Prompt fills
May. 2nd, 2015 07:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
linndechirBecause I just found a whole file of prompt fills (for my favourite fic meme) that I wrote about a year ago and, for some reason, never reposted anywhere else but on tumblr. Because I'm apparently an idiot. I'll probably throw the Tim/Raylan ficlet on AO3 as well because it's actually pretty great. Edit: I did actually post the Tim/Raylan fic on AO3, so apparently I only forgot about the existence of the other fics. Here it is again anyway, plus two brief Herc/Chuck ficlets as well as two Marius/Adam scenes - the only reason I even found this file again is because I was desperately looking for that fic I wrote about Adam cleaning blood off Marius' shoes with his sleeve and I couldn't find it anywhere on LJ.
Anyway, have some old fic.
Marius/Adam, Zip me
Adam knocked on the door to Marius' bedroom, surprised that he had been sent up here. It was 7am, and Marius Thorne's mornings were as regular as clockwork. Usually he was at breakfast by the time Adam arrived in the morning, not still upstairs. It was unusual enough to make Adam worry.
“Come in.” Marius' voice sounded muffled from inside, and Adam didn't find him in the bedroom itself, but in the large walk-in closet. He was still getting dressed, dark blue suit trousers, the white dress shirt open and unbuttoned. Adam backed away from the closet door and looked down; he knew how meticulous Marius was about his clothes, how he hated to be seen looking anything but perfect.
“Sorry, sir, I didn't - “
“It's quite all right, Adam, do come in.” Marius turned just enough to smile at Adam over his shoulder, and Adam found himself relaxing immediately. He hated not being by Marius' side; if it was up to him he'd sleep in front of Marius' door at night. Rationally he knew that Marius was safe, that his security was more than competent and every bit as paranoid as Adam himself, but this, right here, was the way it was supposed to be. He still tried not to stare too much as he stepped closer again; it seemed disrespectful.
“You're late, sir,” Adam said, grinned that cheeky grin that always brought fond amusement to Marius' eyes.
“I suppose I slept in,” Marius replied and winked at him.
“By all of five minutes? Unbelievable, sir.”
Marius laughed briefly, but as he turned around to face him Adam's smile disappeared. He had never seen Marius so undressed; he certainly had never seen the man's bared upper body. There was a long scar on the left side of Marius' chest, so thin and white that it had to be rather old, but still very visible on his otherwise unblemished skin. Adam stepped closer without even thinking about it, raising his hand until his fingers stopped just an inch from the scar.
“What happened there, sir?” His voice sounded hoarse in his own ears, he felt an unpleasant tightness in his own chest. Fear. Marius was untouchable, more god than man in Adam's eyes, and seeing any sign of pain and vulnerability on his body made Adam feel sick. Sick and angry at himself for not having been there to protect him.
“That?” Marius glanced down, he didn't seem particularly concerned. “I had a bad heart – unfortunate genetics. I had it fixed, it works just fine now.”
Adam's fingers trembled a little, and he dimly realised that he was forgetting his place, yet he couldn't help himself but touch the scar, retracing it gingerly as if it would rip open if he wasn't careful enough. Marius didn't move. Adam swallowed, looked up again to meet Marius' eyes, and he realised only now how very close they were.
“That why you're so careful about your health, sir?” he asked, feeling suddenly bad for the occasional cheeky comment he had made about Marius' obsession with healthy living.
“Having a heart attack at 25 will do that to a man,” Marius said dryly, but for all his calm demeanour Adam could tell that it had shaken him, back then. No man liked to be reminded of his own mortality, and certainly no man who wanted to achieve as much in his limited time as Marius Thorne did. Marius' hand covered Adam's, pressed it closer to his chest. His skin was still warm from the shower. “Don't look so worried, Adam. I assure you, at this point my heart is healthier than most men's my age.”
“It's not right,” Adam grumbled, splaying his fingers over Marius' chest, as if he could keep his heart safe that way. He looked up into Marius' eyes, those light green eyes that would guide him every day until Marius needed Adam to die for him. More softly he added, “I'd give you my heart, if I could. I'd rip it right out of my chest so you could have it. You know, if -”
If my blood wouldn't kill you.
“I know, Adam,” Marius said gently, and there was a tenderness in his eyes that warmed Adam through and through. Marius raised his right hand to caress Adam's cheek, the way he did so often, but never often enough for Adam's taste. He leant into the touch gratefully. “But there is no need for that.”
Adam nodded, reluctantly pulled his hand away from Marius' chest. He knew there was nothing he could have done to help even if he had already been with Marius back then, but he would make sure that Marius would never have another scar on his body.
“Give me a hand, since you're here,” Marius said, and it took Adam a moment to realise what he meant. He grinned happily, nodded.
“Alright, sir.” Marius held still as Adam buttoned his dress shirt for him – covering up that damn scar, the ugly reminder that even Marius Thorne was only human, vulnerable, mortal – and he could have sworn Marius' breath hitched a little when Adam's fingers brushed over his throat.
Marius had already laid out his cufflinks, watch, tie and pocket square, and Adam's hands quickly went for the cufflinks. They were standing so close to each other that Adam could feel Marius' breath ghosting over his face; Marius' wrists were slender in Adam's hands, and Adam allowed himself to rub his thumb over the soft skin on their inside before putting the cufflinks on, as if to reassure himself of Marius' steady heartbeat. When he finished with the second cufflink he raised Marius' hand to his lips, pushed back the sleeve enough to press a dry kis to the inside of Marius' wrist, right where blue veins shone through the pale skin, eyes locked with his. Adam loved Marius' hands, the soft skin, the long fingers, and he would have covered them in kisses if that hadn't seemed too forward. Now was not the time for that. Maybe tonight, if Marius let him sit by his feet again for a few hours. As it was he only reached for Marius' watch and fastened it on his left wrist, and just from looking at Marius for every free moment of his day he knew exactly just how tight or loose Marius wanted it.
Marius' eyes had never left his; the silence between them was tense, though far from unpleasant. Adam loved nothing more than those private moments, when he saw sides of Marius that no one else ever got to see. He didn't need to share his bed to be closer to him than anyone else could ever hope to be, not that Marius would ever want him there.
Adam laid Marius' tie loosely around his neck, then let his hands rest on Marius' now clothed chest. Grinned a little.
“I'd better not tie that for you, sir, you'd probably have another heart attack.” Adam felt bad for joking about it, but it made Marius laugh, and that was all that mattered. Adam could feel it in Marius' chest more than he heard it, and he wished he could always be this close to Marius, close enough almost to hear his heartbeat, close enough to smell the faint scent of his aftershave. He stayed where he was when Marius turned around to face the mirror, long fingers tying his tie in a way that looked far more complicated than the only knot Adam had ever learnt, but Marius' fingers made it look so simple. As he finished, Adam took the suit jacket from its hanger and held it up for Marius, let his hands linger for just a moment on Marius' shoulders while Marius closed the buttons.
Marius turned around, and for one last moment before the day started and he had to focus his attention on their surroundings, Adam allowed himself to look at nothing but those green, calm eyes that always seemed so much softer when they looked at him. Again Marius ran his fingertips over Adam's cheek, then down over his throat. Adam didn't even flinch – Marius could strangle him and Adam would bare his throat happily. But Marius' hands were as tender as they always were with him, always lingering just a little too long, as if Marius couldn't quite tear himself away from Adam. A silly thought, Adam knew, Marius was probably just doing Adam a favour. He had always been far more generous with Adam than would have been necessary.
“Come in earlier tomorrow,” Marius said finally, that calm, matter-of-fact tone he always used when giving orders. “I like having you here for this.”
Adam's smile widened, he nodded eagerly.
“Yes, sir. If you promise you won't try to make me wear a suit, too.”
Marius just laughed as he stepped past Adam back into the bedroom.
“Have you had breakfast already, Adam? Come on, join me.”
Marius/Adam, X Me
“That's all I know, I swear, I swear!”
