Martin wakes up to the feeling of being watched.
There are two options for it: one creepy but sort of cute, one creepy and just annoying. The former is currently curled up in a weird tight little ball in the nest of Martin’s arms like the world’s gangliest cat, sharp elbow digging into Martin’s rib cage and a socked foot awkwardly resting on Martin’s hip bone. He doesn’t look comfortable, but his eyes are shut and he is breathing, slow, deep and regular. Martin has learned the hard way not to take anything for granted, but he’s getting used to this, and complacent to the small miracle of Jon breathing at all. Jon is alive, breathing, sleeping normally, and gathered in his arms, and all Martin’s half-awake brain can muster to be concerned about is that he loves a man who wears socks to bed. Next time Jon starts an argument about his being a monster, Martin might have to agree.
Jon’s eyelids are firmly down, twitching only with dreamsight, and Martin isn’t in there. So, the itching prickle on the nape of Martin’s neck comes from the other one.
He shifts around lazily, not so much as to disturb Jon (though the man sleeps like the dead, when he does) or dislodge him, but enough to lie on his back and be able to look at the ceiling. In the grey shadows of early morning, he can just barely make out the circular, vaguely ocular shape of his ceiling lamp. He stares directly into it and takes one hand off of Jon’s shoulder to flip it the bird.
“Morning, Elias. Sod off,” he comments amiably, and rolls back into Jon’s warmth and to sleep.