“My love, my love,” says Nicky softly, Joe’s hand caught in his, tugging him toward the bathroom in the tiny stone cottage.
It’s evening, and Joe is so tired that his bones ache. He feels sleep as such a sweet and welcome prospect that his eyes sting and he blinks, frowning, as Nicky pushes open the bathroom door.
“C’mon,” Nicky says, his voice so gentle that Joe whines softly at the care within it. He’s tired and sore and the last time he slept was in the back seat of the car as they rushed from the job to the drop-off point two days ago.
“Can’t I just . . .”
“Shhh,” Nicky says, and pushes him to sit on the closed toilet seat. “Let me.” He sets one hand on the crown of Joe’s head, pressing there for just a moment, and Joe feels himself collapse beneath the weight of that touch.
“Nicky . . .”
“Shhh,” Nicky says again, and unfastens the elastic holding back Joe’s hair.
Joe shivers once, lets his hair fall forward to hide his face. There’s comfort to be had in the makeshift privacy it provides and he closes his eyes as Nicky untangles his curls. They fall into silence, Joe swaying slightly in his seat, Nicky slowly, patiently combing out Joe’s hair with his fingertips, releasing the tension that’s been pulling at Joe’s scalp for hours.
“Stay still,” Nicky says, and the medicine cabinet opens and closes. There’s the snick of a cap and the faintest scent of citrus, then Nicky’s fingers are back in Joe’s hair, working oil from his scalp to the ends of every curl. He moves with such patience that Joe can barely stand it, and he leans against the sink as if it is the only thing that can steady him, as if there’s a drugging magic in Nicky’s hands.
The sound of the shower rouses him from a doze. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
“Beloved,” Nicky says, helping him to stand, easing his hands beneath Joe’s t-shirt and skimming it up and off his body. “You have nothing for which to apologize.” He presses a kiss to Joe’s lips, and Joe hums softly, pleased, and kisses him back.
“I missed you,” Joe says as Nicky unbuckles his belt, helps him step out of his jeans and underwear.
“And I you,” Nicky murmurs back. There’s something so profound in cadence of his voice, as if his words are confessional, and Joe clumsily wraps his arms around him, presses his nose into Nicky’s neck.
“I love you,” he says, so heartfelt it hurts, and Nicky kisses his hair, his ear, his jaw, says, “You still have to shower,” and Joe laughs softly and agrees.
The water is cool as it pounds against his scalp, as he soaks his hair while Nicky undresses. “This feels so good,” he says, the ends of his words slurring as though he’s been drinking, and Nicky pulls back the shower curtain, says, “Are you sure you can stand?”
Joe leans against him, doesn’t want to find out. He presses their foreheads together. “What did you do today?” he asks as Nicky reaches for the shampoo.
“Thought of you,” Nicky says, and his lips twitch into a smile.
“No, really,” Joe asks.
“Really,” Nicky says. “Do you imagine I am without memories to pore over when you are gone?” His fingers skim across Joe’s scalp, massaging carefully, and Joe groans.
“You’re good at this,” he mumbles
“Practice,” says Nicky, sounding amused.
“Sure,” Joe agrees, and tips his head back beneath the water, eyes closed. Nicky shifts in front of him; a hand grazes his hip, and then the water warms and Joe shivers happily, muscles easing beneath the spray.
There’s a dance to this, to the application of soap, to the smooth play of conditioner, to their bodies pressed close in too small a space. Joe has presence of mind enough to switch their places, to set Nicky under the spray for a while, to press clumsy kisses to his beautiful mouth and drag his hands over slippery skin. There’s no heat to it, no pressing want, just the everyday delight of glancing touch, and when Nicky manhandles him back beneath the shower-head he laughs, clumsy and delighted, and whispers that he thinks Nicky is great.
“It’s true, I am,” Nicky says without modesty, and that makes Joe laugh again, kiss his face, grumble slightly when Nicky shuts off the water.
Nicky squeezes the water from Joe’s hair, finger-combs his curls and towels off his body. Joe gives himself over to every ministration and follows happily when Nicky tugs him out of the bathroom, down the hallway, and over to their bed. He climbs beneath the sheets as Nicky closes the curtains, sprawls on his stomach and watches Nicky with one watchful eye. “Come closer,” he says as Nicky slips in beside him, as Nicky settles on his back and lifts an arm for Joe to slip under.
“Are you well?” Nicky asks. He sounds concerned; his hand is broad and warm against Joe’s spine.
“I am,” Joe breathes, feeling utterly at peace. His hair is damp against his neck, and Nicky is warm and solid beside him. “I am,” he says again, grounded and certain as he lets go of everything and closes his eyes.
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