"Alright," says John, slow and dubious. He can almost puzzle out the significance of such a thing, some borrowed instinct towards embarrassment. It mostly sounds inconvenient. Certainly the sort of thing Arthur would be flustered to get caught at, but John need not worry about the same: their body now sleeps as silently as it had during the coma. John doesn't care for that groggy weight to their limbs, but he has always enjoyed the floaty, tingly threshold between sleep and waking.

"It will not bother me," he decides, because he is being willfully kind. As Jack has been to him. He climbs into bed still shirtless, and trying to recall the space Serph occupied, shuffles over to make room for Jack.