Martin's reaction to just his voice is dramatic enough that he is relieved, at first, that he didn't presume to actually touch him. He still lifts a placating hand when Martin looks up at him with terrified incomprehension, murmuring, "Easy, it's just me." He's not even sure if Martin hears him; most of the words end up buried beneath a series of hacking coughs, and John winces, wishing he'd thought to grab a glass of water before he came in, but unable to tear himself away to go fetch one now.

"You didn't wake me. I was already up," he says, frowning down at Martin as he struggles to pull himself together. He doesn't appear to be having much success. Perhaps more to the point, John isn't accustomed to sitting back and watching him flounder without offering... well, without offering something. Maybe Martin suffered alone on that spare cot in the Institute, but he isn't alone now, and John doesn't think he can bear to treat him like a, like a bloody science experiment he's trying not to corrupt with excess variables. For fuck's sake.

"You don't have to be okay, Martin." John runs an impatient hand through his own hair, then exhales audibly, coming to a decision. "Here," he says, scooting onto the mattress and reaching for Martin's arm, his touch far more tentative than his tone. "Let's get you upright, come on."