John was leaning against the kitchen counter when Bobby found him, back in front of the stove, beer in hand. Truthfully, he'd only taken another swallow: it was cold and bitter and yet he didn't seem to taste it at all. The beer was absent, like the weight of the counter behind him was absent, the little slice of the living room he saw through the kitchen door was absent. All of it didn't exist. It was other, ephemeral. The only thing that existed, the only thing that mattered was the sound of someone padding down the steps and stopping in that doorway, and looking him over. That face, that fucking face scrutinising him. Sandy brown hair and blue eyes and just a bit of scruff and fucking hell.

He didn't bristle at the scrutiny, but he met it with the rolling out of his shoulders, standing just a little straighter and a little taller as he subconsciously came out of a slouch. Almost defiant, in his own way. And then he scratched at his beard. "I'm still getting used to the damn thing," he explained, and motioned towards the beer Bobby had left. "Look. I understand this is probably freaking you out as much as it is me, but....I would like you to stay," he admitted, voice rough with an underlying emotion that felt like need. "I'm sure this will be difficult, but you know I never did anything the easy way," he finished, managing a small smile, and softening a little, now he'd realised that yes, that need was still there, and it wasn't going away. And maybe it wasn't anything to be embarrassed about. Maybe it was fine if he just...looked, from time to time. Maybe it would be enough.