Martin has, quite fortunately, only just finished preparing their tea when the thunder erupts, and he jumps with a little shriek of surprise that is mostly lost in the continuing rumble. That was a narrowly avoided disaster; if he'd had the tea in hand, it would've ended up on the floor, and possibly the mugs as well.

"All right," he answers, a bit harried but only more determined to get sorted as fast as possible. He grabs a small dish for the teabags and carries the whole lot over, managing to keep steady even as another great crash rings out around them.

"Christ, it's right on top of us." He sets down his own mug and the dish, offering John's to him directly, so he might start warming his hands a little faster. The poor Bishop has by now fled beneath the couch, but he may come back out once they're both settled. Not quite yet, though. "I'm just getting a blanket," he says, heading into the hall for their linen closet. It hasn't been blanket season for a while, but this is a special case.

He rummages around in the closet for the softest, largest blanket they have, and no sooner has he found it than a third thunderclap startles him as badly as the first, and then the closet light abruptly switches off, plunging him into deep and sudden darkness.

"Oh, come on," he says, lifting his voice so John can hear him down the hall.