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For John
November 25th, 2019
Martin wakes before his alarm, which is to say The Bishop wakes him at the usual time, batting at him gently until he stirs. The Bishop has become his true alarm, really; the one on his phone is more backup. Martin grumbles softly and reaches out to give the cat a few cursory headrubs before he sits up, stretching and wincing as his back creaks. The Bishop chirps pleasantly at him and bounds away, heading to the kitchen to wait by his dish. He is demanding, but never impatient, which Martin appreciates.
"I'm coming," he mumbles, fumbling with his phone to switch the alarm off before setting it aside and pulling himself out of bed.
His shins connect immediately with something surprisingly solid right there at his bedside, and he lets out a startled yell as he nearly unbalances and topples right over it. He jolts back, his adrenaline shooting through the roof as he stares down at the foreign object on his floor. It's a box, a rather sizable but ordinary-looking cardboard box, just sitting there unobtrusively. It wasn't there last night; he doesn't even have any boxes like that around. There is no explanation for it, and for a moment he's gripped with terror that Peter or someone else got in and left him something, as little sense as that makes.
He inches forward, peering inside it. It isn't sealed, and its contents are quite visible. They are a disorganized mess: a mix of folders, loose pages, and tapes. His eyes go wide and he drops down to his knees, rifling feverishly through it all, looking through the first several tape labels and the headings on the pages before he allows himself any confirmation of hope. That this is what it appears to be: a box of Statements.
The paper is from the Magnus Institute; those tapes that are labeled are labeled in Gertrude's writing. None of the file numbers or names are familiar; there are none he can see that John has read before. These are new. Or they will be new to John.
Amid his racing thoughts, he remembers meeting Michael, struggling with the pieces of that crashed ship; he remembers hearing the story of how Saoirse received her coat and her dog. That Darrow just does this sometimes, just gives its stolen residents tokens from home.
Martin practically leaps back to his feet, nearly grabs for his phone to contact John, then decides not to waste time on that. He'll likely already be in the office, keeping his odd hours. Best to just get a move on. He opts to forego his shower, pulling his clothes on and fussing only momentarily with his hair before he stumbles out to the kitchen and gives The Bishop his breakfast. He leans down just long enough to give him a little kiss on the head before he rushes back into his bedroom, scoops up the box, and hurries to the door, awkwardly pushing his feet into his shoes. No time for his own breakfast. He can have some tea at The Archive, grab something at Ahab's later. He needs to get there first.
He just barely manages to lock his door without needing to set the box down, and then he's hurrying down the stairs and out. The box is a bit cumbersome and quite heavy, but he can just manage it. The weight is actually rather exciting, further evidence of just how much is there. He hustles two whole blocks before he finally flags down a cab, and sits full of jittery energy for the entire ride over. He tips the driver graciously and rushes inside. No one else is in yet, but he can just see John through the open door at the back.
"John," he huffs out, breathless and grinning as he bursts into his office, his face flushed from his rush and the exertion and the cold air. "John, look, look what I found!"
It doesn't make any sense, put like that--he didn't 'find' it so much as the city gave it to him. But it doesn't matter. The how, the why, none of it matters. What matters is they have it, and John isn't going to starve, and this will help him stop preying on people more than he and his little stories ever could, and he's going to be okay. Christ, Martin could almost cry with relief.
Martin wakes before his alarm, which is to say The Bishop wakes him at the usual time, batting at him gently until he stirs. The Bishop has become his true alarm, really; the one on his phone is more backup. Martin grumbles softly and reaches out to give the cat a few cursory headrubs before he sits up, stretching and wincing as his back creaks. The Bishop chirps pleasantly at him and bounds away, heading to the kitchen to wait by his dish. He is demanding, but never impatient, which Martin appreciates.
"I'm coming," he mumbles, fumbling with his phone to switch the alarm off before setting it aside and pulling himself out of bed.
His shins connect immediately with something surprisingly solid right there at his bedside, and he lets out a startled yell as he nearly unbalances and topples right over it. He jolts back, his adrenaline shooting through the roof as he stares down at the foreign object on his floor. It's a box, a rather sizable but ordinary-looking cardboard box, just sitting there unobtrusively. It wasn't there last night; he doesn't even have any boxes like that around. There is no explanation for it, and for a moment he's gripped with terror that Peter or someone else got in and left him something, as little sense as that makes.
