John still feels a thread of nervousness as he waits for Martin to join him, half anticipating a belated rejection, or some other variety of anxious backpedaling. It's not as if he could really blame Martin for reconsidering; this might not be unusual for him, but there is only so much ballast he can provide. Much as he wants to offer comfort, that's not the same as becoming a comfort, and he can't presume a shortcut exists just because he'd like it to, or because it would be more convenient for both of them if it did.

But Martin does settle in, moving carefully, as if mindful of an injury. John matches him almost instinctively, folding his arms around him with just enough pressure to suggest that it's deliberate and not incidental. One hand settles lightly on Martin's arm, the other — as much to relieve the tickle against his jaw as in a bid to help Martin relax — reaches up to sweep back Martin's hair.

"Of course," he replies softly, repeating the gesture without any conscious deliberation. Martin's temporal regression hasn't made his hair any less soft, and John has spent more than enough time petting it for it to become simple muscle memory. It doesn't help that he's distracted, searching for something to say that might make this easier, somehow, that might smooth away any lingering awkwardness. After a few moments, in the sort of tone with which one might discuss the weather, he ventures, "This does beat the couch."