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Ravishing Red	By : suz Category: G through L > Invisible Man Views: 1721 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Invisible Man, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-RavRedDisclaimer
- 1
Fandom: Invisible Man

Pairing: Hobbes and Fawkes – who else?

Warnings: None (well, not counting the usual slashy ones ;^D)

Spoilers: Nothing specific

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: Don’t own ‘em, wish I did. I love them more than SciFi ever did. Making no $, just playing with my action figures.

Archive?: Yes, just let me know where.

Feedback: yes of course! To suzinsf@gmail.com

Summary: Food fight. Well, no, not really. But if you don’t like fics about food, you won’t like this one. A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou beside me in the wilderness…Well, in bed, more like. And yes, there really is a Whole Foods Market a block from Darien’s apartment, and yes, they really have a wine called Ravishing Red. And everything else mentioned in here, too, up to and including the chocolates. Bon Appetite!

Ravishing Red

By Suz

Part 1 of 5

"And don’t forget the wine, OK?" Darien reminds me for the fifth time as he hands me the shopping list.

"Geeze, Fawkes, you’re worse than my ex-wife, you know that?" I gripe, not all that unhappy about it but in the mood to jerk my partner’s chain.

"That’s cuz I’m your current wife," he grins at me, his oven mitt and the apron he’s got on making it a pretty convincing argument, and I laugh.

See, Fawkes and me, we’ve been… ‘keeping company’, as my Bubbie used to put it when I was a kid. It’s a little more than that, actually, like not bein’ able to keep our hands off each other most of the time, but close enough. We’ve been a ‘thing’ as Darien puts it, for about six months now, and today on the way home from work, Fawkes invited me over for a ‘half anniversary’. He said he was in the mood to cook.

Unfortunately, that means I gotta go shopping, whether I’m in the mood or not. And some of the stuff on his list is gonna be hard to find. "Why couldn’t we stop at the Safeway on the way back here?" I grump, eyeing the list and checking for my wallet.

Fawkes smirks at me. "Cuz they don’t have half the stuff on that list. Stop complaining, Hobbesy, and just walk over to the Whole Foods."

I groan. The market he’s talking about is this über-upscale yuppie sprout-eater Mecca. I swear, the nickname it’s got, ‘Whole Paycheck’, ain’t far from the truth. But when my partner gets into one of his ‘Food Channel’ phases, that’s where he wants to go shopping. He’s dragged me around the place a few dozen times by now, so it’s not like I can’t find my way around on my own, but frankly, I kinda go into overload wanderin’ around the different departments. I mean, the frickin’ cheese section has like 3,000 different kinds. How the heck am I supposed to find the Asiago Fresca he has on the list? And what the heck is Asiago Fresca in the first place? What, Parmesan in those green shaker containers from Kraft ain’t good enough for my partner, Emeril? And what about mache? What the hell is that? "Fawkes, you’d better be planning on feeding me something normal people call food, not this tofu crap," I warn him as I tuck the list in my pocket.

"There’s no tofu on the list, Hobbesy, don’t worry," he laughs. "I didn’t even put sprouts on it," he adds.

I snort. "Yeah, well, if you had, you’d be the one eatin’ that stuff. If I want sprouts, I’ll go chew on a lawn, OK?" I warn him. I’m not the biggest sprout fan in the known universe, and he likes tryin’ to find ways to get me to eat the damned things, with their stringy little roots that get stuck in my teeth. He claims it’s cuz he wants us to live forever. This from Mr. Bacon Double Cheeseburger.

"Next time the maintenance guys mow the lawn out back, I’ll be sure and have ‘em save me the clippings," he rags on me. "Now go, alright? It’s gonna be a mob scene this time’a night, with everyone in the neighborhood gettin’ home from work."

Yet another reason I don’t wanna set foot in the place. Fawkes lives on the fringes of one of the gay communities in San Diego. There’s a lotta lofts, a lotta money, and a lot of gay guys holdin’ hands as they cruise the aisles. Fawkes always gives me a bad time about hating the public displays of affection, but I warned him right from the start I’m not into that kinda thing. He wants a PDA, he can go to Radio Shack. For one thing, it’s not a real smart idea to broadcast the specifics of our, uhm, partnership. Too many enemies out there who could find a way to use it against us. Besides, I’m still getting used to the whole ‘in love with another guy’ thing. Maybe someday I’ll be ready for some public necking, but it ain’t gonna be soon, that much I can tell ya. Mostly cuz every time Fawkes and I get within three feet of each other theses days, things tend to get outta hand. And something tells me San Diego isn’t ready to catch the two of us doin’ the beast with two backs in the middle of Balboa park.

I hike on over to the market, a whopping half block away, and elbow my way through the crowds pawing over the organic vegetables in the outdoor produce section. It reminds me of one of those roadside places you see all up and down the central valley. I buttonhole some Hispanic produce clerk and make him help me find the weirder things on Fawkes’ list. Mache, turns out, is this sorta baby watercress-like stuff. Edamame are soybeans. Ugh. Future tofu. He’d better not be tryin’ to make that stuff himself, is all I can say. Rabe turns out to be this sorta baby broccoli, and last but not least, cherimoya, this really strange-looking fruit. The cantaloupe, mandarins and organic strawberries I can handle on my own, along with baby carrots and some stuff to put in a salad, then it’s on to the meat department for ostrich roast. I wonder what the heck’s next: antelope? I feel like I oughta be whipping out my Fish & Game badge and busting these butchers for selling endangered animal parts or something when I get a look at some of the stuff they have. Rabbit, buffalo, all sorts’a game birds, sheesh. Whatever happened to plain old chicken? I get my assigned pound or two of flesh and head off to the next department

At least this time, Fawkes isn’t making me go through the bulk section. The last time he sent me out on one of these expeditions he had me going in circles all around the bulk bins looking for Chinese Imperial black rice until a ‘team member’ – that’s what they call the clerks in this place – had mercy on me and tracked the stuff down. It really was black rice, by the way. Who knew?

So here I am in the cheese section, staring at the half-million or so different kinds they have, and I can feel myself starting to hit overwhelm. I decide to buy myself some time by goin’ down the aisle and helping myself to the coupla dozen different free samples they have out. I have my mouth full of roasted yellow tomatoes vinaigrette when this couple behind me in the wine department right next door starts arguing over what wine to have with their marinated flank steak. I decide to eavesdrop since I’ve gotta pick up a bottle of wine, and red meat is red meat, whether it’s ostrich or beef.

"But Neil, it’s only $6.99! How good can it possibly be?" the first guy wants to know, and I turn my head real casual-like to get a glimpse of the bottle in dispute. Geeze, I think I need to get my eyes checked. Was a time I coulda read the label from here, but I guess my age is catching up to me. It’s a red, that much I can tell, but what kind is still a mystery.

"God, you’re a snob, Alan," the second guy chews out his… significant other. "It’s not like we’re serving dinner to the Queen Mum, you know," he goes on, and I almost choke on my tomatoes as I try not to laugh. Yeah, queens would pretty well cover it. Cover it. Oh, man, I gotta stop with the bad jokes. They’re both prettyboys, not that I mind the scenery, especially now me and Fawkes are doin’ it. But you know how sometimes you can tell a gay guy on sight, just cuz of the clothes and the body language? Well, these two are definitely out.

"Look, Michael and Sandy are coming for dinner in less than half an hour. I am not serving my sister and her husband something called Ravishing Red! This is the first time you’re meeting them, for Gods sake!" The first guy – Alan, I guess, argues. I swear, he’s practically stomping his foot like a five-year-old having a tantrum

I try and cover my sputter of laughter by diving into the next sample bowl and striking up a brief conversation with the clerk behind the cheese counter about what sorta milk this one is made outta. Goat, it turns out, and man, it tastes like it. Smells like a barnyard. Amazing to me people actually pay $12.99 a pound for the privilege of eating something that tastes like sucking on a goat's tit. I move on to the safety of some Welsh cheddar. Now that’s more like it. It’s also about five feet closer to the Bickersons. I shouldn’t be eavesdropping like this. It’s rude, especially when it’s not in the line of duty, but I haven’t heard a fight this entertaining since Fawkes and me went a few rounds on the relative merits of QVC versus the Home Shopping Network. Hey, what can I say? Some people are reality show fanatics; me, I prefer watching the schlock the TV hucksters try and sell the unsuspecting American populace.

Neil, the other one, has changed tactics. As I pop an olive in my mouth, he eases closer to his partner with this move that says ‘seduction’. "Who said anything about serving it to your sister?" he asks in this bedroom voice. "I’m not going to ‘Ravish’ anyone besides you," he grins down at Alan, who buckles. I watch him go all mushy and right there in the supermarket, they kiss like they’re trying to do a tonsillectomy on each other.

I try not to choke on my olive pit. Man, that’s hot. It’s also kinda… I dunno. It makes me squeamish when people start in with the heavy petting in public. But it’s giving me ideas about what I plan on doing to my own partner when I get back to his place, dammit. He owes me for this shopping trip, and I’ll collect, don’t worry. I snag a square of cracker smeared with something called Fromage d'Affinois. It’s basically brie. And it’s unbelievable.

Now we’re talking! Forget this ostrich roast thing Fawkes has in mind. It’s our half anniversary, dammit, and hell if I’m gonna spend three hours watching him slave away in the kitchen when I can improvise one hell of a picnic for two on his bed. I made him upgrade to a king-sized mattress about a month after we started sleepin’ together regular cuz he’s all over the bed at night. And usually, that means he ends up on top of me. Not that I mind, but in the summer it gets a little warm, know what I'm sayin'? Aw, hell… Warm pretty much sums up the way I’m getting with the two lovebirds billing and cooing a few feet away. They settle on the red in question, as well as some snooty high-priced French job and a bottle of champagne, then head out for their dinner date.