He inches forward, peering inside it. It isn't sealed, and its contents are quite visible. They are a disorganized mess: a mix of folders, loose pages, and tapes. His eyes go wide and he drops down to his knees, rifling feverishly through it all, looking through the first several tape labels and the headings on the pages before he allows himself any confirmation of hope. That this is what it appears to be: a box of Statements.
The paper is from the Magnus Institute; those tapes that are labeled are labeled in Gertrude's writing. None of the file numbers or names are familiar; there are none he can see that John has read before. These are new. Or they will be new to John.
Amid his racing thoughts, he remembers meeting Michael, struggling with the pieces of that crashed ship; he remembers hearing the story of how Saoirse received her coat and her dog. That Darrow just does this sometimes, just gives its stolen residents tokens from home.
Martin practically leaps back to his feet, nearly grabs for his phone to contact John, then decides not to waste time on that. He'll likely already be in the office, keeping his odd hours. Best to just get a move on. He opts to forego his shower, pulling his clothes on and fussing only momentarily with his hair before he stumbles out to the kitchen and gives The Bishop his breakfast. He leans down just long enough to give him a little kiss on the head before he rushes back into his bedroom, scoops up the box, and hurries to the door, awkwardly pushing his feet into his shoes. No time for his own breakfast. He can have some tea at The Archive, grab something at Ahab's later. He needs to get there first.
He just barely manages to lock his door without needing to set the box down, and then he's hurrying down the stairs and out. The box is a bit cumbersome and quite heavy, but he can just manage it. The weight is actually rather exciting, further evidence of just how much is there. He hustles two whole blocks before he finally flags down a cab, and sits full of jittery energy for the entire ride over. He tips the driver graciously and rushes inside. No one else is in yet, but he can just see John through the open door at the back.
"John," he huffs out, breathless and grinning as he bursts into his office, his face flushed from his rush and the exertion and the cold air. "John, look, look what I found!"
It doesn't make any sense, put like that--he didn't 'find' it so much as the city gave it to him. But it doesn't matter. The how, the why, none of it matters. What matters is they have it, and John isn't going to starve, and this will help him stop preying on people more than he and his little stories ever could, and he's going to be okay. Christ, Martin could almost cry with relief.
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There's no reason he shouldn't have expected this, especially after he literally just said he had plenty more 'whenever' John needed, and yet he still manages to feel a bit caught off guard. He hadn't realized John was hungry now, and rationing or no, he'd assumed John would want to dip into the box first thing. That he'd rather have this, now, is... Well, it's surprising, but he's not about to protest it. Even without the slow bloom of warmth in his chest, the shy smile he allows himself while John isn't looking—he'd never deny John a thing.
It's just, he wasn't entirely prepared for this, and he's not sure he has a good one. His brain is a bit empty, all sluggish after the unexpected excitement of the morning and the sense of being on the spot. He reaches out to help tidy a bit, quiet while he tries to think of something, anything worth telling.
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But Martin doesn't ask, which saves him the trouble -- to say nothing of the risk of appearing overeager, or needlessly defensive.
It doesn't take long for them to set the shelf to rights, and then John glances at his phone and huffs. "Christ, it isn't even eight, yet." He's been doggedly staying up most nights, and it's thrown off his whole concept of time, or at least of 'early.' Martin usually gets up a little before seven, though; he must have rushed right over, probably without bothering to eat anything. "D'you want some tea, first?"
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John agrees, and Martin sets out at a brisk pace, feeling happier than seems sensible. The gift from home is an odd one, for all that it represents a way forward—it still seems like it should bear some uncomfortable implications, or even just a bit of homesickness. But it doesn't. He also still doesn't know what story to tell, but he supposes he'll just have to wing it. Babbling organically has worked out in the past, even if it leaves him feeling a bit embarrassed sometimes. It doesn't matter, because John... John likes it. John likes his stories.
He's grinning a bit too much at the nearby Ahab's, picking up a few selections from their bakery—a plain and a chocolate croissant as well as a pair of scones that look appealing. He carries it all back to find John back in his office with the tea laid out, ready to go.
