Gideon's too shaken by the entire experience to offer to help Amos finish. Teasing him during the act was about the most he was capable of, without a moment or two to recover--and by the time he realizes Amos has taken himself in hand, Amos' breath is moving over his skin, and he's disinclined to interrupt him. The most he does is wrap his arms loosely around him, both palms moving over his hair.
So, yeah, it's nice. It doesn't take Amos long-- he's been waiting this for a while-- and it's a few well-practiced moments of cleanup to keep a cloudy mess from accumulating in low G.
Amos stays there, face pressed into Gideon's neck, breathing deeply. "Fuckin' nice," he murmurs.
He makes a soft hmm sort of noise, for want of anything else to add to the conversation. Fortunately, there's little to say--where he might be inclined toward quiet talk with someone else, Amos has never been a chatterer. What he could offer now wouldn't be received with more than a laconic answer.
Instead, in the silence after Amos speaks, Gideon reaches into his jumpsuit, his hand moving over the hard muscles of Amos' side and back. It is to say, yes, this is fucking nice, though I might have chosen a different phrase to describe it.
Amos looks down with mild surprise, almost amused that this is what's caught Gideon's eye. "Shit," he says, a little triedly, "knew you were into that, would'a taken the thing off."
Gideon snorts, then shrugs--considering just how quickly the entire encounter happened, it hardly matters whether Amos disrobed or not. But he can hardly deny the fact that Amos' figure is one he's spent more time thinking about than he'd prefer to admit. Splaying his hand over even a fraction of that broad expanse is a quiet pleasure.
(And he can't remember the last time he touched someone else's bare skin.)
And Amos can tell what Gideon likes, it's pretty fucking obvious. He takes Gideon's hand and lays it on his chest while he nuzzles into Gideon's too-long, too-soft hair.
He'd like to think he's a fairly subtle man on the whole--but there's little to guard against in this moment. Amos knows what he needs to about Gideon Thraxios; the things Gideon doesn't want him to know, he won't learn from lying in silence together on a bunk barely built for one man, let alone two. And to be given this moment, the weight of Amos' bulk beside him, under his fingertips, his nose in Gideon's hair, is a gift he hadn't expected. A silent sigh escapes him as he stares at the ceiling.
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Amos stays there, face pressed into Gideon's neck, breathing deeply. "Fuckin' nice," he murmurs.
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Instead, in the silence after Amos speaks, Gideon reaches into his jumpsuit, his hand moving over the hard muscles of Amos' side and back. It is to say, yes, this is fucking nice, though I might have chosen a different phrase to describe it.
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(And he can't remember the last time he touched someone else's bare skin.)
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