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Snow Day	By : suz Category: G through L > Invisible Man Views: 1631 -:- 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-SnowDay.Disclaimer
- 1
Title: Snow Day

Author/pseudonym: Suz

Fandom: Invisible Man

Paring: Bobby/Darien

Rating: NC 17 for adult concepts, language

Status: new/complete

E-mail address: suzinsf@earthlink.net

Series/Sequel: sequel to Wet Dream, prequel to Rest Stop

Other websites: None

Disclaimers: Don't own 'em, making no money. Trust me. I'm not. Wanna see my bank statements?

Notes: My take on the old cliché; stranded, wet, two boys, one bed… part 2

The

Invisible Man

"Snow Day"

It’s been a long time since I’ve slept in the same bed with someone else for a whole night. I’d forgotten how much I miss it, cuddling up with another warm body. Oh, it’s not like I don’t get any action, it’s just that it’s pretty much been a series of one-night stands since Viv left me. Up till now, it hasn’t been ‘right’, spending the night. The ladies I’ve been with have been willing enough, it’s just that I… well, I kinda didn’t want them getting the idea it was gonna be more than a one-shot deal. I’m pretty up front about stuff like that, cuz I’ve found it saves everyone a lot of headaches down the line when we’re all on the same page. And for me, that page has been pretty blank for the most part since the divorce. It took a lot outta me, losing Viv because I was too nuts for her to stand bein’ with me.

At least I don’t have that problem with my current bed partner. Fawkes knows just how nuts I am, and he rolls with it. Pretty cool. Of course, he knows a few things about ‘nuts’ too, even though Claire cleared up that little quicksilver madness problem that went with the gland. But it’s the ‘bed buddy’ thing I’m lying here in the dark thinking about. What happened between us a few hours ago has got this little shivery feeling going in the pit of my stomach. That first day of school kind of feeling. I’m not used to that with Fawkes. We’ve worked together for over two years now, and we’re mostly like two halves of a whole. I’ve never worked with anyone like him. Anyone who really gets me. Who doesn’t mind that I come at most stuff from weird directions. I stopped feeling edgy around him on the job so fast, it’s gotta be some sorta speed record for me. I usually take a while to warm up to people. But this kid and I just clicked.

So it’s weird to suddenly after all this time be feelin’ nervous. I lie there, staring up at the ceiling watching the wind whip shadows across it. It’s cold as hell outside the shelter of the blankets and the warmth of Darien’s body draped over me. Cold enough that our breath smokes in the air. Damned heater is next to useless. But at least the rain seems to have stopped. It’s gotten really quiet except for the wind in the trees and the soft sound of Fawkes breathing.

He’s got his head on my chest, one arm thrown around me, and one leg tangled with mine, as if he’s holding onto me for dear life. Maybe he is, actually. I found out a lotta stuff tonight I didn’t really know. Well, hadn’t really let myself think about, anyway. Stuff that gives me a different handle on Fawkes. It never occurred to me that he might be bi, or that he had the feelings for me he says he does, or that the damned quicksilver makes having an unclassified love life impossible for him. He hasn’t exactly been talkative about his sex life since I’ve known him, but I know he did the horizontal mambo with one or two of the babes that have crossed his path. I also know it hasn’t happened very often. I’ve been going around and around with it since he first woke me up, masturbating against me in his sleep. And even that wouldn’t really have thrown me like this, if it’d just been some generic wet dream. But it wasn’t. He was dreaming about me. I guess that’s what makes all this real. Everything he told me he felt is real. I just don’t know if I feel the same way.

It’s not that I regret what happened between us. Hell, I’d have to be some sort of saint not to want to get off like that more often. But it’s making me wonder just what sort of price tag is gonna be attached to this. Adding sex to a perfect partnership on the one hand seems like the way to go. We already spend almost every waking moment with each other. Adding the sleeping ones doesn’t seem like such a big leap at first blush. But I know better than that. In this business, getting too emotionally attached to someone is dangerous. Not only for them, but for me. I guess what I gotta figure out is, what changes if we go through with this. If we make a regular habit of spending nights together. I look down at the top of Fawkes’ head, the dark hair curling and waving around his face. He’s reminding me of something, with that relaxed innocence in his face, and it takes a minute before I connect the dots. A kid sleeping. A little one. In this light, I can’t see any of the tiny lines around his eyes, or on his forehead. He looks like he’s maybe five. Or he would if it weren’t for the muscles in his arm where it lies across me. This surge of protectiveness sweeps up from outta nowhere, and I reach over to stroke his hair gently.

He shifts a little under my hand as if he likes the contact, so I go on petting him like a cat. It’s a tactile thing, something I don’t let myself get into very often. Fawkes, on the other hand, is a toucher. At first it bugged me a little, his constant need to touch the people around him. All my training in covert ops has been about not letting people inside a certain boundary. I’m not sure exactly when it was it stopped being a problem and turned into something I actually liked. He has an instinct about when I need… something. Some kind of human contact. And he’s always there. It’s not the only time he touches me, though. He does it when he needs something, too. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just runs a hand down my arm, or slings an arm over my shoulder, or something.

What I don’t get is why I never saw this coming. I suppose I could lie here second-guessing everything we’ve said or done together in the last 18 months, looking for the moment it changed for him. But I suspect it’s one of those things that happened kinda slow.

Not like lightening strikes or earthquakes, just friendship that’s gotten a little deeper than either of us expected. By this point in my whacked-out life, I’ve spent enough time in therapy to know better than to waste my time trying to figure out when or why he started feeling things for me that went deeper. If I asked, he probably wouldn’t be able to say, exactly.

I guess all that really matters is that it’s changed, now. The next big question for me is, what do I do about it? Ignoring it, going back to the way it was yesterday when I didn’t have a clue would be one option, I guess. I’m just not convinced it’s the best one for either of us. What we have here is two lonely guys who spend a whole lotta time in each other’s company, and who’ve just found out that maybe the things partners do for each other include giving each other a hand, sexually. Which still feels really weird to be telling myself. But I gotta admit, Fawkes wasn’t lying when he claimed to have talented fingers. Or a talented tongue, either. I’ve had my share of oral sex, but last night, he gave me what has to be hands down the best blowjob of my life. If I look at it like that, two guys just helping each other out, then it’s a little easier to deal with. The company pier thing isn’t an issue if this is just one more thing Fawkes and I do for each other as partners.

I lie there thinking as the darkness slowly lightens to a deep blue, then to a lighter one, as dawn breaks. It must still be cloudy out, because there’s no hint of sunshine through the closed curtains.

By the time my slug of a partner is starting to stir, I’ve arrived at the decision that I can do this. The fuck buddy thing. As long as we keep it under the hupa, since it’s not likely the Fat Man is gonna like hearing that we’ve got a partnership that goes a little further than the job. Bastard’d probably split us up just to make us miserable. I stroke Fawkes’ hair again without really being aware of it, the idea of not being with him, not working with him, seeing him every day spiking an anxiety attack in the pit of my stomach.

"Mmmmmm….." Darien mumbles, snuggling closer against me and brushing a kiss over my chest. "Nice," he encourages me as I run my fingers along the waves of hair that curl over his nape. "G’morning," he adds, turning his head to smile up at me.

"Morning yourself, partner," I return the greeting, ruffling his hair a little. "How you feeling?" I ask, hoping I can get an idea what he’s thinking as far as what happened last night goes.

He stretches, rolling onto his back, spine arching like a cat’s, hands up above his head, toes pointed south, and my mouth starts to water at the sight of him all spread out for my viewing pleasure, even if most of him is still under the blankets. He’s one hell of a good-looking kid. The grin on his face says it all. "Fine," he says, turning his head to look at me, the smile fading a little as a worried crease settles on his forehead. "How ‘bout you?" he asks. Meaning, am I regretting what happened? Am I freaking out?

"Stop worrying, will ya?" I smirk. "It takes a little more than a lovelorn partner to freak out Bobby Hobbes."

He’s not quite sure what to make of that, and I shake my head. "I’m fine, Fawkes. How could I not be when you sucked my brains out my dick last night?"

His smile creeps back up to full wattage. "So, uhm, you liked it, huh?" he concludes hopefully.

I snort. "Yeah, it’s safe to say I liked it," I assure him.

"Enough to do it again?" he asks, a funny mix of shy and cocky in his expression.

"Yes, enough to do it again," I confirm, reaching up to fluff up his spiky hair fondly. I can’t keep my damned hands out of it, now that I know how soft it is. It’s gonna be a compulsion, I can tell. The fact that he seems to really like having his hair played with makes it even more tempting.

"Cool," he says, the happy excitement in his voice making me grin. He reaches over and kisses me light and fast on the mouth and rolls out of bed, heading for the bathroom, leaving me lying there looking after him, fingers raised to my mouth in shock as I watch him walk away, totally unselfconscious.

He kissed me. On the mouth. I don’t know why that’s freaking me out when having him deep throat me didn’t, but it is. It’s not like it was anything more than a peck. But my hands are sweating, my pulse just went through the roof, and my stomach is in knots. Because he kissed me. I’ve just been kissed by another man.

I still can’t get my brain around that by the time he comes back out, and he must see something in my face, because the little tune he’s humming fades away when he sees me sitting up in bed staring at him. "What?" he asks uncertainly. "What’s wrong?"

I don’t know what to say to him. Hell, I don’t even know what’s wrong. "Nothing," I say, trying to sound like it’s true. I flip back the blankets and get up myself, the cold air of the room a shock on my skin. Snatching the crumpled and wrinkled towels from between the sheets where they ended up last night, I toss one at him, and take the other. "Think I’ll grab a shower," I tell him as I head for the bathroom.

He reaches out to touch me lightly on the arm as I pass him, worried. "Bobby?" he asks.

I keep moving, pretending not to have heard him, shutting the bathroom door after myself and turning on the shower. I hope the hot water will thaw the icy sense of unreality I’m feeling.

