John just smiled slightly. Sometimes a little jab in the pride could accomplish what no amount of sensitivity or forbearance would (not that he was any kind of expert in either of those things.) It was true, he didn't know the specifics, and didn't want to. But he knew the signs of trauma when he saw them, and had more than a passing acquaintance with bravado, and the grey eyes Crowley was wearing right now gave more away than he probably realized.
The cruelest--and ironically, probably unintentional--aspect of the whole thing was that Lucifer's abuses had effectively cut Crowley off from the one thing in which he might have taken solace as he healed. It was high time he got it back.
"Good," he said, deliberately raising one hand and cupping it carefully around the back of Crowley's neck, urging him gently closer and ducking in a bit until their foreheads nearly touched. "I think we're a little past bullshitting each other, don't you?"
He cast a sidelong glance at Kit, his own eyes conveying the somewhat muddled, but powerful mix of his feelings at that moment: he hadn't forgotten her, or what they had just been doing, but he needed to make things right for his mate. And was just now coming to realize how far he was willing to go to accomplish that. Maybe because of Kit, even--the desire she'd roused in him big enough to spill over and include someone else.
And, he realized, that he would really, really like her to help. But that wasn't a choice he could foist on her. She'd have to make up her own mind.
Firmly putting aside his doubts and further attempts at analysis, he tilted his head slightly and completed the gesture, doing for the second time what he'd never expected or planned to do once; letting the careful, tender, tentative kiss convey that he, too, was a little afraid--that being scared, and letting it show, wasn't always such a terrible thing. Especially when you didn't have to do it alone.
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The cruelest--and ironically, probably unintentional--aspect of the whole thing was that Lucifer's abuses had effectively cut Crowley off from the one thing in which he might have taken solace as he healed. It was high time he got it back.
"Good," he said, deliberately raising one hand and cupping it carefully around the back of Crowley's neck, urging him gently closer and ducking in a bit until their foreheads nearly touched. "I think we're a little past bullshitting each other, don't you?"
He cast a sidelong glance at Kit, his own eyes conveying the somewhat muddled, but powerful mix of his feelings at that moment: he hadn't forgotten her, or what they had just been doing, but he needed to make things right for his mate. And was just now coming to realize how far he was willing to go to accomplish that. Maybe because of Kit, even--the desire she'd roused in him big enough to spill over and include someone else.
And, he realized, that he would really, really like her to help. But that wasn't a choice he could foist on her. She'd have to make up her own mind.
Firmly putting aside his doubts and further attempts at analysis, he tilted his head slightly and completed the gesture, doing for the second time what he'd never expected or planned to do once; letting the careful, tender, tentative kiss convey that he, too, was a little afraid--that being scared, and letting it show, wasn't always such a terrible thing. Especially when you didn't have to do it alone.