Something about it makes Martin a little nervous, and not about sharing another personal anecdote. It's the friendliness of it, the ease of just... having breakfast like this in John's office. These moments are increasingly common, and yet he still finds time to feel odd about them sometimes, like they shouldn't really be happening. But they are friends. They've grown close. It's not everything he wanted, but it's near enough, and he's determined to enjoy it.
"You, er... you ready?" he says, unable to keep all his natural awkwardness at bay, even as he smiles and lays the pastries out, taking the chocolate croissant for himself.
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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."
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"Well," he says at length, "I remember when I was... let's see, would have been about eleven or twelve, I think? Whenever I needed to be out of the house, or... if I wanted to delay going home after school, you know. I'd go to the library. A handful of the librarians knew me by name after a while. I think they liked that I was quiet and predictable. They were mostly very nice, but I never wanted to bother them, so I figured out the filing system enough that I could track down what I wanted on my own. I think, at a push, you could say that's where I first realized I liked archival systems and organization, I mean, I didn't know yet that working in an archive was a thing you could do, and it's not like I had childhood dreams of working in admin, but... it was just a natural aptitude, I guess? Anyway."
He pauses to take a sip of tea. He hasn't entirely worked out where this is going yet—there are a lot of potential branching paths down this line of memories, and this isn't like giving a prompted Statement, the Eye neatly organizing it all into a linear format with only relevant details. He's just... wandering, finding it as he goes.
"You know, I read the entire Narnia series there?" He cracks a smile. "All seven of them. I didn't even bother checking them out, I'd just sit down somewhere and tear through them, it was a few-weeks-long project. I don't even remember them very well now. I went through them so fast and I... I don't think I ever read them again? Isn't that funny, they felt so important at the time."
He takes another sip, puzzling over it idly when all of a sudden he remembers why he never returned to them. He hesitates, his mouth twitching slightly, not sure he wants to commit to this particular memory, and not sure how to veer away from it now that he's recovered it. "Huh," he says softly. "Actually I... I haven't thought about this in a long time." He frowns down at his tea for a moment. "I forgot I was... I was actually spending so much time there, like reading an entire series instead of taking them home, because I was hiding from this boy from school. I don't... Christ, I don't even remember his name." He lifts a shoulder with a little huff. "He was a big kid. Held back a year, and... well, I was pretty small for my age. He'd been picking on me for a while, just... I dunno, I guess I was an easy target. I was really sensitive, and always on my own."
He cups his hand around the back of his neck, preemptively warming the inevitable chill that moves across it. Like bloody second nature.
"We had similar paths to take home from school, so... it just kind of happened. He never tried to steal anything, or... I mean, I didn't tend to have a lot of pocket money, but he also never asked. He never did anything to hurt me, either, it was just... a lot of teasing, really." He shifts uncomfortably. "Now that I think about it, it was probably pretty harmless. Maybe he was lonely, too."
He laughs, softly and without much humor. "But I didn't get that, so I just... spent a lot of time at the library, and that's when I read The Chronicles of Narnia, and... when I was on the last book, y'know, that one's kind of weird and depressing so I imagine I must have looked very serious, and then he just... found me. He must have followed me, I don't know. He snatched the book right out of my hands and when I looked up and saw him I was so startled I just started crying."
He looks away, feeling faintly embarrassed to admit this. "I don't think he expected that, just right out of the gate and in public, so he just stood there for a moment and one of the librarians came over and... she was one of the older ones, one of the not-so-nice ones. She just kicked us both out without ceremony so I was stuck outside with this boy and I felt so stupid for crying and... I think I shouted at him or something, told him to leave me alone. And I remember he just stood there and watched me go. At the time I was afraid he was going to chase me, but he didn't, and... I was just relieved."
