The first thing he felt upon waking was the unavoidably sharp throbbing invading his temples. Immediately, his stiff hand traveled up to massage them… Not that the action did anything to help.
Mark Hoffman released a sound that lied somewhere between the heaviest sigh of displeasure and the most irritated groan of discomfort as he turned off his side to lay on his back. His eyes remained squeezed shut and he cursed under his breath while he tried to recover memories of the previous evening, but all he seemed to disclose were blurry visuals presented in an unsure frame.
He did however remember why he wasn't partial to drinking often. Oh yes. There had been tequila and there had been vodka. Wines of various sorts and brands. It was celebratory, of course. The "team's" recent triumphs called for it.
Hoffman felt the cool kiss of the drafty surroundings that he apparently resided in. It crept up his flesh and across his bare chest. Although he still hadn't opened his eyes, he knew. By the crisp, damp air and the faint stench of death exactly where he was. The warehouse. Odd to him, really. Despite spending so much time there with his "mentor" and fellow accomplice he'd always despised spending the nights there and avoided doing so when it was in his power. It certainly wasn't the most welcoming environment and being surrounded by so many devices of torture made it near impossible to get decent sleep.
Yet here he lay? Momentarily the man considered moving all of his free joints to ensure they weren't attached to anything or at a disadvantage of any sort. But he knew better. He'd helped to design the traps after all. The idea of John testing him using his own creations against him was absurd and highly unlikely. Much too unsophisticated for John's taste.. That was something Mark had figured out a long time ago.
In any case, he was fucking cold. That he couldn't deny. Eyes still shut, the Detective reached down and was relieved to feel soft cotton sheets over a mattress beneath him. He continued to stroke and pat around the bed, desperately hoping to find a blanket as an intense chill sent the exposed flesh of his chest and torso into another convulsion. Moments subsequent, his fingers came in contact with a thick heap of material to the direct left of him. Without so much as another thought, he tugged the blanket towards him and covered himself, rolling back onto his side. He wasn't ready to get up. And not knowing exactly where he was or why he was there didn't change that.
Though his head still throbbed and his back felt as though it'd been lanced with a scalpel big enough to flaw every inch, his stiff joints relaxed and the furrow in his brow softened. The warmth that the blanket provided him with made his current situation slightly less bizarre. Comforting. He sighed once more as slowly, he began to drift….
"Mmmm…"
A feminine tone protested in what was obviously irritation. Suddenly, the blanket was harshly yanked from Hoffman's form.