Liv is browsing the house. Any other day, he would have told her to stay away from the shelves and crates and drawers, ordered her to stay put on the couch or at the table. Basically anywhere where she couldn't accidentally stir up some evil.

Tonight, he stops being paranoid as soon as Chas takes up his spot in the kitchen. Whether it is for the knife in his hand or just his solid presence is still up for debate.

From the corner of his eyes, John watches him prepare their dinner. Chas moves with expert precision like he is a chef full-stop and not slaying demons and evil spirits. Or maybe that is all two sides of the same coin - the knowledge of when and where and how and how much of it.

"Fingertips," Chas says and John flinches. Of course now, the knife he is using to chop onions nicks his skin. It's not drawing blood (for once) but it still hurts, the juices of the chopped vegetable biting at the wound.

"Thanks for that," John growls, smacking down the knife, making it stick in the cutting board.

"Just be careful with my onions."

There's a beat and then John can hear Chas smile without even looking. It's one of those good smiles, warm and solid.

Balancing the cutting board with the pile of chopped onions over to the stove, he sidles up to Chas.

"That fine enough for you, boss?" He jokes, twirling the knife on its tip, his other hand, the one he cut, at a safe distance and fraction too close to Chas'.

"Yeah, it's fine."

Chas' hand is on his then and John all but flinches. It's what he came for but that this is what he came for scares him sometimes. Because it's gone too soon, and could stay gone for good.

So he dwells in that touch that Chas shields with his body, relishes the feel of calloused fingertips drawing a pattern on the back of his hand.

"Something's burning," Liv calls from the ever-changing depths of the living-room.

Chas steps back then, not hurriedly but with purpose. There's another smile, if only a fraction of it this time.

"Thanks," he calls over his shoulder in Liv's general direction, his eyes never leaving John.

John nods in understanding. Not now, not here. Later.

They eat and it's the best John has tasted in days. Of course, he can rely on Chas' cooking as much as on the man himself. It puts warmth in his stomach and content in his mind and home in his heart. It's a welcome contrast to what they are usually facing, what occasionally quite literally bleeds into their little safe haven.

At last, Liv falls asleep on the lumpy couch, her dad's pendant still dangling from her hand.

John, from his spot at the sink, watches Chas drape a knitted afghan over her shoulders. How that tree of a man can move so delicately and quiet is beyond John. He has seen (and heard) gnome-sized demons cause more of a racket than Chas. And then you don't just get to survive things going about like a wrecking ball. Maybe that is his secret. Maybe the higher powers simply haven't noticed him yet.

"Don't stare." Chas is right behind him then, proving John's musings. "Makes me uncomfortable."

"You?" John shoots him a smirk over his shoulder. "Chas Chandler, the Immortal, gets uncomfortable?"

For a blink, Chas returns his smile, then he is back to his stoic expression. "I am not immortal." He pushes past John and gets them two beers from the fridge. He puts one down in front of John. "Get some rest. I'll finished up."

For a moment, John regards him. It's not up for debate. Nodding, he takes the bottle, pops the cap and takes a swig. As he leaves the kitchen to head for his bedroom, he mumbles grumpily: "And now he doesn't even trust me with his dishes. After all this time." He says it loud enough for Chas to hear and he is rewarded with a low, rumbling chuckle.

No matter how many times he showers or baths, John can't quite shake off the smell of ash and sulfur. Maybe it's already been edged too deep into his senses to get rid of it.

So taking a steaming shower and putting on a clean t-shirt and sweats doesn't really do anything except wash the weariness out of his bones. That lasts until he steps out of the bathroom and into his bedroom. He finds Chas there, standing by the small barred window, looking out.

John watches him for a long moment, watches his reflection in the windowpane, watches the slow rise and fall of his chest. "I'll never get used to it," he finally says and walks over to his nightstand where he has left his beer.

Chas doesn't turn around but lets his eyes follow John's movements in the reflection. "You know I come back."

"Until you don't."

John steps up to him, feels the warmth radiating off Chas' body. He doesn't push, just stands in his immediate personal space until Chas finally takes the bait. His hand goes into the back of John's neck, bringing a familiar weight and reassurance.

"I know people." Chas' reply is a low rumble and it comes with a soft smile. Then he leans down and kisses John gently on the mouth.

On its own accord, John's hand claws into the fabric of Chas' sweater as if he needs to hold on to a frailing dream. Just a little more...

He drags Chas back until he bumps against the bed, not quite breaking the kiss yet.

"John..." Chas finally manages to murmur against the corner of the other man's mouth. With a firm hand against John's chest, he brings some distance between them.

John is reluctant to let go, maybe even desperate not to, and sinks down on the bed. "Too soon, eh?"

"Electrocution is not my favorite." Chas pulls his sweater up to reveal a circular smudge in the middle of his chest that overlaps with his tattoo. It looks like someone has stomped out a gargantuan cigarette on his torso.

John knows he looks more hurt than Chas is. He hates this even though he knows that in twenty-four hours time, even that last remnant will be gone.

He reaches out, fingertips brushing over the blackened skin. It still feels warm to his touch. He says so, too.

"I know. I can still feel it inside, too." Chas tries a reassuring smile which fails midway. "Tingly."

John nods. He knows what feeling tingly inside means. "You staying here, then?"

"You want me to?"

It's their routine.

"Wouldn't want you to actually die in a freak household accident, now would I? Better keep an eye out."

This time, he gets a full fledged smile from Chas and now there's a tingly feeling. "You could just say 'yes'."

"Yes."

"Wasn't so hard, was it?"

"What can I say, mate? I'm shy."

Grinning, Chas leans down to him and kisses him again. It's not as deep as before and over even sooner.

John watches the reflection of Chas strip down to his underwear and climb in on the other side of the bed. He feels his familiar weight dip the mattress and when he slips under the covers as well, it is a bit like coming home.

Chas' body always feels a degree too hot even without previous high power electrocution. Tonight, he is almost too cold for John's liking. So he pulls the blanket childishly too high and moves into Chas' personal space, butt bumping against the other man's hip without much of an intention.

"I'll figure it out," John says after a while, almost expecting Chas to be asleep already.

"What?"

"What keeps that inner clock of yours ticking. I'll figure it out."

A rough grumble behind him. "I told you to leave it."

John turns on his back now, staring at the same non-existent spot on the ceiling as Chas does. "Just like you told to leave it when you... do your thing."

"Yes."

John remains silent for a long moment before he gives an answer that sounds horrible cheese and contrived in his head. "I just want to know when I need to stop waiting for you to return and when to start mourning. That's all."

Now Chas remains quiet. When he replies, light touches his words. "You'll know."

"Besides, I'd need to learn how to cook."

"Stop flirting, John."

"Who is flirting? This is about my survival, too."

Chas shuts him up with another kiss. Long, longing.

"Sleep now. You've got to save a girl's life tomorrow."

"Right, no pressure."

"Not when I make you breakfast."

"Promise?"

"Promise."