"Oh," John murmurs, soft and startled — not by the sentiment, but by the sudden armful. But he adjusts quickly, curling his arms around Martin and tucking in his chin just long enough to press a kiss to the top of his head. "I love you, too."

He breathes slowly, his own anxiety easing, things slotting back into place. He'd known Martin was upset, and had anticipated some sort of meltdown, but Christ, not... not all that. He still isn't quite sure if he's relieved to have cleared the air, or appalled over the belated discovery of just what needed clearing: that Martin blamed himself for not being able to rouse him from the coma; that he was capable, even under great duress, of characterizing their admittedly fraught history as a succession of reasons Martin gave John to—to just give up. Jesus Christ.

Not that he's keen to prod at that tender bruise when things have only just calmed down. He just holds Martin close, letting things settle, until they've stood there long enough for The Bishop to walk over and start twining around their shins.

John exhales softly, somewhere between a sigh and a huff of laughter. "I ought to get changed," he says, though he doesn't loosen his hold or make any moves to go anywhere just yet. "Never would have guessed that archiving would end up being so hard on my wardrobe."