When I come back out, he’s pulled on his still-damp clothes. He’s standing at the open door staring out at the snow that’s covering the ground. Guess that explains why I couldn’t hear the rain anymore. I shiver in the draft. "You mind shutting the door there, Fawkesy?" He spins around, still barefoot, this huge grin on his face, and I grin back. I can’t help it.

"It’s snowing!" he announces as he shuts the door. "God, is that cool or what?"

I shiver again. "Yeah, ‘cool’ about sums it up," I agree sarcastically. "C’mon, Fawkes, you grew up in Cold Springs. It snowed there, didn’t it?" The foothills town he went to live in after his mother’s death musta had snow.

"Maybe twice," he says, still smiling. "I haven’t seen it falling since I was twelve."

I shake my head a little at his enthusiasm, and grab my boxers, stepping into them. Ick. I hate wet clothes, and the stupid heater didn’t do much to dry things out during the night. I struggle into my damp clothes, wondering if the garage mechanics can give us an ETA on the repairs to Golda.

Fawkes has pulled back the curtain so he can stare out at the gray sky and the thick haze of snowflakes that are drifting steadily out of the low clouds.

"Hey, partner, wanna go see what we can scare up for breakfast? Maybe buy a couple of sweatshirts at the grocery store or something?" I suggest as I wrench wet laces through stiff wet boots.

"I could eat," he agrees, the weirdness of the kiss he gave me forgotten by both of us for the moment, eclipsed by the little kid in him as he scrambles into his wet shoes and pulls on his equally wet gas station attendant’s jacket. "Just waitin' on you," he says, glancing at me expectantly, kinda like some goofy golden retriever or something.

See, this is what I like so much about him, this cock-eyed way he comes at stuff. I mean, I have my idiosyncrasies, sure, but they’re nowhere near as endearing as his. He’s never lost that kid part of himself, somehow. That ability to look at falling snow and think about snowmen and snow angels instead of what a pain in the ass it’ll be to have to shovel the driveway, or what a mess it’ll be when it melts and makes mud outta everything. He makes me smile, this kid. "C’mon then," I say as I pull on my own wet jacket and open the door.

We step outside, the squeak of compressing snow under our feet as we troop across the motel parking lot. I detour to the office to see if I can talk them into trying to fix the heater, and Fawkes follows me, head tipped back, catching snowflakes in his mouth, blinking them out of his eyes. I can’t help laughing at him, snow in his eyelashes and hair, looking like someone dusted him with powdered sugar. "Wonder what snow’d do on quicksilver," I speculate as I hold the office door open for him and he steps in.

"Let’s try it and see," he suggests, grinning at me as I look around for the clerk. Finally, I ring the bell on the desk and a matronly looking gal waddles out from the back room.

"May I help you?" she asks.

"Yeah, we’re in cabin 17, and we’re having a little trouble with the heater," I tell her. "You think you could have someone take a look?" I request. "Oh, and maybe leave some extra blankets and towels?"

She scowls. "I’ll have Norm check it out," she says. "How long will you gentlemen be stayin’?"

"Till our van gets fixed. We ended up in a ditch yesterday afternoon. Bent an axle."

She nods sagely. "Stranded, huh? Well, you might want to go by the Mercantile and get yourselves some dry clothes. According to the weather report, It’s gonna be snowing for the rest of the day, at least."

"Thanks. Where is it in relationship to the grocery store?"

"Opposite side of the main highway and down about a hundred yards. Right next to the Orchid Lounge," she tells me. "Can’t miss it."

I snort as I thank her, hustling my partner back outside. Usually when a local tells you you can’t miss something, it’s pretty much a guarantee that you’re gonna miss it. "C’mon, Fawkes, let’s go see if we can find us some mountain duds," I catch him by an elbow and drag him after me.

He follows obediently enough till we step out to the main road, then he gets distracted by three kids having a snowball fight, and naturally, he has to join in. "Hey, Hobbesy, duck and cover!" he shouts as he bends and scoops up a double handful of snow, compacting it into a lumpy snowball. Fresh powder doesn’t stick very well, so it’s only cuz the warmth of his hands melts it enough that he can get it to hold together.

"Fawkes, dammit, I’m freezing, not to mention hungry," I complain, and get his snowball smack in the middle of my chest for my efforts. "You punk," I laugh, grabbing up my own handful of snow and stuffing it down the back of his neck as he turns to run.

He laughs as he scrambles down the sidewalk, snatching up another handful of snow from the pile alongside the road where the snow plow has already been through. I chase him down the sidewalk towards the lighted neon sign advertising the Orchid Lounge, which turns out to be a down-at-the-heels diner. Still, they’re doin’ a booming business, cuz the place is pretty packed, and I hesitate, torn between getting fed and getting dry clothes. Another snowball to the back of the head makes my decision for me and I turn around and tackle Fawkes, knocking him into the snow bank, grabbing handfuls of snow and stuffing them in his mouth and down his shirt, laughing as he sputters indignantly. "Say ‘Uncle’," I order, feeling him wiggle between my thighs as he struggles to topple me off him. I hold him easily, but the feeling of him between my legs is an unexpected turn on, and I see him realize it as his struggles slow and become more deliberate, his groin bumping mine with deliberate thrusts. "Fawkes," I say, voice rough. "Not here."

He doesn’t answer, just moving suggestively against me, and I know I should get up, but fuck, it feels good, his dick against my balls, even through both our pants. "Fawkes," I repeat, and still he doesn’t stop, as caught up in the feeling as I am. "Darien, I am not fucking you in a snow bank," I warn him, starting to breathe harder.

"We could," he says, voice throaty, and I see the flicker of quicksilver on his hands, knowing he means invisibly. And for a split second, I actually think about it, wondering what it would be like to feel his hot cock along my own, the quicksilver the only thing between us and the icy air.

"You two boys need a hand?" comes the amused inquiry from behind me and I scramble off Fawkes, standing and then reaching down a hand to him. He takes it and I help him up, turning to face our wannabe assistant.

"Thanks anyway. My friend, here, was just reverting to childhood," I tell the wizened old coot standing there in his plaid wool coat and his deerstalker. Fawkes is busy dusting the snow off his ass and I try not to think about what we were just doing. "Can you tell me what time the Mercantile opens?" I ask. "We kinda got stranded, and we weren’t exactly expecting a blizzard."

The old timer glances at his watch. "Should be open right about now," he says. "This ain’t no blizzard, either. But I guess a couple of flat-landers like you two wouldn’t know that, huh?"

Fawkes gives him this half-sarcastic, half-sweet look. "That’s us, city slickers all the way."

The old guy laughs, sharing the joke. "Middle of February, we could still get a blizzard before spring," he concedes.

"Thanks for the help," Darien says warmly.

"No problem, sonny," he’s told and the geezer stumps on down the sidewalk towards the other end of town.

"Sonny?" I repeat, feeling one eyebrow crawl up my forehead. and he grimaces.

"Don’t even think about calling me that," Fawkes warns. "Come on. Let's get some clothes." He leads the way up the stairs to front door of the Mercantile.

I step inside, the blast of warm air melting the snow on my shoulders instantly. The place is a funky mix of feed store and western outfitter, with saddles and tack and hunting equipment mixed in with old fashioned racks hung with jeans, plaid shirts, shit-kicker boots, sheepskin jackets and what-have-you. Fawkes is in hog heaven as he heads straight for the yoked cowboy shirts, rummaging through the rack till he comes across the loudest one in the bunch, a bright purple satin job with black piping in all sorts of curlicues and spirals all over it. It’s gawdawful, and he loves it. I groan, hitting the opposite side of the rack, pulling off a nice black number with no frou-frou crap, just silver buttons. I guess they have these duds for rodeos or line dancing or something. No other reason for the psychedelic cowboy look.

"Aw, c’mon, go for the gold, man," he tells me, lifting a gold satin shirt off the rack and handing it over the top to me. It’s got black piping all over it just like the purple one, and I doubt I’ve ever seen anything more hideous.

"No way, my friend. No way you’re getting me into that piece’a crap!" I exclaim, hanging it back on my side of the rack. "’Sides, we’re looking for something that’ll keep us warm, not costumes for the local circus."

"Hobbes, you got no sense of style," he complains, holding up his purple monstrosity against his chest and admiring himself in the mirror on a nearby pillar.

"Fawkes, how warm do you think that thing’s gonna keep you outside?" I ask him, checking the tag on my black shirt. Wool and silk blend. Nice.

"Whaddaya think I have you for? This puppy is stylin', like me," he boasts, swaggering around to my side and taking the yellow rag off the rack again, and holding it up to me. "And this is you. Black and yellow, for my little tiger," he teases me.

I glare at him, stepping back away from the obnoxious satin shirt. "What did you call me?" I ask dangerously.

"My little tiger," he repeats, grinning. "You know, like Calvin and Hobbes?" he clarifies and I stare at him.

"So that’s where the damned hair comes from," I mutter, suddenly enlightened. My life is a comic book. And I have a little kid for a partner. That explains everything.

Fawkes tugs at his kinda limp spikes a little, smirking at me. "Hey, it’s better than a superhero comic, right?" he urges.

I eye him up and down. "I dunno, seeing you in a leotard might be a thrill," I disagree. "And you’ve got the super power down, right?"

"Don't superheroes usually work alone?" he counters.

"Not the X-men," I contradict. "They work as a team, right? And what about Batman?"

"Well, I guess you could be Robin," he shrugs, primping with the shirt again.

"Nuh-uh," I disagree. "I’m Batman, you’re Robin," I tweak him.

He glares at me. "Hey, you just said I’m the one with the super power."

"Batman doesn’t have superpowers," I remind him, "just brains, bank and a cape."

"Oh for oh," he laughs. "Don’t forget the latex suit, either."

"Didn’t know you were into rubber, Fawkes," I comment calmly, turning to admire the black threads in the mirror. I see him sidle up behind me, catching my eye in the mirror.

He bends his head so his mouth is near my ear and whispers, "I’d love to see you in latex… and nothing else," he murmurs as he moves past me to the next rack of clothes to check out the jeans all casual-like.

