leo

At least you were okay, he thought, as much as your hunched form and the distant look in your eyes indicated otherwise. Mostly okay, he amended with an inward sigh, settling gingerly on the couch beside you.

“Hey,” he murmured gently. You hadn’t budged as he sat down, your eyes poised on the dirty carpet between the toes of your shoes, but at the sound of his voice you blinked, seeming to come back to yourself, though your eyes still looked huge in the wan expanse of your face. You looked scared, James realized, disheartened. Scared to death. “Are you okay?”

You let out an explosive breath, brows furrowing before you nodded. “Y-yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Sorry, I just - “ You shut your eyes for a moment and rubbed aggressively at your face, your shoulders trembling. “That one really got to me,” you finished quietly, glancing at him through the gaps in your fingers.

James smiled wanly, folding his hands together and ignoring the sharp stab of pain across his knuckles. “Me too,” he admitted, dipping his head and allowing his fringe to sweep across his brow. Even now his body felt tight with tension, his pulse throbbing at the base of his skull. A few inches closer, and the creature’s bile would have splashed against your skin, eating away at flesh and blood and bone rather than dirt-stained rubber and worn canvas. James’ stomach curdled at the thought. 

You lowered your hands, allowing them to dangle between your knees, and shot him a half-smile. “Yeah?” you huffed gently, gratefully, as though his own discomfiture soothed yours. Before James could respond, however, your eyes grew wide, your breath hitching as you reached for his face. “Shit, are you okay?”

“What?” James touched his cheek and was surprised when his fingertips came away wet. The lack of pain was enough to assure him it was only the creature’s blood that marked his skin and not his own, but before he could reassure you of the same you had hopped up from the couch and disappeared into the depths of the townhouse, the muted rustle of drawers and cabinets being rifled through following in your wake.

You emerged moments later with a towel tinged gray with age and a familiar orange bottle cradled in your arms, and though your hands were still a little shaky and you hadn’t yet lost your pinched, worried frown, the necessity of caring for his perceived wounds seemed to have steeled your nerves, and so James kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t against cleaning himself up a bit - the blood had started to dry and flake against his cheek, leaving the skin tight and scratchy. 

“Tell me if this hurts,” you warned him, wetting the edge of the towel, but rather than hand it over as James had expected you to, you settled between his loosely spread knees instead. 

It was the closest you’d gotten since meeting on the road into town, and despite himself, James’ mouth ran dry as you hovered over him, close enough to feel the huff of your breath as you dabbed gently at the blood caked to his cheek. 

The towel you’d found was old, worn soft by years of use, but it was the pressure of your fingertips beneath that James really found distracting. He couldn’t  actually remember the last time someone had tended to him like this, touched him like this, one hand tenderly cleaning the blood and viscera from his cheek and the other gently curled around his jaw to hold him in place.

James lost track of time as you worked - lost track of himself, if he were being honest, his eyes fluttering closed as he surrendered to the rhythmic brush of terry cloth over the apple of his cheek and the soft hush of your breaths fluttering the hair at his crown. The rest of the world - the rest of the town, with its fog and its monsters and its ghosts - fell away, and for a brief moment, the agony that had clawed at his breastbone since Mary’s death lost a bit of its sting. For a brief moment, James could breathe. 

“James?”

“Hmm?” James hummed, blinking almost sleepily as he lifted his gaze to yours. It was only then that he noticed his fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist - when had he even lifted his hand? - and he flinched as he quickly released you, his stomach souring as he realized what he’d done. 

“Whoa, hey - “ You wouldn’t allow him to flee far, your hand reaching for his face and your fingertips slipping against his jaw. James clenched his teeth at the warmth that flooded through him at just that simple touch, forcing himself to hold still and breathe carefully through his nose. “It’s alright, you just surprised me,” you assured him, as though you were really the one who needed to explain yourself. “What happened? Did I hurt you?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” he tried to reassure you, though his inability to speak without stumbling over his words certainly didn’t seem to be helping his case. If anything you just looked more concerned, your eyes flicking over his face as you searched for whatever had set him off. Shit. “I’m not hurt, I promise. I just - I guess I’m just not used to this.”

You paused, thumb catching on the hinge of his jaw. “Used to what?”