He lets out a slow sigh, his thumb moving slowly up and down the smooth surface of his mug. "I did eventually finish The Last Battle, but I think between how weird I found it and all that, I burned out on the series very quick. And that boy left me alone after that, which was fine with me. I actually only really saw him one more time, which was... Well, a month or so later I'd become the target of some new bully, who had a little posse of friends. They were a lot worse. They really scared me. Looking back, I think... I don't know if that other boy was even a bully at all. I think he was just awkward and lonely and didn't know how to make friends. Just like me. These boys were just... cruel. There was a day after school where they had me cornered and I—I think they might have actually hurt me if... well, that boy ended up stepping in and told them to step off. I was so scared I didn't stop to think why. He was bigger than them, and he ended up beating the ringleader into the ground, and... that was the last time I saw him. I think he was expelled."
Martin stares at his tea, quiet for a while. "I haven't thought about this in years," he says. "So I'm only just realizing that... not only was I too awkward and, well, probably a little stuck-up about his being held back, too, to notice this boy was just trying to get to know me; I didn't even really appreciate that he actually protected me. I was only relieved that he was gone and that this new gang left me alone after. He probably could have been a really good friend, if I'd let him. But I don't even remember his name."
He finally looks at John, blinking sheepishly. "Er... sorry. That—that was a bit of a downer."
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He relates to more of it than he expects to, really. The hours spent in the library, finding comfort in the company of books as opposed to people. The all but inevitable bullying. Granted, it sounds as if Martin's bully was more clumsy and awkward than actively malicious. Part of him does wonder, though, if Martin's retroactive assessment is accurate, or if he's just more inclined to be generous now that time has softened it all. How much does his bully's motivation really matter when all he'd managed to do with it was make Martin frightened and miserable? Even the heroics had terrified him.
But at least the heroics were something. And he supposes his own memories are coloring his impressions. He had a childhood bully whose name he can't remember despite the fact that he'd saved him, too, but his bully had never meant well. His teasing had been cruel, not awkward. And the rescue had been far from intentional.
Martin's apology draws John out of his own head, and he blinks over at him in surprise. "It--it's all right." All that really matters to him is that the stories are true -- and that they're Martin's. And if some of them are downers, well... they're still rather light compared to his usual fare. Martin's ostensible bully just got expelled, not horribly murdered.
"I actually had something sort of similar, once," he continues, gazing off into the middle distance. "Well, not really. I'm certain my bully didn't mean well. But he... he did save me. And I can't remember his name." His smile is a brief, humorless thing that fades into uncertainty as he looks back at Martin. "Did you ever hear that tape? My first Statement?"
Maybe he already has. Or maybe he wouldn't want to. Either way, John hesitates to just launch into a story of his own, especially if Martin would as soon avoid any downers.
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But if John's offering... Knowing it was Statement-worthy promises a story even more unpleasant than his, but Martin doesn't mind. John didn't seem to mind his being a bit depressing, and that's easier to understand now that their roles have switched. He wants to know everything about John, the good, the bad, even the truly horrible.
"No, I—I didn't," he says, a little surprised by the question. He's listened to a lot of the tapes, generally they were cases being worked on, not... nothing personal. He's not even sure when John would have recorded this, or what would've prompted it. "What happened?" he asks, full of open curiosity.
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John leans back in his chair, considering how best to begin. Just because it was a Statement, that doesn't mean he has to tell it like one: sparing no detail, retreading ground that they've already covered in other contexts. Martin's story was about the bully, not the books. Perhaps that's the framework John ought to use, as well.
"Well," he ventures, at first uncertain, but slowly gaining confidence as he goes, "there was this boy who used to help my grandmother with odd jobs every now and then. Not a boy, really. He must have been at least eighteen, a good ten years older than I was. And he... he didn't like me much." John rubs the back of his neck with a rueful wince. "I don't entirely blame him; I'm sure I was deeply annoying, though at the time, I liked to think he hated me because I was smarter than he was." He snorts faintly: case in point. No one likes a know-it-all, especially one half their age.
"But he was old enough that there isn't really any excusing what he did to me," he continues, his gaze fixed impassively on the remaining pastries. "All the usual fare: name-calling, a little petty thievery. He knocked me around a few times, though never badly enough that I couldn't pass it off as a fall from the swings, or something. I was too proud to admit any of it to my grandmother, couldn't stand the thought of her sorting it out for me. And she did need the help. It's not like I could mend the gutters or what have you."