The Affinois has given me some ideas, that along with the Ravishing Red discussion my two pals were having. Screw ostrich, Fawkes and me, we’re having an aphrodisiac celebration. Not like we need help in that department, but I want time with my partner, not a boring three hours while he gets out every cooking gadget he owns. I don’t care how thrilled he is with the mandolin I gave him for Christmas; there’s only so much excitement you can get from watching your lover julienne carrots. I decide then and there to ditch the shopping list Fawkes gave me in favor of a little improvisation.

I put all the vegetables back except for the salad stuff, and all the fruit, too, except the strawberries, then go back to the butcher counter and explain that I’ve changed my mind, and I want a coupla filet mignons instead. I just tell ‘em it’s cuz I’m afraid I don’t have time to deal with a roast on a work night. One thing about an upper-end grocery, they don’t bat an eye at even the most fickle customer behavior. I decide I’m going to conduct a storewide search for every aphrodisiac this place has to offer and that little plan has me comfortable with actually nabbing a clerk in the vitamin department for some input.

It looks like I picked the right guy. He’s this flower-child kinda type , long curly hair in a ponytail, nice eyes and totally unfazed by my announcement that I need help in a seduction. I tell him what I have in mind, and he really gets into it, dragging me into the vitamin department for – get this, wild oats. I kid you not. Apparently, it helps relax people, particularly women, making sex better cuz they aren’t all tensed up. Now, that ain’t a problem for Fawkes and me, but just the idea of handing my partner a jar of wild oats tickles my funny bone. So I take a jar and a little vial of this massage oil the clerk recommends, then he takes me over to the gift section and we pick out a half dozen different candles.

I put my foot down when he tries to sell me on lavender scented stuff and we settle on lemongrass, vanilla and tangerine for the bathroom, and peppermint for the nightstand. If I’m gonna do this, I’m gonna do it right. According to my new friend, peppermint is ‘invigorating’. I like the sound of that. The citrus ones are calming. So I figure, I soap Darien up and wash his hair for him, he’s mine. He loves having his hair played with. I get a trial size of a shampoo my helper recommends, then he takes me through the rest of the store.

We stop off in the bulk section for some Bhutanese red rice, the produce section for shallots, garlic and shitake mushrooms, then the seafood section for a half-dozen Hog Island Sweetwater oysters, these tiny little guys that should go down nice and slick without gagging either me or Fawkes. Next it’s on to the floral section for a dozen red roses and back to the cheese section for, of all things, chocolate. Not that the chocolate is a stretch, but why the heck is it in the cheese department? I pick out a dozen of these hyper-expensive designer chocolates made with things like pink peppercorns, jasmine tea, lemon verbena, and all sorts of other stuff I never thought about in terms of chocolates. I mean, I’m a Milky Way Bar fan myself, but damned sure Fawkes is gonna go for this in a big way. I also pick up a jar of this chocolate sauce my friend recommends as illegally decadent. He suggests it as a, uhm, sex condiment. His words, not mine. The idea of a chocolate-covered Fawkes is kinda appealing, even if chocolate is his thing more’n mine. My personal shopper suggests putting a spoonful somewhere and letting it melt. Works for me. Fawkes for dessert.

A bouquet, a few more cheeses, some expensive crackers, the bottle of Ravishing Red and a pre-chilled bottle of champagne for appetizers, and I’m ready to head back to Darien’s and start my version of an anniversary celebration.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ravishing Red

By Suz

Part 2/5

"Where the hell have you been?" Darien wants to know when I get back with my haul.

"Shopping," I grin at him. He starts pulling things out of the two bags, and it doesn’t take him long to figure out that pretty much nothing on his list made it back with me. He looks ready to pitch a fit, so I take things outta his hands and pass him the roses, which shuts him up. When I pull out the candles, his eyes widen and this little grin starts creeping over his face.

"Happy half-anniversary, Fawkes," I wag my eyebrows at him.

"Bobby, I wanted to do the work," he complains, but his heart isn’t really in it.

He’s too busy rooting around in the grocery bags and taking things out one at the time like an archeologist on a dig. I take the filet mignons, the rice, the mushrooms and the vegetables and start putting stuff together so all we’ll have to do is finish things up… when we’re ready.

"At least let me help," Darien says when he’s finished poking around in all the stuff I brought home.

"Try putting the flowers in a vase, there, partner," I suggest with a laugh. "Then make the salad." That should keep him outta trouble for a few minutes while I deal with the mushrooms and shallots, sear the filets and start the rice and green beans. I deliberately picked stuff that’s easy to fix since the last thing I want to do is end up spending the evening in the kitchen. While I’m handling that, Fawkes puts the cheeses out on a plate and the crackers in a basket, then opens the wine, laughing when I tell him the story of the ‘Ravishing Red’ he's uncorking. Then I assign him the job of putting the candles on the nightstand and in his bathroom for later.

By the time he’s finished that, the rice is steaming, the beans have been blanched, and the filets seared. The mushrooms, shallots and some of the red wine are simmering in the skillet I seared the meat in, reducing to a real nice pan sauce. I turn on the oven so it can preheat, since roasting the filets isn’t gonna take long. I’ve even gotten the oysters shucked and topped with a drizzle of melted butter and a sprinkle of black pepper. Fawkes heads my way, and I pass him the oysters, ignoring his grimace. He stands there eyeing the little shells like I’ve just handed him a plate full of sheep’s eyeballs or something while I finish up the preparations.

I put the box of candies and the jar of chocolate sauce on Fawkes’ nightstand alongside the candles and light them, then light the ones in the bathroom. Might as well start stinking up the joint. Actually, I like the scents. Not too frou-frou. The glimmer of candlelight from the bed area is kinda romantic, warming up the evening shadows at that end of the studio. The only lamplight comes from the table lamp next to the couch. Fawkes has brought the oysters, cheese and crackers to the coffee table and put on some music. Quiet but not sappy… Chris Isakk, I think. He’s also rinsed the strawberries, I see when I go back to the kitchen for the champagne. I dump them into a bowl, then juggle that, two flutes and the bottle and join my lover on the couch. He’s hogging most of it, and I put my load down on the coffee table, then nudge one of his legs off the sofa to make room for myself between them.

I lean my back up against his chest and he puts an arm around me, nuzzling the back of my head. "You’re a closet romantic, huh?" he comments, and I can feel him smile against my ear as he nibbles the lobe gently. "I guess I shoulda known," he adds, running the tip of his tongue around my ear.

"Not in the closet any more, Fawkes," I tease, turning my head so I can kiss him lightly.

"Remind me to say a few ‘hail Marys’ as a thank you, next time I see Father Tom," Darien chuckles, then reaches for the champagne, pouring some into the glasses and dropping a strawberry into each flute. They sink to the bottom, little bubbles trailing upward to tickle our noses as we clink glasses. "Happy anniversary, Hobbesy," he says and takes a sip of the wine.

"Happy anniversary, Fawkesy," I answer, taking a mouthful of my own. It’s a nice wine. My trusty helper at the market didn’t lie. I grin a little, thinking that if this is any indication, me and my partner are gonna have one heck of a night. I put my glass down and turn, helping myself to some of the Affinois, spreading it on a cracker and handing it to Darien before making one for myself.

"Oh, man, this is good," he sighs, and I lean forward to lick a little stray smear off his upper lip. The taste of expensive brie mingled with dry champagne and the wild flavor that is Darien is all the aphrodisiac I need, and blood starts heading south.

"Tasty," I grin, knowing he’ll know it’s not just the cheese I’m talking about. I snag a strawberry and hold it up so he can take a bite. It’s organic and it actually smells like a strawberry. From his blissful expression, I’d say it tastes like one, too. I finish it off and then kiss him again, checking out the changing taste sensation that is Fawkes.

"Mmmmmm," he breathes against my mouth, running his tongue along my upper lip lightly. Without breaking the kiss, he pulls me back into his arms, smoothing his hands up and down my back, plucking at my shirt. He gets it untucked and finds naked skin, and it’s my turn to moan a little. Damn. We gotta slow this down. I got a dozen different things to try out on him tonight, and it’s gonna spoil the plan if I let him have his way right off.

I pull away a little and grin at him. "Sorry Fawkes. Hate to break it to you, but this is my show. We’ve got a lotta party favors to play with tonight so stop rushing me."

"Spoilsport," he pouts.

"Try the other cheese," I suggest, grinning at him and his little display of peevishness. He has a one-track mind sometimes. Hell, both of us do. But like I warned him – this is my party, and I wanna dance all night. I’m even toying with the idea of showing up late for work. It’s not like the Agency is gonna pay me any better if I show up on time. I guess my partner’s attitude is beginning to rub off on me.

He’s pretty much established his own rules of attendance and drifts in to work when he’s damned good and ready and not before. If we’ve spent the night together sometimes I can get him up so we can head in together, but most of the time he trickles in a couple hours after my eight a.m. start time. Nice work if you can get it. ‘Course, the gland he carries around in his skull is the downside. Not sure I’d trade places with him, if it came down to it. Not for the heck of it anyway. If it meant setting my partner loose, getting him free of the deal his brother forced him into with the Agency, then yeah, I’d take it on and be glad. But Claire’s made it pretty clear that taking it out at this point will kill him. I can’t help the selfish little part of me that’s glad he won’t be goin’ nowhere any time soon. Cuz I got it bad. I thought I knew what it’s like to be head over heels for someone after my marriage. Viv was the center of my universe. The problem was, she didn’t want to be. But Fawkes… Well, I think the kid’s been so starved for affection all his life, all he wants is for someone to need him. Want him. And to want them back. And lucky for me, he decided he wanted me. I may never understand why but I thank whatever gods there are every day that he does.

Darien’s helping himself to the other cheese, this one a goat cheese. OK, so I let the cheese clerk talk me into trying one that he swore wasn’t gonna make me or my partner choke. Fawkes seems to be likin’ it anyway.

"What is this, cream cheese or something?" he asks, licking his lips again and plopping a strawberry on top of the mound of cheese he’s covered the cracker with. "It’s terrific," he adds appreciatively as he tries his new concoction. "Man, this’d be great on bagels," is his assessment, and he holds out the rest of the cracker for me to take a bite of. He’s right. It’s smooth and only the tiniest bit tart. No goat tits in sight.

