"No concessions," Martin agrees flatly. "No, no. Should be something... Archival. Keep records of... something. I'll work it out. Spreadsheets. Don't you worry."

He is very tired. It turns out the resting of his head on the table wasn't brief at all. It's still happening. Time to head home, he thinks. 'Home.' Weird empty little flat, weird unfamiliar city, weird awful brand replacements. It's all so bloody weird and empty and unfamiliar and awful. Still thinks it's a bad dream sometimes. But it's not all that bad, is it? John is here. It's good that John is here. John is good.

Anxiety scratches at the back of his mind and he frowns rather petulantly about it. John is talking again, which provides a good distraction. He blinks blearily over the suggestion of water. "Yeah," he says in ostensible agreement, but he doesn't want to sit up. He heaves a sigh and gives himself a light tap on the head. "Christ, gonna be full of hornets tomorrow."

He braces his hands on the table and levers himself up with a soft groan, eyeing his water as though it has offended him. Mostly he just hasn't drunk much of it, like a bloody amateur. He sets about correcting that now. "Should probably stagger out of here soon, yeah? S'getting late an' all."