Roommates [Closed]

[wereperrito]

Who: Jack, John, and Serph
What: Just some softness before the next event.
When: Three days after the moon warp, evening
Where: John's room in the Convoy
Warnings: Just three men ignoring, or unaware of, social norms. A bit of blood smell on somebody.


For the three nights after spending a big chunk of the post-warp day sharing John's bed, Jack goes back to his van. It had been nice, but John doesn't explicitly invite him to stay, and he hasn't kept himself alive this long by overstaying his welcome places.

And the he sleeps terribly each night. The first night he assumes it's because he slept most of the day. The second night that excuse is wearing a little thin. The third night, he resigns himself to his brain having decided he needs a warm body next to him again. And, well, it's not like John seemed to mind. He'd woken up to being half sprawled across the man and having his hair petted. That's not usually the reaction of someone who is put out by having a bedmate, platonic or otherwise. Maybe he won't mind again.

Only way to find out is to ask.

So he locks up the van and heads into the convoy once the sun sets, has his dinner, and then finds his way to John's room and knocks. He wonders if there will be rusty shears in his future again.

Comments

[thetatters]

It has been a few days without any monster attack or the madness of the broken moon. Slowly, cautiously, John is beginning to lower his guard. When he opens the bedroom door, he's wearing a faded gas station T-shirt and the one-size-too-large boxers he was able to scrounge after the Moon Warp, and he's not holding any sort of weapon.

He still blinks at Jack for a moment in open concern, looking him up and down for any sign of a crisis. Below that is an embarrassing thread of hope. These quiet nights have reminded him too much of Arthur's coma, with nothing to do and no one for company.

"Jack?"

[wereperrito]

No shears! Jack approves of that. He never actually thought John would hurt him, but it was still a bit surprising at the time.

Now, though, he offers John a slightly sheepish smile. "Hi John. Er." He shifts a little, then asks with mixed hope and almost apology, "I was wondering if you minded maybe sharing again?" He is really usually more suave about this-- well, a little more suave, a little-- but that's usually when he's flirting. This isn't flirting. It's just a desire for comfort, and maybe some decent sleep.

[thetatters]

Sheepish works far better than suave: it gives John the space to look deeply relieved. The hope in Jack's expression is simple and sweet. This is the sort of human expression of care he'd been so blindsided by, so moved by, when Arthur lay in the hospital. To need nothing from each other, and yet share warmth and kindness for its own sake... Such gentleness is still novel to him after so long in the Dark World.

He draws himself up and opens the door for Jack to step inside, openly pleased.

"I would like that. Please, come in."

[wereperrito]

Jack sags with relief of his own. "Oh, good. Thank you." He shuffles in, ruffling at his hair with a smile that's still sheepish, but now it's more open and happy, too. "It was really nice last time, you know? My van is very nice, but it's really not the same as sharing with someone."

[thetatters]

"No, I, I understand. I agree!" He's overeager, and embarrassed to be showing it, so John clears his throat. He shuts the door in too much of a hurry to lock it. For lack of anything else to do, he repeats the pattern of last time: he goes to straighten the sheets and covers, to make the bed more inviting. "Sleeping alone is far too quiet, too... empty. Usually I have Arthur with me."

John says this with the blithe enthusiasm of a man who has not thought through the implications.

[wereperrito]

Jack nods. He understands the potential implications. But he doesn't necessarily assume they're the right ones, either. John is from, as far as he can tell, the 1930s. Sharing a bed was not necessarily a big deal back then, and the easiness with which he'd offered to share last time, without any sign of wanting sex out of it, suggests that's as likely the case with Arthur as not.

So he doesn't assume. He just smiles a little sadly, and asks, as he comes around to the other side of the bed, "Do you miss him very much? Arthur?" He misses Ted. He tries not to think about what it means that Ted hasn't found him yet, different planet or not.

[thetatters]

Even in the low light, it's clear that John is caught out: he stills with his hands settling the pillows. Very slowly, he presses them flat. There is a small and vulnerable hunch to his shoulders, but then he straightens, very deliberately, and lifts his chin.

Something in this confidence is defiant. He has decided that love is not weakness. He decides it again at every opportunity, perhaps to spite the parts of him that are afraid.

"Every day." His tone is steady and somber. "We parted under... difficult circumstances. He was injured when I saw him last." By force of will, he does not touch the scar at his throat, but his hand twitches briefly upwards. "I only wish I knew what happened after. I wish I could know that he's safe."

It does not seem likely. Not when John is here wearing his skin. He surely left a place vacant in the Dark World, and Kayne must have been delighted to fill it.

[wereperrito]

Jack didn't actually mean to upset him that much, and with that reaction he immediately feels bad for asking. At least he knows Ted was safe and sound when he left, even if he also knows Ted is likely to get himself into trouble sooner or later without him.

Worse, when your friend-- or more, Jack is laying money on "more" here-- is just a regular human person left behind alone and in trouble. He abandons his side of the bed as quickly as he'd moved towards it, coming around and wordlessly putting his arms around John's shoulders in a hug.

