The sir is a surprise — it's a term that John has occasionally sprung on Martin, either in jest or in a more deliberate attempt to wind him up a bit, but this might be the first time Martin has deployed it with such thoughtless sincerity. He limits his reaction to a slight narrowing of his eyes: a permissible transmutation of the smirk he might've allowed in a different, less fraught context. As Martin approaches, already flushed, John gestures into the office, indicating the chair that he's centered opposite his own, and intones a stern, "Sit."

He hasn't fully cleared the desk, but with the exception of his laptop (currently set a little to one side and prudently shut), there's nothing on it that would be harmed by a potential dramatic tumble to the floor. The wire baskets he sometimes uses for organization sit empty at one end of the desk, and the prop files he assembled are in a tidy stack beside his pen holder and post-its at the other. Pride of place has been given over to one of his larger tape recorders: it sits squarely in the center, inert and expectant.

Once Martin has stepped past him into the office proper, John follows, pulling the door shut behind him. For a brief moment, he considers a pointed turn of the lock, but then he rejects the idea. However this plays out, he can only imagine that the fantasy of a potential interruption would be more potent than the idea of lacking a quick and easy getaway. And there's no need to display more than a passing concern for Martin's privacy for the purposes of the scene he has in mind.

So he crosses over to his side of the desk and sits down in his chair. For a few moments, he just regards Martin coolly, his hands loosely clasped on the desk before him. Then he reaches forward and turns on the tape recorder with a pointed click.

The tape whirs for a beat. Then John asks, "Do you know why I've called you in here, Martin?"