John watches. It's a little thing, easy to dismiss, and yet. He feels the stumble like the hitch of some phantom limb; it's all cluttered in at the edges of his awareness, his peripheral-vision-but-not. Kills him with migraine when he tries to untangle the details, but if he just sits back and trusts his gut, he knows what he's seeing. There are muscle groups and medical terms just past the tip of his tongue.

Mind control? he could say. Or some tutting concern, probing and intrigued. I get the cool eyes and you get telekinesis for assholes?

"Sure," he says instead, like he believes it. But he's looking at Alec too thoughtfully to sell that. "If you find the zombies, let me know."

He takes up a fry and settles in to watch the waiter walk away.