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Henry has perhaps never been more relieved to see Walt than here in this moment. His clothes are old and wrinkled and smell strange, his body aches and throbs in time with his heart and his steps, and his skin prickles in the exposed cold of the open air; but he is out, and away, and when he sees Walt, for a moment he imagines rushing into his arms, letting his arms keep Henry safe from all the things about to crash down upon him.
He doesn't rush to Walt–it's a foolish act, no matter how genuine the sentiment, and they are still outside the prison, and Henry's mind hurts as much as his body, thinking about anything more than a walk.
When he stops in front of Walt, he can finally see his eyes, squinted against the cold sun but dark and focused, watching Henry like a hawk, an eagle.
"You're never going back in there," he says, low and steady in the way he makes promises. Henry itches to touch him, hands on skin he's missed so much, comfort from the one person he takes it from.
He knows, too, Walt's mind and his heart and his soul, better than he has known anyone else's, better, sometimes, than he has known even his own. He smiles, although it's brief and full of some kind of mixture of sadness and resignation and affection.
"You should not make promises you cannot keep," he says, and perhaps it's a cruel reminder to the person who has just wanted to protect him, but Henry has only ever accepted hope from Walt, and he cannot take anything now that is false, or hollow, even if Walt doesn't ever mean it that way.
But Walt keeps watching him, eyes flickering between Henry's, catching on his bruises, skating over his body over and over, and Henry wants so desperately to give it all over to Walt, to let Walt help him carry this weight.
"No matter what happens," Walt says, that same tone but voice thicker, "you're never going back."
And, despite it all, Henry believes him, can't not believe him; Walt has only ever made Henry a half dozen promises like the one he's making here, and every time they're pieces of Walt's soul. Walt's conviction has always been easy to fall into, a piece of the thread that's always tied them together, since long before they saw it.
And Henry is tired of standing alone, sore in more than just muscle and bone–and he has missed Walt like a phantom limb, missed his voice and the simple comfort of sharing silences, the contrast of his calluses and caresses.
The Bronco is sitting at the end of the sidewalk, and Henry no longer wishes to keep his hands to himself. It's as simple as a breath to leave this place, to watch their shoes as Walt falls into easy step beside him.
Walt's hand on his shoulder is equally expected and startling: expected, for all the ways Henry knows Walt and the way he thinks and the way he acts, and the desire to touch that he knows is flaring just as strong under Walt's skin as it is under his own; startling, for their proximity to the prison, for the show of affection Walt rarely allows from either of them near the eyes of other people.
They slow as they approach the truck, Henry held from the door by Walt's hand, still on his shoulder. He's holding tightly, another sign of how frayed he's become, and Henry thinks he could have five little fingerprint bruises–wishes, briefly, that he would, if only to have some mark on his body he wants to have.
"Walt," he calls, soft in volume and tone, and Walt looks at him, eyes like an ocean. Henry can read his face as easily as he can read the sky and the stars, and his hand is halfway to Walt's cheek before he remembers where they are, and lets it fall to Walt's wrist of the hand still clenched on Henry's shoulder instead.
"Walt," he says, "please take me home."
"Right," Walt agrees, peeling his fingers away from Henry, slowly. "Right, yeah."
He lingers as Henry opens the car door, still watching, as if Henry would slip back away, and only moves to the driver's side when Henry is halfway in the truck.
There's a simple, old comfort in Walt's truck, in the worn leather and how it smells like Walt and Wyoming in the best ways. Henry sinks into the passenger seat, stretching his knees out and letting his head lay back against the seat, closed eyes towards the roof. He can feel Walt's gaze on him like he can feel the seat stitching under his hands, but he doesn't meet it – instead, he lets Walt look his fill and floods his senses with physical sensations.
It's only when Henry notices they haven't left yet that he rolls his head to the left, opening his eyes to find Walt still watching him, eyes still dark and searching.
"Christ, Henry," Walt says, heavy, leaning a little into Henry's space. Guilt and desire are chasing each other across his features in a way that's more familiar than Henry wishes it was; but prison time has worn down Henry's patience in this, has made him tired of this game of keeping things to themselves before they've even really begun it.
"Walt," Henry tells him, catching Walt's eyes when they flick up from his lips. "I would very much like to kiss you, but I cannot until you leave the prison parking lot."