I gulp, knowing exactly what he meant, the ache in my balls telling me in no uncertain terms that I’d be happy to accommodate him. We drift through the racks, tailing each other, exchanging double entendres, brushing against each other, and just generally egging each other on. When he trails his hand over my ass for the fifth time, I know we’d better cool it because otherwise I’m gonna drag him into the fitting room and make him suck me off again. Probably not the smartest thing we could do. I take my choices in clothes to the sales clerk, Fawkes wandering after me, still waffling on the purple shirt. I’ve picked up a red flannel one for him, cuz the purple isn’t gonna do it, as far as keeping him warm. She rings us up, a full change of clothes for each of us, plus a couple of heavy sweatshirts and gloves, then waits for him to make up his mind.

"Come on Fawkes, you gonna take it or not?" I ask impatiently.

"The Fat Man’s gonna take it outta my pay, isn’t he?" he asks me regretfully.

"That’s a slam dunk, my friend," I agree.

"I guess I’ll pass," he tells the clerk sadly and watches unhappily as she takes the thing and puts it on the returns rack behind the counter.

I fork over the Agency card and pay for the duds, then put on my sweatshirt, wearing my damp coat over it. Fawkes does the same, and we take our bags and head back out into the snow. It seems colder than it did, and the snow is falling harder, but maybe it’s just cuz we’ve been inside a warm building for half an hour.

"Wanna see about getting some food?" I suggest as I hear Fawkes’ belly rumble.

"Yeah, I guess," he mopes, still mourning the stupid shirt, and I shake my head as I lead the way into the Orchid Lounge, following the waitress to a booth in the front window. It’s more exposed than I like, but the only other option is the counter, and I don’t want my back to the room. Just one of those personal quirks of mine. I pick the side of the booth with the least window exposure out of habit, and take my menu while Fawkes sits down opposite me.

"Can I get you guys some coffee?" she asks, snapping her gum the way Fawkes does when he’s being punky, and I flash her a smile that thaws her out a bit.

"That’d be great. We’re freezing. Kinda got caught unprepared," I tell her, and she smiles a little, nodding sympathetically as she turns the thick white ceramic mugs right side up at each of our places.

"Happens a lot this time of year," she agrees. "Folks from down below think it’s spring, but up here, it takes longer than Valentine’s Day for the snow to stop." She turns, takes a coffee carafe off the heating element on the service station behind me, and pours us each a mug. "Want a sec to check the menu?" she asks as she tops Fawkes’ mug off.

"Yeah, if you don’t mind," I agree, and she moves off to handle another customer.

Fawkes is scowling into his coffee mug, both hands wrapped around it to thaw his hands again. He’s in one of his moods all of a sudden, and I sigh. "What is it, Fawkes?" I ask, knowing he’s sulking over something. "You still thinking about that shirt?"

He shrugs a little without making eye contact, which tells me something else is going on.

"So what, then?" I want to know, sipping my coffee, then adding cream. It’s good, but it’s strong.

"Could you turn down the wattage a little, maybe, huh?" he asks. "Unless you and Sheena want to take the cabin...."

Surprise makes me choke on my coffee and I barely avoid spilling my mug. "You’re jealous all of a sudden?" I ask, staring at him. I can’t quite decide whether to be annoyed or amused, but his rueful look makes me laugh. "Look, Fawkes, it’s just a thing I do. Smoothes the way to be nice, and it don’t cost anything to maybe make someone’s day a little better, right? It’s not like I’m gonna haul them off to our little ‘love shack’ and have them join the party, alright? Sheesh. I didn’t figure you for the jealous type…"

"I didn’t either," he admits, finally looking at me. At least he has the sense to be embarrassed.

"Yeah, well, green ain’t your color, kid. I promise, you’ll be the first to know when Miss Right comes along. But for the moment, I’m settling for Mr. Right Now. Ok?" I tease him, and I see him start to get all defensive, then he shrugs and smiles a little, then lets it go. But for a second there, there’s something in his expression I can’t quite get a handle on.

I get distracted from asking what’s eating him now as the waitress comes back. I take a quick look at the menu then ask her advice. "So, what’s good?" I ask, and she sighs, then does the spiel for whatever the short-order chef is having a hard time selling this morning. "No," I interrupt her, "What are you thinking of having when you get off shift?"

She raises an eyebrow appreciatively. . "You’re smarter than you look," she tells me, and I laugh at the left-handed compliment. It’s something I worked out a long time ago, the sort of half-witted shtick that lets me watch people and get a feel for them before they can peg me. "Murray made his waffle batter this morning and the blueberries in it are fresh. It’s either gonna be that or the huevos rancheros, cuz the chilies came yesterday," she answers.

"The huevos it is," I hand her back the menu and she turns to Fawkes, who’s got a bad case of indecisiveness this morning.

"I guess I’ll have the waffles, two eggs easy over, and a side of bacon and sausages," he says at last, handing her his menu with a tentative smile. It gets the response he was hoping for, that woebegone, earnest look of his, and she smiles warmly at him.

"The waffles are really good," she compliments his choice as she writes down his order and tucks the pad in her apron pocket and walks away with a shy little glance over her shoulder.

"Maybe I’m the one who should be jealous," I observe and sip my coffee, trying to ignore the weird feeling in my chest, watching him flirt with the girl in his own half-assed way. It’s not the same feeling I used to get when I went out with Viv and other guys would hit on her, but it’s uncomfortable anyway, whatever it is.

Darien just shrugs and sips his coffee, obviously thinking about something.

I resist the urge to fill the silence, settling for watching my partner stare out the window at the still-falling snow. The bluish light from outside frosts one side of his face while the warm light of the diner’s overheads highlights the other, revealing all the little lines he’s acquired on his forehead and around his eyes. It’s the only giveaway that he isn’t as young as he acts sometimes, or looks, for that matter. It’s his version of my dumb act, that naïve quality he has. If nothing else, though, his confession last night of just how bad things were for him in prison has pretty much convinced me that naïve is not the word to describe my partner. Tough, maybe. Or gutsy. That’s what I’d pick, if I had to choose only one word. The thing is, it hasn’t made him hard the way it does with a lot of ex-cons. Basically, he’s a good guy. Gentle. Compassionate. Yeah, he can be a prick when the mood strikes, but when it comes down to it, he cares too much about people to ever make a good crook.

Not that he wants to hear it. He still thinks he was a great thief. Well, maybe he was good at B&E, but if you’re going to be a successful bad guy, you can’t compromise the mission just cuz someone has a coronary right in front of you. It’s get in, get out, no hesitation, no regrets. It’s a lot like being in the spook biz. And his compassion can be a liability in this business as much as it was in his old line of work. But I wouldn’t change him for the world. Because the reason we do what we do is other people. People we may never know. But Fawkes looks at your average guy on the street and knows that person is exactly the one we’re in place to protect. I don’t think he thinks about it that way, but since the faceless masses aren’t faceless to him, that’s basically what it boils down to.

It’s all about individuals with him. He’s one of the few people I’ve run into in the last five years who figured out that I may be nuts but I’m not stupid. Most of the people I’ve worked with either never figured it out or it takes them a whole lot longer than it took him. And I think it’s maybe been since I was in the Marines that I’ve spent my time with someone who’s willing to die for me. As easily as I’d die for him, not cuz it’s my job, but because he’s that important to me. Like when I was in the Marines, it’s not something I spend a lot of time thinking about, you know? It’s just one of those facts of life. Except that with Fawkes, we never went through all the brainwashing and team building that it takes to break down barriers between teammates and build that kind of bond. What we have is friendship. The real deal. I trust him like I don’t think I’ve ever trusted anyone.

The waitress shows up with our breakfasts and sets them in front of us with a genuine smile. "Here you go, guys, soup’s on," she flirts with both of us, and Fawkes gives her a shy smile, the averted eyes, the bashful ducking of the head making her eyes go wide. The thing is, I don’t think he’s really doing it on purpose, but the result is the same. She’s his, if he wants her. Except that he thanks her politely, and, reluctantly, she takes off. I gotta smile.

"Fawkes, you’re a frickin’ tease, you know?" I inform him.

"What?" he complains. "What did I do?"

I grin. "Nothing," I tell him. "That’s the problem, as far as your little friend is concerned, pal."

"Who? Sheena? I thought you were the one who was hot for her, not me," he disagrees.

"Man, no wonder you haven’t been laid recently," I laugh gently, picking up my fork and taking a taste of my breakfast. "Clueless," I say with my mouth full.

He just quirks his eyebrows at me as he starts in on his own meal.

"She’s ready to have your children, Fawkes," I smirk and take another bite.

"Oh give me a break, Hobbes," he scoffs and hacks off a big chunk of sausage, popping it into his mouth. "Why would she look at me with the super spook in residence?"

I snort. "You talkin’ ‘bout me?" I laugh.

"Yeah, I’m talkin’ ‘bout you, Robert," he retorts around his mouthful of sausage.

"I’m no super spook, kid. I’m a hack. I do what I gotta do, but it ain’t much of a life, lemme tell you." I haven’t really told him this in so many words, but this business has more than its share of downsides. "All the bullshit aside? This is a crappy way to make a living, partner. You can’t tell anyone you care about what you do, can’t claim bragging rights, can’t even use it to con the ladies into your bed. James Bond is a myth."

He’s staring at me, stopped in mid-chew. "What about partners?" he asks. It’s so soft I can’t hardly hear him

"I don’t want to con my partner into anything," I tell him fiercely, not sure where the sudden anger comes from.

"Neither do I," he agrees and goes back to his breakfast, still focused on me.

"So. The waitress. Would you do anything about her if you had the chance, and no gland?" I ask the hypothetical question.

He snorts and sips his coffee. "Like what?" he asks, forking up a bite of waffle with some of his egg on it.

"Whaddya mean, like what? Whaddya think? Take her to bed, you doofus," I laugh, sampling my eggs. Nice and spicy, just the way I like them.

