Less scribbling than a sort of awkward calligraphy

If you're looking for FOB fan fiction...

scribblinlenore — Mon, 05 Jan 2015 18:11:56 GMT

I recently made all my FOB fan fiction private, because the band is doing an event on January 8 in which they intend to make a video of them reading fan fiction. That makes me very uncomfortable, and I don't want any of my work used. So it will all stayed locked until the event is over. If you're interested in reading one of my stories, check back after then.

Dear Yuletide Author letter

scribblinlenore — Sat, 25 Oct 2014 02:14:27 GMT

My dear Yuletide Writer,

Thank you for writing for me! I'm very excited about all the fandoms I requested. You have great taste for offering one of them. :)

Here's some general stuff about my story preferences:
I have a very broad range of enjoyment when it comes to stories. I like slash, het and gen. I'm into reading explicit sex if you're into writing it, but all ratings are good. I love relationship stories that show the deepening sense of intimacy between two people, whether it's a romance or a friendship. I also adore plotty stories, casefiles, action/adventure, future fic, backstory, and my great love for fan fiction cliches never dies! I don't mind some angst in a story, especially if the source material really calls for it, but I do appreciate when a story ends on a hopeful note.

A few things I'm not really into are: Non-con (although I don't mind dub con), crossovers, and gore.

Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies): Gamora, Peter Quill, Rocket, Groot

Found family is one of my favorite themes, and it's my favorite part of this movie. I would love a story that explores what happens after the movie ends, how the team settles in together, how their friendships develop, the adventures and misadventures they have. I could only choose four characters, but team fic is what I crave, so if you're cool with including Drax, I'd totally enjoy it. But it's also cool if you don't! I'm particularly fond of Gamora-centered stories, but don't let that get in the way of your inspiration if you find you want to go in a different direction. Guardians gen fic is my happy place, so while I don't mind some angst and difficulty along the way, I would like the resolution of the story to be positive.

Sebastian St. Cyr Mysteries - C. S. Harris: Sebastian St. Cyr, Hero Jarvis/Lady Devlin

The relationship between Devlin and Hero is my favorite part of the book, and I'd love to read more of it from any point along its development. A missing scene from when they're first getting to know one another. The two of them at loggerheads pursuing their own agendas. A moment from their marriage. I love case files, and if you want to write one, I'd adore reading it. Really anything that explores their relationship would be awesome.

Those Who Kill: Catherine Jensen, Thomas Schaeffer

I watched this show for the amazing chemistry between these two characters, for the way their issues dovetailed in such a fascinating, train-wreck kind of way. I was very sorry that the series ended with such a cliffhanger, and I'd love a story that tackles what happened next. Or a missing scene from any point during the series. I can see their relationship turning sexual, and if you want to explore that, I'd happily read it. But I'm also interested in how they work together, how they connect as people, and I'd happily read a gen characterization as well. It's a dark show, and I'm fine with a dark story if that's where inspiration takes you.

Wonderfalls: Jaye Tyler, Eric Gotts

I rewatched this show recently, and I was struck all over again by how charming the relationship is between Jaye and Eric. I'd love a story in which Eric gets pulled along on one of Jaye's missions, and they have (mis)adventures together. Or a story that shows what happened next after the show left off. Or how Eric finds out about Jaye's talking animal issue. I'm imagining a more lighthearted story in keeping with the show's tone, but if you feel like getting serious, that would be interesting too!

Catching up on Yuletide

scribblinlenore — Sun, 05 Jan 2014 16:56:14 GMT

I can't say that I really make New Years resolutions, but I would like to take more of an active part in DW/LJ this year. So I thought I'd start with Yuletide.

This year I was very spoiled with two wonderful stories:

Zo (1172 words) by lalejandra
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Woman on the Edge of Time
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Characters: Original Character
Additional Tags: Depression, Time Travel, Pre-Canon
Summary: In Woman on the Edge of Time, the future seems so glorious, yet there are always people who fall into cracks. This takes place before the book starts.

If you haven't read this novel I really do recommend it. Marge Piercy creates a truly fascinating future world and explores issues of race, gender, environmentalism, etc. I've been requesting it as long as I've been doing Yuletide, and this year I got it at last. Yay! It's a very well done story that perfectly captures the universe while also questioning some of its assumptions.