Henry watches Walt wet his lips. "Oh," he murmurs, gaze lingering on Henry for a moment longer. Henry sees the way Walt pulls his desires back into himself, the way the situation comes back into his awareness. "Right," he says, turning back to the wheel and shifting into drive. "Home."
Henry lets his eyes stay on Walt as he takes them out to the road, takes the time to soak in his features–the shape of his nose and the line it makes to his eyes, the slope of his mouth into the wrinkles that continue to appear, the white and grey of the stubble over his jaw. Memory holds but a candle to the real thing, and circumstance has put a perspective on certain things in Henry's life.
Walt stops at the turn-on for the highway, shifting to meet Henry's eyes again, laying his right arm across the back of the seats.
"What," he asks, so quiet it's really a whisper and it's lost its questioning tone. Henry shakes his head just a little.
"Nothing," Henry says. "Just looking. Remembering."
Walt's fingers find the ragged edges of his hair, and then Walt's hand is holding the back of his neck, pulling close and keeping steady as Walt leans forward to catch Henry's lips. It's too quick to do anything but further stoke Henry's desire into a fire, but it's long enough that Henry's hand ends up fisted in the front of Walt's button down and his tongue ends up in Walt's mouth.
Walt's flushed in the way Henry's always enjoyed when they let each other go, and Henry flicks his gaze between Walt's wide, dark eyes.
" Home ," Henry murmurs, "please."
"Yeah," Walt agrees, getting it. " God , yeah. You don't–I wasn't–"
Henry smooths his hand out, sliding it down Walt's chest and watching as it goes. He knows all the things Walt's trying to say, and maybe he feels a little selfish about it, but he'd like to hear Walt say it, any of it, out loud right now, direct. With feeling.
"I was gonna anyway," Walt says, catching Henry's hand at his navel and threading their fingers together. "I need–I need you to stay. With me." He looks at Henry, more open and earnest than Henry can remember him being in a while. "Please."
Henry's reaching for Walt's face before he's finished, and he rubs his thumb over Walt's cheekbone.
"I also need you to stay," he says, leaning into another kiss, deep and hard and fast. He squeezes Walt's hand once before letting go, and lets his fingers trail over Walt's stubble as he sits back properly into his seat.
"Drive, dear heart," he says, and lets his head fall back against the seat as Walt hits the gas. Walt's hand is still across the seat back, and his fingers shift in Henry's hair when Henry rolls his head to the right to watch the fields drift by outside.
He's rolling the window down before he really realizes it, tilting his face into the heat of the sun and the rush of the wind. The air is chilled with the snow clouds following behind them, but it is crisp and fresh, and the sharp sting of the wind on his cheeks reminds him that he is here, outside, alive.
The closer they get to Walt's cabin, the more peace Henry feels. There's always been something to the land out here, a deeper connection between the dirt and the trees and the clouds, a kind of steadiness and surety that reflects in its owner. The house is far enough from everything to be an escape when it needs to be; and now, Henry needs it to be.
The last of a tension he hadn't realized he had fades out of his muscles when Walt pulls into the gravel at the front of the cabin, and when he steps in through the door behind Walt, he finally feels safe .
"I've got a change of clothes if you like," Walt tells him, hanging his hat and jacket by the door. Henry thinks about it. He likes the idea of getting out of these old clothes that smell like prison soap, likes the idea of wearing something of Walt's instead, likes the idea of following Walt into bed; but his skin feels dusty, dirty, and he likes the idea of a hot, hot shower with Walt's water pressure the most.
"I would like a shower, first," he says, and Walt nods.
"Yeah, okay." He's standing in the living room, hands on his hips and looking utterly out of place, at a loss for what to do, how to help. Henry feels a sudden, intense surge of fondness for him.
"You could come," he adds, holding back a soft laugh when Walt's attention snaps to him. "If that would help."
"Help what?" Walt asks, genuinely confused as he follows Henry to the bathroom.
Henry stops in front of the sink and turns to Walt, who's just inside the doorway. He leans towards Walt to reach the door, grabbing onto the side and swinging it slowly closed. He holds Walt's gaze the entire time, watches the way his eyes darken, the way all he's feeling plays out across his features.
"Help you," Henry says, and the mood's shifting to something a little heavier, a little deeper. He starts at the buttons on his shirt, catches the way Walt's eyes fall to the movement. "By helping me," he adds, letting the flannel fall on the ground.
He turns away from Walt to turn the water on, cranking the heat up as high as it goes, enjoying the way his skin warms in the steam as it rolls into the room.