He sighs quietly, passing his hand over his face. "Anyway. I think I've already told you about how she used to bring me those big bags of books from the charity shops and secondhand bookstores. Whatever she could get for under 50 pence. I don't think she even looked at them beyond the price tags, didn't exercise any other sort of... discretion. And even if she had, it's not as if she would have known to... to look out for anything from the library of Jurgen Leitner.
"That was my first brush with--with all of this." He waves his hand at the Archive surrounding them. "My first Leitner. A Guest for Mr. Spider."
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Martin isn't so successful at containing the quick spike of rage that rises in him when John tells him rather plainly that an eighteen year old had 'knocked him around,' and that he'd hidden it. He understands wanting to keep that sort of thing a secret. He'd certainly never gone to his mother over any of the bullies he'd suffered throughout his youth. But John's grandmother sounds a bit more present than she'd been, at least; maybe she wasn't the most equipped caregiver, but... well, surely she didn't hate him.
But it doesn't matter. John had kept this a secret, that a near-adult was hurting him, and it's all Martin can do to limit his reaction to a scowl, so small and transient that it's just a twitch of his lips and a subtle narrowing of his eyes, while he balls his free hand into a fist, hidden in his lap where John can't see. John's moving onto the books, and Martin feels a bit lost in the weeds for a moment, unsure how this connects to the bully, when all of that fades rather abruptly into the background.
At the mention of Jurgen Leitner, he stiffens quite noticeably, lifting his head from his hand and blinking at John in astonishment. He'd expected the capital-S Statement part of this to come later on, like all this was some sort of setup, or at least that it'd be something more indirect, something John pieced together later, when he had context. He'd never realized, never known John had encountered something like this so directly and so very young.
And why would he? Christ, he'd apparently recorded this at some point, but it's not likely anyone else would have heard it. And John probably never told anyone. So nobody knew this. Nobody but Elias, he supposes with a sick twinge in his gut.
Mr. Spider is too easy to place, and it makes Martin regret a bit how pushy he's always been on the point of spiders not being so bad; he's never talking about actual horrible Web spiders, of course, but he knows that at some point, that doesn't matter.
"Jesus," he says softly, unable to keep quiet. He makes a face like he's bit into something rotten, afraid of what comes next, fixating on little details. "Sounds like a bloody... kids' book."
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He frowns, not particularly wanting to give a page-by-page description of the thing as he did during his Statement. "It was about the, er... the titular Mr. Spider sitting in his parlor while this succession of terrified flies knocked on his door. Each one would bring him something, an offering -- cake, flowers, their own child -- but the obvious implication was that he was eating the flies themselves. The book didn't show it, exactly, but he was never satisfied by the offerings. And as the book went on, his body grew more... distended, and his parlor smeared with these ugly stains..." He trails off, shivering for a moment before he returns to the present. He's safe in his office. Martin is here. It's fine. He's fine.
He pulls in a breath, then continues on. "The second-to-last page was just a close-up of his door, and it had what looked like a cut-away panel to the page behind it. Said something about how Mr. Spider wanted another dinner guest, and that it was polite to knock." He looks down at his hands, his right one curling into a loose fist. "And I was about to do it, I would've... but that bully appeared. He knocked the book out of my hand and shoved me over. I was at the park a few blocks from home, I don't even remember how I got there. But he must have seen me, and he..."
Christ. John leans back in his chair and rubs his hand over his face, determined to get through this. "He wasn't trying to help, is the thing," he says, his voice straining a little with the irony of it all. "He didn't see that I was in trouble and decide to intervene. He just made some comment about me reading a stupid kiddie book and picked it up off the ground, probably intending to steal it, or--or hold it over my head, or something. Except then he looked at it, and he started to read, and... it was like he couldn't help himself. He just started walking, and I followed. I don't know why I wanted the damn thing back, but I did. Or maybe I just didn't want him to have it? But I followed him--Christ, it must have been the better part of a mile, until we were on some residential street I'd never been on before. Night had come on. And he just..." John huffs out a breath, part of him incredulous even now. It sounds mad. He knows it sounds mad. "He went up to one of the houses, and he put the book up against the door, opened to that second-to-last page. And he knocked. And Mr. Spider's door opened, and these long, thin legs reached out, and they just... he shouldn't have fit, but they pulled him in before he could even scream, and then... he was gone, and the book was gone, too."
