He's getting comfortable enough with Drake that sometimes he almost forgets to knock. He'll grab the handle, then remember--that's what happens today. He starts to test it to see if it's locked, and then stops himself and knocks, three quick raps.
It's actually not locked for once, which could work in Jesus' favor. Usually Drake flips the bolt automatically when he closes the door -- a habit so deeply engrained for several reasons that he doesn't even think about doing it. Or not doing it. So even right now he assumes he did and that whoever's knocking will give up and fuck off eventually.
He just doesn't feel like answering. Nobody's home, whoever it is they're looking for.
But he is indeed out of sorts enough that he didn't flip the lock when Felix left earlier, wearing Ephemera's carefully painted and maintained armor. As soon as the other soldier was gone Drake had laid down on the couch and called Sable up to snuggle, and hasn't moved since. He hasn't left the apartment except to walk her in days and just doesn't have the energy to pretend he's functional at whoever's come by.
Sorry, potential visitor. He's just burying his face in Sable's fur and trying to get back to sleep.
He can't hear anything from inside, but he also hasn't seen or heard from Drake in days. He tests the door, prepared now to pick the lock if he has to, but to his surprise it just opens.
"Drake?" He shuts and locks the door behind him and steps further inside, then sees him laying on the couch.
For the first time -- ever, not just that Jesus has heard, though he has no way of knowing this -- Sable doesn't respond with excitement at the sound of a guest. She doesn't jump down between them or growl or anything, not yet, but Drake feels her lift her head and tense up which is enough to make him actually respond to Jesus' presence.
...kind of, anyway.
"Shhh, baby girl, it's okay," he murmurs, not quite managing his usual soothing tone before raising his voice to speak to the human who's entered their space. Without turning his head to actually look at him. Which is weird. "I'm really tired right now, sorry."
"It's okay." He's already made up his mind to stay unless Drake's ready to chase him away. He sets his coat and gloves on the table and comes, kneels by the couch, wary of the dog.
There's no need to be wary, at least. The dog seems reassured enough, her tail wagging now even though she isn't moving to greet Jesus as usual. She just doesn't understand why her owner is so upset so is staying put for the time being. Drake doesn't tell her to get off so he can sit up, and he still doesn't turn his head. If he looks into those stupidly blue puppy eyes, it's over. He'll lose his shit again.
Okay, that breaks through the haze of Drake's grief to get him to look at Jesus, expression finally something besides a wrung out unreadable mask. Now there's concern in the furrow of his brow.
Oh. Fuck, he's doing the eyes already, too. That gentle look he gives Drake when they talk about difficult things from his past... except that this time the difficult thing is currently happening and Jesus has no way of actually knowing, but he definitely knows something.
Worry fading, Drake sighs heavily and goes back to staring at the ceiling as if he isn't already doomed to his friend's fussing. Maybe he can get him to go home? He doesn't have the energy to bluff, but he's gonna try.
"I'm shit company right now, babe. Why don't you invite K over to your place, or use my card to take him out for something decent?"
"...I appreciate you wanting to stay. Really. But you can't fix this. There's nothing anybody can do."
Gentle tone #1827 is killing him a little, honestly. And it's not even that he doesn't want the comfort. It's that he doesn't want Jesus to feel obligated to him. Not with the dynamics in place... he'd had the same worry with Ephemera, even after several years together in one way or another. Being comfortable really leaning on this version of his partner was a fairly new development.
He's too tired and sad to explain it, at least without falling apart again.
"You don't owe me anything," he finally says quietly, sniffing a little as he stubbornly ignores the pressure behind his eyes.
"I'm not here because I owe you. I'm here because I care about you, and you're hurting."
Because he can guard Drake from the world while he mends. He can handle the tedious things that grief makes impossible to do--like eating and cleaning and, it seems, getting off the couch.
"I can't fix it," he agrees. "But tell me what's happened?"