He's expecting Walt's hands when they curl around his hips, palms wide and warm through Henry's thin shirt. His grip is gentle, lighting tugging Henry away from the shower and back towards Walt.
Walt's fingers are fiddling with the hem of the shirt, waiting for invitation, and Henry hesitates.
"Let me," Walt murmurs, looking up from his hands to Henry. "It's like you said."
"I know," Henry says, because he does. He and Walt have always preferred action, anyway. But he knows what his skin looks like, can't breathe without remembering, and–well, he knows Walt.
"Just–" Henry says with a slow breath. "Just remember that there is nothing you can do about it now," he tells Walt. "And–go slow."
He presses his lips together at Walt's furrowed brows, and Walt holds his gaze for a long moment before his attention is back on Henry's shirt.
He goes slow – like Henry knew he would, with or without Henry's request – sliding his hands up Henry's sides underneath the shirt, bunching it up by hooking his thumbs over the hem. Henry watches his face, catches when Walt sees the bruising.
When Walt urges, Henry lifts his arms at a bend, and lowers them quickly once his undershirt is gone, tossed on the floor by the flannel. Walt's hands are back just as quickly, feather-light against the edges of blues and purples and greens on Henry's chest, Walt himself bending down, looking closer.
Henry catches one of Walt's wrists, and Walt's face is open, broken, lost when he looks up.
"Henry," he murmurs, too emotional to put real sound behind it. His eyes shine in the dim bathroom light, and Henry's heart squeezes in his chest. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry," he says, tears at the edges of his voice.
"Walt," Henry says, getting his hands on either side of Walt's face, "Walt, this is not your fault."
Walt's hands flutter around Henry's body, as if afraid to touch him too harshly, afraid to hurt him further; and Henry hates it, a little, that Walt has reason to be, that even here Henry can't have what he wants, when all that is is for Walt to touch him.
"I'm sorry," Walt repeats, settling his hands low on Henry's hips, under his belt loops. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry ."
"Walt," Henry calls, "if you cry, I will cry." He runs his thumbs under Walt's eyes, and pulls Walt up to him, close enough to push their foreheads together. "What was done is done," Henry tells him. He flicks his gaze between Walt's eyes, darker and deeper standing this close. "I am here now, and I want to be here now."
He pushes into a kiss, slow and a little messy and a little salty, and Walt's hands slide gently up Henry's sides, never quite able to keep still–Walt denies himself touch everywhere but here, and here is where he makes up for all the times he holds back.
"I'm sorry," Walt repeats, hardly a murmur in the scant space between lips, his genuineness like a hand tightening around Henry's heart. He holds Walt's face between his hands, lets himself drown for a moment in the dark Pacific of Walt's eyes.
"My darling," he murmurs, "I know."
Walt's breaths are still shaky as Henry trails his hands down Walt's neck and over his shoulders, working the buttons on his shirt until it hangs open. He runs his palms up Walt's chest, lets the feeling of familiar, blood warm skin overwhelm his senses, and gently pushes the fabric off Walt's shoulders.
Walt takes his hands off Henry long enough for his shirt to fall to the floor, and then he's working Henry's belt as Henry works his, practiced and easy movements despite the tenseness of the emotions between them.
The mirror's completely fogged over when Henry's stepping out of his jeans, and his gaze lingers on Walt for a moment before he turns towards the shower, the idea of hot water on his aching muscles too good to ignore any longer.
The water is hot, hot enough that Henry's sure his skin will be bright red in no time, but it feels too good to turn down; it's exactly what he needed, the tightness under his skin loosening more and more the longer he stands with his face in the spray.
Walt's hands at his waist do startle him this time, and he turns in Walt's light grip, their noses almost close enough to touch.
Henry watches Walt's eyes shift, following the rivulets of water running down Henry's face, chest, over old scars and new cuts, over new bruises and fading ones.
Walt catches his hand as he reaches for the soap. "Wait," he says, nearly lost in the sound of the water. "Let me."
Henry drops his hand and watches Walt pour the shampoo into his palm. With every moment spent here in the water, prison fades away; his aches easing in the heat, the coil of his nerves unwinding in Walt's steady presence, the smell of foreign soaps disappearing under the familiar scents of Walt's shampoo.
"Turn around," Walt instructs softly, and Henry lets his eyes close as he tilts his head back, as Walt's fingers thread through his hair, rubbing at his scalp.