"For what it costs, it’d better be," I laugh, agreeing with him. If we have any left by the time the weekend rolls around, maybe we’ll try it on bagels. Maybe with some lox. He watches me finish the cracker with this avid look in his eyes, attention focused on my mouth, so I tease him a little, putting some tongue into it. It’s so easy to get him all hot and bothered. I first started realizing it when he’d go all sorts of embarrassed after I’d bug him about his love life. He’s got a low tolerance for innuendo. Before we started sleeping together, I just figured it was cuz he was embarrassed by his non-existent sex life. But now I know it’s cuz he was busy mooning over me. Which is pretty cute, if I think about it. So now I do it on purpose to rile him up. Hey, I admit it – I’m a prick tease.

"Hobbes," he warns, leaning towards me to plant one on me, hard and fast.

I laugh softly and offer him another cracker. "Here, eat this instead," I suggest.

He makes a face and takes it from me as I get up to start the filets roasting. They won’t take more than 20 minutes, even though by now they’ve cooled to room temperature again. I’m back in less time than it takes him to finish the cracker and I kiss him hello just for the hell of it, then hand him his champagne glass. "Hey, Fawkes?" I smile at him, as mushy inside as tapioca. "Love ya," I announce, and tip a couple of capsules into his hand.

"What’re these, vitamins?" he laughs.

I shake my head. "Nah, these, my friend, are sprouts worth eating," I remind him. "Here’s to wild oats," I add and clink my glass against his, then down my two pills with a gulp of champagne. It’s too nice to be swilling like this, but at least I can get to the strawberry now, and I let it roll into my mouth. It’s even sweeter than the one Darien put on his cheese and cracker earlier, and it makes my mouth water. Or maybe it’s my laughing partner that’s making me salivate….

"Here’s to sowing them," he replies, still laughing.

"Just as long as I’m the one doin’ the reaping," I tell him firmly. He swallows his champagne and sets down his glass so he can palm me through my pants. "Oh, man, Fawkesy," I groan as his fingers brush past my dick.

"Hey, the bible says… somewhere… ‘as ye sow, so shall ye reap’," he quotes as he fondles me. "You sure you wanna wait with this?" he asks, feeling me harden in his hand. "Could get a little uncomfortable," he cocks a sarcastic eyebrow at me.

"Hey, misery loves company," I warn him as I stroke him back, loving his moan. "We got all night, partner, and I’m not in the mood to rush things." In spite of that, I keep playing with him until he’s as hard as I am - then stop. His moan this time is pitiful and he drops his head back on the couch, glaring at me.

"Hobbesy, you’re a jerk-off," he scolds.

"You wish," I wag my eyebrows at him with a smirk that rivals his best.

"Fuck you," he adds, trying to smother the grin I can see glinting in his eyes.

"Plannin’ on it," I agree happily enough, and he laughs again. "So where do you want dinner?" I ask him, changing the subject as I pour us more champagne.

He eyes me up and down lewdly. "Where do I wanna eat? Well, I’m thinkin’ more along the lines of what I wanna eat, there, Hobbesy," he hints broadly.

"Sorry, Gilligan, the what is covered. Just gotta let the steaks finish roasting and dinner will be served."

He sulks. "So what’s with the candles and stuff? We gonna play with all the toys you brought home or what?" he complains.

"Don’t worry, Fawkes, we’ll spend all night playing," I assure him, loving his mocking pout. "I was thinking dinner in bed," I go on, and watch him light up like a Christmas tree.

"That mean we can get naked?" he wants to know.

I shake my head with amusement, grinning at him. "As long as you don’t mind me pouring salad dressing all over you," I kid him.

"Hey, if it means I get your mouth on me sooner, you can pour anything you want on me," he responds assertively. "In fact, I’ll even help finish up the salad while you deal with your pots and pans, there, ‘Julia Child’."

"Hey, watch what you call me, pal. You’re the one who’s taken to watching all those cooking programs these days," I hassle him as I pick up an oyster on its half shell and hold it up to his lips. He squeezes his mouth shut stubbornly, and I turn it and let the oyster slide into my own. Ordinarily, I don’t much go for the whole raw seafood thing, but these little oysters are pretty damned tasty. "C’mon, you big chicken," I grin at him. "Didn’t your mother ever make you try things you’ve never eaten before?"

"They’re raw, Hobbes," he whines a little, and I pop one into his open mouth before he can clam up on me, laughing as he sits there with the funniest expression on his face.

"Baaawwwk-bawk-bawk," I cluck at him in my best chicken imitation. He glares at me as he swallows the oyster and I watch the taste register. It’s really pretty good. A little salty, a little sweet, and a whole lot like licking his skin after we’ve been making love all day. I guess he must think so too, cuz he reaches for another one. "See?" I gloat a little. "They got a long history in the whole seduction game for a reason, my friend," I add, taking another one for myself and popping it into my mouth to savor slowly like I would if I was tasting him.

"So they’re aphrodisiacs, huh?" he queries as he takes a sip of champagne and raises his eyebrows in surprise at how well the shellfish and the wine go together.

"Oysters and champagne are one of the old reliables, Fawkesy," I laugh as he reaches for the last of his three. I catch hold of his wrist, stopping the progress of the shell. "Go fish, Fawkes," I suggest as I let it slide into my own mouth, then kiss him. We trade the oyster back and forth a few times, Darien ending up with it when I sorta tongue-fuck his mouth and he loses concentration for a second. He gloms onto me as soon as he’s swallowed, kissing me back every bit as hotly as Alan and his buddy Neil did in the market earlier. I can feel his heartbeat flutter against my chest as he pulls me up against him, my own matching it thud for thud, and I know if I don’t break the lip lock right now, we can blow off the rest of our dinner. I’m just hungry enough that that idea forces me away from his mouth, all nice and wet and pink with the kiss. "Hold that thought," I propose as he looks back at me, eyes even darker than usual, breathing hard.

"Eat the last one, babe, while I go finish up dinner," I tell him as I get up and start to head for the kitchen.

He matches actions to words and takes the last oyster, and while I watch, makes this x-rated production out of lapping it outta it’s shell – only to spit it out into his palm in surprise as he looks at the little gray blob, poking it with a finger. No one is more surprised than me when he teases out a tiny little pearl about the size of a mustard seed. I think maybe the gods have a sense of humor sometimes. And I know for a fact they’re smiling on me and my partner when he stares at me, this incredible grin on his face. "You did that on purpose, didn’t you?" he asks, almost seriously.

I grin back, willing to take credit for divine intervention. "Sure I did, Fawkes," I agree. "Just practicing for how to give you the diamond one of these days," I tell him, and as the words leave my mouth, I realize it’s the truth. And from the look in his eyes, he knows it. For one terrifying second I think I’ve spooked him big time, spooked him as bad as I just spooked myself. Until he gets up and drags me into his arms to lay the mother of all kisses on me. I thought the one my two squabbling pals exchanged at the market was over the top, but this… This is heaven.

When he breaks for air, he rests his forehead on mine and gazes down into my eyes with amazement I feel, too. He runs his thumbs along my jaw line and brushes his lips over mine again. "I’ve already got my diamond, Hobbesy. A little rough around the edges, but he’ll polish up real nice," he grins.

I laugh, punching him gently in the belly. "Smartass. Let’s get dinner finished," I say, moving away from him.

Ravishing Red

By Suz

Pt 3/5

See part one for notes and disclaimers

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He follows me, taking the romaine lettuce out of his fridge and tearing it into a salad bowl. "D’ja remember the salad dressing?" he wants to know as he sprinkles a little of the fresh-grated parmesan I picked up over the greens, then opens the gourmet croutons and tosses them on top.

"In the fridge," I tell him as I stir the now-thick pan sauce and turn the heat off under it. I open up the oven to check the steaks and feel him slap me on the ass lightly as he passes me with the dressing. "Hey, keep your hands to yourself," I gripe, not really meaning it, and he knows it.

"What, keep my hands off that hot ass of yours? Ain’t gonna happen," he snorts and comes up behind me, grabbing a double handful to make his point. The warmth of his breath along the side of my neck as he bends his head to kiss me under the ear makes me shiver a little. Or maybe it’s the fact that his hands have slid around to my hipbones and he’s pulled me back against him. I can feel his hard-on against the small of my back as he bumps me deliberately. "That ass is getting me all excited there, Hobbesy."

"Yeah, so I noticed," I retort and ease away from him. "Stop teasing and let’s get supper on," I suggest dryly.

"That’s not what I wanna ‘get on’," he complains with a grin as he picks up the salad bowl and the dressing and walks it over to his bed across the studio. He rummages around, dragging over a little table we picked up at the local flea market he frequents and puts the food down on it, then comes back and retrieves both bottles of wine, the champagne flutes and a pair of really nice crystal wine glasses from his wine rack and shuttles that load over to the bed area.

As I finish up the green beans with a little melted butter and some sliced almonds, then get out a couple of plates, I have a perfect view of Darien as he does a striptease for me. Jesus, the kid is beautiful. The candlelight sort of burnishes his skin, already a honey color from his nude sunbathing on the roof, as he pulls his t-shirt off over his head and glances my way to make sure he has my attention. I just sort of stand there, a spoonful of rice halfway to one of the plates, gaping at him as he undoes his pants and slides them down his hips with this languid sort of move that makes my pulse hammer in my ears. He’s naked under the jeans.