God fucking damnit. Drake doesn't answer for a moment, closing his eyes and just breathing with that too-even quality that makes it obvious he's struggling to maintain composure. After a few moments he realizes the words aren't going to come out with any measure of it, so he sniffs again and then pats Sable on her flank as a cue for her to let him up.
Congratulations to Jesus for getting him off the couch?
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he waves the other in a 'come on' gesture and heads into the master bedroom. It doesn't look any different than usual. Clean enough, the bedding slightly rumpled and a shirt spilling out of the hamper but it's not actually messy. Whatever happened, it was recent enough he hasn't spiraled into a depression nest or anything.
Drake sits right back down when he gets up to his nightstand, where there's a book Jesus will recognize as the sketch pad Ephemera was carrying with him very recently. He lifts the cover and pulls out a smaller piece of paper, a short note that he passes to Jesus without a word. Four words, written in very precise hand.
thank you. love you.
If it's not obvious enough at this point, the way that Drake's jaw is working as he stares at the closed sketchbook will probably be the tipping point.
He doesn't say anything. What do you say to that? To this kind of loss?
Jesus spent his youth watching people walk away from him. He spent the last twelve years losing people in brutal, abrupt ways. There aren't words. But unlike most of his companions he doesn't believe in pushing it down and ignoring it to carry on.
He instead sets the note back on the nightstand and wraps his arms around Drake, who is sitting, which means when Jesus pulls him close Drake's head is chest-height. He just holds him, if Drake lets him.
That's all it takes. Drake doesn't push him away -- as soon as his head comes to rest on Jesus' chest he seems to let go of whatever last bit of stubbornness he was holding himself up with. He turns to bury his face in Jesus' shirt, arms coming up around his waist.
It's subtle how his control breaks, like cracks in a pane of glass spiderwebbing under pressure before the whole thing falls apart. First his breathing loses that careful evenness, then his hold on Jesus gets tighter until the other man can feel that he's shaking slightly. And he stops fighting the tears, but doesn't have the energy to cry anymore either. It's just that after a minute Jesus will feel them soaking through the fabric between them.
If he wasn't completely hollowed out by grief right now, Drake might joke that third time's probably the charm. How many times can he lose the same person? This feels like it, honestly. They've gotten more chances than either of them would ever have expected. It was a good run considering the infinitesimal odds of them meeting in the first place. From different universes, both being dead and on a second chance already...
But four years doesn't feel like long enough. Drake doesn't have a single regret, doesn't feel like he wasted any time, just that there should have been more of it.
He clings to Jesus for awhile, oblivious to the time passing now. The other man could tell him it's been five minutes or five hours and he'd just believe it, but eventually he finds he's struggling to breathe properly and does pull away. There aren't any tissues in the bedroom right now, whoops.
"Sorry," he mumbles, ducking his head so Jesus can't see him and pushing himself up to duck into the en-suite bathroom and blow his nose. Splash some water on his face. He doesn't come straight back out, but the door's open. It would seem Drake's done with the token effort at convincing Jesus to leave.
He gives Drake a moment to clean up, to gather himself, but then he's back at his side, one hand gently on the small of his back. "What would he want you to do right now?"
That question does earn Jesus a soft little huff of laughter, still sad but also genuine.
"Let you stay," Drake answers easily, folding the hand towel he just dried off with to hang it back up neatly. "Take care of Sable, keep his artwork, and not close off. You didn't know him straight from home... if anybody ever knew how bad grief can fuck you up, it was him. He wouldn't want me to be a hypocrite."
He turns towards Jesus, finally meeting the smaller man's gaze again. His eyes are still glossy, but he's calmer.
"Sure you're down to babysit?" It's a weak joke, but he's trying. And he lifts one hand to brush Jesus' hair back, offering a wobbly smile. "I'm not gonna be much fun."
"You don't have to entertain me," he says again, smiling at him, but there's something firm in his gaze. "I want to be here, and I want to be here for you."