"I dunno," he says. "Maybe yesterday I would have. Today, I don’t have to. Already got what I want as far as that goes." He glances my way from under surprisingly long lashes, and it takes a sec before I realize he’s flirting with me.

"You comin’ on to me?" I ask suspiciously.

"Give the man a cigar," he says, the smug double entendre emphasized as he takes another bite of sausage, making it into a subtly sexual production by running his tongue over it before putting it in his mouth. Which is when I feel the top of his foot hook back behind my ankle, then slip up the back of my calf. Even through two pairs of wet pants, the heat of his leg along mine comes through, and it’s sexy as hell. It’s also way out of bounds in a public place like this.

It’s weirding me out a little. I’d like to think it would even if some hot chick was doing it, but I know part of it is that it’s because it’s him doing it. I’m not much for public displays of affection, never have been. It was one of the things that Viv hated about me. I wouldn’t kiss her in public. At least not anything other than a quick peck. But I’m a little old to change now. I tense a little and he feels it, because the foot disappears, though he’s still making eyes at me from across the table. "Save it for dessert ," I tell him, moving my leg back a little.

He licks the syrup off his lip without breaking eye contact, and my balls start the same slow ache they had goin’ in that snow bank an hour ago. How the fuck is he doin’ that? Turning me on without touching me? The intensity in his eyes is as scary as it is exhilarating, and I can’t look away, liking my lips a little self-consciously. We finish the rest of the meal in silence, eating fast, and I’m suddenly more interested in getting back to the motel than lingering over another mug of scalding coffee. Even if we don’t fall straight back into bed, the size of my hard-on is gonna be noticeable on the streets, and I’m not in the mood for parading around this one-horse town advertising my sudden change of allegiance in the bed-mates department. I only hope that whatever they have that passes for room service has been and gone by the time we get back there.

Our little friend the waitress is back with more coffee and the bill, but Fawkes and I are so focused on each other we’re hardly aware of her. It’s only when she gives us this odd look that I finally realize she’s asking if she can get us anything else.

"Uh, no, thanks," I tell her quickly, wondering how many times she asked before I heard her. Fawkes has this inscrutable expression on his face that I swear is him trying to stifle a laugh as we get up, leaving our money on the table along with a healthy tip.

"Where to now?" Darien asks as we step back outside into the snow with our shopping bags.

"I should go talk to the garage guys and see what the story is on Golda," I say as I flip my jacket collar up to keep the snow from sliding down my neck.

"Gotta do that now, huh?" Fawkes asks without looking at me, pretending to be enraptured by the snow-blurry view down the two-lane highway that makes up the main drag of this little burg. He’s standing right next to me, his side warm against mine, and I’m pretty sure he’s thinking along the same lines I am.

"Course, they did tell me that it’d take at least 36 hours…" I hesitate, letting him divert me if he wants to.

"Yeah, and it’s almost a mile walk to the garage. Maybe we should just call them first. If she’s not ready, there’s not much point in going down there in this weather," he agrees.

"Soooooo…." I start. "Back to the ranch?"

"Maybe the heater will be fixed," he says optimistically as he starts back the way we came, towards the little hovel we’re currently calling home. I fall in beside him, staying close. I tell myself it’s for the warmth.

"Well at least there’s satellite TV, I remind him. "And I guess I oughta check in with the Agency, let them know how things stand."

"I guess," he concurs.

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

Two more blankets and extra towels are stacked on the freshly made bed when I unlock the door of our cabin and let us in. And unless I’m mistaken, the air is a little warmer than it was when we left. Wonders will never cease.

I walk over to the nightstand where the phone is and dial the garage to get the status report on the van, which is basically that they expect the part this afternoon, but the snow may slow things up. The earliest we’re gonna be getting outta here is gonna be tomorrow morning, looks like. I’m not sure what Fawkes has been doing while I was on the phone; he’s disappeared, so I assume he’s in the bathroom. I dial the Agency’s number and give Eberts, the news that we’re going to be stuck here for another night. He makes some worried comment about the budget and hangs up. I turn to drop the receiver back in the cradle and whack into Fawkes, who’s standing right behind me, so close I don’t know how the hell I didn’t feel him there.

I jump in surprise and he steadies me and takes the phone out of my hand, dropping it into place. He’s naked as the day he was born and his hair is wet. Shower. I remember he didn’t get one before we trooped out for breakfast.

"Sorry I scared you," he says softly as he runs the fingertips of his left hand along my arm, just standing there staring down at me with this look, like he’s waiting for something.

Damned exhibitionist, I think as I glare at him, ducking around him so I can reach over to twitch the open curtains back closed. I move away from him and turn on the TV more to cover up the mingled attraction and annoyance I’m feeling right now than because I want to watch it. What I really want is to watch Fawkes. I swear, the kid has no freakin’ clue how pretty he is. Damned near androgynous. Or he would be, if it wasn’t for the good-sized cock between his legs. He’s half hard, and I doubt it’d take much to finish the job. It’s the first time I’ve seen him naked in daylight. It’s worth seeing. Fuck.

"Am I embarrassing you?" he asks, moving towards me tentatively, touching my arm. "You know I want you to look at me, right?" He takes another step closer.

"Yeah, you’re making that pretty obvious," I tell him sarcastically.

"And it’s freaking you out," he sighs, dropping the hand.

Yes, it’s freaking me out. What the hell does he expect? "No, it’s not freaking me out, Fawkes," I snarl, embarrassed, and angry because of it. "Did it ever occur to you I just might not want to share the view?"

He takes another step towards me, and I have to struggle to stay with his face, to not run my eyes over him the way I want to run my hands over him. This is still way too new a feeling for me to trust it. Maybe it’s really no different than when I’m attracted to a woman, but if that’s the case, then why does it feel so freaking different?

"It’s alright, Bobby," he murmurs quietly, his voice soothing, like he’s talking to some nervy animal he isn’t quite sure of.

"What, Fawkes? What’s alright? Me wanting to knock you on that skinny ass of yours? Me wanting to grope you?" I ask ironically. "Me wanting you to grope me?"

He smiles a little. "All of the above," he assures me, moving closer and slowly reaching for my hand.

I let him take it, and try not to flinch when he settles my palm over his dick. It’s the first time I’ve seen him, really seen him. He’s slim-hipped, narrow-waisted; he’s so fucking pretty.

But feeling him harden under my hand, knowing it’s my touch he’s responding to, fuck, what a rush. I just stand there for a second, feeling him stiffening up, his cock warm and alive in my hand, then I stroke him, listening to his breathing shake in his lungs. He wants this. Wants it bad. Wants me. Not some fictional character I’m passing myself off as, but me. Bobby Hobbes. Certified nut job. Who’d’a figured? And him wanting me is making me want him. I cup his balls gently, tumbling them, and he moans, steadying himself by grabbing my shoulders. "See?" he grins. "I told you I wanted you." And he lowers his head and kisses me.

Not the light brush of lips from this morning, but a kiss. His tongue strokes over my mouth, asking for entrance, his lips warm and soft and so much like Viv’s that for the tiniest second, I respond, helplessly. It completely throws me. I wrench my head away, scrambling back from him. "What the hell was that?" I demand, fighting the panic attack that surges through me with all the power that lust had, 30 seconds ago.

"It was a kiss," Fawkes stares at me like I’m totally losing it, and I gulp, trying to get a grip on myself. "Bobby -" he starts, moving towards me and I take another step back. He swallows hard, and I can tell I’m scaring him, but fuck, I’m scaring myself, here.

"Bobby, what’s wrong?" he asks, voice a little shaky.

"Don’t -" I back a little further away. "Just don’t touch me right now, Fawkes, ok?"

He goes pale, this stricken look on his face, and I hate myself for saying it, but I need some space, and some time, to figure out what the hell is going on with me right now.

"Bobby…" it’s a whisper, raw, broken, and it kills me to hear it in his voice, but the terror racing through my blood is worse than anything I’ve felt since the day I stood and watched as a truck bomb was driven into the American Embassy in Beirut, killing a handful of Marine grunts under my command. The feeling is nauseating, and my world narrows to the panic attack pounding through me. It’s like trying to swim up a waterfall, adrenaline rushing through me like Niagra Falls. My heart is pounding so hard I can’t hear over it, and whatever it is Fawkes is saying to me now might as well be in Swahili for all the sense it makes. I close my eyes, concentrating on breathing, like one of my therapists once taught me, deep draws, in and out, ignoring the icy sweat that’s prickling on my skin and my clammy hands. In, out. Deep breaths. C’mon, Hobbes, you can beat this, I tell myself as I struggle to get it under control. It was a freakin’ kiss! You’ve been kissed before, right, Hobbes? I run through the list of reality checks that long experience brings to mind by instinct, those pep talks to myself designed to break down whatever it is that’s making me lose it into small increments that I can actually handle. All I can say is, thank god I have 12 years of psychotherapy under my belt.

Ok, Fawkes kissed you, I tell myself, waiting to see what sort of reaction the old adrenal glands pump out there, and though I feel the rush of it in my blood, it’s not really that much worse than it was a second ago. So that’s not it… Fawkes says he’s got feelings for you. Those kind of feelings… Still no massive surge, so I force myself to ask the next question: You’ve got the same feelings for him… The physical reaction in my body is unmistakable: huge, a spike in everything from breathing and heart rate to the clenching in my throat that I recognize as a basic hurl reflex. I stagger away across the room towards the door, groping for my jacket, unable to meet my partner’s eyes. "…need… need some air, Fawkes, ok?" I beg, shrugging into the wet wool of my blazer and ducking back outside into the snow, shutting the door behind me, abandoning him.

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

I walk for hours. Just thinking. The cold outside doesn’t even come close to matching the cold inside as I wander down the snowy highway. What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve finally got someone in my life that doesn’t care what I’ve done, doesn’t care where I’ve been, what I’ve seen, or even what I’ve done. And some of the things I’ve done, well, they aren’t things I’m proud of. A lot of this business is just plain ugly. But Fawkes… Darien… he doesn’t care about that. I don’t know what it is he sees when he looks at me.