Not that it’s all that unusual; both of us have taken to going commando these days. Makes it easier to indulge in a little on-the-job hanky-panky. It took a while for Fawkes to convince me we could do it without getting caught, but we’ve taken to sneaking a little nookie at the office. He’s been trying to get me to agree to have sex in every room at the Agency, but invisibility gland or not, I think that’s pushing our luck. I have a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t faze Darien in the least to have the whole Agency watching as we made love. He’s got an exhibitionistic streak a mile wide. But so far, Claire is the only one who knows since we kinda had to come clean when her routine exam turned up the evidence of Fawkes’ new non-celibate status. After the initial surprise wore off, she was real excited for us. Personally, I think she was relieved that my romantic attentions were focused on my partner and not on her anymore. So now Fawkes and I get an HIV test every 6 weeks or so. Not like there’s much chance either of us will go out tom-catting, but Claire’s nothing if not conscientious.

I mean, tell me why the hell would I go out looking for sugar on the side when I’ve got that to come home to every night? That, my certifiably edible partner, has dropped his pants to the ground and steps out of them, his dick thick and swollen as it arches up towards his belly. My mouth waters at the sight of him and when he stretches, I know he’s deliberately trying to break my resolve to take tonight slow. I drag my eyes away and slap the spoonful of rice onto one plate then repeat the move with the other, serving up the beans and then taking the steaks out of the oven and putting them on the dishes with the rest of the food. I ladle the sauce over the meat and carry everything over to the bed to join my partner.

Darien’s laid himself out on the bed, hands tucked behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles, a smirk on his face as I join him. He looks like a Playgirl centerfold, his cock iron hard and already leaking. The warm glow of candles gleams on the precum beaded at the tip, and I lick my lips hungrily as I set the plates down on our bedside dining table. We’ve taken to eating a lot of our weekend meals in bed. Hell, we’ve taken to spending most of our weekends in bed; which was why I suggested we pick up a small table to make things a little less messy. After the fourth time we knocked over something getting in and out of bed, it seemed like getting stuff off the floor was a good idea.

"C’mon, Hobbesy, get with the program," he grins up at me. "I’ve showed you mine, so how’s about showing me yours?"

"You complainin’ about the view all of a sudden, gland boy?" I snark a little.

"Nah, I’m complainin’ about the lack of one," he clarifies cockily. "Show me some skin there, partner," he urges as he sits up cross-legged to watch as I unbutton my shirt. I draw it out, doing my own version of a striptease for him and watch his pulse ratchet up in the throb along his carotid artery.

"So… Like what you’re seein’?" I ask him as I drop the shirt on the floor and start on my pants. His silent swallow tells me all I need to know so I ease my slacks down past my hips, torturing him with a glimpse of my pubic hair and the shrouded shape of my own hard-on through the thin silk of my boxers.

Fawkes gave me these, jet black silk that clings like a second skin, warm and alive as his touch on me. What a turn-on it is to see him recognize them and reach for me, the instinct to unwrap me primal here in the privacy of his apartment. I can’t even tell you how glad I am I wore them today. Maybe it’s the same almost psychic thing we have going on the job, this knowledge of each other that makes the usual modes of communication pretty much moot. Maybe, on some level, I remembered what today was. Remembered that my life changed permanently, totally, six months ago when Darien and I stumbled into bed together for the first time. I fell in love. No, I figured out I had been in love for almost two years. There’s a difference. And I figured out he was in love, too. And had been for maybe as long. All of a sudden, stuff I just took as part of daily life with my partner the invisible man started to change focus. Small things – and big ones – started to metamorphosize into life-altering, world-shaking events. I think the first hint I had was pretty early on, when Darien shot himself full of a retrovirus that would have killed him in minutes if I hadn’t coughed up the antidote, even though I knew it meant I’d lose the magical, almost divine insight that virus had given me. Instead I traded it for my partner’s life. And the insight that’s staring me in the face right now: Darien Fawkes is more important to me than anything else in the world.

I can’t live without him. Wouldn’t want to. I’d die before I’d risk his life. Kill to defend him. Once upon a time, I thought what I felt for my wife was the single most intense emotional bond I would ever experience. That was before Darien Fawkes - thief, punk, invisible man - stole my heart and turned into the center of my whole frickin’ universe. The difference is, this time, I know I’m not off the deep end alone. Fawkes and me, we got the buddy system down, man. Down cold. There are days I swear we live inside each other’s skins. And right here, right now, I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be than inside him.

Aw, crap. ‘Cept I still need dinner if I’m gonna have the strength to fuck my partner senseless tonight. With that in mind, I leave the boxers on as I settle down on the edge of the bed next to Darien and hand him his plate.

He slips a finger inside the waistband of the shorts and tickles me, then tugs on the elastic insistently. "What, shy all of a sudden?" he asks, balancing his plate on one bent knee.

"Hungry," I correct and hack off a chunk of steak. It’s fork-tender, rich and melt-in-your-mouth tasty, so I cut another bite and offer it to him on my fork. He takes it, sucking it off the tines slowly with a lot of tongue.

"Maybe, but not for the right thing, Hobbes," he responds around his mouthful.

"Hold onto your pants there inviso-boy," I grin at him. "I gotta keep up my strength if I’m gonna take care of that particular appetite, now don’t I?"

"Too late for the pants thing," he smiles and filches one of my green beans.

I end up feeding him most of the meal, just messing around, sampling everything served up on the rippled surface of his flat belly when he lays back against the piled pillows stacked along the headboard. A bite for him, a bite for me, a green bean trailed across his lips and sucked into his mouth, then one for me, resting just above his navel. A little of the butter dribbles into the hollow just above the divot and I get distracted as I lick him clean, detouring at his belly button for a few seconds while he laughs. I know he's ticklish there, so I get off on teasing him. Next a bite of rice for each of us, just enough pan sauce to make the grains hold together. And on to another mouthful of steak.

Ravishing Red

By Suz

Part 3/5

See part one for notes and disclaimers

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We talk, not with our mouths full, but in between, about life and love and his fondness for quoting the great thinkers. I rib him a little like I always do that his thing for Cliff Notes has cheated him outta the real point of reading. When I read, when I have time to, I fall into the total immersion thing, at least if the author's any good. For all his literary name dropping, I can count on my fingers the number of real books Fawkes has read all the way through, and I mean other than quote books and his fondness for trashy romance novels. Now, his Cliff Note collection is pretty damned huge, but real books? Nah, a few here and there, but nothing like you'd think, what with his brainpower.

Don't get me wrong, Fawkes is bright. Maybe brilliant. Not that I'd ever tell him so in so many words, but his instinct for the stuff we do is amazing. It’s just that he's lazy as sin when it comes to work. To me, the point of reading is to gather information. Yeah, I know with my intel background, information acquisition is instinctive by now. But still, when you read the whole book, you get the chance to form your own opinion on what the author's talking about. You go the easy route, the Cliff Notes route, and your opinions are laid out for you by whoever analyzed the original. Me, I like forming my own opinions. Maybe cuz most of them are kinda out in left field, at least according to my partner.

"Hobbes, you are so full'a shit," Darien laughs up at me as he reaches for a chunk of steak off my plate and pops it in his mouth.

"This from the original bullshit king?" I retort, stealing the last piece of his filet in retaliation. "You ever read 'The Three Musketeers?" I ask, determined to make my point. "Man in the Iron Mask?" I go on, picking things that might actually appeal to the wild child's sense of adventure. He shakes his head grinning.

"I got the Cliff Notes," he tells me, as if excusing himself for not having read two of the great works of literature.

"You read them?" I ask, doubting it. "What about Don Quixote?" I grill him. "Moby Dick?"

"Oh, please," he scoffs. "I actually had to read that one in high school English class," he replies.

I fold my arms across my chest and cock an eyebrow at him. "So did you?" I ask, knowing when I'm being conned by now. "Read it, I mean?"

"Sure I did," he defends himself.

"Uh-huh," I respond with skepticism. "So you got any Fawkesian insight into what the whale symbolized?" I ask, knowing I've got him now.

"Hobbes, you have any idea how long ago high school was?" he defends himself instead of answering the question.

"Not as long ago for you as it was for me, pal," I remind him. "So. Whale. Symbolized what?" I force him back onto track.

He stares up at me, disbelief warring with amusement. "Hobbesy, I can't believe we're gonna get into an argument about what the stupid whale in 'Moby Dick' meant," he shakes his head bemusedly.

"I'm just tryin' to make a point here, Fawkes," I inform him. "You gotta do the work if you wanna be able to find your own take on things. I mean, you got this whole 'my way' attitude happening, but when it comes to deciding what you think about things, I mean really think about them, more than half the time, you take the party line." I shake my head at him again, exasperated.

"Oh, give me a break. This from my partner, the Official's pet ass-kisser?" he comes back with, and I scowl at him, hating it when he's right.

"Am not," I say impulsively and instantly regret it as he bursts into laughter.

"Are so," he retorts, still smirking.

"Just answer the question, Fawkes," I snap, a little pissed off at how easily he can derail me. "The whale."

He wags his eyebrows and reaches across me to set his plate on the table next to mine. "Moby Dick," he says like he's refreshing his memory, rolling onto his side, resting on one elbow and propping his head in his hand.

I nod stubbornly. I know I've lost the advantage in the conversation, but hell if I'm gonna let him off the hook that easily. "The great white whale," I remind him.

"Hmm. Let's see…" he muses, running the forefinger of his free hand across his lips lightly. "Moby Dick… the great white whale," he says, sounding like he's about to give a presentation in front of the class or something, sort of pompous. "Well," he smirks at me again and slides that forefinger into my boxers at the inside of my right thigh, the touch soft on my skin. "The dick I'm interested in isn't called Moby," he grins at me as he runs his fingers further up my leg, just brushing my balls.

The touch surprises a shiver outta me, and I lose track of what I was about to say as he strokes my dick gently. Whatever it was has totally vanished from my brain and I exhale noisily in aroused surprise. Darien slides the black silk further up my thigh and the rest of his hand follows the forefinger inside, all five fingertips dancing around on my dick like feathers. It's incredible, and it tickles like hell, making me flinch involuntarily. "Darien, we're not finished with dinner," I manage as my hips jerk back away from his fingers.

"Nope," he agrees, still grinning. "It's time for the best part : dessert." With that, he bends his head and brushes my thigh with a kiss.