Please know what a hug is, John, or Jack's going to be really embarrassed in a minute. Even Serph knew what hugs were!

[thetatters]

John has the concept of a hug. But he has never experienced one: not as Arthur's passenger, and certainly not firsthand. He startles at the first touch, but does not move away.

"Oh." His breath stirs the hair at the side of Jack's head. Slowly, uncertainly, John leans in. He lifts his hands to the warm span of Jack's back, sets his fingers to the soft texture of his shirt. Is he doing this correctly? What is he meant to—? "I, uh..."

Of course he's doing it correctly. He was a god, once! He can handle a hug.

John's stolen throat has gone unaccountably tight. He clears it as quietly as he can, tightens his embrace, and does not let go until Jack releases him first. Jack's hug is like his handshake: it is very warm.

[wereperrito]

Thankfully, Jack can recognize somebody who really needs a hug from that body language. He stretches up a little more to pull John gently down against his shoulder, since they're close enough in height that it won't make John stoop much, and one hand pets John's hair and the back of his neck soothingly. He'll hold it for several minutes, until his arms get tired or John starts to get twitchy about it, whichever comes first.

And when he does, it's gradual, loosening his arms a bit, patting John's back, settling back on his heels, giving John time to disengage on his own terms as well.

[thetatters]

Jack's fingers stroke through John's hair and down the nape of his neck. It does something to him that he cannot begin to articulate. John makes a soft punched-out noise high in his throat, and his fingers tighten in the fabric at Jack's back. His grip slowly softens. Relief bleeds through him in a sweet, gentle easing of tension.

When Jack finally releases him, John has gone pliant and slow. He blinks as though surfacing from somewhere deep, and lets his hands fall.

"Thank you." He murmurs it in his strange, low voice. "That was..." He has never experienced anything like it. John is still trying to scrape together the remains of his dignity. "I suppose I needed that."

[wereperrito]

Jack pats his shoulder fondly. Yep, the eldritch horror needs some love, that's pretty obvious. "I am just glad I could give it." Then he nudges John's elbow lightly in the direction of the bed they'd momentarily forgotten about. "Come on, let's get to bed. I'll probably wind up using you for a pillow again." He has a feeling John won't mind at all.

[bufudine]

Hunting that night had been a little... frustrating. Sometimes the bodies of the monsters of this world dissipate and are absorbed by the mark on his leg. At other times, there is a body that he can use to feed his demon. He doesn't know the cause of this difference, can't seem to find any pattern to it. So all he can do is hunt until there's something he can eat.

It had taken more attempts than he would have liked.

Even though he's never as bloody as one would expect after reverting, there's still the slight scent of blood clinging to him when he returns to the Convoy. He's used to long nights of fighting with little rest, but...

(Usually his tribe is there.)

...Serph pushes open the door to the larger room he'd shared with John earlier and pauses in the doorway when he sees the bed occupied. Well. More occupied. He remains standing at the threshold, gaze very obviously roving over both Jack and John but his neutral expression doesn't make it clear what he's thinking.

early march, before the wings

[thetatters]

Then comes the night John slinks in, embarrassed, reeking of fear and sweat and blood.

He'd hoped to join Jack and Serph once they were already asleep, and thus avoid notice or questions. He has changed into clean clothing— another faded, oversized T-shirt and threadbare athletic shorts— except for the yellow cowl. It's... a mess. Badly bloodstained, then washed inexpertly in a Convoy shower, scrubbed with their sad industrial hand soap. John clearly has no idea how to get blood out of clothing, because the result is a still-damp, still-stained wrap that hides his head and neck.

He doesn't take it off to sleep, as he normally might. Instead John sets down his bag in the corner, struggles out of his shoes, and resolutely pretends nothing is wrong.

Re: early march, before the wings

[wereperrito]

Jack is not asleep. He is not, in fact, even laying down. He'd been sitting up on the bed, hugging his knees, debating hunting John down himself, and hang the danger of being out at night. Serph is often back late, doing his patrols of whatever he does, but John is never this late. Something must have gone wrong.

So John coming in smelling strongly of blood-- his own blood, even-- means Jack is already climbing off the bed and approaching, not quickly, not wanting to startle him, but definitely like he's aiming to put a hand on him. "John? What happened?"

No pretending allowed here, sorry buddy.

[thetatters]

John does not startle: he tightens, instead, head ducked and gaze turned away. There is a clumsy, ginger quality to his movements, as though he's off-balance and trying to compensate for it. His next breath shudders with exhaustion.

But he does not move away from the touch, should Jack set a hand on him. Instead, John leans in to that warm point of contact.

"Nothing. Just... a brief encounter with a monster." There are other scents beneath the blood: mud, motor oil, the acrid tang of gunpowder. And Blake, where she'd licked the blood up from his throat. "I'm alright. Go back to sleep, Jack."

