Work Text:
Jack Abbot driving you home all tuckered out from a hike in his truck, when he looks over at you in his passenger’s seat and finds you dozing.
His lips pull up at the corners. Any other day, he’d let you. He’s not much a fan of silence, but he can let his mind go quiet if your soft breathing is the background.
Maybe the cab just feels a little too lonely today without your voice. Or maybe he just wants you to save your sleep for when he can have you curled up next to him.
He reaches over to your side with a little smile and rubs your arm ‘til you stir.
“You’re sleeping,” he says.
“...Mm. I’m well aware. What about it?”
His hand trails down your arm ‘til it finds your own, lifting it to rest on the console where he plays with your fingers.
“Keep me company.”
***
Jack Abbot leading you along by the hand into the shower, taking turns undressing himself and you. He sets his prosthetic aside, sitting down in the shower chair first, before holding his arms out for you to join him under the warm spray.
He sits you on his lap, humming happily when your weight settles across his thighs.
Not that it’s a particularly effective showering position. That doesn’t matter. He washes and rinses your hair while you sit in front of him, pressing his nose to your scalp for the scent of your shampoo. You laugh when he accidentally gets a noseful of water he doesn’t bargain for. You lather and soap him lovingly where you can reach, taking your time at his stump and massaging gently under the hot stream. He closes his eyes and makes a quiet sound that sounds something like relief.
***
Jack Abbot laying down across from you in bed, resting his head on the pillow, and just looking at you. This can go on for minutes. Neither needs to say a thing.
It took a while to get comfortable like this, in the silence. He has an insistent sort of gaze that used to make you feel like you should say something, do something. You’ve since gotten used to it; since learned— He just likes to look at you. You find you don’t mind being seen.
It’s usually you who loses these silent staring contests when your eyelids begin to lose the fight to sleep. He’ll pull you in, then, tucking one arm under your head and curling himself around you to feel you breathe.
You know his weakness, though; your fingers through his hair, nails dragging softly along his scalp, and his eyes fall shut in an instant.
Neither of you keeps the score for this game. Neither particularly minds losing.