Just a random thought in case it strikes inspiration or you like it or something, but with Joe wearing his chunky rings I always imagine fidgeting with them, especially if you're anxious <3
random thought turned into whatever this is! Wordcount: 2.5K
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Within Reach, Always
It’s not exactly the worst, but it’s… embarrassing.
You think so, at least. Joe doesn’t, but that doesn’t make much of a difference, unfortunately.
You don’t notice it until it’s already become a habit.
That’s how it always goes with habits, doesn’t it? They sneak in through the back door, uninvited, settling into your bones before you’ve realised there’s something there to name. It sucks that having to unlearn a habit is so much harder than accidentally creating one.
You’re on his sofa, legs tucked under you, some show playing on the TV loud enough to count as background noise but not loud enough to distract from the way your chest is buzzing for no reason at all. There’s about a million things on your mind, and you haven’t yet found a way to stop it from racing.
Joe’s next to you, relaxed in that maddening way he always is, one arm hooked along the back cushion, fingers dangling casually close to your shoulder. His other hand rests on his knee, rings glinting under the lamp. He’s always wearing at least one, but more often than not there’s several chunky silver bands that decorate his fingers.
Without fully realising it, your hand goes looking.
It brushes against his, fingertips catching the skin-warmed edge of one of those rings.
In a reflex, Joe intertwines your fingers, squeezing your hands together to hold. He raises the tangled bundle up to his mouth to press a kiss into your skin before moving it onto your lap to rest there.
He gives you a sideways glance, and you give him a small smile.
This is not what your fingers were after.
Your thumb is the first to start playing. Your index finger follows shortly after, and one by one, your fingers wiggle themselves free from his hold. They find the band of his ring with ease, and before you know it, they work around it, slowly twisting it in circles.
It’s a slow repetitive movement, and the rhythm of it steadies you. The fidgeting fills your chest with calm in place of that restless hum that was there before.
It takes about twenty seconds for your shoulders to drop as you deeply exhale.
It’s suddenly a little easier to follow what’s happening on screen.
Your mind a little emptier.
Your frown a little less deep.
The awareness crashes in when you hear a soft chuckle coming from next to you.
Heat crawls up your neck. You’re touching Joe like you’re a child who doesn’t know any better.
“Sorry,” you blurt, yanking your hand back like you’ve touched fire. “I didn’t meant to–”
“Relax.” His voice cuts across yours, low and even. His eyes flick to the side, clocking the retreat, and then back to the TV as if it’s nothing. “I don’t mind.”
And he really doesn’t.
Joe has no problem letting you play, twist, and turn to your heart’s content.
After that, it keeps happening.
At first you tell yourself it’s accidental. Just happens. Your nerves are sort of looking for an outlet, and your body mistakes his jewelry for the solution.
It happens when you go get coffee together, across the sticky little table, his coffee cooling untouched while you spin the thin band on his thumb until it digs into your skin.
It happens when you’re walking home side by side, your arms brushing, your hand sneaking down to graze the heavy signet ring he wears on his middle finger.
It even happens once when you’re both waiting in line at the small and cramped corner shop, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, too many people crowding the narrow idles. Your nerves snap until you anchor yourself to him.
Every time, it’s an instant comfort.
Yet, every time you pull back when you realise you’ve been fidgeting with his rings for a bit.
You never mean to do it, so every time, embarrassment flares hot and you feel clingy, too needy.
However, what also happens every time, is that Joe doesn’t let you go far. He stays within reach, always.
“You’re doing it again,” he says once, voice soft enough so only you can hear.
“I know. Sorry.” You let go of his fingers and fold your arms, trying to smother the restless energy.
He catches your wrist and gently uncurls it before he places his hand back under yours.
“Didn’t say stop, now, did I?”
You wonder if he knows how that makes your stomach flip and do somersaults.
It’s not long before Joe starts offering.
The first time, you’re sitting at his kitchen table, scrolling through your phone while your leg bounces under the chair. Joe looks up from where he’s reading something on his laptop, tilts his head, and then, without comment, he sets his hand down in front of you.
