Oh, god. This is the worst thing that's ever happened. Martin gapes at John, at his evident glee, and feels himself bristling like an angry cat as John actually points at him. He struggles to speak, to make the denials he ought to make, to leverage indignation and offense in the face of John's outlandish triumph.

But that's the problem. It's not outlandish at all.

"...Okay, maybe," he grits out a moment later, wondering if he can spin this like he hadn't realized it himself, before he finally crumples: "Fine. Fine. Yes. A bit." He stares at his tea, then knocks most of it back like it's a shot, setting the cup aside so he can better bury his face in his hands.