Ah there’s his little pup, keening sweetly and clinging to him for safety. It’s as though they’d never parted. Dominik cards his fingers through dark hair and presses a kiss to flushed skin. He wants to tell the boy to breath, to let his body do the work, but it goes unspoken in the way he holds Jameson and whispers against his skin, “Shh baby, you’re being so good.” Then he hears the familiarity of an apology mumbled out, the sound making him smile just a fraction. It’s like an old dance and he remembers the step like he remembers the taste of air in his lungs.
“It’s okay,” come practiced words. Dominik is gentle with his hands as he makes a temporary brace for the broken leg. Examining Jameson carefully, he allows himself to be weak, to lean in and steal soft kisses with gentle words. “Just like that baby boy.” Hands wander, pressing into skin, feeling, making slow work of ensuring that everything is healing. Jameson is warm, his skin flushed with pain and Dominik hoists the younger boy up into his arms gingerly. Carrying him isn’t difficult, no, it reminds him of when Jameson was younger, his eyes bright and trusting. When he’d bath him and make sure he was safe.
Walking into the kitchen, there’s a soft chuckle on his breath as he glances at the pup in his arms. “You’re okay baby boy, I was angry with you before and it’s my fault you’re hurting. I want to make it all better.” Setting Jameson on the counter, he turns to the refrigerator for a moment, grabbing an ice pack and wrapping it in a towel. Lifting Jameson’s leg, Dominik smoothes the cold compress along his inner thigh, cold fingers ghosting along sensitive skin. Leaning in close, his lips brush along the shell of his pup’s ear and he hums out saccharine warm words with fluttering breath. “You’re my sweet little boy and nothing will change that.”
His nose pressed to dark hair, breathing in Jameson, scenting him. Fingers spread those thighs further, his hand steady with the compress as his free hand runs along the uninjured leg with fluttering touches. It would be so easy to drag him to the edge of the counter, to get down on his knees and taste the sloppy mess he’d left behind in Jameson’s belly. Dominik toys with the idea as cold fingers dance further between warm thighs. “Look at how pretty you are,” he whispers into an ear. “So hungry and so soft for your daddy.” But it’s a tease, to get Jameson sensitive to him once more, to lure him in again with soft words and fleeting kisses.
Pulling away, he leaves a chaste kiss on Jameson’s lips, coaxing the pup to hold the compress to his leg. Dominik focuses on making breakfast just the same way as before their world imploded on itself. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips as he pulls out ingredients, setting them on the counter as he mills about. “Aside from french toast, what does my baby boy want to eat? I’m in the mood to cook so sky’s the limit.” Dominik talks as he moves, hands working on stirring together the batter he’ll soak the brioche in once the pan heat up on the stove. “Anything at all,” he promises, pulling out more than a few slices and setting them aside with the egg wash before taking his place between Jameson’s legs.
“Let daddy take care of you sweetheart.”
He wants to protect his leg. It’s instinctual, it’s reflexive. He wants to curl around his leg and growl and snarl until the pain stops, but he doesn’t. As strong as those impulses are, there’s a stronger one. The impulse to yield. To let Dom fix it. Make it better. Make the pain stop. Keep him safe when he’s completely and utterly defenseless. His leg is broken. It wouldn’t hold his weight if he wanted it to, and it’ll take at least a day or two before the bone’s mended enough to support him enough to stand on, much less walk or run. Fighting is a pipe dream.
He needs Dom. So even when Dom’s careful touches make the pain worse, even when the splint makes Jamie groan in pain, he doesn’t try to pull away. His breath catches when Dom lifts him up, and his head spins a little with the sudden change in direction and position. He’s tired. The healing takes a lot out of him, and his stomach’s gurgling hungrily, even though the aches make him nauseous.
“Wanted to hurt you.” It’s whispered like a confession. An apology, soft and distant. His mouth is dry. His voice is hoarse. “I wanted to.” He can’t think of why. He knows there’s a reason, but it’s far away. When he tries to reach for it, it’s like grabbing smoke. It disperses, and he’s left with nothing. His head is fuzzy, drunk off Dom and muddled with the pain.
He shifts on the hard counter, trying to get comfortable and stilling when Dom lifts his leg. “Cold,” he mutters, but he doesn’t try to push it away. He leans in. He nearly lets his head fall on Dom’s shoulder. He could fall asleep there. Safe. Protected. Food can wait. He’s so tired. There’s a lazy kind of warmth in the pit of his stomach as those cold fingers move up his leg, and Dom’s voice is a thick, scratchy wool blanket that makes him feel boneless and pliable. He tries to think again. Why did he leave this? Why did he run away from this? Again, he knows there was a reason. Distantly, he’s aware that it’s there. But it’s far away from him, out of his reach. He doesn’t try.
Dom’s moving away, but he’s back again before Jamie can work up the energy to complain. “Bacon?” He doesn’t actually remember the question. He just remembers what his answer would’ve been. He shifts a little closer to the edge of the counter, wincing when bones grind and muscles spasm. He doesn’t remember taking the compress, but it’s cold against his palm as he lifts it up to stare at it, puzzled. His other hand curls in Dom’s waistband.
He doesn’t know why, but with a shuddering gasp, he starts to cry.