He looks over at Martin, not quite daring to meet his eyes, but finding the sight of him reassuring. "So he saved me. He didn't mean to, it wasn't... noble of him. He just picked the wrong moment to torment me. But I still... I wish I remembered his name. It doesn't seem right, that I've forgotten."
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For a second Martin thinks about getting up, putting his arms back around John, but he banishes the idea just as quickly. It's too soon after the last one, the last one which was already a bit... intense, and John's sitting and what if he doesn't want that sort of contact, it'll just be... awkward, and possibly a little bit patronizing. But he has to do something. He can't just sit there, his face etched with horror and sympathy that does John absolutely no good.
He shifts a little so he's no longer braced on his elbow, instead leaning forward a little more, his arm stretching out toward John. Both of John's hands are in his lap, curled together tightly, and Martin pushes past the heavy layer of nervousness and doubt that shrouds his every impulse as he reaches his hand out, his fingers sliding tentative and careful over John's. He says nothing, just keeps his eyes on John's face, waiting for John to look up, to look at him. He's terrified by how much he wants John to look at him, by what that look will or won't mean, by what it will make him want, and that John might see him wanting. But he doesn't—won't allow himself to—flinch from it.
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Oh.
For a moment, John is afraid to move at all, as if the slightest twitch on his part will prompt a hasty retreat and an awkward tumble of apologies. But that's foolish. This is hardly the first time that Martin has offered him comfort -- an anchor -- and the acceptance won't scare him. Still, John's own movements are slow and careful: the loosening of one clenched fist, the slight pivot of a wrist, the slide of his thumb over Martin's knuckles, all culminating in a gentle grasp that Martin could withdraw from in an instant, if he wanted. Barely a hold at all.
And then he looks up, and he sees him. He sees the way Martin is looking at him, and he thinks: oh, Christ, and he thinks: I've been a fool, and he thinks: no doubling down on it, though. Just because the wanting is there, that doesn't mean it's right, or--or wise. Wanting is so often a mistake. Especially where Jonathan Sims is concerned.
Best to just let it go.
John looks back down with a quiet, rueful scoff. "Speaking of downers," he says as he releases Martin's hand.
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And then John meets his eyes, and Martin is overwhelmed by the certainty that this was a mistake. For a dizzying moment it's all he can do to stare back, the two of them just... holding each other's gaze like that, like that, only he can't read John's expression and he doesn't know how much his gives away. Perhaps too much; perhaps John will recoil from it, think Martin is deriving some undue pleasure from reaching out to touch him, from that hug, from all of it, and that will be the end of it all.
But John doesn't recoil. He averts his gaze, dismisses the whole thing with a wry little remark, and lets go his hand.
Martin pulls back slowly, not in a hurry, feeling dazed and a bit cautious. Either John didn't see anything, or he saw it and he's just... setting it aside. Which would make sense. Martin knows that John's heard every tape, heard those moments where he said a little more than he meant to, let slip that he worries, that he misses him, that he needs him to be okay. John's heard Elias taunt him about his devotion, and even heard Martin snap back about his feelings, so... this shouldn't be any different. John knows, and he's made peace with it, and... and Martin can, too. It's encouraging, sort of.
"It's all right," he says softly, managing a little smile. "I'm glad you told me."
He is glad; as awful as it was, he likes knowing more about John, understanding a little better what formed him. His first horrifying experience with a Leitner has a lot of context to offer. After sharing so much of himself, it... Well, Martin doesn't believe there's any need for something transactional here, but it feels good that John is willing to share, too.
He rouses himself at length and picks up one of the scones and his tea. "Well, on that note," he says, as lightheartedly as he can, "I suppose I ought to get around to managing this place." He stands up and looks at John, still smiling. Beyond all of it, the sad elements in both their stories, his own underlying torments, he's still just overwhelmingly happy about the gift, the knowledge that John's going to be all right. He's not sure what else to say, the I'll see you later sort of obvious and implied, so he ends up just nodding and turning to leave. He needs a bit of time to himself, he thinks, but it's the good sort, just to settle himself. Knowing John's around the corner is the comfort it ought to be.