Slow, careful, good. Jude's expert care keeps him away from the edge, and times like this (was there ever a time like this before?), it's lovely all on its own. Feather-soft caresses from pleasantly rough fingers. Jude's hands match his voice. Appreciating that has nothing to do with being broken. He looks for a moment, reassuring himself that he knows where Jude's hands are. Good, good and almost safe.

"You're resourceful like that." The words are nonsense, but they don't really feel important. What does is moving in close, speaking right into Jude's ear and then nuzzling into his hair, breathing in deep and aware of the shell of the ear at the corner of his mouth as he does. Woodsmoke and snow and Jude, the silky, tickling fall of his hair, it's enough that he doesn't need steadying anymore. And he doesn't have to wonder what he could possibly have done to be looked at like that if all he can see is the confusion of light and shadow as the firelight passes through Jude's hair. That's something, too.