Palm open.
Rings gleaming in the morning light.
You blink at him. “What?”
“You look like you need it,” he simply says, eyes already back on his screen. “Go on.”
So you do.
Slowly at first, a little shy, like it’s something you’ve asked for and Joe has reluctantly said yes to. Your thumb finds the thick band on his index finger, spinning it, pressing it into his skin, sliding it just over his knuckle and back down again.
It works like a charm.
That familiar calm slides through you like a tide pulling back, and just like magic, your leg stops bouncing.
Joe lets his eyes flick up to look at you, expression unreadable except for the faintest curve of his mouth. “Told you.” he says after a beat, and you can’t help the blush that finds your cheeks.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Over time, it becomes your language.
You’re at a party with noise thrumming through the floorboards, with strangers brushing past too close, and you can’t seem to get enough air into your lungs no matter how hard you try.
The air is think with heat and cheap perfume, the bass of the music loud enough to make your ribs rattle. You’ve been holding a beer bottle for half an hour, the drink long gone, but you can’t seem to put it down.
Joe is across the room at first, talking to someone you don’t recognise, his posture loose, head titled just enough to look like he’s paying attention.
He’s having a nice time, yet everything inside of you is telling you to leave.
It’s too much.
Too loud.
Too sticky and too humid and too many people in a space too small.
You’re about to think of an excuse to just go home. To slip outside. You want to breathe air that isn’t laced with sweat and smoke.
Before you’ve thought of something, Joe’s there.
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at you right away. Just nudges his shoulder into yours like it’s the most casual thing in the world.
“You okay?” he asks, pitched low, meant for you and you alone.
You want to say yes, but your throat’s too tight.
He notices. Sees it in the tension in between your brows. The worry lines across your face.
Without waiting for an answer, he slides his hand down between you, rings solid as the graze your wrist before settling in your palm. He doesn’t grip, but instead just lets his fingers rest there, letting you decide what to do with them.
The relief is immediate.
You curl your fingers around his, the chunky band on his middle finger pressing into your skin. Your thumb finds it, turns it and presses until the familiar click of silver steadies your breath.
The room doesn’t change, but somehow it turns a little less hostile. The music still thuds, and people still laugh too loudly, but with his hand under yours it all blurs into the background.
Joe leans closer, his mouth near your ear so you can hear him over the noise. “Better?”
You nod quickly, embarrassed by the heat in your cheeks.
“Good,” he says, and squeezes once. Then, like it costs him nothing, he adds, “Stay as long as you need.”
You keep twisting his ring, grateful he doesn’t pull away. Grateful he doesn’t make you explain why this is the answer to your issues.
Joe starts doing that more and more often. He starts learning your tells. Knows what your face does when your thoughts are spiraling and knows that sliding his hand across the table like an offering is the quickest and easiest way to help.
“You’re going to wear them out,” he teases lightly, watching you spin and press.
“Sorry,” you mumble absentmindedly, eyes fixed on the rings around his fingers in in between yours.
“I kind of like it. ‘S relaxing.”
No need to be embarrassed, is what he means. You are still, at least a little, but it’s nice that those words come so easily from him, without hesitation at all. Must mean that he really means it. “Stop feeling weird about it.”
All you can do is give him a smile in return, wishing that was as easy as he makes it sound.
And listen, you could just as easily twist your own rings around your own fingers to make yourself calm down. Which you actually do often enough. But there’s just something about having it be Joe’s hand. About holding his fingers and his chunky rings. Something about the warmth of his large palm that relaxes in your hold as he just lets you play.
It just… works better.
The first time he withholds it, it’s like missing a step in the dark, your stomach lurching before your mind catches up.
The fight is stupid, as most fights are. Something about plans you flaked on, about the way you duck questions when he presses too close. His tone isn’t raised, but sharpness seeps into the edges, carving into the soft space you’ve built between you.
You’re in the kitchen, and Joe has just confronted you with a bunch of things he’s not happy about. A lot of questions he wants immediate answers to.
