"Or a pretentious prat. That's far worse than werewolves or feral things." John snorts at the idea that Marston once didn't believe in vampirism. John believes in almost everything now. Once he decides that something is absolutely fake, he finds himself dealing with exactly what he didn't think was possible. So it's best to keep an open mind.

Marston's words bring a smirk to John's face. The man is amusing. And while they're a disastrous combination drunk, it's quite likely they'll get on just fine when they're sober too. "You look damn good for your age. Too bad the bars don't give out senior discounts. Not that anyone would believe you."

John follows close behind his companion, trusting him to keep him on the right track. Not that it makes sense at all for him to, but that mead has warmed John's heart and he's had a good enough time that what should be a wary alliance feels more like warm friendship. And he's starting to mentally plot as they go upstairs, sleepy from the booze but still cranking away at where they should go next and what they'll find when they're able to do more mentally.

It all blurs and fades when he's asked about the floor he's on. "Fifth, mate. Think we can actually get there without relying on the sodding elevator?" His legs are pretty wobbly at this point, and he feels comfortably numb. But at the same time, they made it up this far. They're not without hope.