Jonathan Sims

Martin takes his hand and then keeps it past the point of strict necessity, looking towards the bathroom more than at it. John's first thought is that he's gone a bit light-headed, but Martin doesn't waver or slump or seem to require any physical support. He just looks... well, exhausted. And John knows how it feels to be so bone-tired that even bathing seems an almost insurmountable effort.

Christ, he wasn't far from this very spot when he'd sat, covered in his own gore, and faced the same bathroom as if it had been reinstalled atop Mount Everest. The only reason he'd managed to clean himself at the time was because the alternative was too mortifying to imagine. But Martin had still helped, to the extent that their collective Englishness allowed, and John certainly isn't averse to returning the favor with interest.

Presuming Martin is still interested in a bath at all, of course. John runs his thumb over Martin's knuckles and tips his head towards the bathroom. "Change your mind?" he asks, his tone light and neutral.