"Fawkes, dammit," I start, sliding down to lie beside him, grabbing his head with both hands and planting a sloppy wet one on him.

"That's more like it," Darien says happily, tangling himself around me like an octopus. "Now can I unwrap my anniversary present?" he asks, pulling me over onto his chest and getting both hands inside the waistband of the boxers to cup my ass. I can feel his cock against my belly like an iron rod, feel it throb, and knowing how turned on he is turns me on faster than a light switch.

"Nope," I tell him. "Dessert first."

"Hobbesy, I’m dyin’ here!" he complains, but he doesn’t let me go.

"It’s chocolate," I tempt him, and he sighs unhappily.

"No fair, Bobby," he grouses, but his hands slide back up and out of my boxers reluctantly and he lets me roll off his chest.

He’s sulking like a kid who’s just been told he has to wait to open presents on Christmas morning ‘til his siblings are awake, and I can’t help grinning as I lean over and kiss him lightly before I sit up, reaching for the jar of chocolate sauce. I open it and spoon out a thick, almost solid dollop of the stuff, plopping it into his belly button.

"Hey!" he whines. "I thought I was supposed to get some. I can’t exactly reach it way down there," he points out.

"Don’t worry, kid, you’ll be getting’ yours, I assure him, and then snatch the little white box filled with the world’s most expensive chocolates off the nightstand. I open it up, ripping the hell out of the fancy gold seal the clerk stuck on there to keep the box closed. I fish out a heart-shaped candy, checking the little cheat sheet taped inside the lid. "Chocolate ginger," I inform him and hold it out. Obediently, he opens his mouth, then goes one better and sticks out his tongue like a little kid. I set the chocolate on it and he sucks it in like an anteater with a snoot-full.

"Mmmm," he manages as he lets the candy melt in his mouth slowly. I can see him rolling it around on his tongue, concentrating on the flavor. Watching him eat is pretty damned sexy, I think as he gets this sultry expression on his face.

"Good?" I ask, already knowing the answer. He only gets that look when he’s eating chocolate. I select another candy, this one flavored with pink peppercorns or something weird like that, and rest it on his lips. He opens his mouth and it drops inside, the slow smile curving his mouth telling me he’s enjoying this.

I check my own dessert and there’s a slowly melting pool of chocolate on his belly, so while he concentrates on his own, I slide down and rest my head on his hip. I take it slow, knowing that I’ll tickle him if I don’t work up to it gradually. I lick him softly along the top ridge of his pelvis, then down into the valley between the bone and his lower abdominals, the musk of his scent mingling with the aroma of the chocolate sauce liquefying six inches further north. I bury my nose in his pubic hair, careful to avoid touching his dick, saving that for later. After a day spent running around all over San Diego, the subtle fragrance of his skin is stronger than usual, and it sends a shiver of want down my spine.

Geeze, I know I’ve got it bad when just the smell of him is enough to get me as hard as he is. I get serious when he makes this little noise low in his throat, telling me just how aware he is of what I’m doing down here. Using my lips and tongue, I stroke my way up the almost invisible trail of fine hair that leads to his navel. I’ve done it right, cuz he moans instead of laughing.

I dip my tongue into the chocolate sauce, tasting the rich sweetness. Darien. Sweetness, and the faint tang of salt, and the flavor of his skin, and I’m a goner. God, I think this may be the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I spare about three brain cells to thank my buddy at the market for selling me on this stuff. I eat Fawkes out slowly, doing my best not to take it over the edge into tickling, and I’m rewarded with soft moans and the quiver of his muscles under my hands. The unconscious flexing of his hips brings the head of his cock up against my throat, and the brush of silky skin under my jaw is a rush.

He moves harder, having found what he’s looking for in that touch, and I shift away, denying him.

"Bobby," he whimpers.

"Ssshhhh," I whisper against his belly. "Sshh." It’s all the comfort I can offer him. By now, we’ve spent enough time in bed together that I know the best sex with him is the kind that takes all night. Oh, the quickies are fun, especially if we’re somewhere there’s a chance we’ll get caught, but I’ve made him come like a fire hose by taking my time. And it’s the sort of orgasm that wastes him, leaves him limp and wrung out and as pliable as warm butter. That’s when we fall asleep together, no dream daring to disturb us.

Because both of us have our demons. And both of us are each other’s antidotes. If by some chance the dreams do follow us, we’re there, holding each other against the night terrors, safe, as long as we’re together. So instead of sucking on the gently bobbing dick so close to me, I kiss my way up the center line of his belly, careful to keep my weight off him. I detour at his nipples, loving the tang of the skin there, and loving the whimper it gets me even more. Then it’s on to the hollow of his throat, his adam’s apple, and finally his mouth, warm and wet and sweet with the chocolates I fed him.

The kiss starts hungry and moves up from there, his tongue wrapping around mine, probing and stroking and his breathing pulling the air out of my lungs. It’s intense and I almost lose it, needing him so damned bad I can’t even think, just feel. And taste. Only practice keeps me from blowing it and raping him where he lies. The kiss goes on and on, and finally, oxygen deprivation breaks it.

"Bobby…" the murmur of his lips along my own is almost enough to start it up again.

"Sshhh," I remind him, and draw my mouth over his so lightly we barely touch. "My party, Fawkes," I add, smiling against his lips.

"Par-taaay," he manages with a breathy chuckle.

"Damned right," I grin at him, nose tip to nose tip. "You got any clue how much I love you?"

"Not half as much as I love you," he grins back. "So what’s a guy gotta do to get fucked around here?"

"Try askin’ nice," I chuckle.

"Nice," he repeats, only it’s more a tease than a statement.

"Nice," I say again, appreciatively. Cuz the view is nice, alright. He grins. I kiss him again.

"We done with dessert?" he asks with a trace of his usual punk-ass sarcasm.

"We’re only just gettin’ started, my friend," I tell him and kiss him hard, our tongues tangling, jousting for position, dominance. Him. Then me, then him again. I never figured on wanting another guy’s tongue in my mouth, and sure as hell, I never counted on wanting to fuck one, much less be fucked by one. But Fawkes is the real deal. I don’t care what the hell the equipment looks like: cunt or cock, softness or wiry muscle. This isn’t about the body, this is about the one living in it. And Fawkes is the one. And I’m lucky enough that I figured it out and jumped his skinny ass. And he let me. Then he returned the favor. I wonder if it’s against the laws of nature to want someone, need them as much as I need him.

Every once in a while, I start catastrophizing. Convincing myself it’s wrong. Wrong in a way that has nothing to do with the stupid sexual stigmas this county’s got. Wrong in a way I can’t explain, except that the idea of not ever having found this with someone is less scary than wondering how I’ll survive it if I lose him now.

And then I snap out of it, usually with his hands or mouth on my dick. If it’s wrong, then it’s the rightest wrong that ever was.

I move on from his mouth and back down his throat, just brushing my lips over the long tendons of his neck so I can nuzzle the hollow between his collar bones. He strokes a hand over the top of my head, the caress gentle, and plays with the hair on the back of my skull, practically purring. "Want any more chocolate?" I ask him, smiling against his skin.

"That’s not the kind of sugar I’m craving right now," he chuckles, curling a strand of my hair around his fingers.

"No?" I laugh a little, looking up at him to find him looking back, heavy-lidded.

"No," he agrees, a little smile curving his mouth.

"So what are you lookin’ for?" I ask.

"Lesseee…" he drawls, as if he’s thinking about it. "Well, I’d kinda like another strawberry," he suggests as if he’s serious. Fortunately, I recognize all my partner’s phases of punk-dom. This is just another way of trying to push me past my limits and give him what he wants. The fact that what he wants is me, is… well, it gives me this amazing sense of power.

"Strawberries," I repeat, smirking. "Well, I have something that might do it for ya," I tell him. The trial-size shampoo I scored earlier has strawberry oil in it, which according to my friend at the market has more vitamins and antioxidants than your average glass of orange juice. I dunno if it counts when you’re washing your hair with it, but I figured it smells good, so what the hell. "You want strawberries? Then come with me."

I lift myself off him and roll off the bed onto my feet, reaching down a hand to him. "So, you up for it?"

He grimaces wryly and takes my hand, letting me haul him to his feet. "Hobbes, have I ever told you I hate it when you do the obsessive thing?" he inquires with just enough sarcasm to let me know he’s liking this. Fawkesian is a language all its own, but I think I’m getting the hang of it by now.

"Hey. I’m not obsessing on anything but you, my friend," I point out. "And I don’t hear you complainin’ about that too often," I add and give him a gentle shove towards the bathroom.

Ravishing Red

By Suz

Part 4/5

See part one for notes and disclaimers

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The candles on the counter and around the edge of the tub are the only light we need for what I have in mind, so I flick off the overheads Fawkes just turned on, ignoring the lift of his eyebrows, and turn on the water. "Time to get slippery," I grin at him.

"Now you’re talkin’," he smirks and steps into the tub, ducking his head and letting the hot water cascade over his scalp. All that hair of his is plastered down, making his eyes the most prominent thing in his face, warm and dark and sparked with laughter as water drips off his nose.

I step in after him and reach for the little shampoo bottle, pouring a dollop into my palm as he wiggles his eyebrows at me.

"You gonna give me the full treatment, there, Hobbesy?" he asks as he slowly drops to his knees in front of me, invitation in his expression as he ends up eye-level with my dick. It’s everything I can do to ignore the possibilities inherent in his position.

