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"We get on so well," John echoes, incredulity making way for something more like charmed appreciation, as if it's a particularly witty turn of phrase and not just an absurd excuse for Martin to feel romantically threatened. He could point out that he gets on well with plenty of people — or, if not 'plenty' in an objective sense, certainly more people than he could've boasted back home — but not to a point where Martin ought to-to watch his back, or something. John isn't interested in anyone else that way, and, more to the point, he's reasonably certain no one else is that sort of interested in him. This, he'd guess, is the true source of his ongoing elation: the inescapably flattering implication that anyone else in this city would actually have any interest in sniping him. Only Martin, with his rather unique propensity for seeing the best in him, would even dream of such a thing.

John feels such an overwhelming swell of fondness for this ridiculous man that he can't resist reaching for him, one hand lighting on his back and the other on his arm, the first suggestion of a proper embrace. He also can't resist continuing to tease a bit, because honestly. "Me and the incorporeal woman who's old enough to be my great-great-grandmother. You think she's going to... what, lock me in the Observatory and have her wicked way with me?" He starts giggling, unable to imagine even joking about such a thing with her. She'd lose all respect for him in a heartbeat.

Something even funnier occurs to him, and he guffaws outright. "Is it, is— sh-should we stop using the phrase 'ghost hole'?" he manages to gasp, so overcome with amusement that it's a struggle to squawk the words out. "T-too suggestive?" At that, he fully lurches over, head landing on Martin's shoulder as he continues to quake with laughter.