I guess that’s the problem. When Viv left me, I figured there just wasn’t anything about me that would be worth anyone else’s time. It’s kinda hard to get over that, you know? That certainty that whatever it is you are just ain’t what anyone else wants. Loser. Failure. I wouldn’t have spent years in therapy if I had the self-confidence I pretend I do. I’ve lived with those descriptions of myself for a very long time. It’s not something I can let go of just because all of a sudden there’s someone who doesn’t see me that way.

Love isn’t supposed to hurt, dammit. Having someone in your life who thinks the sun shines out your ass should be empowering. So why do I feel so freaking powerless?

The snow hasn’t stopped falling the whole time I’ve been walking. There’s this silence that goes with snow that there’s no way to describe unless you’ve heard it. A muffled silence punctuated with the barely perceptible rustle of flakes as they settle to the ground. I know it sounds stupid, but it’s the same silence I’ve lived in since Viv left. You know time is passing; you know you’re not immune from the wants, the needs of all the other people on the planet. Love, sex, plain old intimacy. But fuck. Darien? I just don’t know what to do with this. I know I’ve hurt him, walking out the way I did. But I hurt, too. I’ve hurt for a long time, now.

I walk some more, passing the Orchid Lounge again and heading out beyond the Mercantile towards the garage that’s holding Golda hostage. It’s maybe the better part of a mile, and it gives me plenty of time to think about pain. About the physical kind, and the kind that doesn’t live in muscle or bone or nerves, but in your heart. Your soul. And it gives me time to think about a few other things. Like the fact that until today, when I flipped out back in the motel room, the last two years have been… something. Special. I’ve finally been feeling like I’m getting my feet back under me. Like maybe it’s worth the effort to get my life together. And the reason is Darien Fawkes. My partner. My first real friend in I don’t know how long.

Pain. I know way more about it than I want to. And I know that Darien has made the pain… not go away, but at least made it bearable. I get up in the morning and wonder what sort of bullshit we’re gonna get into today. Before Fawkes, I’d wake up in the morning and wonder how the hell I was gonna make it through the day.

When I first met up with him in Mexico, I was pretty down and out. I’d been agent on point there since the Fat Man made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, not and have any hope of redeeming myself at least in my own eyes. I’d just been basically drummed out of the FBI on a psych discharge when my partner there had been permanently incapacitated by an assailant that I never had the chance to help them catch. Nell stood by me when the rest of my life was coming apart, and she paid for it with her self. The beating she took did everything but kill her. It’d 've been more merciful if it had. She’s still lying in a hospital bed in a government nursing home, with about as much brainpower as an amoebae.

I’ve spent the last six years in therapy trying to come to some kind of terms with it. I screwed up. And it cost a beautiful, good, competent friend everything that made her what she was. Coming outta that hole didn’t seem like a possibility. It wasn’t even something I wanted. Not until I screwed up again, and almost got Fawkes killed the first time we ever worked together. He was my partner, even then. He was an assignment, but I’d screwed up the last thing I worked on so bad, it’s not like there was any question I wouldn’t accept responsibility for screwing this up, too. I swore when I arrived at the smoking ruins of Arnaud de Thiel’s lab to find Fawkes sprawled in his girlfriend’s lap with a needle in his arm, I was gonna straighten up and fly right. I was gonna find some way to get my act together.

And I did. It took time, and some false starts, but Darien and I started to click. We meshed like no one I’ve ever worked with before. Not even Nell. It’s like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. What Fawkes and I have is a friendship that isn’t based on preconceived ideas or assumptions. It’s based on reality. He sees me, I see him. I can’t describe it any other way. I know this kid. I see so many things in him I’ve seen in myself. The self-doubt, the anger, the pain he’s experienced. But he’s a much better man than I ever was, the petty larceny not withstanding. Fuck it. So much of his punk attitude is just that — attitude. Darien Fawkes is humane. He never loses sight of the fact that real people are the ones who pay the price if we miscalculate. Getting him to learn how to handle a weapon has been an uphill battle. Hurting people just isn’t in him. Stealing their stuff, that he can manage. But hurting them? No. He just can’t do it.

And he’d never hurt me. I know that with total certainty. And here I am, wandering around in the snow in a one-horse town with my partner probably wondering what the hell he did to set me off. I can just hear him telling himself he pushed me too far, too fast. The reality is, it wasn’t him. It was me. My baggage, my issues.

Darien falling in love… With me. That’s not something I’d ever figured on. I never figured on anyone falling in love with me, not after Viv… I just never figured lightening would strike twice. Viv, well, she was the love of my life. It was hormonal, it was physical, it was fucking great — while it lasted. But she never understood me. Not really. No one really has. Until Darien Fawkes. He knows I’m fulla shit, he knows I’m out in left field a lot of the time. But he also knows I’m not stupid, even if I’m not as smart as I’d like to be. He’s let me teach him stuff. I think that’s what made me realize he respects me. That he takes me seriously. Because he’s enough of a punk that if he didn’t respect me, our partnership would never have gotten off the ground. Not even Viv took me seriously. To her, I was an antidote to boredom. That’s me; Bobby Hobbes, the not-boring.

For Fawkes, I’m a friend. Someone he looks up too, at least a little. Someone he respects. At least a little. Someone he loves. At least a little. And that’s more than I think I’ve had in a long time. A lot more.

I arrive at the garage and get the latest scoop on Golda. The new axle is on a truck, somewhere on the icy road up this mountain, and they’re hoping it’ll show up today early enough to install, so Fawkes and I can get the hell outta Dodge tonight.

One more awkward hour spent with Darien beating himself up for things that aren’t his fault I can live without. I shiver, the cold penetrating through the damp jacket and the not-so-damp sweatshirt, and I know I can’t spend any more time wandering around out here. I’ve gotta go somewhere to warm up while I work on figuring out what to do next. I check my watch, the gold Rolex Fawkes scored when he went QSM in the middle of a mob funeral and lightened the load the dead godfather was taking with him into the afterlife. He gave it to me when he realized he’d robbed a dead man. Squeamish, that’s my kid. Its origins don’t bother me, though. I mean, what’re ya gonna do; dig the guy up and give it back? So I took it off Darien’s hands and his conscience. It’s a classy watch. It’d have to be with Rolex stamped on it. Day, date, time, stopwatch functions, and all of that waterproof down to 160 feet. It’s almost noon. And it’s also Valentine’s Day, I realize with a little flutter in the pit of my stomach as the date registers with me. Hell. Of all the days to figure out that I’m in love with my partner…

There’ve been moments in my life when I felt like fate or the universe or something a whole lot bigger than me was shoving me down a path I never chose for myself, and never wanted or expected to travel. That’s the way I’m feeling right now. Pushed into a corner, forced to have to look at things I don’t know how to deal with. The panic attack is starting to rev up again as I walk back down the highway towards the main part of town. Out of habit, I start the mental list of possible causes, gauging how close I am to figuring out what’s triggering it based on the way my body reacts.

By the time I’ve reached the mercantile again, I have it narrowed down to the single most obvious fact: I’m in love with another man. It’s so totally out of my range of experience, I don’t know where I stand, much less what to do about it. I duck into the store and browse the jackets on auto pilot while I defrost and work on that little revelation.

It’s not until I realize that I loved Darien Fawkes a long time before I fell in love with him that the worst of the panic drops away. Like he pointed out last night, there is nothing I wouldn’t do for the kid. And nothing he wouldn’t do for me. I couldn’t say that about Viv. We each had our own agendas in that marriage, and they kept getting further and further apart as we came unglued. The opposite has been happening with me'n Fawkes: the longer we’ve worked together, the better we work together. We know each other so well on some levels that we can predict each other’s next words, or actions, or feelings. It’s almost like a symbiotic relationship. We fill the gaps for each other. Watch each other’s backs. Cover each other’s asses… maybe now literally cover each other’s asses…

That little thought has a slow ache starting up in my groin again as I inevitably flash on the blow job Darien gave me last night. So I ask myself if the fact that it was another guy who blew me matters. And the answer is no. Not as long as it’s Darien. So what does that say about my sexuality? I don’t have any answers on that one. I’ve always been hetero, never even vaguely interested in action with other guys, though I’ve done things in the line of duty on that front. Even in the military, in action, on missions I’ve been on that had me away from women for months at the time, the farthest it ever went was some competitive jacking off in the Iraqi deserts. So what does this slow burn I’m doing for the feeling of Fawkes’ hands and mouth on me again say?

I wander between the racks working on that one. Maybe what it says is that love isn’t about gender. Maybe love is about a bond on levels that are a whole lot more than physical. Just because I’ve never felt it for another guy before doesn’t mean it’s any less real. And weirdly, in some ways, it’s even more real, because it’s forcing me to really articulate what it is love is to me. Not what I’ve thought it was, but what it really is. What it is, is Darien Fawkes. Talk about a shift in paradigms.

I hang the jacket I just tried on back up, ready to face my partner again, when a flash of purple catches my eye: the damned shirt… I double check it, and yeah, it’s the gawdawful purple and black cowboy shirt that Darien was drooling over this morning. Right size and everything. I don’t know what impulse it is that makes me take it off the rack and head for the sales counter, but five minutes later, it’s neatly folded, wrapped and boxed, and I march on out into the snowy street with my peace offering, thinking about the look on his face when he opens the box. The clerk even stuck one of those prefab bows on it when I told her it was a gift.

I head back towards the motel, passing the general store, and I hesitate, then go in, heading for the pharmacy aisle. I pick up a few things there, and some chocolate for Fawkes — some of the expensive designer kind that he likes so much — and pay for it, ignoring the speculation on the face of the check out clerk. I almost pick up a Valentine’s Day card, but I figure that may be pushing things. But I want to, and that alone tells me what I feel here isn’t some hormone thing, or just a lack of regular sex. He’s my best friend. My partner. I guess time will tell us if he’s more than that, too. I do love him, I just hadn’t thought about all the ways that emotion might play out. The shivery panicky feeling is still there, but there’s also the tiniest hint of the thrill. The thrill of taking what I’ve got with Fawkes and making it stronger, deeper, and permanent. I only hope he knows what he’s letting himself in for, because I get pretty damned intense when I commit. It can get out of control real easily. I just hope he’s ready for it, but ready or not, here I come.

