Martin stifles a laugh as John sort of collapses against him, less concerned with the logistics of getting his shirt off than he is with being comfortable. Fair enough. This is a situation Martin engineered; he can maneuver his way through it. "As you wish," he says wryly, and shifts a little to nestle John a little more easily against him, reaching around to pull up the undershirt. The Bishop meows at them, mildly perturbed by the disruption to his own comfort, and Martin answers with a sympathetic, "I know, I know," as he carefully pulls John's shirt up to his shoulders.

At this point, it would be easiest to have John sit up properly, but Martin instead places one hand round the back of John's head, easing him into a supportive cradle as he undresses him — first over the head, then one arm at a time. It's a little awkward, but Martin finds himself smiling as he does it. He likes it when John becomes too comfortable to move. That was the point. No sense disrupting that.

With him finally divested, Martin lays him back down, slow and gentle, his smile only warming as he bends over him.

"There we are," he says, no rush to move ahead, just wanting to look at him for a moment.