“Please, tell me I’m wrong. I’d love to be proven wrong.” Joe snaps, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the counter, eyebrows raised like he’s speaking to a child.
You feel like one, so, that checks out.
You’re also very much acting like one, being looked down on as you keep silent, sat at the table with your hands in your lap.
You’re not really reacting to anything he’s saying because you need a little time to process things before you feel ready to talk. Before you really know what to say.
Yet Joe wants to talk now. Wants to speak his mind and wants you to speak yours to get this sorted right away.
And it just… it doesn’t work like that. The tension sits awkwardly in your gut, and your body reacts before your brain does.
You reach for his hand, desperate for the anchor. You know he knows what it means.
But this time, in an act of rebellion almost, Joe keeps his arms right where they are, crossed over his chest, fingers and rings hidden from your view. The deliberate absence is almost louder than anything he’s saying.
You know he’s seen it in your face.
Can tell you’re looking for something solid to lean on.
“Joe,” you whisper, more plea than word.
His jaw works. He meets your eyes, steady but strained.
“No.”
It’s only one word, but somehow it lands heavier than all the others combined.
Your lip wobbles as you mouth the quietest “Please?” you’ve ever managed.
It goes completely unanswered.
You fold your hands into your lap, clenching until your nails bite your skin, trying to keep from shaking. The silence drives him crazy, feels unbearable and frustrates Joe to no end, but it carves into you in ways he can’t begin to imagine.
It doesn’t last forever.
It never does, with him.
A couple of hours of silent treatment follow, where Joe avoids you completely.
It’s better that way, you think. You have your own hands and your own rings you can twist, and that will just have to do for now.
Except, it doesn’t do.
It barely does anything at all, if you’re honest.
Later, you find yourself curled up in his bed, knees to chest, guilt curdling in your stomach. The room feels too small and your own thoughts too loud. It’s late when Joe slips in quietly and settles down beside you without saying a word, and for a long time he doesn’t touch you at all.
Then, finally, he exhales and very slowly reaches over and finds one of your hands to hold in both of his.
You can feel the rings on both his hands, familiar and solid, pressing into your skin like a promise.
He hasn’t taken them off yet.
Joe always takes his rings off before bed.
It’s enough to make you sigh a shaky breath as you stare at your folded together hands, throat tight.
“Go on,” he says softly. “All yours.”
The relief is so overwhelming, it takes everything within you not to burst into tears right on the spot.
You let careful fingers find and twist the nearest band until your breath steadies. Until the world shrinks down to just the weight of metal and the warmth of him beside you.
A whispered conversation fixes all of it.
The fight dissolves, apologies and explanation suddenly not as difficult as before with the return of this ritual. The quiet way he lets you spill your nerves into silver and skin helps turn all your thoughts into words with ease.
After you’ve whispered apologies in a million different ways, you’re both watching how your fingers play with his jewelry, and Joe thinks maybe he should add some just for your comfort.
“Sorry,” Joe eventually whispers. “Should’ve let you do this earlier.”
“Don’t be.” you carefully smile. “They’re your hands at the end of the day.”
Joe thinks it’s more than just his hands. He’s not just giving you his rings to fidget with.
“Yea? Doesn’t feel like they are.” Joe returns your careful smile. “They’re yours in a way too.”
You disagree, but know exactly what he means.
“Should’ve handed them over before I’d even started talking. Would’ve saved us a lot of trouble.”
It’s silly, but he’s right.
Because when Joe reaches out and give you his relaxed hand, he’s giving you more than just his hand and his rings. He’s giving you steadiness. Patience. A space where you don’t feel like you have to explain yourself – where your anxiety isn’t something to fix, but something that he gets to hold for a moment.
It’s not exactly the worst, but there’s an embarrassment there that will probably never fade completely.
It’s why saying sorry about fidgeting will always come easier than saying thank you out loud, but when your fingers curls tight around his, silver slowly spinning under your touch, you give him a little squeeze and Joe squeezes right back like he understands.
It’s your language now.
It saves you from having to say anything, because Joe hears you and then answers it anyway.
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