The way Jack touches things is so delicate. Eliot watches him examine the clothes, and can’t help thinking of the way it felt to have Jack’s hands on his skin. He shivers at the memory of such overwhelming care.
“It’s crochet-” Eliot starts to reply to the question, shifting a bit to look over Jack’s shoulder. He reaches out, almost unconscious, to brush a lock of hair out of the way, or to echo Jack’s own careful, maddening touch. But Jack jerks away –of course he does-- and Eliot steps back in immediate horror at himself.
It only lasts a moment, though, as it soon becomes clear that Jack’s frustration is directed inward. Eliot takes a breath and watches him, the jerky attempts to regain his composure. And he aches at the explanation Jack gives, wondering how his life, even in a more violent time and place, has left him so bereft. There’s so much to make up for, Eliot thinks, and it’s more than a wish or a need, it feels like an injustice or a wrong he needs to right. It stirs the fierce, possessive streak in him that normally is reserved for Fillory.
Maybe in the future Jack will have stopped being skittish, and formed attachments with other people to help fill this gulf of neglect, but not right now.
Now Eliot looks at him and thinks, mine. Mine to comfort, mine to protect.
“But you don’t mind?”
He has to confirm, Eliot can’t ignore the deep-rooted certainty that he’s too much, but something about the way Jack mentions him separately from ‘people’ makes him smile, hopeful, as he asks it.
He feels a little deranged at the thought. Eliot lets out a shaky breath and tries not to think how easy it would be to keep this odd, charming man all to himself. For someone who’s been so bereft of kind touch it would hardly take any affirmation, and Eliot could have him, his careful hands and soft huffs of laughter on his skin whenever he wanted.
Until he ruined it, of course. The horrible needy thing that lives in him would claw its way to the surface, a suffocating bramble, and Jack would grow annoyed or tired with him and leave him and that would be worse than never having had him at all.
“I’ll just do better at not startling you in that case, yeah?” He smiles, trying to sound at all normal, and telegraphs the movement as he rests a hand on Jack’s shoulder. Eliot keeps his hand there, steady, though it’s an inadequate substitute when his instinct is either to pull Jack into an embrace or drop to his knees before him.
Eliot clears his throat. “But uh, yeah it’s called crochet, they make it with a little hooked thing–I honestly didn’t realize it wasn’t ancient.” He laughs quietly. “I think you’d look good in it.” Eliot’s gaze drifts over Jack’s face, down the line of his throat. “But then I think you look good in a lot of things, so…perhaps I’m not the best judge.”
Eliot takes a small step back, breaking contact, and tries to remind himself that this is all for stupid chiseled-faced Jacob’s benefit, anyway. But if he starts picturing them together he’ll really make himself crazy. “I don’t know, did you want to try it on, decide for yourself?”
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“It’s crochet-” Eliot starts to reply to the question, shifting a bit to look over Jack’s shoulder. He reaches out, almost unconscious, to brush a lock of hair out of the way, or to echo Jack’s own careful, maddening touch. But Jack jerks away –of course he does-- and Eliot steps back in immediate horror at himself.
It only lasts a moment, though, as it soon becomes clear that Jack’s frustration is directed inward. Eliot takes a breath and watches him, the jerky attempts to regain his composure. And he aches at the explanation Jack gives, wondering how his life, even in a more violent time and place, has left him so bereft. There’s so much to make up for, Eliot thinks, and it’s more than a wish or a need, it feels like an injustice or a wrong he needs to right. It stirs the fierce, possessive streak in him that normally is reserved for Fillory.
Maybe in the future Jack will have stopped being skittish, and formed attachments with other people to help fill this gulf of neglect, but not right now.
Now Eliot looks at him and thinks, mine. Mine to comfort, mine to protect.
“But you don’t mind?”
He has to confirm, Eliot can’t ignore the deep-rooted certainty that he’s too much, but something about the way Jack mentions him separately from ‘people’ makes him smile, hopeful, as he asks it.
He feels a little deranged at the thought. Eliot lets out a shaky breath and tries not to think how easy it would be to keep this odd, charming man all to himself. For someone who’s been so bereft of kind touch it would hardly take any affirmation, and Eliot could have him, his careful hands and soft huffs of laughter on his skin whenever he wanted.
Until he ruined it, of course. The horrible needy thing that lives in him would claw its way to the surface, a suffocating bramble, and Jack would grow annoyed or tired with him and leave him and that would be worse than never having had him at all.
“I’ll just do better at not startling you in that case, yeah?” He smiles, trying to sound at all normal, and telegraphs the movement as he rests a hand on Jack’s shoulder. Eliot keeps his hand there, steady, though it’s an inadequate substitute when his instinct is either to pull Jack into an embrace or drop to his knees before him.
Eliot clears his throat. “But uh, yeah it’s called crochet, they make it with a little hooked thing–I honestly didn’t realize it wasn’t ancient.” He laughs quietly. “I think you’d look good in it.” Eliot’s gaze drifts over Jack’s face, down the line of his throat. “But then I think you look good in a lot of things, so…perhaps I’m not the best judge.”
Eliot takes a small step back, breaking contact, and tries to remind himself that this is all for stupid chiseled-faced Jacob’s benefit, anyway. But if he starts picturing them together he’ll really make himself crazy. “I don’t know, did you want to try it on, decide for yourself?”