Let's not try to figure out everything at once...

[forthedog]

It's better. For the first time, it's better and he's sure it's not just wishful thinking, or adjusting to a situation that's just as shitty as it was before.

He's still not good. The morning he and Neil had spent in bed and curled around each other, he hadn't dreamed, but that night he had, and badly. And the night after. Neil touches him, and he still flinches instinctively away most of the time. The thought of going outside for anything--even the smallest task--feels like an exhausting ordeal. At times even getting up to bathe or eat is difficult.

But a few days later, and he's sure it's still better. As he makes his way up the stairs to he apartment, he's sure he feels less tired. Less battered inside.

Again, he's coming back from therapy, but he's feeling cautiously hopeful in addition to sore and tired. Donna had seemed entirely unsurprised when he had broached the subject--sidling around to it with an awkwardness that made him cringe and yet that he couldn't really stop--nodding and moving over to a desk and scribbling a name and a number down on a scrap of paper.

"There," she had said, tossing her long blond ponytail back over her shoulder and handing the paper to him. "Call that number. They'll take good care of you. Promise."

And he had thought that might actually be all she said about it, but as she pointed him back to the mat and his stretches, she had smiled, and it had been faint and warm. "I'm glad you said something," she said quietly. "'Cause I was about to."

Under the embarrassment, he was--and is--grateful. Because people care. They care without prying, without making themselves a nuisance.

Unless they have to. He thinks of Johnny and doesn't quite smile.

He turns the key in the lock, pushes the door open. Maybe it's better, but he's still tired and everything still hurts, and all he wants to do is curl up on the couch and doze.

Once it would have been with a drink. But now part of him--a louder part--is wondering if that might be the best idea.

Comments

[forthedog]

For a few moments he just stands there, just past the kitchen, one hand on the wall as his gaze wanders over Neil's face and body with all the freedom of someone who isn't being watched. It's a little like before, like blindfolding him and looking his fill--except this also feels different. Less desperate.

Less like it's his only option.

At last he steps closer, moves to the couch and sinks down onto the end of it, reaching out to shove Neil's legs gently out of the way.

He likes looking. But maybe right now it won't be so hard to look with Neil looking back.

[little_moons]

Knocking my headphones off my ears, I crack open my eyes and look up at him with a crooked smile.

"Hey," I say, resting my feet in his lap. "How's it goin'?"

[forthedog]

"Okay," he murmurs, one hand on Neil's ankle, only slightly uncomfortable and thrown by Neil's obvious comfort. "Tired."

He regards the beer meditatively for a second or two, then reaches out for it and takes a swallow. Baby steps. He's not there yet.

"I, uh... talked to Donna today," he says. "I got a number to call."

[little_moons]

Sitting up slowly, I drape an arm across the back of the couch, my hand just inches from touching his shoulder.

"What did she say?"

[forthedog]

He shrugs, a little awkward. "Not a lot." He looks down at his hands, fingertips still wet from the beer bottle. "She said she was glad I said something. 'Cause she was about to."

He's quiet for a little longer, hand stroking idly over Neil's exposed skin. "I never... I never did anything like this before. Talked to someone, I mean. It's just not something we do."

[little_moons]

"I know. Me neither," I admit, looking down at his hands, then realizing what he said, I ask, "Who do mean, we?"

The idea of it scares the shit out of me, too. I've never been good at telling secrets to strangers.

[forthedog]

"Army," he says, shrugging again and still not quite meeting Neil's eyes. "Navy. Marines. Y'know. Us." He's known men who took things hard, who felt a certain amount of strain, and he's heard about worse... but you don't talk about it. You just don't. You get in, you make it through basic, you should be tough enough to keep going. Pick yourself up and push on, and showing that kind of weakness will make people question you.

It's something he guesses he's always known, though he's never really thought about it before now. Never had to.

He looks up at Neil finally, feeling and half fighting a sudden urge to take his hand. "You ever want to?"

[little_moons]

"No. I mean... I don't know. Never felt like I needed to, only maybe I did," I admit, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. "I had Wendy, and I mean, I know that wasn't fair, on her, but I just... I didn't think about it."

For so long, I was in denial about any of it even being a problem. I figured everything was fine. That my life was just fine.

[forthedog]

"You talked to me," he says, and smiles slightly. Gently. Sadly, maybe. There's a lot here that he regrets. When he lets himself, there's a lot here about which he could become self-hating. "Eventually."

He sighs and leans back, closing his eye and feeling his muscles throb. "About that... you okay?"

[little_moons]

Shifting closer, I let my hand finally rest on his shoulder, feeling like maybe I've got permission now that his eye's closed.

