sockathan drabbles

patterns (heist crew au)

Click.
Click.
Click.

The repetitive metallic sound of the switchblade, popping out of its casing with the press of Jon's thumb and sliding back in under the guidance of his pointer finger. It was an idle motion, therapeutic in its simplicity, something to keep his hands occupied while his mind wandered elsewhere. Cool night air caressed his face as the occasional soft breeze blew through, ruffling his hair. God, he needed a shower, but he wasn't ready to go back inside just yet.

It'd been a slow day - at least for him - just making preparations and taking inventory, peppered with a glance into Sock's den every now and then to watch him shuffle through papers and drum at the keyboard of his laptop with practiced precision. The brain was hard at work as always, stacking up the next few jobs in perfect order, just the way he liked. Sometimes he'd get a smile or a wave, even a paper airplane tossed into the combination-kitchen-and-weapons-stockpile where Jon conducted most of his own work, but not today. Sock was locked up in his head, and Jon was left to count the same stacks of rounds over and over and over. It was that or confront the nagging in his brain that rose up whenever he wasn't otherwise occupied.

Of course, he could only dodge that for so long, which brought him to his current post: the ledge lining the rooftop of their apartment building, legs dangling in the emptiness beyond the edge and switchblade flipping out its steel song. The quiet made it easy to give in to the thoughts, letting them wash over him rather than making any effort to analyze them. Jon would repeat this routine some nights, when they had no obligations and Sock was preoccupied. He'd trudge up the steps, sling his legs over the edge, let the thrill of adrenaline and apprehension settle at the initial thought of just how easily he could tumble down, and then whip out the blade and let his mind get to buzzing. It was a stretch of passive but deafening sound in his ears, head nearly pounding with the chaos, and then he'd dust himself off and slink back inside.

For now, though, he had dangling and flipping and thinking to do. Absently, on an outward flick, he paused to examine the blade. It caught and reflected the glow of the roof's floodlight, a piercing beam that almost made him squint. Simultaneously thoughtful and thoughtless, Jon turned the blade over a few times before pressing the dull side against his leg. It was cool against his skin through a rip in his tattered jeans. He let it drag a few centimeters, feeling a light tug as the tip of the blade threatened to break through. Jon watched, unblinking and seemingly unbothered, face just as blank as it had been since he started up the steps.

The heavy scrape of the industrial door behind him made him jump, flicking the blade shut on instinct. His head still buzzed but he could hear footsteps on the concrete. They echoed like stones falling into water, rippling out through the rest of his body in trembling waves. His fingers scratched at the edge of the ledge as a pair of arms draped gently around his shoulders and soft hair grazed his cheek. The gentle nudge of a nose followed by warm lips on his cheek. He reached a hand back to card through the locks over his shoulder.

"Done for the night?" His own voice sounds foreign to his ears.

"Mm. Maybe." This one is smoother, playful, and distinctly tired, not to mention undoubtedly familiar. The buzzing grows quieter as Sock comes into view, climbing up onto the ledge at Jon's side. Jon watches silently as the boy surveys the dark street below, Sock's usual curiosity playing over his features. It takes only a few moments to satisfy him - of what Jon isn't sure. The shorter boy sinks to his knees so he can sling a leg over Jon's hips, situating himself comfortably in his lap. "Comfortably" might be a stretch, as he is now basically hanging off the edge of the building with Jon as his only means of support.

Even through the shrinking cacophony in his head Jon registers this, fisting his hands in the back of Sock's baggy hoodie - one of Jon's, he notes, and it looks good on him. "You're gonna kill yourself," he scolds, trying to tug the boy close to his own chest. Sock laughs lightheartedly and places a kiss on the blonde's forehead.

"You're worried! How sweet. But you're my brawn. It's your job to keep me safe." With that, mischief crosses his face. Sock leans away and Jon grips the shirt even tighter, watching as the boy lays back until he's practically parallel with the street below. He tosses his head back along with his arms, spread eagled over the side of the building with only Jon's white-knuckled grip keeping him grounded.

