As expected, Martin gamely works John's shirt up to his shoulders before pausing to consider his next move. John remains patiently, passively slumped, his eyes closed and a contented smile fixed on his face as he waits to see how Martin proceeds. That smile soon blooms into a grin when Martin ends up cradling him like an overlarge child to finish the job, supporting him carefully as he draws the shirt over John's head. He grins at the inescapable awkwardness as Martin works the shirt down one arm at a time, and he grins because it's such a tender, sweet solution to a silly problem that John engineered on purpose. Even being a bit of a shit hasn't thrown Martin off his stride; he is still making sure that John feels openly, flagrantly treasured. If he wasn't so thoroughly soothed on top of all that, he thinks he might burst with it.

John cracks his eyes back open after Martin lowers him back onto the bed, and his grin softens at the way Martin's looking at him. "You spoil me," John murmurs in fond accusation. He reaches up, his fingers drifting a drowsy passage down Martin's arm until they reach his hand and curl around his palm.

The Bishop stands, the better to turn a half-circle and flop decisively back against John's side. "Oof," John mutters, giving the cat a placating pat before telling him, "You don't spoil me enough."