"What, you mean about talkin' to you? Or about... what happened?" I ask, 'cause those are two really different answers.

[forthedog]

"About what happened," he says quietly--not totally successful at burying shame under the words. Since that day he hasn't asked, hasn't been sure how to ask, but Neil had been in pain that day and he hadn't been so lost in his own that he hadn't seen it.

And he should have been there. And he wasn't.

"That letter... It wasn't just me, was it? It really upset you."

[little_moons]

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I say, "I... Yeah, I guess. I mean, I just... I think maybe it was easier, not knowing what happened."

Maybe not in the long run. Maybe one day I'll be glad that I know, but right now, the knowledge isn't doin' a goddamn thing for me.

"I don't... I don't know what I feel about him, anymore. That's fucked up, right?"

[forthedog]

"I dunno." He shakes his head, punctuating it. He wonders if maybe it isn't exactly the answer Neil is looking for--but it's the only true one. "I don't know what's fucked up and what's not, a lot of the time. Least now."

He leans a little into the touch on his shoulder. It feels good. Refreshingly so.

"I'm just... sorry," he murmurs. "You got your own shit to deal with and last few weeks've all been about me."

[little_moons]

"It was bad fuckin' timing," I admit, sliding my legs out of his lap so I can sit along his side, instead.

"You were... You were actin' like you were afraid to say anything, or to like, ask me shit or whatever. Like it didn't have anything to do with you. Like it was my shit, and not yours. That's... That's why I was pissed."

[forthedog]

"I was afraid to say anything," he whispers, and it's almost a wince. He doesn't remember much of that night, but he remembers what led up to it far too clearly. Maybe there are reasons, but they don't feel like excuses.

Barely able to handle his own shit, he hadn't had the first idea what to do with Neil's.

"Lotta heaviness for just getting home," he adds with a very small smile, thin and pained.

[little_moons]

"Sorry," I murmur, breathing out a laugh and letting my head rest against his shoulder.

"Don't be afraid to say stuff, okay? I mean... about whatever."

[forthedog]

"I started it," he points out. Neil's head on his shoulder is a pleasant weight, and whatever else he might want now--food, a change of clothes, a shower--just sitting here like this is high on the list as far as appealing goes.

He turns his head, breathes in the scent of Neil's hair.

"But I'll try."

[little_moons]

"Good," I murmur, reaching down to curl my hand loosely around his wrist.

"You gonna call that number?"

[forthedog]

"Yeah," he says, stretching slightly and groaning as a twinge rolls up his muscles, somewhere between uncomfortable and pleasant. "Not tonight. I'll do it tomorrow."

Like other things like it, it suddenly feels insurmountably big.

"You wanna eat?"

[little_moons]

I know there's a chance he'll keep puttin' it off, but there's no fuckin' way I'm gonna let myself turn into a goddamn nag. Not yet.

"Yeah, sure. What do you want?"

[forthedog]

"I don't give a fuck," he groans, stretching again and hissing as his spine pops. One thing is definitely progressing: he's getting stronger, little by little. He's still skinnier than he should be, still weaker than he'd ever like, but bit by bit he's regaining what those weeks in the hospital took from him.

"Food. Something hot, I guess."

[little_moons]

"If you'd told me when you'd be home, I could've whipped somethin' up for you," I mutter, rolling my eyes and snorting out a laugh, my head tipping back so I can graze my lips against the side of his neck.

Neither one of us can cook for shit. I never thought that'd be a big deal 'til I moved away from home.

[forthedog]

"And had the place vacuumed and your makeup fixed, right?" He tilts his head back slightly, unconsciously giving Neil more access--then all at once he's very conscious of it, and then he firmly decides to not give a fuck.

"I really don't give a fuck. Let's just get delivery."

[little_moons]

"Okay," I murmur, but I don't pull away, not just yet, my lips trailing along the side of his neck, nuzzling up behind his ear, just breathing him in.

Dragging myself away takes effort, and I let out a tiny groan of frustration, pushing to my feet and flashing him a bleary grin.

"Donna needs to quit workin' you so fucking hard," I tease him on the way to the phone, 'cause he's tired and sweaty and I can tell he's hurting, but none of that's a bad thing. We both know he'd be completely fucked if not for her.

[forthedog]

"She says she's being nice to me," he says, blinking up at Neil and raking his fingers back through his hair. Once, working this hard had been something o get resentful over. And sometimes he still is, but even before the explosion a few days ago... not so much.

Maybe it's good to be tired. Maybe it helps him sleep better.

He pushes himself up off the couch with an effort that pulls another groan out of him. "I'm gonna get a shower."