It's such a simple intimacy, a simple act of trust, and Henry surprises himself with how much it means to him here and now, with how much he missed sharing his space with Walt like this.
He's malleable and loose when Walt turns him around again, keeps his head back as Walt rinses the soap out of his hair. It smells like cedar and citrus, Walt's shampoo, and now the air in the shower smells comfortingly like cedar and citrus, and Henry knows it'll cling to his hair, too.
His hair hasn't felt this clean since before prison, and he hums softly as Walt runs his fingers through it, gently brushing it. It's shorter, now, too, cut not by his own choice; Cady cleaned it up from the jagged edges it had been, and he suspects it'll be a rather long while before he'll try growing it out again.
Walt's hands disappear from his hair and come back a moment later to his shoulders, accompanied by the faint woodsy smell of Walt's body wash. He slowly slides his hands down Henry's arms, the heat of his body swaying closer to Henry's back as he does.
"What're you thinking about?" Walt asks softly, nosing at the damp skin behind Henry's ear, and Henry sighs, letting go of the last bits of prison and stress and aching he had left.
"You," he murmurs, turning to nose at Walt's cheek. "Finally, just you."
His eyes flutter closed, and he lets his head fall back onto Walt's shoulder, humming softly when Walt presses a kiss to Henry's cheek.
"Almost done," Walt tells him, but Henry doesn't care; he could spend the rest of the day in the shower like this, loose-limbed and relaxed for the first time in weeks.
It's so easy to sink into Walt's chest – so easy that he doesn't notice how much of his weight he's leaned into Walt until Walt is pushing him away and back under the full spray of the water.
Walt steadies his sway with hands at his elbows, and his hands don't leave him until they're both out of the shower. Walt drapes Henry's towel around him, letting him go long enough to dry himself off. Henry slowly rubs at his skin with the fabric, enjoying both the softness of the towel and the ability to take his time in this.
Walt's hovering and Henry can see his hands, curling and uncurling with his eagerness to help. Henry wraps his towel around his waist and looks at Walt. "You mentioned clothes?"
"Oh, right," Walt says, coming back into his body. "Right, yeah, right."
Henry smiles gently to himself as he follows Walt out of the bathroom. Walt's always done good with helping, better with directions, and awful with talking. He stays by the door and watches Walt move around the room, pulling out sweats and tees, all worn and soft things at least half as old as them.
"Here," Walt says, setting a little pile on the edge of the bed. "Should fit."
Henry curls his hand around Walt's arm for a moment. "Thank you," he says quietly, and he knows Walt knows he means it for more than just this.
Henry knows how the clothes will fit before he wears them; this is hardly the first time he and Walt have shared. The pants are a little long on him, and a little baggier than they are on Walt, but just enough to be all the more comfortable.
He's got Walt's shirt in his hands when Walt's fingers are sliding around his wrists, up his arms and skipping to his waist, reeling him into a kiss that's as hard and frantic as it is soft and careful. Walt's hands shift across his body with care, hardly even brushing over the bruises and scrapes, and leaving familiar trails of old fire on the areas unmarked from fights.
Henry's own hands find Walt's chest easily, his palms wide and flat on warm skin, fingers splayed wide. Henry has missed this so much, has missed Walt's company and kisses and his smiles and his touches much more than he could ever had thought; despite his assumptions of himself, prison had been unexpected, had weighed on him in more than just body, and he finds those pains spilling out of him now, now that he's finally comfortable and warm and safe.
Walt's hands brush at his face as he pulls away, eyes flicking between Henry's wet ones in sharp worry.
"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" he asks, a gentle murmur, sliding his hands over Henry's cheeks and through his hair and back again. Henry can feel his eyelashes sticking together when he closes his eyes for a moment. He squeezes at Walt's waist.
"Nothing," he says, "nothing is wrong now. Nothing is wrong anymore."
He's not sure he could articulate this feeling, this coming-down, a strange kind of adrenaline crash, late processing – but it doesn't matter. He doesn't need to. Neither of them have ever been particularly good with words, and Walt always understands him well enough.
"You're never going back," Walt repeats, promises with somehow more conviction than in the prison parking lot, his hands stilled on the sides of Henry's neck. He lets himself go, lets himself loose to float in this moment of freedom and devotion, tethered by Walt's warm, callused palms.
"Yeah," Henry says, letting the feeling sink into him like the heat of the sun on cold skin. "I know."