Running Off to See (100 words) by rabidsamfan
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Sense and Sensibility (1995)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Characters: Margaret Dashwood
Additional Tags: Drabble, yumadrin
Summary: Margaret wants to know the whole wide world.

After rewatching this movie earlier this year, I really wanted Margaret to have her adventures. And in this story she does!

Brooklyn Nine-Nine is far and away my favorite new show of the season (note to self: write more about that later), and I was very happy to be assigned it for Yuletide.

It's Ladies Night (and the Feeling's Right) (6984 words) by Lenore
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Rosa Diaz/Amy Santiago
Characters: Rosa Diaz, Amy Santiago, Jake Peralta, Ray Holt, Gina Linetti, Charles Boyle, Terry Jeffords, Scully (Brooklyn Nine-Nine), Hitchcock (Brooklyn Nine-Nine)
Additional Tags: Case Fic, Humor, Hypnotism, Kissing
Summary: There's a Hypnotist Bandit on the loose. Rosa and Amy take him down—but not without some misadventures.

I also did a pinch hit for the Hockey RPF Holiday Exchange which I'll post when I have more time. Happy New Year, everyone!

Three-sentence fic

scribblinlenore — Fri, 15 Nov 2013 16:12:25 GMT

As seen on Tumblr...but I think it will be more fun to do here!

1) Give me a pairing.

2) Give me an AU setting.

3) I will write you a three-sentence fic.

ETA: By three-sentence fic I mean: something relatively short. :)

This has "hockey vid" written all over it

scribblinlenore — Sat, 02 Nov 2013 23:48:17 GMT

My dear friend no_detective posted the link to this video that has become MY NEW FAVORITE THING.

Luscious Jackson - #1 Bum

I LOVE these women and their reactions, and I have had this very conversation with fangirls SO MANY TIMES. In fat, my Yankees friends and I have a hand gesture that's shorthand for: "Derek Jeter's ass is perfect." No words necessary. Message perfectly understood.

Now I really, REALLY need a hockey vid set to this song. Please?

Trick or treat!

scribblinlenore — Thu, 31 Oct 2013 22:07:44 GMT

I saw this really fun Halloween thing from destina and svmadelyn, and decided to join in.

In honor of All Hallow's Eve, I'm inviting trick-or-treaters to my "door." Comment "trick-or-treat" to this post and...well, you know the drill. Treats can be anything that strikes my fancy (pics of fave actors or pairings, one sentence fics, graphics, a few words why I'm glad to have you on my flist, etc. etc.).

The more "houses" to visit the more fun it'll be, so go ahead, open your journal and help spread the fun!

Dear Yuletide Author

scribblinlenore — Thu, 10 Oct 2013 18:31:57 GMT

My dear Yuletide Writer,

Thank you for writing for me! I'm very excited about all the fandoms I requested. You have great taste for offering one of them. :)

I have a very broad range of enjoyment when it comes to stories. I like slash, het and gen. I'm into reading explicit sex if you're into writing it, but all ratings are good. I love relationship stories that show the deepening sense of intimacy between two people, whether it's a romance or a friendship. I also adore plotty stories, casefiles, action/adventure, future fic, backstory, and my great love for fan fiction cliches never dies! I don't mind some angst in a story, especially if the source material really calls for it, but I do appreciate when a story ends on a hopeful note.

A few things I'm not really into are: Non-con (although I don't mind dub con), crossovers, and graphic violence.

Woman on the Edge of Time, Connie, Bee, Jackrabbit, Luciente (or really any characters)

This is one of my favorite books, and I'd be thrilled to get any story set in this universe. I'd love to see Connie become more involved with the people of the future or read a missing scene of life in Mattapoisett. I'd be happy with gen or if you'd like to write an erotic story, I'm always good with that. I've wondered what it would have been like if Connie had taken Jackrabbit up on his flirtation. Actually, I'd love to read any permutation of Connie, Bee, Jackrabbit and Luciente. All the characters in this universe are awesome, so please feel free to include any that you wish. Really, anything you want to explore will make my day.

Haven, Audrey Parker, Nathan Wuornos, Duke Crocker

This is a show I look forward to every week, and there are so many different kinds of stories I'd enjoy reading. A resolution of the big issue in S4. A casefile set anywhere in the timeline that has Nathan, Audrey and Duke working together. Something romantic and relationship focused. I enjoy any combination of the characters but tend most toward OT3 or Duke/Nathan. I'm intrigued by the show's mythology and the glimpses we get of Audrey's origins, and I'd love to read a take on that. I'd also enjoy future fic that shows life after the Troubles. The one thing I'd prefer not to see is a complete AU since the world of Haven is so interesting and shapes the characters so much.

