"Okay." So they drove without speaking for a little while further, because John had learned to cope with uncomfortable silences (amongst other things) to some extent. He let himself be reassured by the touch of that just-cool-enough-hand in his hair, and eased himself in and out of the London traffic. The M4 was always Not Good, but it was less Not Good than peak hour, at least. They'd probably make it just around dinnertime.

Opening his mouth to say something and break the stillness, he glanced across at his boyfriend - to find Bobby comfortably snoozing away in the passenger's seat. "There's my Prince Charming," John muttered to himself, voice soft yet rough with emotion, and loosened his hands on the wheel for a moment to stretch them and get a better grip. The rest of the journey was uneventful, with John holding in his temper at various British drivers so as not to disturb Bobby, and all too soon they pulled into the weedy driveway that John had never really needed to use before.

"Wake up, handsome," John told Bobby, and then undid the seat belt so he could slip out of the driver's seat, turning the motor off. "I'm not hauling your fat ass into the house."