One of the unanticipated delights of moving in together is no longer waking to something as impersonal and unforgiving as the buzzing of an alarm. Worst case scenario, they're roused by The Bishop's demanding chirps, which at least have the virtue of rarely escalating into any pointed (or pointy) taps from his paws. Best case scenario, it's something much more agreeable: fingers combing gently through his hair, lips brushing against his forehead, a warm hand curling around his own. John may not be an early riser by habit or inclination, but it's impossible to resent being roused so gently. Especially when 'roused,' at this hour, tends to be rather loosely defined.

He's briefly, drowsily startled by the arm around his shoulders, his brain fumbling with the idea that perhaps he is (or was) about to roll off the bed, and that this might be a rescue attempt. But then he registers that he is not being moved: Martin is just pulling himself closer. Must be morning, then. Doesn't mean he has to accept it with any immediacy, though, and when Martin tucks his chin atop John's head, John nuzzles close to his chest, warm and safe from any ambient dawn light that might try to drag him into full consciousness.

He can't ignore Martin's voice, though, and he acknowledges the greeting with a sleepy grunt, one hand questing forward until his knuckles brush against something warm and soft — Martin's belly, he thinks — before settling back down with a sigh of satisfaction.