Not for anything stupid. Definitely not because of any heated thoughts. No, oddly enough, that would be easy to deal with; he's dealt with it for ages now, and can successfully shove any, hm, particularly racy thoughts away if he needs to. It's just--
Softness has never really been part of either of their lives. Sweetness, kindness, tenderness-- ah, that's for girls, ain't it? No need for them to have any of it. David don't get that, but David was raised by Esther, soft and loving (and oh, god, but Jack is jealous of it sometimes, he really is). But Spot does. He and Spot were raised one and the same, brutally and roughly, shaped into leaders by sheer necessity at seventeen.
So it hurts even more, maybe, to feel this tenderness from someone who gets it. Who wouldn't dare show this kind of weakness ordinarily, but who knows it's different when it's them.
So Jack keeps his eyes down, because it hurts too much to keep them raised up. Spot's fingers are clever, careful, sweeping the cloth over his cheek, getting at the dried blood, cleaning his face of the bits of dirt and dust still there. At some point his fingers slide against his jaw-- just to tilt his head, just for a moment-- and it takes everything in him not to recoil.
But he stays quiet. He ignores the droplets of water that slip down his neck, and the way Spot's scent is just the way he remembers it. And when his face is clear, he offers his hands, both of them, because why shouldn't he take advantage while he still can? What he wants, right now, is more of this, more of those clever fingers dragging against bare skin, so why shouldn't he have it?]
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Date: 2020-05-02 09:47 pm (UTC)Not for anything stupid. Definitely not because of any heated thoughts. No, oddly enough, that would be easy to deal with; he's dealt with it for ages now, and can successfully shove any, hm, particularly racy thoughts away if he needs to. It's just--
Softness has never really been part of either of their lives. Sweetness, kindness, tenderness-- ah, that's for girls, ain't it? No need for them to have any of it. David don't get that, but David was raised by Esther, soft and loving (and oh, god, but Jack is jealous of it sometimes, he really is). But Spot does. He and Spot were raised one and the same, brutally and roughly, shaped into leaders by sheer necessity at seventeen.
So it hurts even more, maybe, to feel this tenderness from someone who gets it. Who wouldn't dare show this kind of weakness ordinarily, but who knows it's different when it's them.
So Jack keeps his eyes down, because it hurts too much to keep them raised up. Spot's fingers are clever, careful, sweeping the cloth over his cheek, getting at the dried blood, cleaning his face of the bits of dirt and dust still there. At some point his fingers slide against his jaw-- just to tilt his head, just for a moment-- and it takes everything in him not to recoil.
But he stays quiet. He ignores the droplets of water that slip down his neck, and the way Spot's scent is just the way he remembers it. And when his face is clear, he offers his hands, both of them, because why shouldn't he take advantage while he still can? What he wants, right now, is more of this, more of those clever fingers dragging against bare skin, so why shouldn't he have it?]
It was a mugging, Conlon. Nothing more'n that.
[Mmmmmm is that the whole story no it is not.]