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Martin's smile is as much a reassurance as the words that follow, and John releases the breath he'd been holding. "Good," he says, aware of the inane repetition but unable to think of anything more clever to say. It is good — better than he had any right to expect, really. Which is all the more reason why he shouldn't feel bereft when Martin finally moves away and pushes himself up into a sit: things could certainly be worse, and it's not as if Martin is jerking away in horror like he did that first night. But he still feels a pathetic little pang at the loss of contact, and he stubbornly fixates on the cat, rubbing between The Bishop's ears until Martin speaks again.

John looks back up at him, noting the flush in Martin's cheeks and unable to stop his own from following suit in response to his admission. He swallows a bit thickly, wondering what he might say to that without embarrassing himself (he can't just keep parroting the word 'good,' for Christ's sake), saved from the immediate necessity by Martin's obvious intention to say more. He pushes himself up a little, elbows propped beneath him, and blinks as Martin finally delivers a fumbling sort of... offer? To share the bed?

Is that the offer? It feels presumptuous to assume, but then again, Martin hasn't said anything about taking the couch himself. And he did say that John staying close was helpful, so turning around and suggesting that they swap locations would be counterintuitive, surely. And never mind that John wants that to be what Martin's offering. Beyond the physical comfort of a proper mattress, he wants to help, to be able to help, to have that implicit permission to provide comfort and reassurance. To anchor Martin in a reality that's kinder than the one he left behind. If Martin doesn't find that inherently inappropriate or unappealing, then... then where's the harm, really?

... Besides, if Martin was really suggesting a businesslike trade-off regarding who ruins their back on any given evening, he probably wouldn't be blushing so bloody much.

"Oh, er," John pushes himself the rest of the way upright, earning a faint grumble from The Bishop. "Sure. A-as long as you're comfortable, I mean. I'm sure my, um, my back would appreciate it." He scrubs a hand through his hair, directing the stupid little smile he can't suppress at the cat.