It's just as well that John's a bit preoccupied with his own tea when Martin puts his question: it gives him an excuse to not answer immediately, which gives Martin time to take a few bewilderingly hard turns, which leaves John with far more to chew on than either of them probably anticipated, and the tea is a useful prop to muck about with while he processes.
First, he blinks over the rim of his cup, riding out the initial burst of incredulity over the thought of Norah being inclined towards gossip, let alone gossip about Martin. It's a shame that the two of them have never really got on (and perhaps that excuses such a gross mischaracterization of Norah on Martin's part), but that generally translates to each of them only asking after the other to the extent that good manners would dictate. And even then, the lack of real interest is palpable. He wouldn't presume to natter about Martin to Norah anymore than the reverse — though Christ, perhaps he should, if only to correct some of these misconceptions before they can take root.
Martin dismisses his own question as 'stupid' before John can respond to it, though the backhanded self-deprecation strikes him as rather unfair. John takes a steadying sip of his own tea to prevent himself from responding a little too off the cuff, but his brows are drawn together in sharp disapproval. The uncomfortable truth of it is that Martin isn't an interesting topic of conversation to Norah, but that hardly translates to him being uninteresting as a rule, or uninteresting to John. If not for the awkward interlude in the kitchen (and even that was mostly about Martin's use as a bulwark against Statement withdrawal, not his overall value), he'd insist that they were well past that.
And perhaps they are, if Martin's final, muttered aside is anything to go by. John swallows his tea with conscious effort, eyes widening slightly as he considers this new piece of information, a square-shaped peg that doesn't quite fit in the round-shaped hole of Martin's usual anxieties. His tone was defensive, perhaps aiming for dismissive, but unable to stick the landing. John gets the distinct impression that Martin truly can't imagine what he and Norah might talk about, and that it bothers him for reasons that go beyond any niggling suspicion that they're talking about him. Maybe it's just that failure of imagination that troubles him — and John supposes that he, of all people, is in no position to fault someone for wanting to know something, even if it's technically none of his business. But this also doesn't feel like simple curiosity, not when Martin has been so stubbornly disinterested in actually getting to know Norah on his own.
He doesn't want to imagine that they talk about him. But he struggles to imagine what else they might talk about, because...?
There is a faint creak of fingers against ceramic glaze as a possibility occurs to him, but it is so outlandish that he cannot trust it, certainly not to the point of voicing it. Not on the basis of what little evidence he's gathered so far. But the thought is as tantalizing as it is completely fucking mental, and he has to lean hard away from the desire to simply Know. He doesn't want to do that to Martin; he has a long-standing policy of not Knowing how he feels. And there is also a small, preemptively giddy part of him that wants to earn this, if he's actually onto something.
John takes another sip of tea, then clears his throat. "I hadn't realized you were so interested," he says, light and faintly teasing. "Should I be recording that, too?"
no subject
First, he blinks over the rim of his cup, riding out the initial burst of incredulity over the thought of Norah being inclined towards gossip, let alone gossip about Martin. It's a shame that the two of them have never really got on (and perhaps that excuses such a gross mischaracterization of Norah on Martin's part), but that generally translates to each of them only asking after the other to the extent that good manners would dictate. And even then, the lack of real interest is palpable. He wouldn't presume to natter about Martin to Norah anymore than the reverse — though Christ, perhaps he should, if only to correct some of these misconceptions before they can take root.
Martin dismisses his own question as 'stupid' before John can respond to it, though the backhanded self-deprecation strikes him as rather unfair. John takes a steadying sip of his own tea to prevent himself from responding a little too off the cuff, but his brows are drawn together in sharp disapproval. The uncomfortable truth of it is that Martin isn't an interesting topic of conversation to Norah, but that hardly translates to him being uninteresting as a rule, or uninteresting to John. If not for the awkward interlude in the kitchen (and even that was mostly about Martin's use as a bulwark against Statement withdrawal, not his overall value), he'd insist that they were well past that.
And perhaps they are, if Martin's final, muttered aside is anything to go by. John swallows his tea with conscious effort, eyes widening slightly as he considers this new piece of information, a square-shaped peg that doesn't quite fit in the round-shaped hole of Martin's usual anxieties. His tone was defensive, perhaps aiming for dismissive, but unable to stick the landing. John gets the distinct impression that Martin truly can't imagine what he and Norah might talk about, and that it bothers him for reasons that go beyond any niggling suspicion that they're talking about him. Maybe it's just that failure of imagination that troubles him — and John supposes that he, of all people, is in no position to fault someone for wanting to know something, even if it's technically none of his business. But this also doesn't feel like simple curiosity, not when Martin has been so stubbornly disinterested in actually getting to know Norah on his own.
He doesn't want to imagine that they talk about him. But he struggles to imagine what else they might talk about, because...?
There is a faint creak of fingers against ceramic glaze as a possibility occurs to him, but it is so outlandish that he cannot trust it, certainly not to the point of voicing it. Not on the basis of what little evidence he's gathered so far. But the thought is as tantalizing as it is completely fucking mental, and he has to lean hard away from the desire to simply Know. He doesn't want to do that to Martin; he has a long-standing policy of not Knowing how he feels. And there is also a small, preemptively giddy part of him that wants to earn this, if he's actually onto something.
John takes another sip of tea, then clears his throat. "I hadn't realized you were so interested," he says, light and faintly teasing. "Should I be recording that, too?"