Marius considered the man who was curled up on the floor – a bleeding, broken, whimpering mess –, his eyes calm and calculating, his body perfectly still. Despite the man's panting and begging the room seemed oddly quiet. Marius was quiet, and it was as if space itself deferred to him. Adam waited patiently by his side, keeping an eye on the still breathing dead man, but his attention was focused on Marius, who was standing there with the same confident ease he showed everywhere, the natural authority of a man who knew that the world would bend to his will.
And if it failed to do so, well, that's what Adam was for.
Eventually Marius nodded. He looked satisfied, like he had finally found what he had been looking for. The truth, the truth that Adam had been patiently beating out of the man. The thought made Adam smile a little to himself. Marius had given him so much, and there was nothing Adam loved more than to give Marius what he wanted in return.
“Go ahead,” Marius said after another moment of careful consideration. Adam drew his gun, but Marius stopped him with a curt gesture of his hand.
“Too noisy,” he explained. That in itself shouldn't have been a problem – they were in the middle of nowhere, with no one nearby except for more of his people, otherwise Marius Thorne would have never brought himself into such a compromising position – so Adam assumed that Marius simply didn't want his ears to ring for the next hour.
“All right, sir, I'll be quiet then.” A cheerful grin as he went down on one knee, pulled the man up and broke his neck with practised ease. Killing had always been part of Adam's life; it had been his job in the Army, and necessary for survival in prison. But killing for Marius was different. It was always meaningful. Not so much because Adam knew the reason Marius needed someone dead, he didn't always, and frankly he wouldn't have cared if Marius had people killed for no reason at all (which he didn't – Marius Thorne was nothing if not efficient, and there was probably nothing less efficient than pointless murder). But the very fact that Adam was doing it for Marius made it matter, just like his whole life had only started to matter once it belonged to Marius.
As Adam let the limp body sink back onto the floor, he noticed a drop of dark red blood on the shining black leather of Marius' shoe, and he frowned a little. He wasn't quite sure how it had got there, he thought he'd been more careful, but there was no way it could stay there. He crossed the small distance between them on his knees, smiled up at him when Marius gave him a surprised look. Kneeling at his feet he pulled down his rolled up shirtsleeve to wipe the blood off Marius' shoe, polished it until it gleamed again.
“Sorry about that, sir.”
Marius smiled – not the cold, detached smile of late-night planning and successful business meetings, but that tender smile he kept for simpler pleasures. This smile was not Marius Thorne's reward for a job done well, but an expression of genuine fondness that filled Adam with pure bliss. He leant forward and kissed Marius' knee, careful not to wrinkle his suit, allowed himself to lean his forehead against Marius' leg. He sighed happily when long fingers found their way into his hair, combing through it, smoothing it back again and again until Marius was simply stroking Adam's hair.
Adam had heard more than enough people call him Marius' guard dog, with derision in their voices, trying to provoke him. Adam considered it a compliment. He couldn't imagine a better fate than being Marius' dog, trusted, devoted, dependable. Loved. Marius never said that word, but Adam saw it in his eyes when they were alone, in the evening when Marius spent countless minutes caressing Adam's face and his neck and his shoulders as if he couldn't tear himself away from him, or sometimes when Adam was up before Marius and saw him wake up, and Marius would give him a soft smile as he came to that was brighter than the sunrise. Nobody else had ever looked at Adam like he truly mattered.
Marius' hand moved to Adam's cheek, stroked it briefly before cupping Adam's chin. Adam looked up, meeting Marius' eyes before he turned his head to kiss his palm. An odd look flashed over Marius' face, one that Adam had been seeing more and more often recently, something like longing and regret mixed together. He didn't like it. Marius should have everything he wanted, no matter what it was. Adam kissed his fingers, more lingering this time, lips sliding along Marius' index up to his fingertip. Marius swallowed hard.
“We should head back,” he said, pulling his hand away. “M can take care of cleaning this up.”
Adam nodded and got back onto his feet, never one to defy orders, and made a step backwards in the same motion to avoid getting any more blood on Marius' clothes. Marius noticed, of course. He looked as if he wanted to touch Adam again, but forced himself not to.
“You really need to clean up as well, Adam.”
“I don't mind getting messy for you, sir,” Adam said with a smile and a shrug.
“Oh, I know that, but I'm not letting you into my house looking like that.”
Adam laughed softly. His dog. He didn't mind, how could he possibly mind as long as he got to be his? Sometimes he wondered how he had ever lived without belonging to Marius, but then he remembered that he had been a different man then. That man was a stranger now, as dead as the one Adam stepped over now as he followed Marius outside. That man hadn't mattered, he'd been nothing. As far as Adam was concerned, he was still nothing except whatever Marius needed him to be.
“What are you smiling about?” Marius asked after exchanging a few words with M, eyes back on Adam.
“Nothing,” Adam shrugged and got into the car behind Marius. He thought about that for a moment, then he corrected himself, “Everything, sir. Everything you've given me.”
Marius cocked his head a little to the side, surprised, considering, but after a brief moment he nodded, as if he understood. He probably did. Adam did not always understand everything Marius said or did – he didn't need to – but he knew that he himself was an open book for Marius. He liked it that way, wouldn't have wanted to keep anything from him. They both knew that Adam wasn't talking about anything material, not really, it wasn't about the flat and the clothes and the escort boys, not even about the doctors and the medication. Marius had given him his freedom, a place in the world, a purpose. And as if all that hadn't been enough, the most precious thing of all, Marius' trust.
You're right where I want you to be.
Marius had said that to Adam one night, when Adam had been sitting by his feet, leaning against Marius' thigh, watching Marius as if his eyes held all the answers to the universe.
As far as Adam was concerned, they did.
Herc/Chuck, drink me
Chuck came home from a long late-night walk with Max to find Herc lounging on the couch in their quarters. An untouched cup of coffee sat on the table in front of him, as if he had planned to sober up, but then decided against it. The only alcohol in the room was a half-empty bottle of beer right next to the cup, but judging by the sleepy, dazed look in Herc's eyes, he was pretty damn drunk. Chuck smiled a little. No matter what he had said to Herc that first time he had seen him drunk many years ago, shortly after Scissure, Herc did not in fact have a drinking problem. He rarely drank more than a beer or two, and ever since that mess with Uncle Scott and his drinking problem Herc had, if anything, been even more responsible about this. It had been over a month since Chuck had last seen him drunk, which was a pity, really. Herc was a lot easier to be around when he was drunk.
“Heeeey, pretty boy,” Herc said happily when Chuck let Max off the leash and the dog ran towards Herc to nuzzle his hand. Herc petted him clumsily, but Max yawned only a few seconds later and waddled away from the couch to his basket. Herc looked hilariously wounded, as if a tired dog turning his back on him was the greatest insult in the world.
“You going to say hello to me, too, dad?”
Herc looked up as if he had only just noticed Chuck, and a lazy, drunk smile made its way back to his face. His expressions were always so unguarded when he was drunk, and Chuck loved the way Herc would look at him then. There was never any disapproval in his eyes when he was drunk, no anger, not even sadness. Herc was a happy drunk, the kind of man who didn't have a care in the world after a few shots of whiskey. Chuck would never admit it, but it was almost as good as looking right into dad's head in the Drift.
“Hey, pretty boy,” Herc said again, this time going for a seductive tone that still worked surprisingly well, even though he slurred the words a little. Chuck pulled of his boots, shrugged out of his jacket and his shirt before he climbed into Herc's lap. The disadvantage of Herc being drunk was that he fell asleep pretty easily, so it didn't do to waste one's time with teasing. Dad's large hands found his hips right away, pulled him closer as he went in for a sloppy, tender kiss.
Chuck groaned softly. Herc tasted like whiskey, and while Chuck didn't really like drinking all that much – he was probably the only person who had actually meant it when he had sworn never to get drunk again after his first hangover – he loved the taste of whiskey on Herc's lips, and with his low tolerance he sometimes felt almost a bit dizzy just from kissing him then (it had to be the alcohol, not the way Herc's warm hands rubbed lazy circles on his naked back, or the focused way he kissed Chuck – that kind of focus only drunk people had, like the entire world would stop if they didn't get this right –, or the way he looked at him like he was thinking that thing they never said to each other).
