rockabillyboy | (no subject)

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He's been worrying for weeks, now. He's known Poison for long enough to be able to see it coming: the crash that's inevitable. He's been texting with Kavinsky, knows that Poison's been unpredictable and fractious during recording sessions. They haven't argued, not exactly, but he's ebe intensely aware of just how easily they could be arguing, almost all of the time.

So Jack drives to the studio, and he gets Kavinsky to buzz him up.

"Come on," he says, through the mic into the studio. "I'm taking you to lunch."

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"I think that's all the more reason for me to hate it," he says as he drops into the passenger seat. He stretches out as much as Ghost will let him and lolls his head to look at Jack.

"Awesome. And you've decided to kidnap me from the studio. I'm here for this."

He's just getting frustrated in there, anyway. He doesn't know why, or what's making him feel stuck, but maybe getting out for a while will do him good.

There's something almost cat like about Poison when he's a mood like this; all coiled irritation and barely concealed sharp edges.

"I'm pretty sure I can keep you busy for an afternoon," he says, checking his mirrors and pulling away from the cub.

Poison just grins and adjusts himself in his seat so he has a better view of Jack; so Jack maybe has a better view of him. "I have full faith in you, sugar. You are an awesomely distracting guy when you wanna be."

"Oh, I know," says Jack, grinning, glancing towards Poison. "I work on it when you're not home."

He laughs, startled. "Do you? Shit I need to-- no, no that would b way too fucking creepy."

Too much like Them and he just-- shit he can't even believe his mind went there. What the fuck. He rubs his hair and looks out the window, feeling cagey again, even if Ghost is an amazing car and even if he's with his beautiful fucking husband.

He manages to breathe and he looks at Jack again, puts on a smile.

"I guess I could use the break," he admits.

He can see Poison struggling, and it grinds in his chest, like sharp edges catching together. He smiles, too, but it feels like they're both faking it.

"Well, you're definitely going to get a break."

When they get home, Poison rolls out of the car and stretches. He looks side-long at Jack, a little grin creeping across his mouth. "So you said something about keeping me busy. What'cha got in mind, Vincent?"

Jack walks around the car and wraps both arms around Poison, tugging him in close for a kiss. He keeps his arms around him for a long moment. "Something we need to go upstairs for." For what he's got in mind, he ants Poison to be as comfortable as possible.

Poison hums softly against Jack's mouth, smiling under the kiss. "Damn," he breathes when they part again. He leans up to kiss him again.

He pulls away but keeps hold of one of Jack's hands on the way into the house, and up all the stairs. Sometimes it still feels too quiet and he wonders if they should try to get roommates or something. But he isn't sure he could handle someone else living in those rooms.

At their bedroom door, he kisses Jack again.

"You're going to let me take care of you, okay," says Jack, nudging Poison towards the bed with his hands and his hips. "Because I know what's good for you, right? You know I know how to take you feel good."

Poison lifts his eyebrows but he feels something warm sink through him and he can't help but flash a coy grin.

"Yeah, alright."

He lets Jack guide him back to the bed, and when the mattress hits the back of his knees, Poison flops down. "Should I be undressing?"

Jack shakes his head, leaning down to kiss Poison, guiding both of his arms up over his head. They play like this often enough that there are soft restraints looped through the bedframe. Slowly, carefully, he ties Poison down in a way that he knows will be comfortable, his wrists crossed over his head.

Poison relaxes back, lets Jack put him where he wants him. There's a moment, when the restraints loop around his wrists, that he feels a tiny stab of panic. But it's Jack, and he trusts him with everything, and after a breath he relaxes again.

He lolls his head to the side to keep his eyes on Jack, curious, since he's still dressed. But that's not weird. Not for them.

"Jack?"

Jack swings his weight across Poison, so that he's straddling him and then he looks him in the eye.

"I am going to give you the blow job of your life," he says. "I promise. But first? We need to talk."

Poison stares up at Jack, and it takes a second for the words to actually sink in. He blinks. "Talk?"

And now he feels a little trapped, but his legs are still free. He could kick if he wanted to. But Jack's warm and solid across his hips and he's still trying to process how he ended up here. Jack's good. He tries the restraints, but he knows they're good.

"What are we talking about?"

"Talk."

Jack leans forward, slipping his hands under Poison's shirt so that his palms are against bare skin, grounding. "Where you've been the last few weeks. How I get to you again. I miss you, baby. And I know where this ends if I don't get you back."

Poison looks lost for a moment, because Jack is touching him and it's easy and perfect, but he's also demanding answers that Poison isn't sure that he has. Not in any articulate way.

He wets his lips and tries to find words.

"I-- The Fourth, or leading up to it, maybe, and after it-- I don't know." He shakes his head and he looks away, because some part of him is ashamed but he knows Jack's right. He's felt loose at the joints and full of sharpness for weeks now. And he knows it won't end anywhere good.

"The Fourth is always weird and hard, even if I try to burn bright for everyone that's gone. And then like a couple weeks ago this guy had a radio call playing over his phone. And it just-- fuck it sounded like something I'd strain to hear in the static when I first got here."

Hearing the weird radio call coming off Frank's phone set him off, badly, and Poison never brought it up because he doesn't want Jack to worry. He thought he could pull himself back together.

He remembers what Poison was like when he first got here, the sharp edges, the paranoia. He keeps his hands on Poison's bare skin, moving gently, stroking over him. Calming.

"You know you can tell me these things," he says, gently. "When they happen. In the moment."

"I wanted to run from it," he admits. "I didn't want it to be real. I didn't want to bring it up because I just wanted it to go away."

Jack's hands are warm and comfortable and living, and feel perfect, and he can't believe he made Jack chase him down. But he also can. Because running feels natural and anything else feels like waiting to get hit. If he slows down, something terrible might happen. Poison has no idea what that thing is, but he's terrified of it.

"You know that doesn't work," says Jack, his tone soft, not trying to chide. He keeps up the movement of his hands, over the slightly softness of Poison's belly, the ripple of his ribs. "You know I'm here to keep you anchored. To tell you that nothing bad is going to happen to you while I'm here. Not if I can help it."

"Maybe six hundredth time is the charm," he deadpans, but there's something a little desperate on the back end of it. He wants it to work. Poison tugs slightly at the restraints, but he's still not going anywhere and Jack's hands are warm and firm on his sides, anchoring him to reality.

"I know," he murmurs. "But sometimes I still want to protect you from the shit that happens in my head. Even if it's not exactly great for either of us when I go all Lone Ranger."

"We're in this together, Poison," says Jack, softly. "Okay? I figure...I know more about you that probably anyone other than Ghoul." He glances away when he says the other guy's name. "You have to let me in. You have to let me take some of that weight."

"I know," he answers. He owes that to Jack, he knows that. But it still hurts and it still feels raw and he still wants to protect Jack from-- from what? He's not even sure anymore. Whatever thing lives in him that turned him into this. Whatever thing it is that let him survive so long in a place that's barren and empty.

But he's not there anymore, and he's not alone, either.

"It's hard letting it go. Like if I do, I'm just gonna be a mess you have to pick up off the floor."

"Luckily for you, you married someone who's got practice there," he says, keeping up the slow, soothing stroking of his hands. "Have you thought about talking to someone? Someone who's not me?"

"No," he says, and it comes quickly and almost definitively, but there's something like shame hiding behind that, too. Poison shifts a bit, but he's more or less given up trying to find a way loose. He's stuck, and Jack won't hurt him.

"I don't want it to come out at all. I keep thinking, what if I can't get it all back in? Or what if, once it's gone, there's just nothing left? I feel like I've been there before and I don't want to go back."