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

I let myself back into our cabin to find him huddled under the blankets staring at the TV, looking miserable. He doesn’t acknowledge my arrival with anything more than this reflex flinch, and he curls into a tighter ball under the covers. Shit. I drop my Mercantile bag on the floor by the door, the gifts I picked up forgotten for the moment. Now is SO not the time for bribery…

Damn, he’s really hurting here, and it’s my fault. "Fawkes," I start, kicking off my wet shoes and shucking both the jacket and the sweatshirt.

He glances at me fleetingly, then looks away again, and the sadness in his face hits me in the chest like a hammer. "I’m sorry," he says, and my heart twists. He’s sorry? "I promise I won’t come near you again, ok?" He looks away, focusing hard on the television again. I stare at the back of his head, his dark hair wild-looking from having dried uncombed and askew on the pillow.

I sit down on the edge of the bed, wondering if that will get his attention, but Darien is deliberately oblivious to me. He’s still lying on the bed, his head turned away from me, watching the TV. He’s keeping his word, giving me space. Only I don’t know what to do with it. He shifts slightly, and the blankets slide off his shoulder, so I reach over and tug them up, then run the side of my hand along his jaw. "Fawkes," I say as he turns his head towards me. His eyes are sad, huge and dark. Not the usual calculated wistfulness, but a resignation that eats at me.

That look will kill me, I think as I bend down towards him, watching his eyes widen, then close as I brush my mouth over his, really tasting him for the first time as I slip the tip of my tongue over his lips. I feel them open slightly, the warmth of his breath sensual. I feel the catch in his lungs as I kiss him harder, slipping past his lips and stroking my tongue over his. I drown in that kiss. I don’t know what the hell I was so afraid of, unless it’s the fact that I know now there’s no going back. This is the real thing, here, this kiss. I’d never kissed another man before in my life until Darien. There’s something so intimate about it, something I never really recognized, not until Fawkes first kissed me, and I freaked. It’s a public expression of private bonds, and I guess that’s the real problem. I don’t know how to live a public life when I’m involved with another man. I can’t wrap my brain around the fact that nothing I’ve ever expected out of romantic relationships is involved here. Except that I love this kid. More than I think I’ve ever loved anyone else. It’s always been about women, that need, and I don’t know what to do, now that that isn’t true any more.

Darien pulls back, his breathing a little shaky. He isn’t the only one. "Bobby?" he asks, "what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Kissing you," I inform him dryly, cocking an eyebrow at him.

"Why?" he asks eventually, and it hurts that he isn’t picking up on the fact that I don’t really care why I feel what I feel. That I want this. That I’m willing to go on faith. "'Cuz if it's pity, I don't want it."

I just look at him. "Whaddya want from me, Fawkes? Valentines? Want me to get down on my knees? What?" I know the sarcasm isn’t right, here, but I’m scared like I’ve never been scared before. It’s not till I see the pain in his eyes that I figure it out. "Cuz I’ll do it. You just need to let me know, alright?"

I’ve never seen a look like this on his face before. I’ve totally blown him away. He’s totally focused on me and it’s like being the center of the universe. Fuck, no wonder I love this kid.

"Yes," he says, and I take him at his word, rolling off the mattress to kneel beside the bed as I stare into his wide open eyes.

"Kiss me, Fawkes," I invite, knowing that’s all he needs.

"Bobby," he whispers as I feel his hand slip around the back of my neck, staring into my eyes with absolute concentration. He moves so slowly I’m almost ready to take things into my own hands, but seeing the look on his face, the wanting there, I manage to wait. Just wait. When he kisses me, I let him, welcome him. God, it’s sweet, that kiss. It goes on a long time, long enough that both of us need to come up for air and he rests his forehead against mine and stares into my eyes. "Are you sure?" he asks eventually, when our lungs have had a chance to refill. "I mean, you said…"

"I know what I said, ok? I also know that was maybe the best kiss I’ve had in years," I inform him, and see the hint of a smug smile in his eyes, then the look fades and he’s goin’ serious on me.

"Can I do it again?" he asks. If it wasn’t that I’m staring straight into those dark eyes, I’d think he was being a punk. But he’s really asking.

"Hell, yes," I smirk at him, the last of the shivery feeling evaporating out of my belly.

His smile is like the sun coming out, and he takes that permission as another invitation. Only he’s not just kissing my mouth. Feather-light, his kisses are scattered all over my forehead, cheeks, jaw, behind my ears, along my neck, little flicks of his tongue against my skin lighting a dull ache farther south. When he moves up my forehead to my skull, laying his cheek on my head as he nuzzles the last few strands of hair there, I stroke a hand over his chest, across his nipples, feeling them tighten instantly as he moans softly. But he’s not letting me distract him. It’s like he wants to taste every inch of my skin or something, because he takes me gently by the shoulders and pulls me back onto the bed. It’s only cuz the heater is finally working that I let him start undressing me as he explores, but I figure it must be warm enough if popsicle boy can be out from under the blankets without freezing. He undoes the buttons of my shirt one by one, pulling the material away from my skin so he can run his lips and tongue across my chest one slow inch at the time. I’m not sure I’ve ever had a lover take it this slow, make this much of an effort to make the turn-on a deep one. Cuz this is no superficial quickie, here. I’m being kissed like I don’t ever remember being kissed before.

I relax into his touch as he peels back my shirt, and I’m glad my usual undershirt was still too damp to wear out into the snow this morning. One less thing to have to take off. He lies down beside me so he doesn’t have to bend over and goes on kissing me everywhere, licking me, nuzzling me, but he’s careful to avoid my nipples, or anywhere that’s an obvious hot spot, and it amazes me the concentration he’s using to go over me like this. I stroke his hair, ruffling it a little. "There’s not gonna be a test, Fawkesy. You don’t gotta memorize everything all at once," I tease him, trying to ease the ache that’s started up in my throat. The same tenderness that snuck up on me last night when he was asleep all over me is back, and stronger than ever. And when he raises his head to look up at me, I see it reflected there.

Oh, man, he feels it too. Whatever it is between us, it’s deep. Scary deep. Only it’s a good kinda scary. Like doors opening, possibilities suddenly cropping up like mushrooms after rain. I may not know exactly what’s on the other side of those doors, but as long as I go through them with Fawkes, we’ll be fine. Partners watching each other’s backs. Doing for each other. He smiles, and I smile back, and he chooses that moment to reach down to unfasten my pants. He keeps it slow while he goes back to taste-testing me, but since he’s licking me under the waistband of my boxers, there’s zero chance he’s not gonna get a reaction from me. I can’t help the moan, and I lift my ass off the mattress and shove my pants down past my hips, trying to get the damned things off, frustrated by the fact that I’m still lying down.

"Want a hand?" he asks, that grin of his telling me he’s got me where he wants me, now.

"Yeah," I grunt as he moves down the mattress and grabs my pant legs, tugging the jeans off me and ditching the socks while he’s at it. He’s straddling my calves, just watching me, the smile soft, as soft as his hands on my legs as he starts stroking me, petting me. I’m more than half-way hard, my boxers tenting over my dick, and I lie there, praying he’ll touch me there, now.

"Not so fast," he warns me as he moves to lie down again, this time diagonally, so he isn’t half-hanging off the bed. He rests his head on my left thigh and starts caressing the length of my right leg from knee to groin, then goes back the to the kissing he was doing, slowly working his way up the inside of my thighs to the legs of my boxers.

This is starting to get frustrating as my dick hardens up and my balls tighten. "Fawkes," I complain, tangling both hands in his hair.

"What?" he asks, that fake innocent look making me laugh.

"Touch me already!" I demand, still laughing.

"Isn’t that what I’ve been doing?" he cocks his head and does the innocent look again, and then slides one hand inside each leg of my shorts and brushes fingertips across my balls. He keeps on doing it, the touch making me insane, and my hips rise off the bed as I groan again. He’s back up on his knees between my thighs, and he slips his hands out of my shorts and then inside the waistband, easing the elastic up to full extension so he can pull them down past my aching cock. He’s careful not to let anything touch my dick, in spite of the fact that the need I have to be touched there is starting to get urgent. He gets the boxers all the way off and just kneels there, looking down at me, eating me alive with his eyes. What a fucking turn-on, seeing the look in his eyes… "God, you’re beautiful," he says, and he means it.

Beautiful? Not hardly. Not me. But I almost feel that way under his gaze. "Isn’t that supposed to be my line?" I ask, my voice all gravelly.

"No," he muses slowly, "It’s definitely my line." And he bends over and runs the tips of his nose and tongue up the length of me.

"Holy fuck," I shout, my voice half-strangled as he swirls his tongue across the head of my cock and then back down again. "Yes," I groan, wanting this, wanting him. Wanting anything he can think to do to me. "God, yes," I hiss as he sucks me in and starts doing a damned good impression of a Hoover, his tongue first flicking down along me side to side, then drawn back up with hot, wet softness, over and over. Then he takes me down his throat, circling me again with thumb and forefinger to clamp me off, swallowing. The muscles of his throat ripple over me and I scream out his name, desperate for the orgasm he’s teasing me with, keeping me from it with the pressure of his hand. When his other hand slides under my balls to stroke behind them, I’m a goner, and I can’t help the hard thrusts I make up into his mouth, totally beyond control. Only he’s still got that grip on me and the pleasure is so intense it might as well be pain. I’m practically sobbing as I beg him to let me come, and he lets me go, in both senses of the word, his fingers relaxing just enough.