“Did the techies get you drunk again?” Chuck mumbled against Herc's lips. Herc was so broad and warm, and Chuck should be too big to curl up on his lap like that, but somehow he always managed to fit.
“'m not drunk,” Herc protested as he kissed a line along Chuck's jaw. “Just … tipsy.”
“You're wasted, old man,” Chuck grinned, one hand reaching down to slip under that tight henley. Herc hummed happily.
“You mind, baby?” Herc mumbled against Chuck's skin, and there it was, the best thing about all of this. “Not so drunk I can't take care of you properly. My pretty boy.”
And under normal circumstances Chuck would snap at Herc not to call him that; he'd have to be damn close to an orgasm not to protest, but it was different when Herc was drunk. It didn't sound condescending then, it just sounded right, sounded like he was the only thing in the world Herc could possibly want.
“So fucking pretty, squirming on my lap like that, just perfect,” Herc went on, his deep voice slurring the words, and Chuck buried his face against Herc's shoulder to hide how much he was probably blushing. Herc didn't mind, too busy covering Chuck's neck and shoulders with kisses, and all Chuck could do was to grind down against Herc's crotch, moaning softly as he felt Herc harden, as he heard the low rumbling moan in Herc's chest, his voice getting more breathless as he kept whispering meaningless words into Chuck's ear that still meant the world to him.
Nobody could ever claim that what they had on those nights was good sex, not compared to the nights when Chuck made himself almost choke on Herc's cock, or when Herc fingered Chuck until his boy couldn't take it anymore and begged to get fucked, or those nights when they were high on the Drift and got off between the other's thighs and felt as if they were still inside each other's head when they came.
But Chuck still loved this, loved how simple it was, how relaxed, how peaceful. He loved the awkwardness of Herc's fingers when his dad got both their cocks out, he loved that dad made him lick his hand because they were too lazy to get lube from the bed, he loved the wet slide of his cock against Herc's, with Herc's fingers wrapped around both of them, not as tightly as they usually would, but it was still enough, hell, more than enough, with Herc's lips next to his ear, mumbling over and over again all those things he could never say when he was sober, things Chuck would refuse to hear then.
Sometimes Chuck thought about the things he might say if he was drunk, too.
Sometimes he simply said them.
They ended up in a messy heap on the couch, Herc dozing off only a minute after they were both done, Chuck awkwardly draped over him, lips still ghosting over Herc's. It was uncomfortable and they'd both hate themselves in the morning for sleeping on this damn couch when they really knew better, but Chuck couldn't bring himself to move. His limbs were heavy, his body tingled with a warm feeling of contentment that was far more than just post-coital afterglow, and Herc's arms around him, his chest under Chuck's head, felt better than any bed ever would.
He didn't know what he would do if it was always like this, but he was glad that it sometimes was.
Herc/Chuck, Zip Me
“You done yet?” Herc asked as he stepped out of the bathroom, only to find Chuck still standing in front of the mirror, fumbling with his tie. He wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or roll his eyes. As someone who had been a soldier since before his 16th birthday, Chuck really should be able to put on his uniform on his own, but the PPDC was fairly lax when it came to uniform regulations, especially for Jaeger pilots, and the only times the Hansens ever wore uniform was for meetings with the brass and other official events. And while Chuck was technically capable of tying his tie, the result was not something the world should ever see.
“I swear this worked the last time I did it, I don't know why it doesn't now,” Chuck complained and tugged again on the poor fabric.
“Come here, boy, let me.” Herc took Chuck by the shoulders to turn him around, undid his son's rather sad attempt and smoothed out the tie carefully.
“Don't even know why we have to dress up for the brass,” Chuck grumbled, but he held still as Herc adjusted his shirt collar and then tied his tie for him. Herc had always found tying someone else's tie rather hard – the angle was all wrong compared to when he did it for himself – but years of doing it for Chuck had got him used to it.
“You're a soldier, soldiers wear uniforms,” he said, fond exasperation filling his voice. They had this conversation – or a similar one – every time they had to show up in uniform somewhere. Chuck didn't even seem to mind once he was wearing it, but he sulked all the way through getting dressed like a little boy who didn't want to put on his jacket. Herc tightened the tie, adjusted the knot so it sat right in the middle.
“My uniform's the drivesuit,” Chuck said, but his eyes were roaming over Herc now, as if he had only noticed now that his father was, of course, wearing his uniform as well.
“Can't pin medals to the drivesuit, boy.” Herc looked down to check the ribbons and medals that already gleamed on Chuck's chest, making sure that they were all in the right place, at the right distance from each other. For Herc this was second nature, but Chuck had never served in a regular military force. He had perfect military discipline when it came to his training and his job, but uniform regulations and nagging superiors were not something he had ever grown used to. And while they both knew that Chuck enjoyed receiving medals – even if he had to wear a uniform to accept them – the only distinction that truly mattered to him were the white kaiju heads stamped on the back of his leather jacket and on his drivesuit, not the little pieces of metal countless governments had stuck to his chest to thank him for his bravery.
“Do we have to do anything today?” Chuck sighed, and Herc was grateful enough that his son, for once, spared him the snide comments that he was quite capable of dressing himself.
“Just stand there 'n look pretty. Shouldn't be too hard for you.” Herc made a step backwards to get a better look, then nodded in satisfaction. Chuck looked every inch the soldier, clean-shaven, his hair parted neatly for once, straight-backed and always with that unwavering determination in his eyes and the set of his jaw. Australia's golden boy, already as much of a national hero as his father was. But while Herc had always thought he didn't make a very good hero, Chuck definitely looked the part. No wonder the suits and the brass wanted him at the parade.
“Fine, fine.” Chuck shrugged. “It's good for morale, right?”
“Yes.” Herc smiled a little. “Come on, Chuck, don't pretend you don't love the attention.”
Chuck finally smiled back at him, because yes, for all his grumbling about the uniform and about not spending the day tinkering on Striker, Chuck did love people cheering for him and shouting his name. Neither of them cared much for the politicians and the generals, but it was hard not to feel something for all those people whose lives they had saved – people who also cared more about their kaiju kill count than about some pretty medals on their chest. And if showing up there today made those people feel a little bit better, a little bit safer, then it was worth it.
Chuck licked his lips, raised one hand as if to run it through his hair, then thought better of it. He was still looking at Herc, and his smile turned into a dirty grin.
“You know what I love?” Chuck's right hand went for Herc's tie, pulling him close. “I love seeing you in this. Suits you better than me.” Before Herc could pull away Chuck kissed him, hard and quick. “I love thinking about how you're going to fuck me later while you're still wearing it.”
“Thought you hated it when I shave off the beard,” Herc mumbled against Chuck's skin, rubbed his smooth cheek against his son's. Chuck smelt just like him, the same aftershave, the same soap, the same toothpaste. Herc would make sure his boy would smell even more of him later, covered in his sweat and his come.
“I do, so you'd better make up for that, dad.” Another kiss, this one softer, more lingering, tender almost. Herc wished they could just stay here, forget about the parade, forget about anything but each other, but the downside of being a national hero was that people usually noticed when you weren't there. He tore himself away with a sigh.
“Later, boy.”
Luckily for him Chuck had the good sense not to argue for once, he just sauntered towards the door of their quarters. And damn, he looked good in that uniform. Herc swallowed, adjusted his own tie to make sure Chuck hadn't pulled it askew.
“Come on, old man, I want to say goodbye to Max before we go.”
“Don't call me that,” Herc complained half-heartedly as he followed him. He told himself that he was only checking again that Chuck's uniform was in order when his eyes roamed over him, but truth be told he simply enjoyed the view. And while he hardly minded helping Chuck get dressed, he was really looking forward to getting him out of that uniform again.
Tim/Raylan, Invite Me
“You look like shit.”
“Thanks, that's what I came here to hear.”
“What did you come here for?”
