Admittedly, John knew what he was doing when he rolled up his sleeves (besides making an obvious concession to the task at hand). He's well aware that it's a look Martin enjoys. The nuzzle is still a slight surprise, though: enough to startle a quiet chuckle out of him. Between the full cup of water in one hand and the need to support Martin's head with the other, his options for recourse are a bit limited, but he does manage to curl his fingertips in Martin's hair, his gaze warm and irrepressibly fond.

And then Martin tips his head back and shuts his eyes, and John breathes an, "Okay," before he carefully starts to pour. For a few moments, his half-teasing comments about decadence are entirely forgotten. Perhaps it's because there is nothing feigned or performative about Martin's vulnerability, and the thought of treating it playfully — even just for the sake of allaying any nerves or embarrassment — is secondary to the thought of treating it with the care it deserves. So he remains quiet and focused as he wets Martin's hair, methodically refilling the cup two or three times, shifting his supporting hand a little to make sure it's a thorough job. Then he eases Martin back upright, brushing back a few stray locks of hair before they can start dripping in his eyes.

"All right so far?" he asks, setting the cup aside and reaching for the shampoo.