He's seen how grief can destroy a person. It's the most dangerous part of life back home, and that's saying something. Nothing else can make a person just give up the way this kind of loss can.
He won't let that happen to Drake. He doesn't know how he'll help, but he'll figure it out.
Okay. Drake nods at that emphasis, looking both grateful and accepting of the sentiment this time. There's some relief there too now, that he believes Jesus does want to stay. That anybody still has his back. As much as he knew that was true intellectually, just because Jesus is a good person... some part of him never really trusts these things until they're tested.
Then he has to think.
...hmm.
"Too long," he finally admits, when he can't remember if he actually had something yesterday afternoon or just thought to himself that he should. If he needs to go check the kitchen to jog his memory and it would've been over 24 hours ago anyway? Not good. "You wanna choose something for dinner? We can take a walk to pick it up..."
Drake isn't lacking self awareness, at least. He very much recognizes that the only reason he's been gotten up and dressed at all is that he's had to walk the dog, and that wallowing at home isn't going to help anything.
It's still not something he wants to do, but he will. And Jesus encouraging him will help. With facing decisions, with functioning like a person again. Just the other man picking dinner makes the process of getting it and forcing himself to eat feel like less of an ordeal.
"Can we go classic tonight? Pepperoni, extra cheese."
Drake could have anything he wanted right now. Jesus would make it happen. Pepperoni and extra cheese is his favorite though, so he smiles. "I'll put the order in. Want to make it a movie night?"
All the shows have porn scenes edited in but he doubts Drake will pay strict attention to the screen anyway. It's more to have something in the background to direct his thoughts to in between the hollow moments where he's grief stricken.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
no subject
He just doesn't feel like answering. Nobody's home, whoever it is they're looking for.
But he is indeed out of sorts enough that he didn't flip the lock when Felix left earlier, wearing Ephemera's carefully painted and maintained armor. As soon as the other soldier was gone Drake had laid down on the couch and called Sable up to snuggle, and hasn't moved since. He hasn't left the apartment except to walk her in days and just doesn't have the energy to pretend he's functional at whoever's come by.
Sorry, potential visitor. He's just burying his face in Sable's fur and trying to get back to sleep.
no subject
"Drake?" He shuts and locks the door behind him and steps further inside, then sees him laying on the couch.
"Drake..."
no subject
...kind of, anyway.
"Shhh, baby girl, it's okay," he murmurs, not quite managing his usual soothing tone before raising his voice to speak to the human who's entered their space. Without turning his head to actually look at him. Which is weird. "I'm really tired right now, sorry."
no subject
"Hey."
no subject
"Did you need something, Jesus?"
no subject
no subject
"What's wrong? Is somebody hassling you?"
no subject
"No. I just want to stay with you."
no subject
Worry fading, Drake sighs heavily and goes back to staring at the ceiling as if he isn't already doomed to his friend's fussing. Maybe he can get him to go home? He doesn't have the energy to bluff, but he's gonna try.
"I'm shit company right now, babe. Why don't you invite K over to your place, or use my card to take him out for something decent?"
no subject
"Just let me be here for you."
no subject
Gentle tone #1827 is killing him a little, honestly. And it's not even that he doesn't want the comfort. It's that he doesn't want Jesus to feel obligated to him. Not with the dynamics in place... he'd had the same worry with Ephemera, even after several years together in one way or another. Being comfortable really leaning on this version of his partner was a fairly new development.
He's too tired and sad to explain it, at least without falling apart again.
"You don't owe me anything," he finally says quietly, sniffing a little as he stubbornly ignores the pressure behind his eyes.
no subject
Because he can guard Drake from the world while he mends. He can handle the tedious things that grief makes impossible to do--like eating and cleaning and, it seems, getting off the couch.
"I can't fix it," he agrees. "But tell me what's happened?"
no subject
Congratulations to Jesus for getting him off the couch?
