John's not sure what wakes him up until the insistent ring of the phone repeats. And repeats. And repeats.
He'd ignore it, but there's always the chance that it could be business, and not answering to business is never, ever a smart plan. It could be Scott - who's paid for the line to his apartment - or it could be staff calling him instead of Scott. It's not a surprise that they find him more approachable than Scott. It's just a bitch at ...oh, hell. Eight in the morning. He's had two hours sleep.
Rolling out of bed, he crawls across the floor with his eyes closed, gropes for the phone handset and doesn't even get chance to reply before the torrent of words flows into his ear. He pulls the handset away, blinks at it, and then puts it back to his head, rolling to sit on his ass on the floor. "Bobby?"