It occurs to J that, after this, when they're clean and dry, he's absolutely going to sleep and, more importantly, that S might come with him, that he might get to fall asleep in his arms again. It's something he's missed fervently. He's hated himself for missing it, too, feeling weak for it, but in the middle of the night, exhausted and haunted and so very alone, it was impossible not to remember how good it felt to fall asleep with S tucked close beside him. There were times before when even that wasn't enough to keep J's thoughts from crowding his mind, cruel and insidious and holding sleep at bay. Today, though, he thinks it probably will be, if only because it's such a relief to be held by S at all.

Stifling a laugh against S's shoulder, he nods. "I don't know how you are either," he says, ignoring how hoarse he still sounds as he lifts his head again — slowly, not wanting S to move his hand yet. "I must not have tried hard enough." It's a joke, at least. No matter how harsh he can be on himself, he's generally more relaxed on this particular topic; it's hard to argue he failed something when there's such an obvious positive outcome. Seeing S like this, there's no doubting he did well. In the grand scheme of things, he knows, it's a small achievement, a drop of happiness against a vast ocean of injustices, but it feels good all the same.

It occurs to him, though, that S is tired, too, and perhaps too unsteady to follow through on his earlier offer. "Maybe we should hurry up," he says, "and get you off your feet."