There’s something that soothes John as soon as Gale’s pressed boot to thigh to arm at his side, washing over him like a cool wave. He wonders if Gale feels it too.
A quick glance throws that notion out the window. Gale’s boot taps restlessly, knees bent to half–hunch over them, only his lower back leaning against the wall of the plane. He picks at the skin of baby–soft lips, staring out to the edge of the wing with glazed over eyes, and John’s heart twists.
He can think of a hundred and one ways to distract him, but not a single word of reassurance. He’s not good at that sort of thing; that’s Gale’s area of expertise. He feels useless.
Teen. I’m not a fan of smoking in any form, but oh, this fic is so soft, and the shotgunning really is just a first, desperate attempt from John to distract Gale. I just love how this progresses.