"You better believe it, smart ass," I agree with a grin, massaging the shampoo into his hair and running fingertips over his scalp, gently, then harder, until he's sighing out this sub-vocal groan I feel more than hear. His scalp is as big an erogenous zone as mine, hair or not. And I like his mop as much as he likes my lack of one. Fawkes is like a cat, a pure hedonist when the mood strikes, and now is one of those times. He butts his head into my hands and I work the lather slowly from nape to forehead, playing with his hair, sculpting it into spikes and tufts and little curls. I wish he wouldn't put the crud in his hair he does, cuz without the stiffening stuff, it's like silk. If I could wear Darien's hair as a robe, I would in a second. Cool, smooth to the touch and almost fluid against my skin. Which is why the first thing we do when we get home together is take a shower. Usually together. I want to play with his mane. The waves it has when it starts growing out are enough to make him look like a kid when the crud isn't straightening it out. I even got Claire to start ragging on him to ditch the gel, or whatever it is he uses. I swear, the number of tubes and jars that are cluttering up both our bathrooms is frickin' dangerous. That stuff falls on one of us, it's gonna hurt us.

When I've had my fill of play-time, I reach up to nudge the showerhead a little, and water flows over his head, the soap running down his body in creamy rivulets like my cum on his skin. Geezus, with this kid, everything makes me think of sex. When the water runs clear, I caress his cheek, and he opens the eyes he closed when the water hit his head the second time. It's our private shorthand for 'party time has begun'. They're the color of the melted chocolate sauce I licked off his body, which reminds me, I have to rinse the rest of that off him, or the sticky thing is gonna make sex uncomfortable. Because there's gonna be sex. Plenty of it. He takes the cue and gets up so gracefully it's a turn-on all on its own. He stands there while I squeeze a blob of body wash into one of those poofy things Fawkes turned me onto. Total girly thing, but hell, it works, so I went with it. You know, one of those hand-sized things made out of wedding veil stuff? I can't believe I'm admitting this. Fawkes has me using girlie crap. Me. Bobby frickin' Hobbes. I'm a cocksucker, and proud of it.Hell, if it wouldn't make both of us even bigger targets than we already are, at least where each other are concerned, I'd marry this kid, and fuck the law.

Nah, I'd fuck Fawkes. In fact, I will anyway, law and targets or not. Damn. I'm in love. And I love it. I run the body wash thingie over his skin, sudsing him up and letting the water sluice him clean. It doesn't matter if he's towering over me, I wash him from chin to toes, going over him carefully and just grooving on the long line of his body, muscles sleek and fluid under his skin and under my hands.

Fluid.

A single word.

And it's Darien, from the top of his spiky head to the soles of his feet. Speaking of which, I think I'm developing a foot fetish. I lift his left foot onto my thigh where I'm kneeling in front of him, and wash the instep and arch, then work my way up his ankle, calf and over the bend of his knee. I look up and meet his eyes as I work my way up his thigh and skirt his balls, grazing them with the edges of the wash-poof-thing. What the hell are they called, anyway?

He trembles. Fuck. He's quivering with want. For me. See, this is what's do damned cool: someone wants me. It's not exactly par for the course my life has taken, you know?

"Goddammit, Bobby," he moans. "Please!"

I'm feeling evil, so I finish washing him off and stand, putting his foot back on the floor of the tub. "Please what?" I want to know, like there was any question.

"Hobbes. Fuck you. Just… Fuck you!" he pouts and I can't help grinning as I move to get out of the tub. I'm not ready for it when he grabs me by the biceps and keeps me from taking that step over side. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" he demands irritably. Only I hear the heat under the words.

"To bed, babe. Isn't that where you wanna take this?" I ask innocently.

And again, I'm not ready for that look that creeps over his face. I thought I was feeling evil, but Fawkes is the living, breathing epitome of evil, his grin practically scorching. "Uh, no-o," he answers, totally surprising me.

"Huh?" I ask stupidly.

"Your turn, Hobbesy," he grins as he manuvers me back into the center of the tub. I just stare at him as he squeezes a glob of body wash onto the poof-thing I just used on him. I gulp.

He washes me the way I washed him and I'm so far beyond wanting him, it's all I can do to keep from coming all over him as he brushes the wash-poof jobbie down my belly, following the line of hair from my navel to my pubes. "Awwww, Fawkes, shit!" I complain. Except I'm not really complainin', know what I mean? He pushes me back a half step so the water can rinse me off.

"Hmm?" he murmurs as he leans towards me and licks me. Goddammit, god-freakin'-DAMMIT. "You got a problem, Hobbesy?"

He is such a prick when he gets like this. And I wouldn't want him any other way. "Nunngh, " I grunt. He drops the wash thingie to the bottom of the tub and goes for the hands-on approach. His hands are smooth and warm and alive and I can't frickin' stand this. When he kneels down and runs his tongue along my hard-on, I shiver. I know he's gonna make me pay. And I'm caught between the want and the knowledge that if I wait, it'll be better. More often, or better? Hell of a choice. But Fawkesy isn't leaving it up to me. He wants what he wants, and what he wants is me. I feel him lick along my shaft and I give up, just letting him do what he's gonna do.

Sweet little licks, flicks of the tongue, and I can feel my balls tightening. "Mmmmm," Darien murmurs against my belly then hums his way up my dick. The heat of his mouth around the head of my cock is even warmer than the water on the rest of my skin, and I can't keep the weakness out of my muscles as he starts sucking the life outta me. He's going down on me like I'm a lemonade on the hottest day of the year.

"Fawkes, dammit," I manage even though my brains are starting to liquefy. "I wanna make this last all night," I complain, doin' a fair imitation of the famous Fawkes whine.

He grins around his mouthful. "What, you admitting you're a one shot wonder?" he razzes me, and strokes me where I can feel it to my soul. "I know you better than that, partner," he chides me, and I frickin' can't help myself as he makes sure I'm beyond control. I start movin' my hips, a reflex as natural as breathing, in spite of the fact this is a guy I'm humping. But Darien makes it worth my while, talented tongue driving me out of any mind I have left.

He even makes it last longer than I figured I had any reason to expect, considering. Fingers tighten around my balls and he slides his throat up and down over me like it's nothing. I'm breathing so hard I might as well be running a marathon, and I'm whimpering, begging wordlessly for the release I've been fighting since I walked into his place with an armload of groceries he didn't ask for. And finally, he lets me come. Like a frickin' bomb. I go off on him so hard I think maybe I'll choke him, fucking him deep down his slender throat as if there was no bottom, no resistance. The thing is, he wouldn't resist. God, I'm so frickin' in love it's not even funny.

"Fa-a-a-a---wkes!" I shudder as I shoot my wad past his tonsils, praying he can keep from coming himself. Because that's the last thing I want. If he's gonna come, it's gonna be cuz I'm the one bringing him off. "Da-a-a-a-ahhhh-r-i-e-e-e-e-n!" I moan as I lace my fingers through his hair. Call me selfish. I want to be the reason he gets off. He swallows, swallows again, a third time, and I'm done, weak-kneed and blind with lust. I swear, it's the first time I've ever had a lover I was more interested in getting off than in having them get ME off. I want him screaming. Begging. Wanting. Me.

Fawkes doesn't disappoint. We're both gasping for air when the last tremors die away, and I hoist him to his feet, wrapping my arms around his slender waist as I lean my head against his chest. "Damn you, Fawkes," I sigh, knowing this is gonna be a long night.

"Oh, gimme a break, babe. Like you didn't love every second? Like I didn't?" he points out.

"True," I admit with another heavy sigh, eyes focused on his own hard-on, still thick and hard and weeping against his belly, flushed with blood and desire. "So. We gonna take this somewhere more comfortable?" I suggest, glancing up into his laughing eyes, wagging my eyebrows.

"You got a suggestion?" he grins, running a hand up my spine.

"Yeah, I got a suggestion, hotshot." I slap him on the ass and move away from him, stepping out of the tub successfully, this time. He follows me out and we dry each other off, me being careful to keep from getting too close to his dick. "I suggest we take this to bed," I add as I drape my towel over his rack and start to head out.

"Hmmm. Well, I guess we could," he starts with the mock hesitancy, leaning over to blow out the candles on the counter. I swear, only Fawkes could make that sexy. Like, 'gotta fuck him NOW' sexy. Problem is, it's gonna be a few before I can get hard enough to do anything of the kind. I pause in the doorway, watching him, the soft light dimming as he douses the candles one by one. When he’s finished, I turn and head for the bed, Fawkes on my heels, his own towel still in hand. Good thinking, kid, I grin to myself. We’re gonna be needing the cleanup, or I miss my guess completely.

Man, he's so hard it's gotta be hurting. But he never complains. He trusts me to take care of him. Trusts me to do whatever it takes. I lead the way back to bed, knowing exactly what sort of reward he's been jonesing for. I wait for him to lie down, his long slender body rippling with muscle as he lays himself out, tucking pillows behind his head. Gorgeous. Fucking drop-dead gorgeous. I'll never know what the hell he sees in me. I stand there eating him alive with my eyes, just grinning at him like an idiot.

"What, you just gonna stand there, lover-boy?" he bugs me, his best punk-ass smirk curling his lip as he flexes his hips at me slightly. "I’m gonna get violent if you don’t start with some action here, pretty damned quick, Bobby."

I grin as I slide open his nightstand drawer and pull out the tropical flavored coconut oil-based lube we've decided we like the best, uncapping it and climbing onto the bed, straddling his hips. "Violent, huh?" I taunt him with a smirk of my own, squeezing out a dollop of lube and warming it in my hand as I gaze down at him.

"Just cuz Claire cured the QSM doesn’t mean I can’t go stage five on your ass," he tells me.

I snort. "Countin’ on it there, partner," I answer, and just to be evil, I lean forward just far enough so my half-hard dick brushes his, and he jerks, the thrust a total reflex. "Gotcha," I laugh as I ease back. I don’t want him coming just yet. Not until I’ve got him exactly where I want him.

First time I let him fuck me, I was so freaked, I hadda cuff him to the bed, just so's I knew I'd be the one calling the shots. It was about 6 weeks after we first fell into bed together, and I took him to Lake Arrowhead in honor of the big event for a ski weekend. 'Cept Fawkes wasn't a skier. We managed to find other stuff to keep us busy. And at the end of it, I knew it hadda happen. On my terms maybe, but it hadda happen from both sides, if this partnership was gonna be everything it had the chance of being.

