John's face is hidden, so Martin can't see the faint blush that colors John's cheeks, or the way his lips twitch in a sleepy grin. This sort of thing might technically qualify as normal, for them, but it still feels like an indulgence. He's had so many rude awakenings — hunched over his own desk or sprawled awkwardly on the couch being the most frequent offenders, if not the worst — that there's something downright decadent about all this: the warmth and safety; the awareness that, while they can't laze about in bed all day, there is no hurry; the evident pleasure Martin takes in coaxing him back to full consciousness with persistent, gentle affection.

The hand in his hair might be considered counterproductive on that score, but Martin is still talking, and that balances it out. Despite several victories against the Lonely, it still feels important to not ignore him, or seem to, and John can't not respond to a direct query. Granted, he isn't quite ready for coherence, but he answers Martin's question with a raspy purr of a sound, as much in response to his touch as his voice, and gently flexes the hand resting against Martin's stomach. It's too muzzy and directionless a gesture to be properly reciprocal, but the intention is there.

After a few moments, he musters up a murmured, "You?"