huffed exhale might qualify as a humorless laugh if it didn't sound so pathetic. His hand is still fisted tight in his hair as he stares at the ground.
"I'm sorry," he says finally; he doesn't want to, because it still feels so pointless and empty, even moreso now that he's said it aloud. But as soon as it's out, he feels like he can't stop, and his resolve crumples, his shoulders sagging, his hand shifting down to the back of his neck, now clutching like he's holding himself together. "I'm sorry, I—I shouldn't have—I didn't—" His voice finally betrays him, gives out into a sob that he immediately does his best to cover, pressing his hand to his mouth, his shoulders hunching. He feels so miserable and so angry, none of it reserved for Jacob anymore, not when there's so much to be angry at from himself.
"Oh, God," he whispers, muffled against his palm, and he feels like the ground could open up beneath him and swallow him whole, he feels dizzy, like the space around him is contorting itself, like he's drowning in a sudden depth that doesn't make sense. He's shaking and he wishes more than anything he could stop.