Raylan makes a face. Spending the last week hunting down some asshole through every dirty corner of Harlan County could make any man feel – and probably look – like shit. It's dark outside, Friday night, Raylan realises, and it only occurs to him then that Tim might well have better plans for the evening than dealing with some asshole colleague showing up uninvited on his doorstep.
“Nothing that can't wait 'til Monday,” Raylan says, because he doesn't really have a good reason to be here. But he doesn't turn around just yet, lowers his head a little so the brim of his hat hides his face from Tim's eyes – that no bullshit look that sees right through you, the look of a man who spent too many years of his life looking at the world through a sniper scope and assessing who needed a bullet through their skull. Tim's quiet for a moment, like he's waiting for Raylan either to say something else or to fuck off, then he shrugs.
“Wanna come in?”
Thing with Tim is, he doesn't sound friendly when he says things like that. Tim's a hard guy to read, and frankly Raylan has no idea what they are to each other, except colleagues. They're not friends, not really. He's not even sure if Tim likes him – even though Tim is the kind of guy who seems to treat people he likes and people he hates pretty much the same, all abrasive sarcasm and an unreadable attitude that's occasionally broken by the kind of blunt honesty that makes most people, Raylan included, pretty damn uncomfortable. But at the same time Tim seems to have accepted him as some sort of brother-in-arms, courtesy of getting shot at together, and while Raylan is pretty sure he's nowhere in the same category as Tim's Ranger buddies, he seems to be getting a similar deal. You don't have to like a guy to serve with him, to watch his back, to be a friend to him even though you wouldn't give him the time of day if you had met him under different circumstances. Raylan has a feeling that Tim doesn't really know how to be friends with people unless they've served together, be it in Afghanistan or in Harlan. Tim mentioned once in passing that his Army buddies often drop by his place, that he's the guy they stay with for a week when they have a row with their wife or their girlfriend. Tim's a bad talker and Raylan's not even sure if he's a good listener – good listeners don't roll their eyes that often – but he's pleasant enough company, once you get used to him being the way he is.
So whatever they are to each other, Raylan sometimes drinks with Tim, and one time, a couple of weeks back, Tim picked his drunk ass up from some bar and let him sleep on the couch. Made some pretty great breakfast in the morning and was still an asshole for the rest of the day. After that Raylan had already shown up uninvited once at Tim's place, and Tim had asked him in and given him some leftover pizza – home-made pizza, he said, and who the fuck makes pizza themselves? – and somehow after a few beers they had ended up fucking on the couch, and even that hadn't been friendly, it just happened, and in a way Raylan supposed it had been bound to happen for some time. After that Tim had been the closest to freaking out that Raylan had ever seen him – that, too, courtesy of spending most of his life in the Army, he supposed – but after Raylan had convinced him that they were good, they hadn't talked about it again. Nothing had changed.
That was almost two weeks ago, and Raylan isn't sure if he was hoping for pizza or beer or a fuck when he drove over here. He wouldn't say no to any of those.
Tim lets him in and disappears in the kitchen, and Raylan is hit by a pretty damn amazing smell. He follows Tim, finds him stirring one of the three pots on the stove.
“Was just making dinner,” Tim says, still that same conversational, neutral tone he uses most of the time, no matter what he's talking about (damn, except when they had fucked, and Raylan has really not been planning on thinking about that, but Tim's wearing a tight, worn tanktop and old jeans that show off his ass, and Raylan hasn't had a single quiet moment to get laid this whole week). “Want some?”
Raylan barely bites back whatever dirty comment his mind was about to provide.
“Sure, if it's no trouble.”
“Nah, I always make more, leftovers for the week.”
“Didn't know you could cook.” Because all right, both the pizza and the scrambled eggs had been pretty damn great, but neither probably takes great cooking skills. Not that Raylan would know, he can't remember the last time he's made proper breakfast for himself. Tim shrugs again, like it's nothing.
“Spend enough time in the Army eating the shit they pass off for food there, and you learn how to cook.”
“I thought most guys got themselves girlfriends for that,” Raylan says, leans back against the kitchen counter while he watches Tim. He seems to know what he's doing, despite his usual insistence that he doesn't know jackshit about anything except his job and shooting people.
“And replace one drill sergeant with another? Nah, thanks.” Brief laughter as Tim shifts a little, but Raylan notices the tension in Tim's posture, the unease of a man who's not used to being around anyone who knows that he has a whole different reason for not getting himself a girlfriend. “Pretty sure cookbooks are cheaper than girlfriends, too.”
It's the last they speak of it because Tim starts filling two plates with food, chicken in some creamy red sauce, yellow rice and vegetables that still retain their original colours instead of looking like the overcooked mess Raylan's used to. Tim tells Raylan to get two beers from the fridge, asks him if he likes Bruce Willis movies, and heads to the living room without waiting for an answer.
The food's mind-blowingly good, although Raylan is pretty sure that Tim doesn't have normally functioning taste buds because the chicken is so fucking spicy Raylan feels like his mouth is on fire, but Tim doesn't seem to mind. It still tastes great, even though Raylan is on his second beer before he's finished his plate. They don't talk, just watch some action flick called RED that Tim seems to know by heart, and Raylan has never seen the guy grin like that, like a carefree kid, and he does have to admit it's a pretty fun movie.
By the time he helps Tim bring the dirty dishes back to the kitchen – he offers to help clean up, but Tim is pretty particular about that stuff, his entire place looks like he has a bad case of OCD and can't abide things not being in their right place – Raylan realises he hasn't had that good a night in a long time. He gets why Tim's Army buddies come to him when they need to clear their heads – something about Tim's quiet, calm demeanour, about being in his space and just getting dragged along as Tim does his thing like he doesn't give a shit that someone else is there, is oddly soothing. Raylan leans against the counter again while he watches Tim clean up the kitchen – meticulously, and Raylan supposes that this, too, comes from a life in the Army, from never having a proper home until he made himself one. It's a nice change from shitty motel rooms, and maybe that alone was reason enough to come here.
When Tim is done, there's a moment of awkward silence, the first one that evening. Tim stares a little at him, at his hips, hell, his crotch, before he tears himself away. Raylan can't fucking imagine what that must have been like, spending eight years risking his life for people who would kick him out if they knew that all his talk about hot underwear models was nothing but bullshit from a guy who sucked cock better than any girl Raylan ever had. The thought makes him shift a little, slightly uncomfortable in his jeans, and not only because he ate too much of that curry Tim cooked.
“So, er, you want some whiskey?” Tim rubs the back of his neck, and Raylan's starting to realise that he always does that when he's nervous – he just hasn't seen him nervous very often. “You can crash on the couch again if you can't drive, 's fine by me.”
And Raylan knows this is probably a shitty idea, considering that they work together, considering that Tim almost had a small panic attack after last time, as if he expected Raylan either to shoot him in the head or to rat him out to the rest of the world, but hell, impulse control has never been Raylan's strong suit, and it's not like Tim seems particularly opposed to the idea. So Raylan pushes himself away from the counter, steps closer until he's trapped Tim against the fridge – and Tim's letting himself be trapped, eyes looking anywhere but at Raylan, body tense, but he's not stepping away.
“You sure you wanna make me sleep on the couch? 'cos I could think of a thing or two you got here that I want more 'n whiskey,” he drawls, and Tim finally meets his eyes again. He looks like he's not sure what to do, and Raylan knows it's not because Tim hasn't done this plenty of times before, he has, just not with someone he knows, certainly not with someone he works with.
“C'mon, Raylan, thought we weren't gonna mention that again,” Tim mumbles and looks down.
“Don't have to mention it,” Raylan says, hand on Tim's hip now, and Tim doesn't flinch away. “You still worried I'm gonna give you shit about this? I didn't last time, did I?”
Tim doesn't say anything, but he seems to relax a little, even as Raylan steps closer still, body flush against Tim's. Tim's hands find their way to Raylan's shirt, just resting there as if he still had to make up his mind, but Raylan's pretty sure he's got him, pretty sure that if Tim was gonna run (or punch him in the face), he would have done so already.
