Jonathan Sims

"I know," John quietly replies, part of him wishing that it was just one of those mindless phrases you say to demonstrate active listening and not quite so literal. It would be easy to reflect on that heap of Knowledge that had dropped on him as he'd hurried out of the building, to home in on any given horrible detail for closer examination. He could Know, even more intimately, just how frightened Martin was. Hell, he already does: suppression might hold it at bay, but it's still there. He can't deny it.

Nor can he repackage it as mere empathy without it feeling a bit perverse, and he sighs softly, pulling Martin a bit closer. He doesn't want to dwell on what might have happened earlier — or on what still might happen, during some unspecified future disaster. Which just leaves him with the present.

"You're safe now." It doesn't feel like enough, just as it feels greedy to want or expect any more than that. As if Darrow, even with its absurd disasters, doesn't still qualify as an extended vacation from the miserable status quo they'd settled into back home. He ought to just count his bloody blessings. John shifts a little, then resettles. "We're okay."