The Ahab's isn't too far away, but Martin's errand still gives him enough time to brew two cups of tea and straighten up his office a bit more. He moves the box of Statements over to the rare books cage -- he's not sure they need to be locked up for safety reasons, but he isn't sure he wants anyone to just stumble across them, nor does he want any of the box's contents to be easily lost -- and goes about tidying his desk, condensing the strewn paperwork into a few neat stacks and depositing the scattered pens and pencils back in their cup. He considers his tie for a moment, then loops it loosely back around his collar with the vague intention of tightening it once he's done getting the desk squared away.
He might be going a bit overboard, honestly; it's not as if he expects Martin to bring back a spread. But he's been trying to differentiate this sort of thing from giving a Statement as much as the circumstances will allow, which has mostly translated to making sure Martin's comfortable. Being a good host, not just a good listener. It had started out as a distraction: something to do with himself in that interminable stretch between sending a text and Martin arriving at his flat. There'd been some preemptive apology in it, too, softening what he could only presume was a--a strain, despite Martin's reassurances to the contrary. He knew, he was acutely aware, that he was asking for things without offering much in return (besides his attention, which, while apparently more valuable than he'd realized, is still the least he can offer). He'd needed to give Martin something, even if it was just a comfortable place to sit in a tidy room and a cup of tea made to his specifications.
It's a bit silly, probably, but the mild fussing makes him feel... better. More human. Like he might be worth all this.
So, by the time Martin returns with pastries, his tea is ready and waiting on John's desk. John's cleared off one end of it rather than the middle. It's impossible to feel companionable when sitting opposite one another across the full span of a desk, he thinks, and everything will be within easier reach that way. He even found a small pile of napkins at the tea station, in case Martin didn't get the chance to grab any.
John settles into his chair and helps himself to the plain croissant, lifting it in a sort of toast. "Thank you. And... yes. Whenever you are."
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He might be going a bit overboard, honestly; it's not as if he expects Martin to bring back a spread. But he's been trying to differentiate this sort of thing from giving a Statement as much as the circumstances will allow, which has mostly translated to making sure Martin's comfortable. Being a good host, not just a good listener. It had started out as a distraction: something to do with himself in that interminable stretch between sending a text and Martin arriving at his flat. There'd been some preemptive apology in it, too, softening what he could only presume was a--a strain, despite Martin's reassurances to the contrary. He knew, he was acutely aware, that he was asking for things without offering much in return (besides his attention, which, while apparently more valuable than he'd realized, is still the least he can offer). He'd needed to give Martin something, even if it was just a comfortable place to sit in a tidy room and a cup of tea made to his specifications.
It's a bit silly, probably, but the mild fussing makes him feel... better. More human. Like he might be worth all this.
So, by the time Martin returns with pastries, his tea is ready and waiting on John's desk. John's cleared off one end of it rather than the middle. It's impossible to feel companionable when sitting opposite one another across the full span of a desk, he thinks, and everything will be within easier reach that way. He even found a small pile of napkins at the tea station, in case Martin didn't get the chance to grab any.
John settles into his chair and helps himself to the plain croissant, lifting it in a sort of toast. "Thank you. And... yes. Whenever you are."