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The clock reads 10:37 PM—Nancy's been asleep for hours, her soft snores drifting through the thin bedroom wall—but Dale's fingers, calloused from years of paranoid tinkering with bugging devices and homemade explosives, move with uncharacteristic tenderness along Boomhauer's taut calf. The muscle twitches under his touch, warm and alive despite the swollen knot near the ankle where Jeff took a bad step off Hank's porch earlier that evening.
The dim glow of the living room lamp paints Boomhauer's skin gold, sweat-slick from the heat of the fireplace, and Dale can't help but notice how his best friend's breath hitches when his thumb presses just there, right above the tendon.
"Man dang ol'... hurts like hell," Boomhauer mutters, voice rough, but his leg doesn't pull away.
Instead, he leans back into the couch cushions, denim riding up as Dale's fingers creep higher, past the hem of his shorts. The fabric's damp where skin meets skin, and Dale swallows thickly—Jeff's thigh is thicker than he imagined, solid under his palm, and the way Boomhauer's eyelashes flutter when he digs in deeper makes his own jeans feel suddenly too tight.
Nancy shifts in the other room, a sleepy murmur breaking the silence. Dale freezes for half a second. But Boomhauer just grins, lazy and knowing, before hooking his good leg around Dale's waist and pulling him closer.
"Dang ol'... keep goin', man," he murmurs, and Dale does.