[wereperrito]

Jack does touch him, putting his hand on his shoulder, frowning and turning him a little to face him. "I wasn't asleep. You're never this late, so I was worried." He gives John a fairly thorough once-over with his eyes, looking for any remaining sources of blood, or stains on hos clothing. "Will you tell me what happened?"

[thetatters]

"Worried?" John blinks up at him then, startled into eye contact. Openly touched.

The movement reveals bandages beneath his damp and bloodsoaked cowl. He struggled into a fresh shirt and shorts, but he hasn't bathed since the attack. John knows their body well enough to know they'd certainly pass out in the shower. The wrappings are smeared and spotted with blood. He has been wounded at carotid and jugular: it's frankly impossible that he is standing upright.

Even these few seconds of standing unsupported have pressed those limits. He sways more heavily into Jack, listing against his arm and onto his shoulder.

"I..." He clasps Jack on the shoulder for stability and tries stubbornly to regain his feet. John hesitates, then confesses: "It was one of us. She had gone mad. Like what happens to you."

[wereperrito]

Jack ducks under John's arm, aiming to support him and lead him to the bed, but the confession makes him go still a moment. He shuts his eyes, breathes in and out once to shove the emotion down, then says briskly, "Sit down. I will clean you up. Whoever bandaged that did a terrible job of it, and they definitely got blood everywhere. This will all need to be cleaned. I should probably start it soaking tonight."

He needs to fuss or he might do something more embarrassing like go on a rant in Spanish, or cry. He never wanted that for anyone else. It's bad enough for a moon warp, or a full moon, for one night out of a month, but at any time? Randomly? Thanks, he hates this.

[thetatters]

John has never been carried like this before. Nor has Arthur, except perhaps that one blurry, terrible evening of the coma— John's first night alone, thinking he was to be trapped in a corpse. He grips weakly at Jack, then finds the rhythm of walking together, and lets that tension drop.

"It's perfectly clean." He's grumbling, defensive. "You try bandaging something when you've lost all your goddamn blood."

[wereperrito]

"I suppose the one who bit you wasn't in any state to help," Jack huffs, and sets about stripping off any actually bloody clothing and carting it to the bathroom next door to dump in the sink to soak. He comes back a moment later with a damp rag to clean anything left on John's skin.

He's careful about it. His first aid kit is in his van, so he has to use the same bandage. He doesn't even remove it, lest he tear a growing scab and make the bleeding start again. He just holds it in place and adjusts the tape to make it more secure, cleaning around it gently.

He does a bit of muttering in Spanish, though given the translation effect, John probably gets the gist. Lots of under-the-breath complaining about how none of this is remotely fair and he'd like to have a good talking to with whoever caused it all to begin with.

[thetatters]

John gives a long-suffering sigh and bows his head to allow Jack access to his cowl. With it unwound, he looks particularly rumpled and pathetic. There is no resistance to Jack's gentle spot-cleaning: he holds himself patiently, carefully still, as though practiced at this.

It's how he spent the first month of life, after all. Lilly cared for them while Arthur slept.

"She was alright by the end. She... returned to herself." He gives Jack a careful, sidelong look: there's something hopeful to it, almost shy. "She survived."

That outcome was far from certain. Lowering the gun went against his every instinct, except those he willfully decided to practice. He is quietly, fiercely proud.

[wereperrito]

Jack heaves a little sigh, patting the edge of the bandage, now more securely taped down. "Good. That's very good. We should not be trying to kill each other. We're all we have, out here." Ugh, he ought to get John something to drink, to help him replace that lost blood, but he doesn't have anything with actual calories in it to offer. Nor a glass to offer it in, even if he just went to get some water from the bathroom tap.

He looks up at John, instead. "She is okay, too? Not just alive, but okay?"

[thetatters]

John remains pliant and polite, head tipped away to bare his throat. He smiles at the question before he means to, and before he meets Jack's eyes.

"She... Yes. She, uh." He hesitates, caught between embarrassment and pride, and then says all in a rush: "Do you know Evanescence? The music. We listened to a C-D." He says CD with the careful precision of someone who has no idea what it means. And, immediately defensive: "It's very good music."

Perhaps it's foolish that he keeps treating new and violent monsters as friends. Were Arthur the one making these choices, John would certainly have words of caution for him, and more likely words of reproach. But... well, Jack is sometimes a monster, yet he touches John as gently as Lilly ever did.

[wereperrito]

"The one with the dark haired lead singer? Big voice? Lots of songs about death and depression?" Jack has heard of the band, though it's not really his type of music. He can appreciate Amy Lee's vocal talent without wanting to listen to it all the time. And he remembers a time when you could barely turn on the radio without hearing her wailing about wanting to die. (This may be one reason why it's not his kind of music.)

He shakes his head a bit, and agrees enough to say, "Yes, that band was very popular for a while. You sat down with someone who attacked you and listened to music after?" Which... does suggest she's okay, he supposes.

He should not be surprised. John invited him to share the bed after a night of babysitting the wolf. This may just be the way John is. Jack has some tendencies that direction, himself, if just in the compassion sense.