That he hadn't actually watched the transformation take place is a fair point, and John would nod or tip his head in acknowledgment if sudden moves along those lines didn't seem profoundly unwise. Instead he just hums and blinks solemnly as he polishes off his mozzarella stick.
Martin chuckles about something, and John's about to badger him into sharing the joke when Martin falls silent, the mirth slipping off his face and leaving something much worse behind. It's a testament to just how fucking drunk John is that he finds the transformation wholly inexplicable, unable to imagine why he should be unhappy all of a sudden. He was telling a fun story. There are mozzarella sticks. What's gone wrong?
And then Martin apologizes, and John remembers why they started getting drunk to begin with.
Ah. That.
A deep, weary resignation settles over him, his expression crumpling into something faintly stricken as Martin continues on. He doesn't want this — the mood dive, the apologies. He doesn't want Martin to feel this way, like he has something to prove, like he owes it to John or to anyone to hurl himself into harm's way. As if it's just his turn to do something stupid and reckless. As if the risk is equally shared between them, when John has survived a creditable murder attempt and Martin has done no such thing.
Maybe he could make a compelling argument along those lines if he wasn't fucking drunk. "Wh—" he starts, leaning his head into his hand so he can rub at his temple. "No. Martin..." How are sentences made, Jesus Christ. "I didn't want you to... any of that. Tha's not, 's not your thing. I don't need you to be Daisy or Eliot, or—or a tiger, or fight my bloody battles." He's keeling over very slowly as he carries on, a slow sideways slump that continues until his elbow butts against the wall of their booth and arrests his progress. He peers at Martin from this slightly altered vantage point, his free hand idly pawing at the table top as if he might find the conclusion of his stilted paragraph in the grain of the wood.
It isn't there, of course. It isn't anywhere, because his brain isn't right, because he's really very drunk. "I just... need you," he says, having just enough wherewithal to inwardly panic at the prospect of leaving it there, and to hastily add, "to be okay."
no subject
Martin chuckles about something, and John's about to badger him into sharing the joke when Martin falls silent, the mirth slipping off his face and leaving something much worse behind. It's a testament to just how fucking drunk John is that he finds the transformation wholly inexplicable, unable to imagine why he should be unhappy all of a sudden. He was telling a fun story. There are mozzarella sticks. What's gone wrong?
And then Martin apologizes, and John remembers why they started getting drunk to begin with.
Ah. That.
A deep, weary resignation settles over him, his expression crumpling into something faintly stricken as Martin continues on. He doesn't want this — the mood dive, the apologies. He doesn't want Martin to feel this way, like he has something to prove, like he owes it to John or to anyone to hurl himself into harm's way. As if it's just his turn to do something stupid and reckless. As if the risk is equally shared between them, when John has survived a creditable murder attempt and Martin has done no such thing.
Maybe he could make a compelling argument along those lines if he wasn't fucking drunk. "Wh—" he starts, leaning his head into his hand so he can rub at his temple. "No. Martin..." How are sentences made, Jesus Christ. "I didn't want you to... any of that. Tha's not, 's not your thing. I don't need you to be Daisy or Eliot, or—or a tiger, or fight my bloody battles." He's keeling over very slowly as he carries on, a slow sideways slump that continues until his elbow butts against the wall of their booth and arrests his progress. He peers at Martin from this slightly altered vantage point, his free hand idly pawing at the table top as if he might find the conclusion of his stilted paragraph in the grain of the wood.
It isn't there, of course. It isn't anywhere, because his brain isn't right, because he's really very drunk. "I just... need you," he says, having just enough wherewithal to inwardly panic at the prospect of leaving it there, and to hastily add, "to be okay."