Ripper Street, Edmund Reid, Homer Jackson

I find the relationship between these two completely fascinating. It's hard for me to resist the upright man of the law and the shady neer-do-well finding common ground, working together and coming to respect one another. I would happily read slash, but if that isn't your cup of tea, I would equally as happily read about their working relationship or burgeoning friendship. If you like to write casefiles, I'd adore one of those. Or perhaps one of the men has to help the other out of a jam. Or there's some awkward advice asking about personal matters. Really, anything that portrays the connection between these two will be awesome.

Sense and Sensibility (1995), Margaret Dashwood

I rewatched this movie recently and was struck by how winning young Margaret is (a rather different characterization than in the book). I would love future fic that follows her adventures. What is she like as a young woman? Does she ever get to see the Nile? If you want to write the story of Margaret finding love as her sisters did before her, that would be lovely. If writing future fic isn't really your thing, then Margaret's take on the events of the movie would also be delightful.

L.A. Confidential, Bud White, Ed Exley

These two never stop being hot no matter how many times I watch the movie. If you're into writing slash, I would love slash for them, and if filthy, dirty porn is your thing, hey, it's my thing too. I've always thought Lynn saying "Fucking me and fucking Bud White aren't the same thing" is one of the most deliciously provocative lines ever, and if you'd like to do something with that, awesome. However, if you're not comfortable writing Ed and Bud in a sexual relationship, I would also love a portrayal of their working relationship and growing friendship. I'd adore future fic where they're reunited to work a case together or a missing scene from the movie that sheds light on their respective personalities and what draws them together.

Elementary, Joan Watson, Sherlock Holmes

I'd adore a Joan-centric story and especially one that shows her really coming into her own as a detective. Maybe she notices something that Sherlock missed or uses her knowledge as a doctor to solve a case. Or if you're not into writing casefiles, I'd love insight into Joan's thoughts about her change of career, how she feels about being a detective, where she imagines the future taking her. I also love the relationship between Joan and Sherlock, and if you'd like to focus on it, that would be awesome as well. While I hope the show always keeps things platonic between them, I'm open to a bit of romance in fanfic.

ETA: I forgot the most important thing of all! Which is that my suggestions are just that...suggestions. Write the story that makes you happy, and I'm sure it will make me happy too.

Ugh, ants

scribblinlenore — Sun, 06 Oct 2013 20:18:07 GMT

I've never had a problem with ants before, but recently they invaded my kitchen. I found where they were coming in around the window and sealed it up, but apparently hordes had already made it inside. I never store food unsealed, and I've been even more scrupulous about keeping all dishes washed and the counters scrubbed down. I also tried rubbing down the counters with peppermint oil which is supposed to deter them. I keep thinking they're gone and then finding more. Any tips? I really want these things out of my house.

Fall TV Viewing

scribblinlenore — Wed, 04 Sep 2013 01:17:26 GMT

Thanks to everyone who shared the TV shows they're looking forward to this fall! I think I've now sorted out my fall TV viewing.

Returning shows I'm really excited about:
-Elementary: my favorite show on TV right now
-Person of Internet: the end of last season left the story in a fascinating place, can't wait to see what happens next
-Haven: OT3! OT3!

Other returning shows I'll probably be watching:
-Castle: I love Nathan Fillion, but enough already with the OTT relationship drama
-Criminal Minds: This show jumped the shark for me last season, but a formulaic crime drama can be so weirdly soothing

Dear-God-why-can't-I-quit-you shows that maybe this year I will actually quit:
-Mentalist: F*ck you, just tell us who Red John is already, although I seriously don't know why I even care
-Supernatural: This show really should have ended several seasons ago, but I enjoyed this past season pretty well, so I probably won't quit it unless it's just too mired in Winchester misery

New shows I'm giving a shot:
-Agents of S.H.E.I.L.D: Big shock I know!
-Sleepy Hollow: HEADS. WILL. ROLL. This looks ridiculous in the most delightful way.
-The Blacklist: If this show didn't have James Spader in it I would probably pass, but it does, so.
-Reign: What can I say? I enjoy overwrought historical dramas.
-Dracula: I can't tell if this looks interesting or just pretentious, but I'm going to tune in and find out.

