Work Text:
The lack of words is probably the best part. No conversation, no act to keep up, just... existing.
Johnny was sat lazily slouched back on the couch, one foot up on the coffee table, guitar in hand, and no thoughts in his head. Just the subtle roaring of the rainstorm outside beating on the window and the mindless notes coming out of the instrument; a slightly slower tempo of Black Dog. He knows that’s their favourite, he knows a lot of Hound's favourite things thanks to what ended up being nearly an entire year stuck in the kid's brain.
Well, he says Kid… but he’s not even sure how old the guy is. Imagine that. Knowing your roommate's innermost thoughts but not how old they even are.
It was easy to forget Hound was even there despite their continued neural link, he hadn't heard a peep out of them for the past hour. No moving, no nothing. They lay draped over the other end of the couch with their chin on their folded arm while the other dangled off the cushion. It was... nice. So nice. Maybe the best both of them had felt in years. The vibes were perfect like the world didn't even exist outside his apartment. Only the scruffy couch fabric, the slight scent of Johnny’s cigarette smoke and Hound's scattered mounds of old clothes, what little of the light from distant neon signs manages to reach through the rain leaving the room in a dim orange and blue glow.
The rockerboy had only got his body back a month ago, and already it sang every tune he played with it. No more delays between Hound’s senses and the relic processing them. He didn’t miss that in the slightest, though, in a strange kind of way, there was something oddly empty about not hearing Hound’s rather satirical inner commentary for him to match wits with.
He hadn’t realised that his hands had stopped moving until a small almost inaudible honk of acknowledgement hums out of his former host’s nose as they pick up on the sudden pause in sound. Cracking an eye lazily open to spy on him and see if he's good before closing it again. "Y'allright?" His voice had that 'I'm barely awake and not putting effort into staying that way' raspiness to it, as if saying one word was a lot of effort that Hound didn't care to expend.
For a little while there was no response, only Johnny’s long relaxed inhale that ended in a grunt-like sigh as he let his head flop onto the backboard of the sofa, the guitar sliding down to lay flat on his lap as chrome fingers idly tapped at the wood. "...Yeah."
That nervous energy that seemed to plague his body, no, his mind, wanted to crawl its way back up his spine. Digging claws into skin and hooking an uncomfortable sensation through his gut like a jealous lover trying to keep his Attention. But it couldn't. And for some dumbfuck reason that felt… wrong in its own way. He'd been that way for so long, that being without it felt almost dissociative. Derealising. As if he'd wake up any minute back in Hound's head again as an engram and have the weight of knowing he's draining their life away on his shoulders.
There wasn't another word. The 'yeah' had been true, he was alright. That's… what made him uncomfortable. He was fine. Hound was fine. This room was fine, fuck there wasn't even any traffic.
A warmth on his lap dragged his attention forcefully back to the present, grounding him like a tether line, rolling his head a little on the cushion to glance down.
He hadn't heard them moving, probably because he'd spaced out so hard, but Hound had turned around and was now partially obscured from view by the guitar. His head and one arm slack on the rocker's legs like some kind of mutt.
All that time, all those shared words and memories, and yet even now Johnny couldn't figure out how this gonk of a man knew when someone needed something like that. Something as simple as that, a nearly meaningless gesture, some kind of confirmation that he was really here… god it would break him if he didn't have a million snide comments he could make at this very moment.
"I'm not petting you." He grumbles, his cybernetic hand making its way back to the neck of the guitar as he picks back up where he'd drifted off. Only barely overshadowing the soft and effortless chuckle that made Hound's chest jostle a little on the couch cushion. The gentle drumming of rainfall on their window, pitter-patter, consistent white noise.
"Mhm, you're welcome."