Martin laughs, and it's genuine, not the nervous or bitterly humorless sort of thing John's used to hearing. He isn't sure he can remember the last time he heard Martin laugh like that -- probably at an office Christmas party or something, back before everything changed -- but he's dead certain that whoever Martin was laughing with, it wasn't him. John brightens, his eyes warming and the corners of his mouth ticking up into a pleased little smile.
"I suppose not," he agrees, picking up his own glass. His eyes narrow a little at Martin's assessment, hearing the implicit challenge, and also gripped by that discrete subset of indignation that comes of being accurately pegged as a bit, well, boring. "I could do shots," he insists. He has never done shots. But that doesn't mean he couldn't. Hell, he's done one already; how hard could it be to keep going? So he lifts his glass, hesitating for only a moment when Martin, for some reason, repeats 'cheers' twice, and then downs it, gamely setting his empty glass back on the table. "Best not to overthink it," he replies. Whatever they're toasting, it's... it's good.
Twenty minutes later, John is pleasantly tipsy -- which is to say well on his way to pleasantly drunk, but trying to be at least somewhat dignified about it. He's also in possession of a half-devoured plate of sushi, which he is currently neglecting in favor of using his chopsticks to make loosely emphatic gestures.
"We need a name for it," he says apropos of nothing, waving his chopsticks as if trying to pluck the specifics of 'it' out of the empty air. "The new Archive." There it is. "Needs a name. We can't just call it the Magnus Institute, or the Magnus Archive or whatever. City's already got a Magnus, and he's weird. Got the weirdest eyes. And that's coming from me." John snorts, then looks down at his plate, and--hey, sushi! He makes a pleased little hum of discovery and picks up a piece of sashimi, dipping it into his little bowl of soy sauce and popping it into his mouth.
no subject
"I suppose not," he agrees, picking up his own glass. His eyes narrow a little at Martin's assessment, hearing the implicit challenge, and also gripped by that discrete subset of indignation that comes of being accurately pegged as a bit, well, boring. "I could do shots," he insists. He has never done shots. But that doesn't mean he couldn't. Hell, he's done one already; how hard could it be to keep going? So he lifts his glass, hesitating for only a moment when Martin, for some reason, repeats 'cheers' twice, and then downs it, gamely setting his empty glass back on the table. "Best not to overthink it," he replies. Whatever they're toasting, it's... it's good.
Twenty minutes later, John is pleasantly tipsy -- which is to say well on his way to pleasantly drunk, but trying to be at least somewhat dignified about it. He's also in possession of a half-devoured plate of sushi, which he is currently neglecting in favor of using his chopsticks to make loosely emphatic gestures.
"We need a name for it," he says apropos of nothing, waving his chopsticks as if trying to pluck the specifics of 'it' out of the empty air. "The new Archive." There it is. "Needs a name. We can't just call it the Magnus Institute, or the Magnus Archive or whatever. City's already got a Magnus, and he's weird. Got the weirdest eyes. And that's coming from me." John snorts, then looks down at his plate, and--hey, sushi! He makes a pleased little hum of discovery and picks up a piece of sashimi, dipping it into his little bowl of soy sauce and popping it into his mouth.