Fingers flex across his belly again, and Martin nuzzles into John's hair with a contented murmuring hum. "Not bad," he says, and plants a little kiss to the top of his head. "No dreams to speak of." None he remembers, at least, which is all that matters.

He stays put for a few moments longer, then pulls away, his face scrunching up momentarily as he stretches out before he ends up flopped on his back, one arm still draped near enough that he can go on playing lazily with John's hair. With the other he reaches over to take John's hand and draw it back to rest on his stomach in a wordless and mildly cheeky request.