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Rhys wakes up alone in Jack’s bed. This in itself it not entirely unusual - there are nights that Jack doesn’t sleep, although Rhys doesn’t know how often they are, since he doesn’t spend every night at the penthouse and “what, are you my nursemaid now? Leave it alone, cupcake.” It’s early enough in Helios’ day cycle that it is technically still night, and Rhys is very tempted to let it be and burrow back in the covers for a few hours.
The empty space beside him reminds him of why he shouldn’t do that.
Rhys hauls himself out of bed, finding and slipping into his discarded boxers. His foot snags on Jack’s yellow sweater, and Rhys picks it up, considering.
It’s a bit of a struggle, to get into it with one arm, but Rhys has had a lot of practice at this. Rhys’ torso is longer than Jack’s, so the shirt doesn’t pool around Rhys’ hips the way it does on Jack, but it’s worn soft and warm against the chill of recycled air. It smells like Jack.
Rhys pads out of the bedroom into the main living area. Sometimes, on nights like these, he’ll find Jack holed up in his den, frowning at scrolling lines of code or swiping through page after page of quarterly reports. Sometimes he makes lists, possibly of employees to airlock in the morning. Rhys is pretty sure that has happened at least once.
Then there are nights like tonight, where Rhys finds Jack ensconced in one of the large soft chairs in front of the bay window. The window overlooks Pandora, shining bright against the blackness of space, and sometimes Rhys hates that planet for the way it seems to have an all-consuming hold on Jack.
The lights are off, but the reflected light from the planet is enough for Rhys to make his way over to where Jack sits, wrapped in a dark robe, staring. Rhys can never tell if he’s actually seeing the planet, or if he’s watching some internal vision that absorbs his attention.
“Hey,” Rhys says quietly, and it takes a minute before Jack’s vision refocuses.
“Hey yourself,” he says, and Rhys can tell he’s still not entirely present, distracted by whatever wouldn’t let him sleep.
Okay. Time for stronger measures.
Moving slowly, Rhys seats himself across Jack’s lap, rearranging Jack’s limbs to his liking. Jack’s arm curves around Rhys automatically, and Rhys fits his hand against the line of Jack’s jaw.
He’s always surprised by how lifelike the mask is. He can feel the seam of it underneath his fingertips, but the lips underneath his feel real, and after a second they start moving against his with intent. Rhys kisses Jack in the dark of the penthouse, lit only by Pandoran planetshine, and feels Jack come back from wherever he’s been.
When Rhys pulls back, Jack’s eyes are fully present and focused on him. “Hey sweetheart. Is it morning yet?”
“Not yet,” Rhys answers quietly. “You’ve got some time.”
Jack hums, shifting a bit in the chair, stretching his legs. He pulls on the sweater with a crooked smile. “Nice shirt.”
“It’s vintage. Like its owner.” Jack huffs in mock offense, but pulls Rhys more firmly against himself. He returns his gaze to the window, but Rhys can see that wherever it is that he goes when he gets like this, Jack’s not going back there tonight. It will probably happen again, but if Rhys is there when it does, at least he knows how to bring Jack back.
He fits comfortably against Jack like this, Jack’s arm wrapped around his waist and Rhys’ hand settling on Jack’s stomach. Rhys could probably go back to sleep like this, but he stays awake, keeping Jack company, watching the sun break over Pandora.