Martin is so tired, his head so full of fog, that for a while he just sits there and stares into the middle distance. A soft meow pulls him out of his haze long enough for him to welcome their cat up onto his lap, and at least petting him requires very little actual focus.
It's just he hates not being able to focus. Feeling like he's having to struggle hard against his own brain to form thoughts or feelings. It leaves everything sort of muffled and muted. Puts him at the mercy of his own recuperation. It's the sort of thing he always works to avoid, lest he be left truly alone with his thoughts and no distraction, no busywork to block out fear or loneliness. He's worked through mild colds in the past, even pushed himself back to work too soon after the whole Riggs incident; the longest break he's ever had was when Prentiss trapped him in his flat, and while convalescing isn't as fraught as that was, it has similar markers. Stuck, sad, empty-headed, useless. The sort of breaches in his own defense that allow the Lonely in; even with John here, the last time he took ill, that less metaphorical fog had found temporary purchase. It has less to do with his company, and more with his mental state.
Thinking about all this is its own kind of trap, and he knows that; fortunately, John returns presently with toast and tea, drawing Martin a little further out of himself. He looks up, blinking as if waking anew, and manages tiny smile and a mumble of thanks as John settles down beside him.
Martin fortifies himself with a little sip of tea, then works on eating the toast, wanting to get through it before it gets cold. Eating isn't particularly pleasant, but he manages it. This chore done, he recovers his tea and leans over gingerly, not wanting to put too much weight on John and also feeling a bit delicate and oversensitive himself. He breathes out slowly, focusing on the tea and on just resting for a few long moments.
"I was so good at not getting sick when I was young," he says. "Mum couldn't really take good care of me and she needed me, so..." He trails off with a sigh. By degrees, he's getting better at being honest and straightforward about his childhood. It's become natural with John, not just because of their mutual trust, but because of how these little truths have turned out to literally sustain him. It's almost habit now to just drop into an anecdote or memory, regardless of how grim a picture it might paint. It still feels a bit wrong, like he's speaking ill of the dead, but he tries to think about it like facts. Not context or circumstances, not enough to render judgment; just the objective truth of his experience.
"I've gotten lax," he says, trying for a joke, and then a rejoinder pops into his head to drain all potential humor out of it: Now that I live with someone who cares about me.
John can probably connect those dots on his own, one way or another, so Martin just huffs softly.
no subject
It's just he hates not being able to focus. Feeling like he's having to struggle hard against his own brain to form thoughts or feelings. It leaves everything sort of muffled and muted. Puts him at the mercy of his own recuperation. It's the sort of thing he always works to avoid, lest he be left truly alone with his thoughts and no distraction, no busywork to block out fear or loneliness. He's worked through mild colds in the past, even pushed himself back to work too soon after the whole Riggs incident; the longest break he's ever had was when Prentiss trapped him in his flat, and while convalescing isn't as fraught as that was, it has similar markers. Stuck, sad, empty-headed, useless. The sort of breaches in his own defense that allow the Lonely in; even with John here, the last time he took ill, that less metaphorical fog had found temporary purchase. It has less to do with his company, and more with his mental state.
Thinking about all this is its own kind of trap, and he knows that; fortunately, John returns presently with toast and tea, drawing Martin a little further out of himself. He looks up, blinking as if waking anew, and manages tiny smile and a mumble of thanks as John settles down beside him.
Martin fortifies himself with a little sip of tea, then works on eating the toast, wanting to get through it before it gets cold. Eating isn't particularly pleasant, but he manages it. This chore done, he recovers his tea and leans over gingerly, not wanting to put too much weight on John and also feeling a bit delicate and oversensitive himself. He breathes out slowly, focusing on the tea and on just resting for a few long moments.
"I was so good at not getting sick when I was young," he says. "Mum couldn't really take good care of me and she needed me, so..." He trails off with a sigh. By degrees, he's getting better at being honest and straightforward about his childhood. It's become natural with John, not just because of their mutual trust, but because of how these little truths have turned out to literally sustain him. It's almost habit now to just drop into an anecdote or memory, regardless of how grim a picture it might paint. It still feels a bit wrong, like he's speaking ill of the dead, but he tries to think about it like facts. Not context or circumstances, not enough to render judgment; just the objective truth of his experience.
"I've gotten lax," he says, trying for a joke, and then a rejoinder pops into his head to drain all potential humor out of it: Now that I live with someone who cares about me.
John can probably connect those dots on his own, one way or another, so Martin just huffs softly.