It is a testament to how tired he is that he doesn't jolt at the touch to his hair. It isn't unpleasant in the least; unexpected, but even the surprise is short-lived, easily brushed aside in the wake of such a gentle, indulgent comfort. John seems to have done it without thinking, which means this is another normal thing he — the Martin of this world, this future — gets to enjoy on a regular basis. Martin lets his breath draw out slowly, cautiously, as if fearing he might startle John out of it. He wonders if he ought to say something, when John beats him to it with a remark so unexpectedly casual it startles a soft, sleepy laugh out of Martin.

"Well, good," he says as firmly as he can in this position. "You ought to sleep in your own bed, anyway."

He hesitates with a held breath, a faint implication that he has more to say, though he isn't quite certain what. The longer it goes on, the more he wants, more than anything, to keep that hand in his hair. "This is nice," he murmurs at length, and rather inanely. Consciousness is waning rapidly, which is why he doesn't manage to stop himself mumbling, "Always knew your hands were nice."