John does know, Martin supposes; not the simple fact of it, but what it explicitly felt like. For all that they've chosen to share with one another, Martin's fears were part of the deal long before any choices were made, a deal neither of them knew they'd signed up for. His fear could sustain John better than his anecdotes, maybe even better than his love. He's known this, offered his Statements willingly, confronted trauma time and again so that John might feed on it. Now, though, he's not sure he likes it, realizing that John just... just Knows everything he felt in that pit. He's never quite let it bother him before, but now... it feels kind of awful, that he couldn't choose to withhold any of it and that there is nothing now to tell.

But it isn't John's fault that his bloody patron makes these sort of executive decisions for him, and Martin has no desire to broach the subject. He's certain John doesn't either; John probably feels even worse about it than he ever could. The reassurances that follow only strengthen that impression, and Martin sighs quietly, allowing them to sink in, to push out the rest of it. He matches John's movements, shifting and resettling in turn, drawing a slow, stabilizing breath and letting it back out.

"Yeah," he murmurs. He does feel safe here, in John's arms, in this city whose myriad dangers still never quite outweigh what they left behind. He stays quiet after that, allowing his mind to drift even as his body remembers what it is to be secure.