He looks at her like he can drink it in and soak his bones with it: the color of her eyes, the way she runs her fingers through her hair, both fretful and decisive. He smooths a hand down the back of her shoulder, thoughtlessly reverent, aching with something too big to name. She's got her snot on his shoulder and her tears down his chest, and he does not have the first fucking clue where to go from here.
John exhales a breath, startled into a low little sound like pain. He tips his head into her hand and exhales, long and slow. He feels too big; he feels too hideously divine, and her too fragile, like he'll burn her up. He's afraid to touch her wrong, as though she'll see it in him suddenly, and realize.
"I'm," he starts, with no idea of where he's going next. It falls flat into, "I could be worse."
They didn't shoot him. This isn't her first awakening, except in all the ways that it is. But he can't tell her— he can't tell her. He doesn't want to tell her anything at all.
"You've missed a bit."
He doesn't want to be God to her. He wants to stay here forever and pick the slime out of her hair, and remember shit Nic Cage movies, and never have to think about what came next.
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John exhales a breath, startled into a low little sound like pain. He tips his head into her hand and exhales, long and slow. He feels too big; he feels too hideously divine, and her too fragile, like he'll burn her up. He's afraid to touch her wrong, as though she'll see it in him suddenly, and realize.
"I'm," he starts, with no idea of where he's going next. It falls flat into, "I could be worse."
They didn't shoot him. This isn't her first awakening, except in all the ways that it is. But he can't tell her— he can't tell her. He doesn't want to tell her anything at all.
"You've missed a bit."
He doesn't want to be God to her. He wants to stay here forever and pick the slime out of her hair, and remember shit Nic Cage movies, and never have to think about what came next.