John hums softly in acknowledgment of the apology, which is about all he can manage. 'I forgive you' feels too formal and too premature; 'it's okay' would be an absurd and blatant lie. But making Martin feel worse holds no appeal at all, so he settles in the middle ground between reassurance and disparagement and hopes it'll be enough.
Martin lays out a slightly more detailed plan of action than his own, and John sighs. They're good, sensible suggestions, and he can't stomach them. Not right this instant. He needs—he wants to compose himself more before he tells Daisy anything; he suspects she'll take some convincing to not just go after Riggs herself, and it'll be that much harder to do if he's suffering a terror-hangover and looking like he might collapse at any moment.
And, selfish and silly as it is, he'd like a few more hours of at least pretending everything isn't awful, before looking over his shoulder becomes a full-time occupation. Whatever Riggs ends up planning — if anything at all — it won't happen tonight, or tomorrow. He'll take his time. He'll want to be sure. John is only a little less safe now than he was this morning, and he doesn't want to hurl himself into bloody witness protection at once.
So he pushes himself to his feet. "Counter-offer: we should go to the nearest establishment with a liquor license and get a drink," he says, bracing one hand against the wall and offering Martin the other. He doesn't think he'll need the additional support of the wall to help pull Martin to his feet, but it won't hurt. "Drinks, plural," he amends, with feeling.
no subject
Martin lays out a slightly more detailed plan of action than his own, and John sighs. They're good, sensible suggestions, and he can't stomach them. Not right this instant. He needs—he wants to compose himself more before he tells Daisy anything; he suspects she'll take some convincing to not just go after Riggs herself, and it'll be that much harder to do if he's suffering a terror-hangover and looking like he might collapse at any moment.
And, selfish and silly as it is, he'd like a few more hours of at least pretending everything isn't awful, before looking over his shoulder becomes a full-time occupation. Whatever Riggs ends up planning — if anything at all — it won't happen tonight, or tomorrow. He'll take his time. He'll want to be sure. John is only a little less safe now than he was this morning, and he doesn't want to hurl himself into bloody witness protection at once.
So he pushes himself to his feet. "Counter-offer: we should go to the nearest establishment with a liquor license and get a drink," he says, bracing one hand against the wall and offering Martin the other. He doesn't think he'll need the additional support of the wall to help pull Martin to his feet, but it won't hurt. "Drinks, plural," he amends, with feeling.