“C'mon, Tim, dinner like that, I at least owe you a blowjob, don'tcha think?” This time Raylan just mumbles the words into Tim's ear, and he feels Tim's choked back moan more than he hears it.
“Fuck,” Tim says and raises one hand to the back of Raylan's neck to pull him into a hard kiss.
And that's just the thing with Tim. He may not sound friendly most of the time and you're never sure if he even likes you, but in the end he's just a damn good guy to be around.
Anyway, have some old fic.
Marius/Adam, Zip me
Adam knocked on the door to Marius' bedroom, surprised that he had been sent up here. It was 7am, and Marius Thorne's mornings were as regular as clockwork. Usually he was at breakfast by the time Adam arrived in the morning, not still upstairs. It was unusual enough to make Adam worry.
“Come in.” Marius' voice sounded muffled from inside, and Adam didn't find him in the bedroom itself, but in the large walk-in closet. He was still getting dressed, dark blue suit trousers, the white dress shirt open and unbuttoned. Adam backed away from the closet door and looked down; he knew how meticulous Marius was about his clothes, how he hated to be seen looking anything but perfect.
“Sorry, sir, I didn't - “
“It's quite all right, Adam, do come in.” Marius turned just enough to smile at Adam over his shoulder, and Adam found himself relaxing immediately. He hated not being by Marius' side; if it was up to him he'd sleep in front of Marius' door at night. Rationally he knew that Marius was safe, that his security was more than competent and every bit as paranoid as Adam himself, but this, right here, was the way it was supposed to be. He still tried not to stare too much as he stepped closer again; it seemed disrespectful.
“You're late, sir,” Adam said, grinned that cheeky grin that always brought fond amusement to Marius' eyes.
“I suppose I slept in,” Marius replied and winked at him.
“By all of five minutes? Unbelievable, sir.”
Marius laughed briefly, but as he turned around to face him Adam's smile disappeared. He had never seen Marius so undressed; he certainly had never seen the man's bared upper body. There was a long scar on the left side of Marius' chest, so thin and white that it had to be rather old, but still very visible on his otherwise unblemished skin. Adam stepped closer without even thinking about it, raising his hand until his fingers stopped just an inch from the scar.
“What happened there, sir?” His voice sounded hoarse in his own ears, he felt an unpleasant tightness in his own chest. Fear. Marius was untouchable, more god than man in Adam's eyes, and seeing any sign of pain and vulnerability on his body made Adam feel sick. Sick and angry at himself for not having been there to protect him.
“That?” Marius glanced down, he didn't seem particularly concerned. “I had a bad heart – unfortunate genetics. I had it fixed, it works just fine now.”
Adam's fingers trembled a little, and he dimly realised that he was forgetting his place, yet he couldn't help himself but touch the scar, retracing it gingerly as if it would rip open if he wasn't careful enough. Marius didn't move. Adam swallowed, looked up again to meet Marius' eyes, and he realised only now how very close they were.
“That why you're so careful about your health, sir?” he asked, feeling suddenly bad for the occasional cheeky comment he had made about Marius' obsession with healthy living.
“Having a heart attack at 25 will do that to a man,” Marius said dryly, but for all his calm demeanour Adam could tell that it had shaken him, back then. No man liked to be reminded of his own mortality, and certainly no man who wanted to achieve as much in his limited time as Marius Thorne did. Marius' hand covered Adam's, pressed it closer to his chest. His skin was still warm from the shower. “Don't look so worried, Adam. I assure you, at this point my heart is healthier than most men's my age.”
“It's not right,” Adam grumbled, splaying his fingers over Marius' chest, as if he could keep his heart safe that way. He looked up into Marius' eyes, those light green eyes that would guide him every day until Marius needed Adam to die for him. More softly he added, “I'd give you my heart, if I could. I'd rip it right out of my chest so you could have it. You know, if -”
If my blood wouldn't kill you.
“I know, Adam,” Marius said gently, and there was a tenderness in his eyes that warmed Adam through and through. Marius raised his right hand to caress Adam's cheek, the way he did so often, but never often enough for Adam's taste. He leant into the touch gratefully. “But there is no need for that.”
Adam nodded, reluctantly pulled his hand away from Marius' chest. He knew there was nothing he could have done to help even if he had already been with Marius back then, but he would make sure that Marius would never have another scar on his body.
“Give me a hand, since you're here,” Marius said, and it took Adam a moment to realise what he meant. He grinned happily, nodded.
“Alright, sir.” Marius held still as Adam buttoned his dress shirt for him – covering up that damn scar, the ugly reminder that even Marius Thorne was only human, vulnerable, mortal – and he could have sworn Marius' breath hitched a little when Adam's fingers brushed over his throat.
Marius had already laid out his cufflinks, watch, tie and pocket square, and Adam's hands quickly went for the cufflinks. They were standing so close to each other that Adam could feel Marius' breath ghosting over his face; Marius' wrists were slender in Adam's hands, and Adam allowed himself to rub his thumb over the soft skin on their inside before putting the cufflinks on, as if to reassure himself of Marius' steady heartbeat. When he finished with the second cufflink he raised Marius' hand to his lips, pushed back the sleeve enough to press a dry kis to the inside of Marius' wrist, right where blue veins shone through the pale skin, eyes locked with his. Adam loved Marius' hands, the soft skin, the long fingers, and he would have covered them in kisses if that hadn't seemed too forward. Now was not the time for that. Maybe tonight, if Marius let him sit by his feet again for a few hours. As it was he only reached for Marius' watch and fastened it on his left wrist, and just from looking at Marius for every free moment of his day he knew exactly just how tight or loose Marius wanted it.
Marius' eyes had never left his; the silence between them was tense, though far from unpleasant. Adam loved nothing more than those private moments, when he saw sides of Marius that no one else ever got to see. He didn't need to share his bed to be closer to him than anyone else could ever hope to be, not that Marius would ever want him there.
Adam laid Marius' tie loosely around his neck, then let his hands rest on Marius' now clothed chest. Grinned a little.
“I'd better not tie that for you, sir, you'd probably have another heart attack.” Adam felt bad for joking about it, but it made Marius laugh, and that was all that mattered. Adam could feel it in Marius' chest more than he heard it, and he wished he could always be this close to Marius, close enough almost to hear his heartbeat, close enough to smell the faint scent of his aftershave. He stayed where he was when Marius turned around to face the mirror, long fingers tying his tie in a way that looked far more complicated than the only knot Adam had ever learnt, but Marius' fingers made it look so simple. As he finished, Adam took the suit jacket from its hanger and held it up for Marius, let his hands linger for just a moment on Marius' shoulders while Marius closed the buttons.
Marius turned around, and for one last moment before the day started and he had to focus his attention on their surroundings, Adam allowed himself to look at nothing but those green, calm eyes that always seemed so much softer when they looked at him. Again Marius ran his fingertips over Adam's cheek, then down over his throat. Adam didn't even flinch – Marius could strangle him and Adam would bare his throat happily. But Marius' hands were as tender as they always were with him, always lingering just a little too long, as if Marius couldn't quite tear himself away from Adam. A silly thought, Adam knew, Marius was probably just doing Adam a favour. He had always been far more generous with Adam than would have been necessary.
“Come in earlier tomorrow,” Marius said finally, that calm, matter-of-fact tone he always used when giving orders. “I like having you here for this.”
Adam's smile widened, he nodded eagerly.
“Yes, sir. If you promise you won't try to make me wear a suit, too.”
Marius just laughed as he stepped past Adam back into the bedroom.
“Have you had breakfast already, Adam? Come on, join me.”
Marius/Adam, X Me
“That's all I know, I swear, I swear!”
Marius considered the man who was curled up on the floor – a bleeding, broken, whimpering mess –, his eyes calm and calculating, his body perfectly still. Despite the man's panting and begging the room seemed oddly quiet. Marius was quiet, and it was as if space itself deferred to him. Adam waited patiently by his side, keeping an eye on the still breathing dead man, but his attention was focused on Marius, who was standing there with the same confident ease he showed everywhere, the natural authority of a man who knew that the world would bend to his will.
