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Bode's half-naked, broad torso bare, and yet he's still so guarded. Now that Cal's learned the real Bode and his tells, Bode’s nerves are blatant. The tip of his tail is antsy, flicking back and forth, for one; it’s a constant and unfiltered dead giveaway of Bode’s mood. But beyond the obvious…
“Stop staring at me, handsome. Look at yourself instead,” Cal says, gentle but firm.
“Angel,” Bode says (pleads, almost), but Cal shuts him up with a pointed look.
Cal doesn’t typically take the lead, but Bode needs it right now. Needs this.
“Lay back. Let me take care of you,” Cal says. His hand settles featherlight onto Bode’s chest, battle-calloused hands tracing his muscled pec, across a dusky brown nipple, down to Bode’s slight love handles and the devilish red stripes on his hips. He skims careful fingers over the dark, magic-scorned scar on Bode's side, the beautiful iridescence of it unbefitting of the story behind it.
When Cal looks back up at his partner's face, Bode looks discomfited, eyes shining with insecurity and vulnerability. Yet he just… nods. He leans back on the bed against their stack of pillows, tail curling nervously across his still-clothed lap.
Cal reaches down and pulls one of Bode’s hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to clawed fingers, then rose-red skin, all the way to his upper forearm, where carmine fades out into Bode’s natural olive-tan.
“Thank you,” Cal murmurs, like taking care of Bode is a gift— ‘cause it is.