Women's Hockey Primer

scribblinlenore — Sat, 31 Aug 2013 00:49:14 GMT

I found this fantastic Women's Hockey Primer put together by pineapplechild via Tumblr. If there is anything more awesome than women playing hockey I don't know what it is. Also, I may have fallen in love with the captain of the US women's team, Julie Chu, a little bit. Or, you know, kind of a lot.

Yuletide nominations

scribblinlenore — Thu, 29 Aug 2013 23:32:34 GMT

I truly can't believe that September is almost here. Where did the summer go? No, no, really, where did 2013 go? I feel like I slept through it. But, hey, September does mean that Yuletide nominations are on the horizon. And this year...I have no idea what to nominate. Hm.

There is this vague memory I have of saying at least once or maybe more than that during the year...hey, I have to remember that for Yuletide! Oops. Relying on my memory is always a bad plan. I could ask for Ripper Street, because there is so very, very little fandom for it, and Captain Jackson is a sexy, unwashed scoundrel. Of course I do always nominate Woman On The Edge of Time, and I still haven't completely despaired of receiving it one day. I don't think hockey RPF is eligible? Or maybe it depends on the pairing. What else do I like? I can't think.

So what are you guys nominating?

Kaner/Tazer Recs, Part Deux

scribblinlenore — Tue, 27 Aug 2013 01:24:45 GMT

Here's part two of my Kaner/Tazer recs after much delay. Obviously I couldn't in good conscience recommend stories without rereading them first. Obviously. So there are actually many more K/T stories I've enjoyed, but given my somewhat slow-moving rec process, I think I'm going to leave it at this.

It's a Love Story, Baby, Just Say Yes (34060 words) by svmadelyn
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews, Patrick Kane/OMC(s)
Characters: Jonathan Toews, Patrick Kane
Additional Tags: ridiculous amounts of pining and feelings, Chicago Blackhawks, Bachelor Auction, Jonathan Toews stop being an ostrich
Summary: Kaner tries to fuck his way out of love. That goes as well as you might imagine. </p>

There are puppies and a bachelor auction and boys who are really kind of slow, also lots of feelings, basically everything you need in a Kaner/Tazer story.

love is a contact sport (109901 words) by hazel, mermaid
Chapters: 2/2
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Patrick Kane, Jonathan Toews
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - High School
Summary: "And the tragic reality of Patrick's life is that even though they broke up over a year ago, he and Johnny still play beautiful hockey together." A high school AU, featuring dream-fish, bad movie dates, and a little bit of magic.

This is, by turns, the most romantic and heartbreaking story ever. I love it so.

Switch (35042 words) by montrose
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Patrick Kane, Jonathan Toews
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - BDSM
Summary: You're supposed to know if you're a top or a sub by the time you're twelve. Fourteen at the outside. It's biological, the researchers say. It's not a choice. But sometimes Jon thinks that for him, it really was.

This is another story that takes a trope I don't generally enjoy—a BDSM universe where what you do in the bedroom determines what choices you're allowed to make in the rest of your life—turns that trope on its ear, and makes me love it.

If I Took You Home (It’d Be a Home Run) (33816 words) by svmadelyn
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews, Jonathan Toews/Original Male Character, Jonathan Toews/Original Female Character
Characters: Patrick Kane, Jonathan Toews, David Toews, Patrick Sharp
Additional Tags: Sex Toys, Courtship, Giant Cock Angst
Summary: This is a story about true love overcoming the hugest (no, seriously, the hugest) of obstacles.

Jonny is just SO DETERMINED, you know?

under your skin (5898 words) by hazel
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Patrick Kane, Jonathan Toews
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Bodyswap
Summary: Patrick goes to bed that night in Tazer’s guest room. It’s not the first time he’s slept there, but it’s the first time he’s tried to sleep in Tazer’s body. His legs want to kick out weirdly into the corners of the bed, and his head can’t find a comfortable position on the pillow. He drops off eventually anyway, worn from the current of rage he’s been carrying around all day and the constant slow rhythm of Tazer’s heartbeat, drumming in his chest like a cage.

I am always a fan of bodyswap, but what I love most about this story is the fantastic world the author creates. It's not a long story, but the universe comes to life really vividly.

