John stills at Martin's rejoinder, eyes narrowing. Perhaps it wasn't meant as implicit criticism, but it's certainly easy to take it that way. If nothing else, it's awfully opinionated for someone whose dithering has contributed to any delays far more than John's measured approach to the buttons has done.

"Oh, is this too slow for you?" John asks, indignation folded into his disbelief as he draws back to give Martin an affronted look. He shifts his grip on Martin's shirt, one fist bunched on either side of the front placket. "Getting impatient, are we?" he asks, punctuating the adjective by giving the garment a sharp, decisive tug. It's not a move he's ever employed before, and he is distantly concerned that it either won't work or will work too well, scattering buttons throughout the living room for the cat to choke on later. But he only hears one button go clattering off across the coffee table, and he's certain he can retrieve it before The Bishop does.

"There," John says in breathless, huffy satisfaction. "Fuck's sake." Then, before Martin can speak, he lifts a hand to Martin's hair and snarls his fingers in a tight fist, tugging just enough to tip Martin's chin up a fraction. "Any other smart remarks?" he asks, his tone a little more measured and his expression considerably more haughty, though there's a pleased grin tugging at his lips. "Or may I continue my work?"