It’s got to be the single most mind-blowing orgasm I’ve ever had in my life, and I move into him over and over, not stopping even when I’m done, dry, aching with a release I’ve never, ever felt before. I want this never to stop, this split second of absolute paradise, but nothing that intense can last, and my nervous system short circuits. I go limp, sliding out of his mouth, blood rushing in my ears as my heart trip-hammers in my chest, no strength in any muscle, my bones Jell-o. "Darien," I pant, staring at him where he’s kneeling between my legs.

His own hard-on is dark with blood, arched up against his flat belly, every bit as long as I’d expect with his height, and thicker than I would have figured. I lick my lips, wondering if I have the strength to do to him what he just did to me. It’s the first time in all the times it’s happened that blowing another guy is not only my idea, but something I’m seriously wanting to do. "Bobby," he says, breathing hard himself. No surprise, considering there was no way he was gonna be breathing before, not with half my dick down his throat.

I reach down towards him, just able to touch fingertips to his thigh. "Lemme do you," I suggest, and his eyes glow like coals.

"Not yet," he says as he climbs out from between my legs and lies down beside me, his dick hot and hard against my thigh while he throws an arm across me, holding me, kissing me, flicking a tongue over one nipple. When his mouth reaches mine, I kiss him with all the hunger he’s stirred up in me, hoping… I don’t know what, maybe that somehow, some way, we’ll exchange enough energy or something that no one, nothing, will ever be able to pull us apart. It’s terrifying. It’s worse than anything I ever felt for Viv. It goes beyond obsession to something else, something I don’t have any way to describe. Fawkes. He is everything I want right now. All I need. As much my center as I am his. "Not yet," he murmurs as he pulls away, trailing little kisses along my jaw.

"Darien, let me…" I start, trying to reach down to touch him. He’s so damned tall, I can’t reach and I roll over onto my side to face him, sliding my thigh between his, pressing it against his cock.

And the bastard eases away from me. "No," he scolds me, dark eyes still lit with something I’ve seen there so many times and never recognized. "It’ll go too fast, right now. I want it to last a little longer," and I nod, understanding. He’s too close right now. It wouldn’t take much to push him over that edge. But man, I want to get him in my mouth, find out how to turn him into putty like he did to me.

"Bobby," he smiles into my eyes, trying to get me to refocus on him, here, now, not ten minutes from now, not an hour from now.

Wanting to give as good as I got is taking me out of the moment, and his voice brings me back into it. "Fawkes," I smile slightly, my voice thick, and I know he guesses he’s totally rocked my world.

It’s the first time I’ve had a lover who knows me as well as Fawkes does. It’s a shock to realize not even my wife and I had this kind of wordless communication. It’s not like there’s anything to say, either. We just lie there, looking at each other. The mass of emotions raging through me are making my eyes water, and the only way I can think to describe it is that I have just found the missing pieces of my soul, my heart. And the fact that they were right under my nose for over a year without me figuring it out is at least as big a shock as the fact that it happened at all.

Both of us are shaky right now, but I’m close to losing it, so I shut my eyes on him, knowing if I keep staring at him, I’m gonna embarrass myself. He knows what I’m feeling, and his arm tightens around me.

"It’s ok, Bobby," he tells me, his body warm against me. He’s had a lot longer in his life to get used to the idea that when he loves, the gender isn’t important if everything else is there. And it’s there for me, for the first time. I feel like a sap, or some parody of a cheap romance novel or something.

I take a deep breath and lean my forehead against his shoulder, just letting the feeling of his body sink in. Being held is a new thing for me. I’m used to doing the holding. There’s a lot of comfort in just being able to let things go, rely on someone else for strength and comfort. To not have to be the strong one all the time. That’s the thing that gets me, I guess, the strength we’ve always been able to give — and get — from each other when it’s needed. What I had with Viv wasn’t that equal. Not because she wouldn’t or couldn’t offer it, but because I couldn’t accept it. Too much programming that said the man has to protect his loved ones. And it’s been the same with Fawkes, except about six months after we started working together, I realized watching his back meant he’d be watching mine. That he was as willing to take a bullet for me as I was to take one for him. Because I was his friend. Because I mattered to him. I guess the reality is, sex isn’t really gonna change very much between us. Because the rest of it has been there for a long time. All my arguments against getting involved with people I work with seem pretty pointless, when the truth is, we’ve been willing to risk everything and anything for each other since pretty early on. Weird to think that ole’ company pier thing never existed with Fawkes because I hadn’t thought of him as a lover. Which is a relief, now, when I do. The relationship we have is the same one we had two days ago. But now we get to have mind-blowing sex too. Who says you can’t have it all?

His hand is stroking slowly up and down my back, gentle, patient, like he’d be perfectly happy to lie there all the rest of the afternoon like this, just holding me. Part of me wants to let him, but most of me wants to do a little exploring of my own. I lift my head and kiss him hard, and I can feel the fire in him as I thread both hands into his hair to hold him still while I attack his mouth. I kiss him hard enough to bruise us both, then ease back and prop myself up on one elbow so I can watch him. He lies there, looking back at me, hair sticking out in all directions, and I think for the first time how sexy he is. Not an abstract kinda ‘check out the competition’ macho bullshit sexy, but the ‘wanna fuck’em into the ground’ sexy. I don’t know why I ever thought the fuck-buddy thing would fly, not with him, not the way I feel about him. There was no way I wasn’t gonna figure out that there isn’t much difference between loving him and being in love with him. Even if it took being hit over the head with his feelings for me to wake me up.

"What?" he asks hesitantly. "What’re you thinking about?"

I think about that, about how I want to answer. "I’m thinkin’, ‘why the hell did it take so long for us to do this?’," I tell him, and watch him grin. "I’m thinkin’, ‘Fawkes is the hottest thing I’ve ever had in my bed’, so why did I only just figure that out?" I ask him rhetorically.

He shrugs. "It’s not like I haven’t been trying to get your attention, you know," he confesses. "Maybe it’s the ‘hide in plain sight’ thing. You don’t see it cuz it’s right in front of your nose all day, everyday."

He may be right. "So you’ve been tryin’ to get my attention, huh?" I ask, teasing. "That what all those sprayed-on shirts are all about?" And he blushes. Damn, right the first guess. I laugh quietly, and slide down a little to suck on one of his nipples.

He moans and arches his back, so I figure, why not succumb to temptation? I latch on hard, and alternate between broad wet swipes from my tongue and heavy suction with a little bit of teeth, running my fingers over the other one so it doesn’t feel left out. Viv used to love this when I did it to her, and his nipples must be almost as sensitive as hers were, because he’s making this amazing noise low in his throat and his hips are starting to buck ever so slightly. One of his hands strokes over my head just long enough for me to realize he’s grooving on the feeling of my bald skull, then he cups the back of my head, holding me against his chest. I migrate to the other nipple and give the first one a rest, sliding my hand down his belly instead to tease him a little by brushing over the soft skin alongside his cock, careful not to touch it directly.

"Oh, god," he whimpers as I cradle his balls in my hand gently, stroking them with my thumb. It’s not the sort of thing you really notice when you’re handling your own, that silky feeling of the skin there, and the crisply rough texture of the little bit of hair on them. In fact, the softness of his skin in general is sort of sinking in finally, as I touch him deliberately. He’s damned near hairless everywhere, like he shaves or something, but there’s no stubble, either, so I figure it’s gotta be natural. I’ve known women who would kill for skin like his. I give his nipples a last lick with the stiff tip of my tongue, and kiss my way south until I’m lying with my cheek on his thigh and my breath warm on his leaking dick. I just breathe on him, inching closer a little at the time so he can feel the warmth increase as I get nearer, until I finally lick him lightly, tasting him for the first time. Clean, like water and soap, a little salty, a little bittersweet where his cum is beading along the slit.

"God, Bobby," he whimpers, shuddering, hips flexing harder as he rubs himself against my tongue. "Please, please, god," he babbles, and I feel a rush as the fact that I’m turning him on just doing this penetrates. I’ve never deep-throated a guy, and now probably isn’t the time to try, since I don’t want to wreck the mood, here, by choking on him. But there are other things I do know how to do. So I do them.

I wet him down with saliva as well as I can, then circle one hand around him so I can concentrate on the head of his cock with my mouth. While I slowly run my tongue around the bottom of the glans, I give the shaft a rhythmic squeeze, a slow one, then ease up and do it again, knowing it will be the closest thing I can manage right now to the feel of either a woman’s body or my own throat around him, and he groans, his breathing going all wobbly. "Oh, fuck, Bobby, god yesssssss….." The hiss tells me he’s close, as if the feeling of his pulse in the big vein along the underside of his cock wasn’t enough to tell me that, that and the taste of him as the quicksilver flows over us, cocooning us in a silvery world that shimmers like the sun on the snow outside. Now I can feel him move through my fist as he starts to drive into my grip. I suck the whole head of his cock into my mouth and flick my tongue over the sweet spot along the bottom side below the ridge while the tip bangs against the roof of my mouth. His disembodied voice is low, a keening noise from deep in his chest, and the weirdness of hearing him, feeling him, tasting him, but not being able to see him makes me close my eyes so I can concentrate.

"Bobbybobbybobbybobbyohmyfuckinggod, YES!" it’s all one long word and the ‘yes’ is garbled by the sharp sound of his in-drawn breath as he comes hard into my mouth. He’s bittersweet and salty and maybe the best thing I’ve ever tasted, and the rush of having him come like that and the feeling of the quicksilver along my own cock has me hard all over again. I suck him dry and then ease up, just keeping him in my mouth as the quicksilver flakes off, leaving him arched back against the pillow, his mouth hanging open and every tendon in his long neck taut. I keep one eye on him, watching his chest heave as he catches his breath, and when he finally slumps against the mattress, I raise my head to meet his eyes.

"Was it good for you?" I ask him, doing a pretty good imitation of Darien-the-punk, then kiss him on the belly so he knows I’m being sarcastic. I may not ever have sucked a guy off and totally loved it before, but I know what I’m good at and I’ve never had anyone complain.

