Martin can't quite catch the bitter scoff that slips out at that; then he shuts his eyes, trying to compose himself. He can't very well dig himself any deeper into this hole, but Christ, he can try to be a bit less of an arse. He already knows there's no getting out of this without some sort of discussion, despite his reluctance. The least he can do is not be awful about it.
The problem is he's not sure what alternative he has. He's sunk so deep into bitter resentment that he's not sure how to climb out. He's not even sure he could articulate the problem if it were put to him to try.
He stares at the kettle a moment longer, wishing he could reset this interaction. His shoulders slump slightly and he raises a hand to his face, pushing a breath out through his fingers.
"I'm sure she'll be relieved to know I'm fine," he mutters, then clicks his tongue and tries again: "She certainly doesn't need to worry about me, and..." Neither do you dies in his throat, because it's something the Lonely would have him say, and it would be an invitation for actual concern he doesn't want. "Look, it... it's stupid," he finally admits, and it comes out petulant, which is better than reproachful, for all it doesn't feel much better. He lets his hand drop and finally looks toward John, still not able to meet his eyes, like a bloody dog that's been caught misbehaving. "It's stupid and I don't want to talk about it but we're going to talk about it because we... talk about things." Said like it's the biggest burden imaginable. Christ, he's so bad at this.
no subject
The problem is he's not sure what alternative he has. He's sunk so deep into bitter resentment that he's not sure how to climb out. He's not even sure he could articulate the problem if it were put to him to try.
He stares at the kettle a moment longer, wishing he could reset this interaction. His shoulders slump slightly and he raises a hand to his face, pushing a breath out through his fingers.
"I'm sure she'll be relieved to know I'm fine," he mutters, then clicks his tongue and tries again: "She certainly doesn't need to worry about me, and..." Neither do you dies in his throat, because it's something the Lonely would have him say, and it would be an invitation for actual concern he doesn't want. "Look, it... it's stupid," he finally admits, and it comes out petulant, which is better than reproachful, for all it doesn't feel much better. He lets his hand drop and finally looks toward John, still not able to meet his eyes, like a bloody dog that's been caught misbehaving. "It's stupid and I don't want to talk about it but we're going to talk about it because we... talk about things." Said like it's the biggest burden imaginable. Christ, he's so bad at this.