When John first starts to speak, Martin feels like he's missed a step. He'd been expecting something more along the lines of what he's feeling: terror over the possibilities, something they could overcome together with gentle reinforcement of reality — that they are okay, that they still have each other and their worst imaginings are only imagined. But this is something else. Something far worse, because it has no answer. Christ, he wasn't expecting guilt.
John carries on with an awful downward momentum, crumbling visibly beneath the weight of it all as he struggles to spell it all out, and for several long seconds Martin can only stand there, his hand still set against John's back, a look of horror dawning on his face that John doesn't even see. John won't look at him, and it is with a sickening twist in his gut that Martin wonders if that's because he thinks he doesn't deserve to.
"John—" he blurts out again, high and plaintive in protest of John's final sharp pronouncement. Martin hates the question, rhetorical or not, and he hates the violence of the gesture he's just made, and he reaches out with instinctive urgency to grab John's hand as if to prevent it from happening again. "John, stop."
That isn't right; it isn't what he means to say. John cannot simply switch this off any more than Martin can fix it easily. But it comes out anyway, desperate and soft. His hand drifts from John's back to his cheek, trying gingerly to coax him to look.
"Look at me," he whispers. "Please. I'm here. I'm okay."
He isn't, really, and what's worse is John Knows the exact details of how not-okay he is. John can See it all, him at the bottom of that pit, the monster looming over him, the little jaws of its tongue snapping as it writhes around him; he Knows Martin's fear, the moments of hopeless certainty that this was it, the pain and the terror and the suffocation as he struggled against the immense weight of it. The fear is still very present and very powerful, and now it belongs, too, to John and to the Eye. That's the point; that's always been the point. Not to help John and certainly not to keep him safe.
"That isn't your job," he says, his voice starting to tremble, tears stinging his eyes all over again. "You couldn't have—" He shakes his head; he can't, he can't just babble his way out of this. "Come here," he begs, trying a little less gingerly to pull John toward him.
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John carries on with an awful downward momentum, crumbling visibly beneath the weight of it all as he struggles to spell it all out, and for several long seconds Martin can only stand there, his hand still set against John's back, a look of horror dawning on his face that John doesn't even see. John won't look at him, and it is with a sickening twist in his gut that Martin wonders if that's because he thinks he doesn't deserve to.
"John—" he blurts out again, high and plaintive in protest of John's final sharp pronouncement. Martin hates the question, rhetorical or not, and he hates the violence of the gesture he's just made, and he reaches out with instinctive urgency to grab John's hand as if to prevent it from happening again. "John, stop."
That isn't right; it isn't what he means to say. John cannot simply switch this off any more than Martin can fix it easily. But it comes out anyway, desperate and soft. His hand drifts from John's back to his cheek, trying gingerly to coax him to look.
"Look at me," he whispers. "Please. I'm here. I'm okay."
He isn't, really, and what's worse is John Knows the exact details of how not-okay he is. John can See it all, him at the bottom of that pit, the monster looming over him, the little jaws of its tongue snapping as it writhes around him; he Knows Martin's fear, the moments of hopeless certainty that this was it, the pain and the terror and the suffocation as he struggled against the immense weight of it. The fear is still very present and very powerful, and now it belongs, too, to John and to the Eye. That's the point; that's always been the point. Not to help John and certainly not to keep him safe.
"That isn't your job," he says, his voice starting to tremble, tears stinging his eyes all over again. "You couldn't have—" He shakes his head; he can't, he can't just babble his way out of this. "Come here," he begs, trying a little less gingerly to pull John toward him.