“To… this,” James mumbled, peering up beneath his fringe and shrugging gamely once he caught sight of your confusion. “Being looked after,” he clarified, even as the admission soured his stomach. Selfish, his mind hissed, and James knew it was right. “Taken care of,” he continued, swallowing around a lump in his throat. “Touched.” 

To your credit, you didn’t allow the surprise to show on your face. James knew what you were thinking, though - the length of time since Mary had passed, his utter lack of social grace when you had first met, the way he had reacted to your touch just moments ago.

You swallowed, and James’ eyes were inexplicably drawn to the bobbing of your throat. Until you spoke.

“Should I stop?” 

James stilled, lifting his head to meet your gaze. You stared back, wide-eyed, seemingly startled by your own words, but you hadn’t moved away, your fingertips light against his jaw. Waiting.

James’ heart leapt into his throat. 

“No,” he breathed, his fingers trembling as he curled them loosely around your wrist. His pulse was racing, inordinately loud in his ears. Yours was too, nearly vibrating against his fingertips. “Please.”  

You studied him for a long moment, your teeth working at your bottom lip, before you nodded, lifted your free hand, and pushed your fingers through his fringe. 

Oh god. James breathed carefully through his nose as you nudged the strands free of his brow, your touch light and almost exploratory, only to sink your fingers into the hair along his crown in the next breath. A full-body shiver rattled down his spine at the drag of your nails along his scalp, his lashes fluttering and a clenched breath sneaking through his gritted teeth as you traced the curvature of his skull, all the way down to the soft, baby hairs at the nape of his neck and back again. 

“Jesus,” you cursed softly. Your fingers drifted lightly along his brow, over the bridge of his nose, your thumb fitting into the bow of his lip before dragging gently along the length of his mouth, learning its shape. 

James breathed your name, or at least he thought he did. His head had grown too muddied to tell, too full, and yet he must have spoken - he could feel your skin catch wetly against his lower lip as his mouth moved and taste the salt on your thumb. You were close enough for him to even hear your breath catch, and he lifted heavy lids to peer into your face and wondered what you saw when you looked at him, what face he must have been making, to put that expression of wonder on your own.

“Don’t stop,” he murmured softly, pleaded, begged. He would lose himself if you did - more than he already had, chasing that letter to this town in the first place. In fact, in that moment, James was certain your hands were the only things tethering him to earth.

You took a step closer, your knees nudging his inner thighs, and James closed his eyes as your hands delved once more into his hair. This time, however, the drag of your nails across his sensitive scalp was accompanied by a warm, damp pressure against his brow - your lips, he realized, pushing a kiss to the furrowed flesh there.  

Warmth pooled in the pit of his stomach as your lips fluttered across the bridge of his nose, the curve of his cheekbones, even his closed eyelids. You paused before you could reach his mouth, your short, sharp breaths betraying your uncertainty, but all it took was James lifting his hands and grasping at the backs of your thighs for you to steel yourself and close the distance between you - the very last bit of it, mouths slanting together and breaths mingling as you tugged him into a kiss. 

It was soft at first, just gentle pressure and the plush, damp weight of your lips against his. The give of your flesh, the warmth of your breath and the barest touch of your tongue against his bottom lip as it flickered out to wet your lips felt deliciously familiar and yet decidedly new all at once, and James found himself sighing beneath the onslaught of sensations, his head tilting and his lips parting as you coaxed the kiss into something deeper, hotter. Wet.

God, how long had it been since he’d felt this heat? This inexplicable pull? How long had it been since someone had touched him this way, grasped for him this way, wanted him this way?

Because you did want him. James could feel it in the trembling of your fingers as they grasped for his jaw, could hear it in the hungry little whimper you released as your tongue curled against his own, could see it when he cracked heavy eyelids to see the blissful agony writ across your face, your brows furrowed and your eyes clenched tightly shut as you kissed him. 

You broke away after a moment, but only for breath, your brow falling against his and your palms squeezing gently at his jaw.

“Should I stop?” Your voice was a soft rasp, laden with desire, and James shook his head, tugging you back in, uncaring in that moment for the monsters and the fog and the letter burning a hole in his pocket.

Because god help him, James wanted you too.