"Hobbesy," he sighs and strokes my head softly. Damned if that doesn’t put an ache in my balls that I swore I would take hours to feel after the blowjob he gave me less than 40 minutes ago. Fuck. I haven’t been this horny since I was seventeen. "God, yes, it was good for me, you bastard," he half laughs. "Couldn’t you tell?" It’s his turn to be sarcastic, and I laugh into his belly as I stick my tongue in his navel, wondering if I can tease him hard again so we can do some more exploring.

I shift so he can feel he’s got my attention, and press myself against his calf, my cock stiffening with every heartbeat. "I thought that sounded like someone having a good time," I murmur against his ribs.

He laughs again, and tenses his calf muscle against me. "Get your ass up here," he suggests, and I slide on up alongside him so he can wrap an arm around me and pull me onto his chest. It means I’m lying on top of him, my cock sandwiched between us, and I start to ache all over again. He kisses me, tasting my mouth, nibbling on my lips, stroking his tongue over mine. "Fuck me," he suggests. It’s not a command, not a demand, not even a request. It’s just a thought. A second of absolute honesty, absolute trust.

I think about the condoms and lube I bought at the general store just before I got back, when this was still a theoretical proposition. I’ve never fucked another man, not that way. Not all the way. But I’m willing to learn new tricks, I guess, so I smile at him. "When, and for how long?" I ask with a smile.

He doesn’t smile back, looking up into my eyes with this whole universe in his. "Now. Forever," he answers, and I know then he’s serious. Completely serious. Forever is a real thing for him, like it is for me.

"Okay," I agree as I get up off him, slip off the bed and go for the supplies, feeling his eyes on me. I rummage through the paper bag I brought back with me from my long walk and pull out the lube and the little sealed packets, and go back to the bed and my lover’s long lanky body, my heart starting a slow, heavy thud against my ribs. I hand them to Fawkes and sit down beside him, a little nervous, now that it’s down to it. "You know I ain’t done this, right?" I warn him. "So you’re gonna have to walk me through it."

He smiles, this slow, sultry look that makes the blood rush out of my head. "Don’t worry, I have. It’s like riding a bicycle, Hobbes," he says, reaching up to run his fingers down my arm as if to reassure me. He inches over a little to make room for me on his other side, now, and I lie down beside him again, just taking a second to get a grip on everything that’s happened in the last 48 hours. Who the hell knew I’d run the van into a ditch and fall in love with my partner, all in an afternoon or two? It’s a strange feeling of warp speed mixed with the comfort of a long, slow courtship that I didn’t even know was going on.

"Where do you want me?" I ask him when the little panic attack drains away.

"Right where you are," he says, curling his arm around me and rolling me onto his chest again. His legs are spread, and mine fall between them, our cocks snug alongside each other. It’s almost enough to set me off right there, only Fawkes distracts me by cupping my ass in his hands, letting his fingertips trail along the cleft between the cheeks. "You know the theory, right?" he asks me.

I snort a little. "Hey, I did get through CTS at the top of my class," I inform him. "Just cuz I haven’t put all of it into practice doesn’t mean I don’t got the book-learnin’ down, pal." I swipe a lick across his nipple, and he groans.

"Bobby, give me a break! After that little performance, my balls are so dry, they’re raisins," he moans pathetically, reaching to the nightstand to grab the lube.

"So why am I fucking you?" I ask him sarcastically as he squeezes a handful of the lube into his hand over my back, and then slips his fingers between my ass cheeks, spreading it around like a pro. "Or did you change your mind on that?" I ask as he sweeps fingers past my asshole. I try not to tense up, because whatever it is Fawkes wants, I’ll always do my best to fulfill it. But it’s a weird feeling to have someone’s finger where it is. He presses a little deeper, and I force myself to think about something else.

"No, I haven’t changed my mind," he smiles at me as he kisses the top of my head. "I’m just showing you what to look for," he says as he eases deeper, then deeper again, and brushes something inside me. It’s like having a lightening bolt zap through my cock, and I practically levitate off his chest, so close to coming it’s only because he’s got his other hand clamped around me that I don’t.

"Jeezus fucking Christ!" My voice is strangled, and only the fact that he pulls free of me keeps me from going off.

"That’s why you’re fucking me," he whispers against my skull. "I’ve wanted you for so goddamned long, Bobby…."

Holy sweet Jesus Christ on a crutch, what the freaking hell was that? What the hell did he just do to me? I mean, I knew in theory that prostate stimulation was supposedly a turn on, but holy hell, that was like… Like the first time I ever saw a nude woman, like the first time I ever made love, like the first blowjob I ever got…. It was so totally new, so fucking unexpected, I don’t know what the hell to call it. My breathing is ragged, and I stare down into his face, knowing the shock is showing, and hoping the lust is, too. His smile tells me it is, and I relax back against his chest. "God, Fawkes," I mutter against his nipple. "Does it always feel that good?"

"It’s an acquired taste," he says into the fuzz on top my skull. He hasn’t let go of my dick, which is probably just as well, because I’m still right on the edge of coming. "It’s a little different when it’s more than a finger inside you. Takes getting used too," he reminds me, which helps bring me back away from the edge where I’ve been teetering since he touched me inside.

"Does it hurt when, you know…" I ask, a little leery about inflicting pain on him.

"Yeah, especially at first, if it’s been a while. But it’s the right kind of hurt, Hobbesy," he assures me.

"You’re sure you want this?" I push, really not into the idea of causing him pain. It’s taking a lot of my edge off.

"Yes, I’m sure," he smiles. And he means it. My Fawkesy radar would have spotted it in a second if he was lying to me about something like this.

"Ok, then, partner," I say, easing off him and sitting on the edge of the bed. "Tell me how you want me to do this. Front? Back? What?" I reach for a condom, ready to roll it on, and he takes it away from me, rips open the package and falls off the bed onto the floor on his knees between my legs so he can put it on himself.

"Front, definitely," he declares as he makes putting a condom on into some of the best foreplay I’ve ever experienced. He does it slowly, following the latex with his mouth, wetting it down so that it gleams in the bluish light filtering through the curtains. When he’s satisfied, he reaches for the lube and slicks me up.

It’s only cuz the rubber dulls the sensation just enough that I don’t come from the feeling of his fist closed around me, sliding down, then back up, spreading it around. "Jesus, Darien," I manage, my voice a whimper as he kisses my belly and stands, handing me the lube as he climbs past me onto the bed. He grabs all the pillows and piles them up, lying down so that his hips are propped up, his legs wide open, knees raised, feet braced on the mattress. His own cock is starting to stiffen up again. I can’t help laughing to myself. It’s obviously been way too long since either of us got laid regularly if we can get hard this fast.

I squeeze a good-sized dollop of the cream into my hand and reach between his legs to stroke his balls, then I move behind them to the little puckered opening and grease him up the way he did me. I concentrate on feeling his skin, feeling the tightness of the muscles around my fingers as I add the third one, moving them back and forth a little to relax the sphincter. When I can slide them in and out easily, I take them out as he moans, reaching for me. "Now, Bobby,’ he urges.

I kneel between his legs, not quite sure how to do this, and he beckons me forward a little. I lean over him, hands on either side of his ribs while I hang there on my knees like I’m doing pushups or something He reaches between our bodies and grabs me gently, guiding me in, and when I can feel him against the tip of my dick, I push. It’s different than with a woman. Tighter, for one thing. More of an effort to penetrate. I keep up the pressure, and move slowly as he lifts his hips up, off the pillows, changing the angles and making it easier on both of us, and finally, I’m in. All the way in. I never really thought about it before, but you can’t really go all the way into a woman’s body like this. Not if you’ve got any length on you, anyway. At least not without hurting her.

All of this overanalyzing is just a delaying tactic, a way to keep it together long enough to make this good for both of us. And when I’m ready, I raise my head and lock on to his eyes, waiting for him to give me a sign he’s ready, too. He runs the palms of his open hands down my arms from shoulders to wrists, then reaches up to cradle my head. "Do it, Bobby, please," he begs, and I do.

I move slow at first, figuring out the feel, getting the hang of the differences, and when I can’t stand it any more, I start to nail him, moving harder and harder, his hips raised to meet me, the wet slap of our balls almost drowned out by our ragged breathing. "Bobby," he moans, and I wish I could reach his mouth with mine, because I need to kiss him, need to stake every claim on him I can think of. He is mine. My friend, my partner, my lover. It’s a magical place, built for two, here in a bed in a cheap motel room, with the silent snow outside. And it can’t last, but for this instant, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier. I can feel his cock slide against my belly, every bit as hard as mine, and I can hear him panting with it as the quicksilver flows over us. I reach down and grab him, letting my fist mimic the rhythm of my hips as I drive into him for the last time, losing myself in him. I feel him come the same second I do, hot even through the icy quicksilver, and I shudder hard, giving him everything I’ve got. "Daaaar…i…eeennnnn," I groan through clenched teeth, every muscle in my body quivering. It’s way too long since I felt this. Total commitment, total surrender. Not since I was married. None of the one night stands I’ve had since the divorce even came close. Jesus god, I love him.

The quicksilver flakes away, and I drop down onto him, exhausted, resting most of my weight on my elbows. His arms come up around me, holding me close, as unwilling to let me go, to end the contact between us, as I am. As if I had any where else I’d rather be. Ah, God. "Darien, I love you," I tell him, nose to the sleek muscles of his chest.

"I love you, too, Bobby Hobbes," he answers, and the fact that he uses my whole name lets me know this isn’t some placebo. Something to eliminate any awkwardness that could’ve cropped up the way it might, if all this was only about sex.

We lie there in each other’s arms for a long time before the sweat drying on our skins chills us and we have to get back under the blankets. Neither of us has even enough energy left to speak, so we let our bodies do the talking, curling up together. Nothing can reach us here, in this place. None of my paranoia or fears or anxieties exist here. I’m not sure I knew what peace felt like until now. I may never know what it feels like again. But for the first time, I know it’s a real thing. I can hold this in my memory as one of those perfect moments in my life. Darien’s long body is warm at my back, protective, and I drift into the deepest sleep I’ve had in years….

End
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Snow Day