John nods, encouraged by Martin's acquiescence until he realizes he has no idea what to actually do with it. What he considers habitual is entirely foreign to Martin, and as he turns over possibilities in his mind, all of them feel either horribly presumptuous or laughably ineffectual. Who is he to offer comfort? And if he can't, then what's the point of him even being here, keeping Martin awake and implicitly bullying him into trying to make himself presentable? Even the simplest of distractions, a fucking conversation, feels daunting, because hell if he knows how to really talk to this Martin, or what to talk about.

And then he realizes that he's already rubbing Martin's back, and oh, Christ, how long has that been happening? He almost draws back, a slight twitch of his fingers betraying the consideration, but the fear that stopping would be more conspicuous than keeping it up stays him, and he doesn't pull away.

He does avert his gaze, though, and awkwardly clears his throat. "Unless you, er... wanted to-to talk about it?" he offers, wincing at himself. "S-sorry, I uh," he sucks in a breath through his teeth, then expels it in a humorless huff, "I guess I... I don't actually know how to do this. Not with— with you."