There's a subtle shift. A crinkle of sheets. A weight on the bed before a bone chilling, metallic cold against his back. A panicked voice in Vs head screams Smasher before he's jerking awake with a strangled cry.
There's a grumbled swear. And then V's pulled close, a metal limb creaking with age as it snakes around his shoulders and pulls, pulls until V feels the scrape of chest hair against his cheek and freezes.
"Fuck, kid, you're alright." V can hear the voice rumble but not in his head. The shock of it hits him like a bucket of icy water. His bleary mind so used to the brink of death that it can't shake the muscle memory.
"Johnny, Johnny," over and over and over.
"Aint left yet." A statement, a question, a feeling, a thought. V felt the muscles under his cheek move as Johnny reached up and plucked a half smoked cig from the ashtray above Vs bed. V could see the smoke float about, followed it with half focused eyes, wide and panicked and real. The hand tossed the lighter aside and came up, holding his face to Johnnys chest.
"You're safe."
As if that were something people like them were allowed to feel.
"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny-"