Jonathan Sims

The laugh is encouraging, faint as it may be, and John musters a smile that is only a little uncertain. The waning tension he can feel beneath his passage of his palm is better still. He is helping, even if it isn't as simple and effortless as it would have been a week ago. It's a bit awkward, sure, but they're managing.

His tentative sense of accomplishment fractures beneath the heavy heartbreak of Martin's admission, though, and John looks away, trying to school his expression but not trusting himself to succeed. He hasn't seen the fog touch this Martin once. Privately, he had thought it might qualify as a small mercy: that with everything else Martin had to process, at least he'd be getting a break from that. But he was lonely before Peter Lukas entered the equation. Hell, one could argue it was always a more natural affiliation than the Eye. And it's never been more apparent than right now, with Martin hunched and miserable and asking for simple company in words he can barely utter. As if it must be an appalling imposition, the asking. As if there's even an alternative anymore.

John doesn't make the conscious decision to move. It just happens, the way Martin curls in on himself obliterating all of the rickety barriers John had thrown up around his own instincts. He forgets that he shouldn't scoot closer, that it's presumptuous to wrap his arm around Martin's shoulders, that he has no business drawing him in with gentle persistence. "Hey, o-of course," he murmurs, the reassurances tumbling out of him just as automatically. "Here, it's okay, come here."