I slip my right hand low under his heavy balls and clamp him off, a rap to the perineum making him flinch, but I can feel his dick relax a tiny bit, the edge coming off him.

"Ouch! What was that for?" he complains petulantly then gasps as I slick his dick with the coconut oil as slow as I can. "Oh, man," he whispers, gulping.

"That’d be me," I agree smugly, circling the shaft, feeling the softness of the skin even through the coating of lube. Velvet over steel. He’s tightening back up again, and I keep my right hand clamped tight around him while I stroke him languidly with the left. I play with his foreskin, working it down along the head of his cock, slick with precum and lube, the look and feel of it a total turn on for me since I’m cut, and by the sound of it, as big a thrill for junior, here.

"Nnnnnngghhhhh," he groans, stroking my forearms with his fingertips as if he’s trying to urge me along. Only I don’t want to hurry, here. And not just cuz I’m still a relative newcomer to catching. I just like the damn view way too much to rush it. "God, Bobby, please!" he whines.

"Hmm? You want something?" I ask innocently.

"Yeah, you asshole, I want something!" he moans. "You! Your hot, tight asshole," he specifies, glaring up at me.

"Why didn’t you say, kid? You coulda just said, you know," I tease him, and release his balls slowly, reaching for the lube again next to my knee. "Full metal jacket, kid?" I ask, our shorthand for a condom. He growls at me.

"Fuck the rubber. No. Fuck you. Me. In you. Now." He asserts himself. I grin, my own cock starting to harden up real nice. I shift a little, easing up along his hips so I’m right over the target and he obediently raises a hand and I squeeze a quarter-sized glob onto his fingers. He works it over his knuckles while I watch. When he's got a good coating on his them, I lean over him, hands on the bed on either side of his chest, ass wide open to him, and feel him slip his fingers over my balls, past the perineum, and around my asshole. He's careful, slow, even though I know his dick has gotta be a thing of pain right now. And if I hadn't just come like some kinda apocalypse, I'd'a orgasmed just from the feel of his fingers in me. I fuck Fawkes often enough that he stays stretched, open, ready for a spur of the moment ass-fucking. But I'm still learning, and I can't let it happen my way as often, so I need the prep. But there are times I think just that alone may be enough to kill me with pleasure. I dunno why I freak out thinking about it cuz the reality is, nothing I've ever felt is better. His fingers, his dick, sliding into me, past my prostate, man. I need him like I need food, water, air. And someday, some-fucking-day, Darien is gonna know just how much that means to me.

Finally, he decides I'm ready, and he grabs his dick around the base, and I shift a little to line us up. I feel him, hot and hard and mine. He eases into me, and the next move is mine. I straighten, hands on my thighs, and lower myself onto him. He rises under me, the first pass like a surgeon wielding a scalpel, precise and controlled. I swear, I don't know how the hell he does it. I can never maintain that kinda control when I'm on the other side of the equation.

But Fawkes can. I sink onto him to the balls, feeling him stroke past my prostate with the sleek head of his cock, and I twitch, shiver, buck, and start to move on him, feeling his cock slide into me, out of me, a sword of Damocles. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. And I'd rather be damned for loving him than for hurting Fawkes by pretending I don't feel something. Something miraculous.

Miracle. I don't use the word lightly. What I seen, what I been through in my life, I haven't had much reason to believe in miracles. But Fawkes is one. Gen-u-ine, certifiable, 100% miracle. Spiky hair and all.

He reaches for me and I weave my fingers through his, using the leverage to rock me back and forth as I rise and fall on him, shifting forward so's his dick hits me in the best spots, in and out. The pleasure is unbelievable. What gets me is that he hasn't lost control. I dunno how the frickin' hell he manages that, but thank god he can. I decide then and there that I'm gonna make it my job to bring him to the most mind-bending orgasm he's ever had. Call me an egomaniac.

The problem is, I'm getting hard myself, here, and it's playing hell with my concentration. I try to control the ride, pacing things so we set up this easy rhythm, as much for my benefit as his. He's moaning and starting to buck under me, and I know we're getting close. Both of us. Fawkes knows it too, the rat bastard. He lets go of my left hand and wraps his fist around me, pulling it along my dick in sweet strokes that have me panting in about 3 seconds.

"Come on, Hobbesy," he coaxes, voice raspy. "Come for me, man. Give me what you got, babe."

"You little shit, Fawkes," I grunt as I move harder, his hand around me tightening as I fuck him. As he fucks me.

"You know it, Hobbesy," He grins as his other hand releases mine, sliding along my hip and thigh, up and down in time with his other hand's action on my dick.

We're really going at it, now, and release hovers in front of us like a desert mirage, an oasis we're heartbeats from reaching.

"Aw, Christ, Fawkesy," I whimper as my balls tighten for the second time in an hour.

"That's it, babe," he encourages, his own breathing practically obliterating the words. His hips are moving, ass flexing between my thighs, and our rhythm starts falling apart, tumbling into chaos. "Give it up. Come for me, sweet pea," he urges, abdominals tensing and relaxing in time with his thrusts into me, his hand stroking me, taking me closer with every touch.

I hate it when he calls me that. Except at times like this, when both of us are too far gone to censor what comes outta our mouths. "Shit, shit, shit! Fuck me, Fawkes," I groan. As if it's a command, he lets go of my dick and grabs my hips in both hands then rolls us over and all of a sudden I'm under him. My back is to the mattress, my knees up against my chest like I've taken him so often, and he drives in hard, my dick drooling along his belly in eager complicity.

For the first time, Darien is losing control with me, and I guess I'm ready for it, because it's a rush instead of scaring the hell out of me. So this is what it's like, I think, the last rational thing that floats through my brain before he stiffens, shuddering, burying his face against my chest moaning my name in one long wavering breath. "BobbyOhgod-Ohgod-Ohgod…" he howls softly into my chest. And he explodes. He's white-hot inside me, cum spurting into me in waves. It's like a narcotic, a drug in my blood. His balls slap against my ass erratically, my lover totally losing it, bucking wildly, thrusting, fucking me for all he's worth.

The sheer force of the assault might've freaked me, even 20 minutes ago, but now, it brings me along for the ride, and I come all over his belly and mine, matching him spurt for spurt, my own yowl a low growl that reverberates like a sonar ping through the apartment. "Da-a-a-a-a-a-r-i-i-i-i-i-e-e-n-n-n-n-nn!" I rumble, voice hoarse and bout 3 octaves lower than normal. "Holy fucking shit," I add for good measure, whimpering, toes curling, muscles quivering and sagging into a tangle of boiled spaghetti-like uselessness. Geezus. I’m not sure I’ve ever come that hard in my life. I’m wasted, gone, and so’s Fawkes.

Ravishing Red

By Suz

Part 5/5

See part one for notes and disclaimers

One additional AN: the end was not what I planned on, but Hobbes insisted. He took a sharp left and never looked back. Sigh. He just won’t listen to me!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s all he can do to raise his head and look at me, the most amazingly, sappily relaxed look in his dark eyes. "Was it good for you?" he asks, always and forever the punk. I smack him softly on the ass, turning it into a caress, trailing both hands over his back and shoulders and back to his ass where I just circle them over the nice tight muscles there.

"Fawkes." I glare at him without rancor, and he grins back sleepily. "Fawkes, did you have to take lessons on how to be a brat?" I ask, scolding him.

"Just one of my God-given talents," he answers smugly, leaning down to kiss me lightly. It doesn’t stay light for long, tongues getting involved pretty damned quick and all. And goddamn if he isn’t starting to stir inside me again.

"Like zero refractory time?" I tease him in a momentary lull.

"Yup, like that," he agrees, going back to kissing me softly, nibbling my lips, nose, eyelids. I can feel the beginnings of his feeble excuse for a beard rough against my cheek, and sigh happily.

"Don’t you ever get enough?" I ask, shifting a little. We’re covered in what must be gallons of semen, his and mine, and more is leaking out of me onto his sheets. "We’re making a wet spot," I point out, my thigh muscles starting to cramp up.

He cracks up, snickering and cackling against my shoulder in some weird fit of off-the-wall humor. "Hobbesy," he manages eventually, "You know I love you, right?"

I scowl, wondering what I did now.

"So don’t take this the wrong way… But we’ve got more than a wet spot… We’ve got a fucking river, here," he says, finally sliding out of me and rolling onto his side next to me, still chuckling as he waves a hand over our bellies like Vanna White presenting a vowel. "I submit, for your approval, about 3 quarts of the best lube on the planet," he intones in his best Rod Serling imitation. As if to prove the point, he slides his right hand over my belly, gathering up a good supply and starts stroking his already half-hard dick with slow, steady pulls. Fascinated, I watch his cock harden up in a matter of 30 seconds or so, amazed that he can recover that quick after the orgasm we just shared.

"And it looks like someone wants to add a little more to the mix," I observe with a hint of sarcasm. Well, OK, maybe more’n a hint…

"Hey, if you got it, flaunt it," he defends himself, reaching for my hand and placing it on his dick. I take over from him, taking my time, knowing he’s already shot off the major load, so this will be a drop in the ocean by comparison. But I’ve had 2 climaxes to his one, and I’m never one to miss a chance to play with his dick.

This one is slow and soft and almost peaceful, as if he’s really only languishing in the afterglow of the last orgasm. He rests his hand over mine, the one on his cock, lightly, as if he just wants to feel me work him, and gazes at me soulfully. The puppy dog eyes thing he does can melt stone. But I know it usually means I’m being conned. For once I don’t care though, perfectly happy to give him what he wants.

I play with his foreskin again, confining my attentions to just the head of his dick. I’m not sure how he can stand it, since his sensitivity level is sky high, but he’s eating it up with a spoon. Which is when it occurs to me that he didn’t Quicksilver. At all. I think… Well, OK, maybe a dribble or two I didn’t see, cuz I was, uh, kinda busy at the time trying to keep from screaming out the hallelujah chorus at the top of my lungs. But if there was any, it wasn’t much. "Fawkes!" I exclaim, pausing in my hand job.