And if it failed to do so, well, that's what Adam was for.
Eventually Marius nodded. He looked satisfied, like he had finally found what he had been looking for. The truth, the truth that Adam had been patiently beating out of the man. The thought made Adam smile a little to himself. Marius had given him so much, and there was nothing Adam loved more than to give Marius what he wanted in return.
“Go ahead,” Marius said after another moment of careful consideration. Adam drew his gun, but Marius stopped him with a curt gesture of his hand.
“Too noisy,” he explained. That in itself shouldn't have been a problem – they were in the middle of nowhere, with no one nearby except for more of his people, otherwise Marius Thorne would have never brought himself into such a compromising position – so Adam assumed that Marius simply didn't want his ears to ring for the next hour.
“All right, sir, I'll be quiet then.” A cheerful grin as he went down on one knee, pulled the man up and broke his neck with practised ease. Killing had always been part of Adam's life; it had been his job in the Army, and necessary for survival in prison. But killing for Marius was different. It was always meaningful. Not so much because Adam knew the reason Marius needed someone dead, he didn't always, and frankly he wouldn't have cared if Marius had people killed for no reason at all (which he didn't – Marius Thorne was nothing if not efficient, and there was probably nothing less efficient than pointless murder). But the very fact that Adam was doing it for Marius made it matter, just like his whole life had only started to matter once it belonged to Marius.
As Adam let the limp body sink back onto the floor, he noticed a drop of dark red blood on the shining black leather of Marius' shoe, and he frowned a little. He wasn't quite sure how it had got there, he thought he'd been more careful, but there was no way it could stay there. He crossed the small distance between them on his knees, smiled up at him when Marius gave him a surprised look. Kneeling at his feet he pulled down his rolled up shirtsleeve to wipe the blood off Marius' shoe, polished it until it gleamed again.
“Sorry about that, sir.”
Marius smiled – not the cold, detached smile of late-night planning and successful business meetings, but that tender smile he kept for simpler pleasures. This smile was not Marius Thorne's reward for a job done well, but an expression of genuine fondness that filled Adam with pure bliss. He leant forward and kissed Marius' knee, careful not to wrinkle his suit, allowed himself to lean his forehead against Marius' leg. He sighed happily when long fingers found their way into his hair, combing through it, smoothing it back again and again until Marius was simply stroking Adam's hair.
Adam had heard more than enough people call him Marius' guard dog, with derision in their voices, trying to provoke him. Adam considered it a compliment. He couldn't imagine a better fate than being Marius' dog, trusted, devoted, dependable. Loved. Marius never said that word, but Adam saw it in his eyes when they were alone, in the evening when Marius spent countless minutes caressing Adam's face and his neck and his shoulders as if he couldn't tear himself away from him, or sometimes when Adam was up before Marius and saw him wake up, and Marius would give him a soft smile as he came to that was brighter than the sunrise. Nobody else had ever looked at Adam like he truly mattered.
Marius' hand moved to Adam's cheek, stroked it briefly before cupping Adam's chin. Adam looked up, meeting Marius' eyes before he turned his head to kiss his palm. An odd look flashed over Marius' face, one that Adam had been seeing more and more often recently, something like longing and regret mixed together. He didn't like it. Marius should have everything he wanted, no matter what it was. Adam kissed his fingers, more lingering this time, lips sliding along Marius' index up to his fingertip. Marius swallowed hard.
“We should head back,” he said, pulling his hand away. “M can take care of cleaning this up.”
Adam nodded and got back onto his feet, never one to defy orders, and made a step backwards in the same motion to avoid getting any more blood on Marius' clothes. Marius noticed, of course. He looked as if he wanted to touch Adam again, but forced himself not to.
“You really need to clean up as well, Adam.”
“I don't mind getting messy for you, sir,” Adam said with a smile and a shrug.
“Oh, I know that, but I'm not letting you into my house looking like that.”
Adam laughed softly. His dog. He didn't mind, how could he possibly mind as long as he got to be his? Sometimes he wondered how he had ever lived without belonging to Marius, but then he remembered that he had been a different man then. That man was a stranger now, as dead as the one Adam stepped over now as he followed Marius outside. That man hadn't mattered, he'd been nothing. As far as Adam was concerned, he was still nothing except whatever Marius needed him to be.
“What are you smiling about?” Marius asked after exchanging a few words with M, eyes back on Adam.
“Nothing,” Adam shrugged and got into the car behind Marius. He thought about that for a moment, then he corrected himself, “Everything, sir. Everything you've given me.”
Marius cocked his head a little to the side, surprised, considering, but after a brief moment he nodded, as if he understood. He probably did. Adam did not always understand everything Marius said or did – he didn't need to – but he knew that he himself was an open book for Marius. He liked it that way, wouldn't have wanted to keep anything from him. They both knew that Adam wasn't talking about anything material, not really, it wasn't about the flat and the clothes and the escort boys, not even about the doctors and the medication. Marius had given him his freedom, a place in the world, a purpose. And as if all that hadn't been enough, the most precious thing of all, Marius' trust.
You're right where I want you to be.
Marius had said that to Adam one night, when Adam had been sitting by his feet, leaning against Marius' thigh, watching Marius as if his eyes held all the answers to the universe.
As far as Adam was concerned, they did.
Herc/Chuck, drink me
Chuck came home from a long late-night walk with Max to find Herc lounging on the couch in their quarters. An untouched cup of coffee sat on the table in front of him, as if he had planned to sober up, but then decided against it. The only alcohol in the room was a half-empty bottle of beer right next to the cup, but judging by the sleepy, dazed look in Herc's eyes, he was pretty damn drunk. Chuck smiled a little. No matter what he had said to Herc that first time he had seen him drunk many years ago, shortly after Scissure, Herc did not in fact have a drinking problem. He rarely drank more than a beer or two, and ever since that mess with Uncle Scott and his drinking problem Herc had, if anything, been even more responsible about this. It had been over a month since Chuck had last seen him drunk, which was a pity, really. Herc was a lot easier to be around when he was drunk.
“Heeeey, pretty boy,” Herc said happily when Chuck let Max off the leash and the dog ran towards Herc to nuzzle his hand. Herc petted him clumsily, but Max yawned only a few seconds later and waddled away from the couch to his basket. Herc looked hilariously wounded, as if a tired dog turning his back on him was the greatest insult in the world.
“You going to say hello to me, too, dad?”
Herc looked up as if he had only just noticed Chuck, and a lazy, drunk smile made its way back to his face. His expressions were always so unguarded when he was drunk, and Chuck loved the way Herc would look at him then. There was never any disapproval in his eyes when he was drunk, no anger, not even sadness. Herc was a happy drunk, the kind of man who didn't have a care in the world after a few shots of whiskey. Chuck would never admit it, but it was almost as good as looking right into dad's head in the Drift.
“Hey, pretty boy,” Herc said again, this time going for a seductive tone that still worked surprisingly well, even though he slurred the words a little. Chuck pulled of his boots, shrugged out of his jacket and his shirt before he climbed into Herc's lap. The disadvantage of Herc being drunk was that he fell asleep pretty easily, so it didn't do to waste one's time with teasing. Dad's large hands found his hips right away, pulled him closer as he went in for a sloppy, tender kiss.
Chuck groaned softly. Herc tasted like whiskey, and while Chuck didn't really like drinking all that much – he was probably the only person who had actually meant it when he had sworn never to get drunk again after his first hangover – he loved the taste of whiskey on Herc's lips, and with his low tolerance he sometimes felt almost a bit dizzy just from kissing him then (it had to be the alcohol, not the way Herc's warm hands rubbed lazy circles on his naked back, or the focused way he kissed Chuck – that kind of focus only drunk people had, like the entire world would stop if they didn't get this right –, or the way he looked at him like he was thinking that thing they never said to each other).
“Did the techies get you drunk again?” Chuck mumbled against Herc's lips. Herc was so broad and warm, and Chuck should be too big to curl up on his lap like that, but somehow he always managed to fit.
“'m not drunk,” Herc protested as he kissed a line along Chuck's jaw. “Just … tipsy.”