"Stop playing around like that!" Jon huffs through gritted teeth, giving the shirt a tug in an attempt to jostle Sock upright. The planner's gleeful laugh rings out again, remaining upside down for one moment longer before curling his body inwards to sit up in Jon's lap once more. The blonde's arms instantly lock around his waist, furrowed brow and narrowed eyes constrasting Sock's own flushed and pleased expression. He cradles his boyfriend's windburned cheeks in his hands and places a gentle kiss on his lips, one which allows Jon to feel Sock's smile. His lips are warm and smooth and Jon becomes aware of the fact that the cold breeze has likely chapped his own.

Sock doesn't seem to mind, letting a giggle break the kiss as he twines his arms around Jon's neck and buries his face under the boy's jaw. "I know you wouldn't let me fall, doofus."

"Yeah?" Jon nuzzles against wild brown hair despite his complaints. "And what if I did?"

"You won't."

Sock punctuates this with another gentle peck against Jonathan's jaw. Jon realizes that, regardless of his frustration, the beehive in his head has gone silent.

Sock tends to have that effect, he's noticed.

In favor of thinking further on that and risking a rustling of the hive, he lets his cheek settle into Sock's hair as he hugs the smaller figure tighter against himself and breathes in deeply. The same crisp smell of the autumn night time, scents of dirt and smoke from the city below, but laced with something else now. Warm and clean, like the linens in the bed they sometimes share on the nights that Lil and Jojo take the couch and the blanket on that same couch when they slot their bodies on it like tetris pieces, Jon on the outside and Sock tucked close to his chest. He shuts his eyes, Sock's quiet hum reverberating through him in the same waves from before.

The brunette pulls back enough to run fingers through Jon's hair. He combs it away from the blonde's face and examines him quietly, using the same scrutiny with which he pores over his notes plus an added layer of tenderness. Jon hesitates to call it love even though he feels the iron grip Sock possesses on his heart in the look alone. "You okay?" It's gentle, seeking honesty over placation.

Jon nods and tips his head into the touch when Sock rests a hand on his cheek. Turning his head lets his eyes land on the closed switchblade again. Sock follows his gaze, unspeakingly slipping the small heap of metal into his own sweatshirt pocket. Jon doesn't try to stop him.

With the blade out of sight, Sock peppers another set of kisses over Jon's reddened skin; each cheek, his forehead, the tip of his nose, finishing with his lips. It's a pattern that is as familiar to him as the way Sock makes his coffee (lots of milk and sugar, stir until light) or the order in which he puts away laundry (pants, shirts, underwear, then socks). They each have their rhythm. He crowds the boy impossibly closer, something in his chest squeezing tight as he looks up at Sock.

The brunette's hands linger over Jon's forearms before he slips lightly out of his grip, climbing carefully to his feet back on the safety of the rooftop. He wraps slender fingers in a loop around Jon's wrist and gently tugs. "Come on, it's cold. Let's get some rest." Exhaustion previously kept at bay by the humming in his brain comes flooding back and Jon obeys, trailing after his little genius. He watches him fondly as Sock's typical energy seems to flood back with the warmth of the indoors, bouncing down the steps and tossing ocassional backwards smiles up to Jon. Something warm settles in Jon's own stomach, though he suggests the source is more likely the light radiating off of Sock than the building's temperature.

He helps Sock move the piles of paper aside, sets the couch up with pillows and a blanket, and settles in for a movie with the comforting weight of another against his side. Through it all, somehow, his brain stays silent. He casts a glance down to Sock's face which has already gone slack, asleep before the opening credits finished. He brushes a tender knuckle over the boy's cheek, careful not to disturb him. His chest twinges in a familiar way as he presses light lips to Sock's forehead. Even Jon's murmur is practically a whisper, but it floats up on the nest of warmth Sock had kindled in his stomach.

"Thank you."