There is a curious sort of liminality that John sinks into whenever Martin gives him a proper back rub like this. Part of him could just doze off, the passage of Martin's hands leaving warmth and relaxation in their wake. Nothing is required of him — certainly nothing that demands conscious thought or deliberate intention — and he knows Martin wouldn't begrudge him if his drowsy hums of pleasure dwindled into actual sleep. But he can't. Soothing as this is, the ignorance of slumber is unimaginable. He is too curious to know what happens next, what Martin's next move will be. Early in their relationship, the uncertainty might have unnerved him; now, it intrigues. He may not know exactly what's coming, but he knows he doesn't want to miss it.

So he lies there, too focused on Martin's ministrations to sleep, too soothed to make coherent commentary about it. He feels as if he ought to demonstrate his continued wakefulness, though, perhaps with something more salient than his usual groans of appreciation.

"We really don't talk enough about your hands," he muzzily observes, half-muffled against his pillow. (The Bishop, apparently mistaking the comment as being for him, lets out a soft trill.) John cracks a smile, but keeps his eyes shut. "Always going on about mine. Not half as clever."