“You're wasted, old man,” Chuck grinned, one hand reaching down to slip under that tight henley. Herc hummed happily.
“You mind, baby?” Herc mumbled against Chuck's skin, and there it was, the best thing about all of this. “Not so drunk I can't take care of you properly. My pretty boy.”
And under normal circumstances Chuck would snap at Herc not to call him that; he'd have to be damn close to an orgasm not to protest, but it was different when Herc was drunk. It didn't sound condescending then, it just sounded right, sounded like he was the only thing in the world Herc could possibly want.
“So fucking pretty, squirming on my lap like that, just perfect,” Herc went on, his deep voice slurring the words, and Chuck buried his face against Herc's shoulder to hide how much he was probably blushing. Herc didn't mind, too busy covering Chuck's neck and shoulders with kisses, and all Chuck could do was to grind down against Herc's crotch, moaning softly as he felt Herc harden, as he heard the low rumbling moan in Herc's chest, his voice getting more breathless as he kept whispering meaningless words into Chuck's ear that still meant the world to him.
Nobody could ever claim that what they had on those nights was good sex, not compared to the nights when Chuck made himself almost choke on Herc's cock, or when Herc fingered Chuck until his boy couldn't take it anymore and begged to get fucked, or those nights when they were high on the Drift and got off between the other's thighs and felt as if they were still inside each other's head when they came.
But Chuck still loved this, loved how simple it was, how relaxed, how peaceful. He loved the awkwardness of Herc's fingers when his dad got both their cocks out, he loved that dad made him lick his hand because they were too lazy to get lube from the bed, he loved the wet slide of his cock against Herc's, with Herc's fingers wrapped around both of them, not as tightly as they usually would, but it was still enough, hell, more than enough, with Herc's lips next to his ear, mumbling over and over again all those things he could never say when he was sober, things Chuck would refuse to hear then.
Sometimes Chuck thought about the things he might say if he was drunk, too.
Sometimes he simply said them.
They ended up in a messy heap on the couch, Herc dozing off only a minute after they were both done, Chuck awkwardly draped over him, lips still ghosting over Herc's. It was uncomfortable and they'd both hate themselves in the morning for sleeping on this damn couch when they really knew better, but Chuck couldn't bring himself to move. His limbs were heavy, his body tingled with a warm feeling of contentment that was far more than just post-coital afterglow, and Herc's arms around him, his chest under Chuck's head, felt better than any bed ever would.
He didn't know what he would do if it was always like this, but he was glad that it sometimes was.
Herc/Chuck, Zip Me
“You done yet?” Herc asked as he stepped out of the bathroom, only to find Chuck still standing in front of the mirror, fumbling with his tie. He wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or roll his eyes. As someone who had been a soldier since before his 16th birthday, Chuck really should be able to put on his uniform on his own, but the PPDC was fairly lax when it came to uniform regulations, especially for Jaeger pilots, and the only times the Hansens ever wore uniform was for meetings with the brass and other official events. And while Chuck was technically capable of tying his tie, the result was not something the world should ever see.
“I swear this worked the last time I did it, I don't know why it doesn't now,” Chuck complained and tugged again on the poor fabric.
“Come here, boy, let me.” Herc took Chuck by the shoulders to turn him around, undid his son's rather sad attempt and smoothed out the tie carefully.
“Don't even know why we have to dress up for the brass,” Chuck grumbled, but he held still as Herc adjusted his shirt collar and then tied his tie for him. Herc had always found tying someone else's tie rather hard – the angle was all wrong compared to when he did it for himself – but years of doing it for Chuck had got him used to it.
“You're a soldier, soldiers wear uniforms,” he said, fond exasperation filling his voice. They had this conversation – or a similar one – every time they had to show up in uniform somewhere. Chuck didn't even seem to mind once he was wearing it, but he sulked all the way through getting dressed like a little boy who didn't want to put on his jacket. Herc tightened the tie, adjusted the knot so it sat right in the middle.
“My uniform's the drivesuit,” Chuck said, but his eyes were roaming over Herc now, as if he had only noticed now that his father was, of course, wearing his uniform as well.
“Can't pin medals to the drivesuit, boy.” Herc looked down to check the ribbons and medals that already gleamed on Chuck's chest, making sure that they were all in the right place, at the right distance from each other. For Herc this was second nature, but Chuck had never served in a regular military force. He had perfect military discipline when it came to his training and his job, but uniform regulations and nagging superiors were not something he had ever grown used to. And while they both knew that Chuck enjoyed receiving medals – even if he had to wear a uniform to accept them – the only distinction that truly mattered to him were the white kaiju heads stamped on the back of his leather jacket and on his drivesuit, not the little pieces of metal countless governments had stuck to his chest to thank him for his bravery.
“Do we have to do anything today?” Chuck sighed, and Herc was grateful enough that his son, for once, spared him the snide comments that he was quite capable of dressing himself.
“Just stand there 'n look pretty. Shouldn't be too hard for you.” Herc made a step backwards to get a better look, then nodded in satisfaction. Chuck looked every inch the soldier, clean-shaven, his hair parted neatly for once, straight-backed and always with that unwavering determination in his eyes and the set of his jaw. Australia's golden boy, already as much of a national hero as his father was. But while Herc had always thought he didn't make a very good hero, Chuck definitely looked the part. No wonder the suits and the brass wanted him at the parade.
“Fine, fine.” Chuck shrugged. “It's good for morale, right?”
“Yes.” Herc smiled a little. “Come on, Chuck, don't pretend you don't love the attention.”
Chuck finally smiled back at him, because yes, for all his grumbling about the uniform and about not spending the day tinkering on Striker, Chuck did love people cheering for him and shouting his name. Neither of them cared much for the politicians and the generals, but it was hard not to feel something for all those people whose lives they had saved – people who also cared more about their kaiju kill count than about some pretty medals on their chest. And if showing up there today made those people feel a little bit better, a little bit safer, then it was worth it.
Chuck licked his lips, raised one hand as if to run it through his hair, then thought better of it. He was still looking at Herc, and his smile turned into a dirty grin.
“You know what I love?” Chuck's right hand went for Herc's tie, pulling him close. “I love seeing you in this. Suits you better than me.” Before Herc could pull away Chuck kissed him, hard and quick. “I love thinking about how you're going to fuck me later while you're still wearing it.”
“Thought you hated it when I shave off the beard,” Herc mumbled against Chuck's skin, rubbed his smooth cheek against his son's. Chuck smelt just like him, the same aftershave, the same soap, the same toothpaste. Herc would make sure his boy would smell even more of him later, covered in his sweat and his come.
“I do, so you'd better make up for that, dad.” Another kiss, this one softer, more lingering, tender almost. Herc wished they could just stay here, forget about the parade, forget about anything but each other, but the downside of being a national hero was that people usually noticed when you weren't there. He tore himself away with a sigh.
“Later, boy.”
Luckily for him Chuck had the good sense not to argue for once, he just sauntered towards the door of their quarters. And damn, he looked good in that uniform. Herc swallowed, adjusted his own tie to make sure Chuck hadn't pulled it askew.
“Come on, old man, I want to say goodbye to Max before we go.”
“Don't call me that,” Herc complained half-heartedly as he followed him. He told himself that he was only checking again that Chuck's uniform was in order when his eyes roamed over him, but truth be told he simply enjoyed the view. And while he hardly minded helping Chuck get dressed, he was really looking forward to getting him out of that uniform again.
Tim/Raylan, Invite Me
“You look like shit.”
“Thanks, that's what I came here to hear.”
“What did you come here for?”
Raylan makes a face. Spending the last week hunting down some asshole through every dirty corner of Harlan County could make any man feel – and probably look – like shit. It's dark outside, Friday night, Raylan realises, and it only occurs to him then that Tim might well have better plans for the evening than dealing with some asshole colleague showing up uninvited on his doorstep.
