"You cooked?" He's a bit warmed by it, honest like. This time, John takes his coat off immediately. It's not that he doesn't like it, but it does remind him a bit too much of his dream self, who is, by the way, a complete fucking wanker. Or sort of one. It's hard to tell.
"I dunno," he admits, tossing his coat to the side and settling himself on the couch just enough to fiddle with the seal on the booze. "It's not… dinner conversation." And really, he would like Q to eat something. Otherwise the poor sod would be boozy and fucked in no time flat. And not even the good kind of fucked.