"No," John says with exaggerated resignation, sucking a breath in through his teeth, "it's a matter of pride, now. My honor is on the line."
Despite the cold, he's actually not having a bad time. He's enjoyed giving Martin an abridged tour of the sights (he hadn't even mentioned Kagura's existence, for obvious reasons), and there's a nostalgic pleasure in crouching on a beach and poking about for something interesting. He's even enjoying the scolding, if he's being honest with himself. It's familiar. There's no bite in it, but it's not too timid, either. If Martin is comfortable enough to start (resume?) fussing over him, then he must be doing something right.
Swallowing the obvious retort to any suggestion that a chill breeze might be enough to kill him, he instead peers up at Martin and adds a lofty, "I'm sure I'll survive." He then returns his attention to the strip of rocks he's crouched over, turning a few over and flicking them aside until he spies one with a familiar, repeating pattern. John picks it up for a closer examination, and... well, it's not much. The fossilized shell is mostly buried in the rock, only a sliver of it exposed where the stone has split. But it's plainly something — and it's cold enough on the beach that, his own invulnerability notwithstanding, he has no real desire to make Martin keep standing out in it.
So he straightens, brandishing the rock in triumph. "There, see?" he says, crossing over to Martin and holding up the fossil for his examination. "It's a shell. A bit of one, anyway. You can see the ridges." He angles the rock as he speaks, tapping the telltale little ripple with his forefinger.
no subject
Despite the cold, he's actually not having a bad time. He's enjoyed giving Martin an abridged tour of the sights (he hadn't even mentioned Kagura's existence, for obvious reasons), and there's a nostalgic pleasure in crouching on a beach and poking about for something interesting. He's even enjoying the scolding, if he's being honest with himself. It's familiar. There's no bite in it, but it's not too timid, either. If Martin is comfortable enough to start (resume?) fussing over him, then he must be doing something right.
Swallowing the obvious retort to any suggestion that a chill breeze might be enough to kill him, he instead peers up at Martin and adds a lofty, "I'm sure I'll survive." He then returns his attention to the strip of rocks he's crouched over, turning a few over and flicking them aside until he spies one with a familiar, repeating pattern. John picks it up for a closer examination, and... well, it's not much. The fossilized shell is mostly buried in the rock, only a sliver of it exposed where the stone has split. But it's plainly something — and it's cold enough on the beach that, his own invulnerability notwithstanding, he has no real desire to make Martin keep standing out in it.
So he straightens, brandishing the rock in triumph. "There, see?" he says, crossing over to Martin and holding up the fossil for his examination. "It's a shell. A bit of one, anyway. You can see the ridges." He angles the rock as he speaks, tapping the telltale little ripple with his forefinger.