[Their foreheads touch, and with John’s heart blown wide-open, he almost cries again. This time with homesickness. He misses Atlantis. Misses his people. Misses his galaxy, and all of its problems. At least they were his problems.
John wants to go back, but he wants Poe to come with him, too. He can't not fall in love with the city, and the ocean, and everything good that Atlantis stands for. Their cause is a worthy one.
But so is Poe's. He's fought so hard, and for so long. Even longer than John has. He's heard the story of Kes and Shara-Bey. Poe was born into his war. He didn't choose it, and he can't just walk away. Knowing the answer, John would never ask him to.
The Resistance is in Poe's blood, same as the DNA of the Ancients is in John's.
Poe lowers him into the tub and John melts into the warm water. Vague worries temporarily forgotten. He doesn't expect Poe to climb in after him, behind him, and isn't sure what to do when he's there. Too tired to overthink, or protest, or be anything but cooperative, John leans back into him.
Baths aren't something he indulges in. John's used to military showers. In and out in three minutes, unless you're jerking off. Lying against Poe, all his various aches and pains, inside and out, dissipating into the warm water, John's thinking of using the tub more often.
He swallows to wet his throat, and to force down three dangerous words threatening to compromise his position. Too much, too soon. Even now, high and soft, broken open, more relaxed and at peace than he can remember feeling since before the war, there are some lines John won't cross.
no subject
John wants to go back, but he wants Poe to come with him, too. He can't not fall in love with the city, and the ocean, and everything good that Atlantis stands for. Their cause is a worthy one.
But so is Poe's. He's fought so hard, and for so long. Even longer than John has. He's heard the story of Kes and Shara-Bey. Poe was born into his war. He didn't choose it, and he can't just walk away. Knowing the answer, John would never ask him to.
The Resistance is in Poe's blood, same as the DNA of the Ancients is in John's.
Poe lowers him into the tub and John melts into the warm water. Vague worries temporarily forgotten. He doesn't expect Poe to climb in after him, behind him, and isn't sure what to do when he's there. Too tired to overthink, or protest, or be anything but cooperative, John leans back into him.
Baths aren't something he indulges in. John's used to military showers. In and out in three minutes, unless you're jerking off. Lying against Poe, all his various aches and pains, inside and out, dissipating into the warm water, John's thinking of using the tub more often.
He swallows to wet his throat, and to force down three dangerous words threatening to compromise his position. Too much, too soon. Even now, high and soft, broken open, more relaxed and at peace than he can remember feeling since before the war, there are some lines John won't cross.
He doesn't know how.]
I can't feel my legs.