“Nothing that can't wait 'til Monday,” Raylan says, because he doesn't really have a good reason to be here. But he doesn't turn around just yet, lowers his head a little so the brim of his hat hides his face from Tim's eyes – that no bullshit look that sees right through you, the look of a man who spent too many years of his life looking at the world through a sniper scope and assessing who needed a bullet through their skull. Tim's quiet for a moment, like he's waiting for Raylan either to say something else or to fuck off, then he shrugs.
“Wanna come in?”
Thing with Tim is, he doesn't sound friendly when he says things like that. Tim's a hard guy to read, and frankly Raylan has no idea what they are to each other, except colleagues. They're not friends, not really. He's not even sure if Tim likes him – even though Tim is the kind of guy who seems to treat people he likes and people he hates pretty much the same, all abrasive sarcasm and an unreadable attitude that's occasionally broken by the kind of blunt honesty that makes most people, Raylan included, pretty damn uncomfortable. But at the same time Tim seems to have accepted him as some sort of brother-in-arms, courtesy of getting shot at together, and while Raylan is pretty sure he's nowhere in the same category as Tim's Ranger buddies, he seems to be getting a similar deal. You don't have to like a guy to serve with him, to watch his back, to be a friend to him even though you wouldn't give him the time of day if you had met him under different circumstances. Raylan has a feeling that Tim doesn't really know how to be friends with people unless they've served together, be it in Afghanistan or in Harlan. Tim mentioned once in passing that his Army buddies often drop by his place, that he's the guy they stay with for a week when they have a row with their wife or their girlfriend. Tim's a bad talker and Raylan's not even sure if he's a good listener – good listeners don't roll their eyes that often – but he's pleasant enough company, once you get used to him being the way he is.
So whatever they are to each other, Raylan sometimes drinks with Tim, and one time, a couple of weeks back, Tim picked his drunk ass up from some bar and let him sleep on the couch. Made some pretty great breakfast in the morning and was still an asshole for the rest of the day. After that Raylan had already shown up uninvited once at Tim's place, and Tim had asked him in and given him some leftover pizza – home-made pizza, he said, and who the fuck makes pizza themselves? – and somehow after a few beers they had ended up fucking on the couch, and even that hadn't been friendly, it just happened, and in a way Raylan supposed it had been bound to happen for some time. After that Tim had been the closest to freaking out that Raylan had ever seen him – that, too, courtesy of spending most of his life in the Army, he supposed – but after Raylan had convinced him that they were good, they hadn't talked about it again. Nothing had changed.
That was almost two weeks ago, and Raylan isn't sure if he was hoping for pizza or beer or a fuck when he drove over here. He wouldn't say no to any of those.
Tim lets him in and disappears in the kitchen, and Raylan is hit by a pretty damn amazing smell. He follows Tim, finds him stirring one of the three pots on the stove.
“Was just making dinner,” Tim says, still that same conversational, neutral tone he uses most of the time, no matter what he's talking about (damn, except when they had fucked, and Raylan has really not been planning on thinking about that, but Tim's wearing a tight, worn tanktop and old jeans that show off his ass, and Raylan hasn't had a single quiet moment to get laid this whole week). “Want some?”
Raylan barely bites back whatever dirty comment his mind was about to provide.
“Sure, if it's no trouble.”
“Nah, I always make more, leftovers for the week.”
“Didn't know you could cook.” Because all right, both the pizza and the scrambled eggs had been pretty damn great, but neither probably takes great cooking skills. Not that Raylan would know, he can't remember the last time he's made proper breakfast for himself. Tim shrugs again, like it's nothing.
“Spend enough time in the Army eating the shit they pass off for food there, and you learn how to cook.”
“I thought most guys got themselves girlfriends for that,” Raylan says, leans back against the kitchen counter while he watches Tim. He seems to know what he's doing, despite his usual insistence that he doesn't know jackshit about anything except his job and shooting people.
“And replace one drill sergeant with another? Nah, thanks.” Brief laughter as Tim shifts a little, but Raylan notices the tension in Tim's posture, the unease of a man who's not used to being around anyone who knows that he has a whole different reason for not getting himself a girlfriend. “Pretty sure cookbooks are cheaper than girlfriends, too.”
It's the last they speak of it because Tim starts filling two plates with food, chicken in some creamy red sauce, yellow rice and vegetables that still retain their original colours instead of looking like the overcooked mess Raylan's used to. Tim tells Raylan to get two beers from the fridge, asks him if he likes Bruce Willis movies, and heads to the living room without waiting for an answer.
The food's mind-blowingly good, although Raylan is pretty sure that Tim doesn't have normally functioning taste buds because the chicken is so fucking spicy Raylan feels like his mouth is on fire, but Tim doesn't seem to mind. It still tastes great, even though Raylan is on his second beer before he's finished his plate. They don't talk, just watch some action flick called RED that Tim seems to know by heart, and Raylan has never seen the guy grin like that, like a carefree kid, and he does have to admit it's a pretty fun movie.
By the time he helps Tim bring the dirty dishes back to the kitchen – he offers to help clean up, but Tim is pretty particular about that stuff, his entire place looks like he has a bad case of OCD and can't abide things not being in their right place – Raylan realises he hasn't had that good a night in a long time. He gets why Tim's Army buddies come to him when they need to clear their heads – something about Tim's quiet, calm demeanour, about being in his space and just getting dragged along as Tim does his thing like he doesn't give a shit that someone else is there, is oddly soothing. Raylan leans against the counter again while he watches Tim clean up the kitchen – meticulously, and Raylan supposes that this, too, comes from a life in the Army, from never having a proper home until he made himself one. It's a nice change from shitty motel rooms, and maybe that alone was reason enough to come here.
When Tim is done, there's a moment of awkward silence, the first one that evening. Tim stares a little at him, at his hips, hell, his crotch, before he tears himself away. Raylan can't fucking imagine what that must have been like, spending eight years risking his life for people who would kick him out if they knew that all his talk about hot underwear models was nothing but bullshit from a guy who sucked cock better than any girl Raylan ever had. The thought makes him shift a little, slightly uncomfortable in his jeans, and not only because he ate too much of that curry Tim cooked.
“So, er, you want some whiskey?” Tim rubs the back of his neck, and Raylan's starting to realise that he always does that when he's nervous – he just hasn't seen him nervous very often. “You can crash on the couch again if you can't drive, 's fine by me.”
And Raylan knows this is probably a shitty idea, considering that they work together, considering that Tim almost had a small panic attack after last time, as if he expected Raylan either to shoot him in the head or to rat him out to the rest of the world, but hell, impulse control has never been Raylan's strong suit, and it's not like Tim seems particularly opposed to the idea. So Raylan pushes himself away from the counter, steps closer until he's trapped Tim against the fridge – and Tim's letting himself be trapped, eyes looking anywhere but at Raylan, body tense, but he's not stepping away.
“You sure you wanna make me sleep on the couch? 'cos I could think of a thing or two you got here that I want more 'n whiskey,” he drawls, and Tim finally meets his eyes again. He looks like he's not sure what to do, and Raylan knows it's not because Tim hasn't done this plenty of times before, he has, just not with someone he knows, certainly not with someone he works with.
“C'mon, Raylan, thought we weren't gonna mention that again,” Tim mumbles and looks down.
“Don't have to mention it,” Raylan says, hand on Tim's hip now, and Tim doesn't flinch away. “You still worried I'm gonna give you shit about this? I didn't last time, did I?”
Tim doesn't say anything, but he seems to relax a little, even as Raylan steps closer still, body flush against Tim's. Tim's hands find their way to Raylan's shirt, just resting there as if he still had to make up his mind, but Raylan's pretty sure he's got him, pretty sure that if Tim was gonna run (or punch him in the face), he would have done so already.
“C'mon, Tim, dinner like that, I at least owe you a blowjob, don'tcha think?” This time Raylan just mumbles the words into Tim's ear, and he feels Tim's choked back moan more than he hears it.
“Fuck,” Tim says and raises one hand to the back of Raylan's neck to pull him into a hard kiss.
And that's just the thing with Tim. He may not sound friendly most of the time and you're never sure if he even likes you, but in the end he's just a damn good guy to be around.