"Mmm?" he grunts, hips twitching so his dick is sliding through my grasp again.

Hedonist. I grin and start jacking him again, still keeping it gentle. "You didn’t go all saran warp on us," I observe, interested.

He blinks at me, a slow grin creeping over his face. "Maybe the days of premature invisibility are finally over," he says, clearly thrilled at the idea.

"Yeah, but why now?" I ask, curious, changing my tempo a little just for variation’s sake.

"Who cares?" he sighs, a hint of petulant delinquent in the tone. "Hobbesy, keep your mind on what you’re doing, or I’m gonna start thinkin’ you’ve been spending too much time with the Keeper. She’s beginning to rub off on you. And the over-analyzing thing looks better on her than it does on you, pal."

I blush a little at the reminder that I had – have – feelings that go a little beyond friendship for the leggy blonde doctor assigned to keep Fawkes healthy. "But Fawkes, it might be important," I try to enlist him in my quest for knowledge. Because something tells me it is important, if I could only figure out why.

"Hobbes," he warns me, eyes narrowing.

Obediently I drop it for the moment and concentrate on getting him off. I put it under the old Hobbes magnifying glass in the back of my mind, though, as I play with him, paying attention to whether any silver stuff shows up this time. I stroke and tease and tickle and then when I can hear his breathing start to roughen again, I get serious on him.

He purrs as I go tighter and harder and faster, the sound low in his throat and continuous, a happy thrum instead of the insanely hot howls of before. A bread and butter orgasm. Basic, but food for the soul. When he comes, it’s a light load, no surprise, but long in delivery and he’s sure enjoying it. Every last drop of it. And no Quicksilver to be seen anywhere. Cum creams his belly with a fresh glaze, and I know we’re gonna have to rinse off, what with all the mess. Change the sheets, too. Good thing I bought a few extra sets for the kid when I started sleeping with him. He thought I was just being obsessive-compulsive again, until I made him sleep on the wet spot. Two guys together can produce a hellova lot more mess than a man and woman can, most of the time. When he woke up with the sheets sticking to his ass, he admitted I was right for a change. Nice to win an argument with the brains of this operation once in a while.

"God, Bobby," he sighs as the last tremors die back to a glow in his eyes. "Want this to never stop," he tells me, speech slurred with sated lust. Nice to be wanted, I think and grin as I kiss him.

"Not gonna end in my lifetime, gland boy," I inform him, brushing just the edge of his foreskin with my thumb so lightly, I’m not sure he’ll feel it.

Wrong. He jerks a little with a moan of pleasure. "Promise?" he asks, eyes open and focused on me like laser sights.

"Promise," I repeat, suddenly dry mouthed. I force a smile past the sudden panic in my chest. "Hey, wünderkind, you didn’t shoom on me this time, either," I change the subject back to my earlier topic of choice, letting the novelty of that deflect me from the realization that just hit me.

He puts his hands behind his head, a self-satisfied smirk curving his mouth. "No fear, Hobbesy," he points out.

"Huh?" I grunt, not expecting that response.

"No fear. Which means no adrenaline. Which means no Quicksilver," he goes through the whole QS chain reaction for me like I’m one of the kids in slow class or something.

I hold onto my temper, waiting to see if he’s being a punk again or if there’s a point.

He must see it in my face, though, because he shakes his head, the look in his eyes gentle. Sweet as the taste of his skin all slick with cum and sweat. Hell, sweeter. "Bobby…" he hesitates, for once apparently not sure how to say whatever it is. "You let me in. Finally. You trusted me, man. With all of it. Even control." He pauses again. "I didn’t have to be afraid of hurting you, man. You wanted me more than you were scared of it, and you. Let. Me. In." Each word is separate, distinct, as if he wants to make sure I’m understanding him. The thing is, I do. I maybe always have. I wonder if I was born understanding him. I know for damned sure I was born for this, what we have here, now. He’s right. I wanted him more than I was scared of that want. Wanted him enough to let him do what he’s wanted me to since we started fucking:

Let him love me.

Believe he loves me. Know it. In every goddamned cell of my body.

Darien Fawkes loves me. I swear to god, my eyes swim and I blink away moisture. Bobby frickin’ Hobbes is not gonna burst into tears like some idiot soap opera queen, and I settle for taking his face in my hands and kissing the hell out of him.

When I have to come up for air, I lie there on his chest, drying semen gluing us together in a honey-sticky bond, just looking at him. "Feel like a road trip?" I ask, hating that my nervousness is showing in my voice.

Because I’m about to do something I swore I’d never do: throw caution and 20+ years’ experience in the intelligence game to the wind. Because I don’t want this to end, either.

"What, now?" he asks, incredulously.

Not what he was expecting me to say, I guess, and I swallow, mouth as dry as dust. The thing is, if he says yes, I’d call the airlines and book the flight in a second. "Yeah. Now. Or whenever. You ever wanted to go to Toronto?" I ask.

"Toronto?" he queries, bemused, confused, not following me.

"Toronto," I repeat, waiting for him to buy a clue.

"Toronto?" he asks incredulously. "What the hell is in Toronto that you wanna go haring off on some weird expedition in the middle of the frickin’ night?" he asks. Clueless. That’s my boy. If I weren’t so damned nervous, I’d be laughing. It is so not like him to not pick up on stuff.

"Same sex marriage," I say, and watch his eyes widen. His mouth drops open and he gapes at me as if he’s never seen me before. Crap.

Say something, Fawkesy, I pray. "Partnership made domestic. You know, rings and white dresses. That kinda crap." And it’s his turn to tear up.

"You think I’m gonna wear a dress, you got another thing coming," he sniffles.

I wipe the liquid from the corners of his eyes tenderly and try to keep my hands from shaking, I’m so scared. "Was that a yes?" I ask hoarsely.

"Fuck."

"We done that already. Now let’s make it legal, huh?" I say, forcing some bravado into my voice.

"In Canada," he snarks, still sniffing, but the gleam in his eyes isn’t all tears anymore.

"Hey. It’s a start," I remind him. "We can try Massachusetts next."

"What about all that ‘company pier’ stuff?" he asks unevenly. "What about coming out making us even bigger targets than we already are?" He gulps a little. "What about the Fat Man?"

"Fuck the Fat Man." I stroke my thumbs along the creases in his forehead and we both cringe then snicker at the likelihood of that happening. "Uh, let’s not," I correct myself.

"Damn right," he agrees, making a face. "No, seriously. Hobbes. It’s not like it matters to me if every homophobe in the continental US comes after us with pitchforks, but…" He’s still not convinced, and my guts are starting to knot up. "You’ve got a career to think about. Don’t take this wrong, Bobby, but you’ve already got credibility problems. And you really think the Official is gonna let us keep working together when he gets the frickin’ wedding invitation?"

I shrug. "You know what? I’d like to see him try and stop us. Fawkes. Fawkes, my friend, we don’t need him."

He just stares at me with this incredulous look on his face. "In what universe, Hobbes?" he wants to know. "The Agency is the last stop on the paranoid agent train, man. You mess up there, you are out of the spook biz."

"So maybe it’s time," I say, letting that possibility settle into my belly. It feels a lot less scary than having him turn me down, that’s for sure. "We’d make way better money as consultants, and with your talents and my background, it wouldn’t take long to find a clientele." I’m not expecting it when he wraps his arms around me and rolls us over so he’s got me pinned under him again. At least I’m not in the wet spot.

His face is lined with worry and he lays the back of one hand over my forehead. "You comin’ down with something?" he asks and I grimace. "Because the Bobby Hobbes I know would slit his own throat before he’d give up the spy business," he adds.

I think about that for a second, and then run my hands down his spine, flashing on the feeling of him in me, on me, less than half an hour ago. "I found something I like better," I tell him honestly enough. "Something – someone… I wanna spend my nights with, my days with, hell, my life with. Beats a GS-7 dead end job all to hell, I’d say."

"You’re serious, aren’t you? Macho super agent ex-Marine, ex-straight guy is gonna throw it all aside. For me." If anything he’s more incredulous than he was 2 minutes ago.

I nod. "Serious as a heart attack," I haul out the old chestnut. "So what about it, Darien? Wanna get hitched?" This is the last time I’m asking, cuz I don’t think I could take it if he says no. Or even waffles any longer.

He peers down at me, using my own acid test on me, staring first into one eye, then the other, as if he’s trying to bore his way into my skull. Spot any hesitance, any deception, or uncertainty. Well, he can look all he wants, but he won’t find it. I stare back at him, daring him, hoping that he’ll figure out I’m as easy to read as every other guy out there.

And slowly, he relaxes over me, the worry lines on his forehead ease up and a slow smile creeps over his mouth. Just a little one, a Mona Lisa curve, as secretive and enigmatic as the painting. "Do I get my diamond?" he asks, the punk in him never far away.

"You got a pearl already, man," I tease him back, my heart going into overdrive. He’s saying yes. Darien Fawkes is sayin’ YES.

To me. Bobby Hobbes.

If he wasn’t lying on top of me like a gigantic cat, I think I’d be levitating off the bed right now.

"Too small," he grins, and I know my life is about to change in ways I’d never have figured, 3 years ago. Hell, 6 months ago.

And the punk reaches down between our bodies and grips my semi-soft dick gently. "No, I’m thinking, one about this size’d do nicely," he grins down at me, the evil bastard. "Nice sparkly baguette," he smirks. "Nice long one."

I groan at the sudden abundance of double entendres and smack his ass a little harder. "Sparkle this, junior," I retort and put him in a lip lock again.

We’re sticking together like wet postage stamps here, but the symbology kinda appeals to me even if the mess doesn’t. I kiss him long and hard and he starts stroking my cock with gentle fingers as his tongue duets with mine. He murmurs something I don’t quite hear and then I get it.

My ‘yes’.

"Toronto, here we come."

End
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Ravishing Red