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he waves the other in a 'come on' gesture and heads into the master bedroom. It doesn't look any different than usual. Clean enough, the bedding slightly rumpled and a shirt spilling out of the hamper but it's not actually messy. Whatever happened, it was recent enough he hasn't spiraled into a depression nest or anything.
Drake sits right back down when he gets up to his nightstand, where there's a book Jesus will recognize as the sketch pad Ephemera was carrying with him very recently. He lifts the cover and pulls out a smaller piece of paper, a short note that he passes to Jesus without a word. Four words, written in very precise hand.
thank you.
love you.
If it's not obvious enough at this point, the way that Drake's jaw is working as he stares at the closed sketchbook will probably be the tipping point.
no subject
Jesus spent his youth watching people walk away from him. He spent the last twelve years losing people in brutal, abrupt ways. There aren't words. But unlike most of his companions he doesn't believe in pushing it down and ignoring it to carry on.
He instead sets the note back on the nightstand and wraps his arms around Drake, who is sitting, which means when Jesus pulls him close Drake's head is chest-height. He just holds him, if Drake lets him.
no subject
It's subtle how his control breaks, like cracks in a pane of glass spiderwebbing under pressure before the whole thing falls apart. First his breathing loses that careful evenness, then his hold on Jesus gets tighter until the other man can feel that he's shaking slightly. And he stops fighting the tears, but doesn't have the energy to cry anymore either. It's just that after a minute Jesus will feel them soaking through the fabric between them.
no subject
no subject
But four years doesn't feel like long enough. Drake doesn't have a single regret, doesn't feel like he wasted any time, just that there should have been more of it.
He clings to Jesus for awhile, oblivious to the time passing now. The other man could tell him it's been five minutes or five hours and he'd just believe it, but eventually he finds he's struggling to breathe properly and does pull away. There aren't any tissues in the bedroom right now, whoops.
"Sorry," he mumbles, ducking his head so Jesus can't see him and pushing himself up to duck into the en-suite bathroom and blow his nose. Splash some water on his face. He doesn't come straight back out, but the door's open. It would seem Drake's done with the token effort at convincing Jesus to leave.
no subject
no subject
"Let you stay," Drake answers easily, folding the hand towel he just dried off with to hang it back up neatly. "Take care of Sable, keep his artwork, and not close off. You didn't know him straight from home... if anybody ever knew how bad grief can fuck you up, it was him. He wouldn't want me to be a hypocrite."
He turns towards Jesus, finally meeting the smaller man's gaze again. His eyes are still glossy, but he's calmer.
"Sure you're down to babysit?" It's a weak joke, but he's trying. And he lifts one hand to brush Jesus' hair back, offering a wobbly smile. "I'm not gonna be much fun."
no subject
He's seen how grief can destroy a person. It's the most dangerous part of life back home, and that's saying something. Nothing else can make a person just give up the way this kind of loss can.
He won't let that happen to Drake. He doesn't know how he'll help, but he'll figure it out.
"When is the last time you ate?"
no subject
Then he has to think.
...hmm.
"Too long," he finally admits, when he can't remember if he actually had something yesterday afternoon or just thought to himself that he should. If he needs to go check the kitchen to jog his memory and it would've been over 24 hours ago anyway? Not good. "You wanna choose something for dinner? We can take a walk to pick it up..."
no subject
It's easy, it's comforting. "What toppings do you like?"
no subject
It's still not something he wants to do, but he will. And Jesus encouraging him will help. With facing decisions, with functioning like a person again. Just the other man picking dinner makes the process of getting it and forcing himself to eat feel like less of an ordeal.
"Can we go classic tonight? Pepperoni, extra cheese."
no subject
All the shows have porn scenes edited in but he doubts Drake will pay strict attention to the screen anyway. It's more to have something in the background to direct his thoughts to in between the hollow moments where he's grief stricken.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)