[Poe accepts before John can punish himself for asking. There's a moment of emptiness when Poe pulls out of him, but then Poe is wrapping him up, fitting against him, barricading himself in against the wall.
There's a blinding moment of comfort, of wordless understanding, and being understood, knowing that Poe keeps his back to the wall, too. That it's easy and natural for him to sleep facing the door, ready for anyone, and anything, that comes through.
John's forgotten what it feels like to lie in bed together with someone. Not fooling. Not fucking. Just lying. Chest to back. John's not used to being the inner spoon, but right now, it's all he's ever wanted to be.
Poe's necklace falls over his shoulder, cool against his skin, in contrast to the warmth of Poe's breath, the washer catching light, glinting through his eyelashes.]
Thanks.
[He doesn't know what else to say, how else to express what it means. Isn't sure he wants Poe to know, even if he could. John hasn't asked anyone to stay since the day his ex-wife left him, for all her extremely legitimate reasons.
He'd asked her, right before she walked down the steps of their house, the house they bought together, a fixer-upper that neither of them really had the time or inclination to fix, and climbed into the taxi, on her way to Washington, DC to follow her dreams, with just a carry on, and no excess baggage.
John already knew the answer to his profoundly selfish question by the way she held her head high, proud, and determined, stronger than he'll ever be, even before she opened her perfectly lipsticked mouth to say no.
He regrets asking then, and he's never asked since. Not in so many words, anyway. Sometimes he'll pull the person back down, convince them to stay just a little longer, with a kiss, or his lips on their neck, back, between their legs, anything not to be alone when the buzz wears off, and the world regains all its sharp edges.
He tugs Poe's arms closer around himself, up to his chest.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2018-01-23 02:33 am (UTC)There's a blinding moment of comfort, of wordless understanding, and being understood, knowing that Poe keeps his back to the wall, too. That it's easy and natural for him to sleep facing the door, ready for anyone, and anything, that comes through.
John's forgotten what it feels like to lie in bed together with someone. Not fooling. Not fucking. Just lying. Chest to back. John's not used to being the inner spoon, but right now, it's all he's ever wanted to be.
Poe's necklace falls over his shoulder, cool against his skin, in contrast to the warmth of Poe's breath, the washer catching light, glinting through his eyelashes.]
Thanks.
[He doesn't know what else to say, how else to express what it means. Isn't sure he wants Poe to know, even if he could. John hasn't asked anyone to stay since the day his ex-wife left him, for all her extremely legitimate reasons.
He'd asked her, right before she walked down the steps of their house, the house they bought together, a fixer-upper that neither of them really had the time or inclination to fix, and climbed into the taxi, on her way to Washington, DC to follow her dreams, with just a carry on, and no excess baggage.
John already knew the answer to his profoundly selfish question by the way she held her head high, proud, and determined, stronger than he'll ever be, even before she opened her perfectly lipsticked mouth to say no.
He regrets asking then, and he's never asked since. Not in so many words, anyway. Sometimes he'll pull the person back down, convince them to stay just a little longer, with a kiss, or his lips on their neck, back, between their legs, anything not to be alone when the buzz wears off, and the world regains all its sharp edges.
He tugs Poe's arms closer around himself, up to his chest.]
That was... good.