Martin chuckles quietly, tired and fond in equal measure, too much of each to leave room for any tutting over John's self-deprecation. It's light and harmless, and the more important piece of it is how grateful Martin really is to him. It doesn't matter how empty of care his childhood was; what he has now is good, and it would be good regardless of how it compares to things past.

"Far better than adequate," he says, giving John a very slight nudge through the layer of blanket cushioned between them. He lifts the tea to drink more, then sits quietly for a while, wondering if he might just doze off like this. But he's too uncomfortable for rest to be much of an option. It isn't long before an involuntary shiver unsettles him and he nearly spills the tea. He sits up with a weary groan, the aches in his joints and oversensitivity of his skin becoming rapidly too apparent.

"Christ," he mumbles, and sets the tea on the table with a low grunt of effort. He stays hunched over, burying his face in one hand, part resignation and part exhaustion. "Think I have a fever."