John blinks slowly and follows the long expanse of the Winter Knight's legs to his rather fine coat to a scarf wrapped around a mildly amused face. It's foggy and John takes a moment to show an ounce of weakness, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes and waiting for the world to resolve itself.

There are political ramifications, of course, to passing out in Faerie and being handled by Winter's representative. That is it Dresden and not Lady Maeve or the fucking Leanansidhe bodes somewhat well, though. He hates dealing with the sidhe; no matter what you do you're going to piss off someone. At least Dresden's used to taking flagrant offense to John's very existence. Nothing new there.

He pushes himself up gingerly, first just to his knees, then stops. God, there are hangovers then there is Beltane wine hangovers. He breathes slowly, then says, "How much time have I lost?"

The worst part of taking a nap in the Nevernever, doubtlessly, if the time dissonance. And John thought the Rome-to-O'Hare jetlag was bad. Christ.