John sits up with a sharp frown, half-formed objections about Martin still belonging here and how if he refuses to see himself as a resident he at least qualifies as a guest (one that John isn't about to relegate to the bloody couch) clogging his throat. But he can't quite voice them, balking at the bedrock of his own reasoning. Is he supposed to tell Martin that he doesn't need as much sleep as a normal person, anymore? Because of what they were unwittingly doing at the Institute, and what it made him?

Christ, this is all too much for four in the morning.

Martin clears his throat, changing the subject, and John gives his head a short, self-recriminating shake, as if he should have anticipated this. "Y-yes, of course. Um. Let me get you a fresh towel." He levers himself to his feet. "And there are clothes in the bedroom; you can just..." he gestures, vague and embarrassed, in the bedroom's general direction, "pick whatever you like."

Once Martin is settled and he can hear the water running, John wanders back out into the dining area. He regards the table and the two cups of tea for a few moments, thinking that perhaps he ought to clear them away. Instead, he gravitates over to the couch, collapsing onto the cushions in a bone-weary sprawl. The Bishop leaps up onto his chest a few moments later, and John sinks his fingers into the cat's fur with a quiet sigh. "It's fine," he tells him, as if fine is an idea he's taking for a spin. Kicking the tires, and so on. "It'll be fine."