Crossroad Blues (24220 words) by randomeliza
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Jonathan Toews, Patrick Kane
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Demons, Stanley Cup Finals, Chicago Blackhawks, Be Careful What You Wish For, Wingfic, Patrick Kane Is Literally Evil, Jonathan Toews Has Bad Taste In Men, Mullets And Muttonchops
Summary: In which the demon Patrick Kane gives Jonathan Toews everything he's ever wanted.

More interesting world building! I really like how the author integrates the mythology of the crossroads demon from Supernatural into a hockey story. I would totally believe that Kaner is secretly a demon!

A Distinct Dicking Motion (2283 words) by jedusaur
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Patrick Kane, Jonathan Toews
Additional Tags: Broning, dirty charades, Exhibitionism
Summary: Johnny has a plan for tonight, and it does not involve watching Andrew Shaw mime inserting something large and possibly alive into his ass.

This story makes me laugh so hard. I love that Jonny turns out to be really good at guessing the dirty charades, or Kaner's plan to tease him backfires on him REALLY A LOT.

All the Boys Keep Jockin’ (7675 words) by queeniegalore
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Patrick Kane, Jonathan Toews, Viktor Stalberg, Patrick Sharp, Abby Sharp
Additional Tags: Crossdressing, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, Halloween, Broning, Anti-Lockout Squee Fest, PWP, Makeup
Summary: AKA the one where Jonny learns to love Halloween and Patrick Kane discovers the powers of Vinyl Gloss 550 (Lovesick).

If you don't want to read a story in which Patrick Kane dresses up like Britney, then I don't really know what to do with that.

savoy truffle (8130 words) by hazel, ellievolia
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Patrick Kane, Jonathan Toews
Additional Tags: Baking, Food Porn, Competence Kink, Canon Compliant, Vanilla Kink
Summary: mix the softened butter and peanut butter together until thoroughly blended. Add the sugars and beat until smooth. Next beat in the egg, honey, vanilla, and yogurt until combined. Add the dry ingredients slowly and beat on low-speed just until combined. Gently stir in the chocolate chips. Chill dough in refrigerator for at least 30 minutes-1 hour, or place in freezer for 20 minutes. Kaner, hockey player by day, baker...when he can. Set during the 12/13 shortened season. Loosely.

Kaner the secret baker is pretty adorable cakes, and I enjoyed reading a story in which Tazer would actually eat cookies.

Inception FIC: La Vie de Famille (Part 2/2)

scribblinlenore — Sat, 24 Aug 2013 17:34:23 GMT

La Vie de Famille, Part 2
Jack had chosen a place called "Incredible!" for Arthur's birthday party, and as soon as they came through the door, Arthur could see why it was a favorite. The room exploded in a riot of colors: booths in all the primary shades, cavorting cartoon characters painted on every inch of available wall space, arcade games lighting up neon bright.

Jack had chosen a place called "Incredible!" for Arthur's birthday party, and as soon as they came through the door, Arthur could see why it was a favorite. The room exploded in a riot of colors: booths in all the primary shades, cavorting cartoon characters painted on every inch of available wall space, arcade games lighting up neon bright.

"Isn't it great?" Jack said expectantly, looking up at Arthur.

"I can't imagine anything better," Arthur told him truly.

Eames smiled at them both, soft and fond, and Arthur's mouth went a little dry. Eames had picked them up directly after work, and he hadn't bothered to change. He'd just flung off his jacket and dispensed with his tie, rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his shirt at the collar. He had stubble on his cheeks, and he smelled like ink and body heat and lingeringly of citrus from his cologne. He was so fucking gorgeous sometimes Arthur could hardly believe he was real.

"Skeeball!" Jack squealed and grabbed Arthur's hand and would have dragged him away if Eames hadn't stopped him with a hand on top of his head.

"Table first, and then ordering, and then games," Eames told him.

Jack let out a heavy sigh. "O-kay."

Fortunately they didn't have to wait long to be seated, and in the six weeks they'd lived under the same roof, they'd gotten pizza ordering down to a science: just cheese on one half for Jack and pepperoni and olives on the other half for the grownups.

"Come on!" Jack started tugging on Arthur's arm before the waitress had even walked away.

"I'll hold down the fort," Eames told them, mouth turning up in amusement.

Jack sent his first skeeball plunking onto the neighboring lane. "Oops," he said sheepishly, toeing at the carpet.

"That's okay. Here. We can do it together." Arthur took up the next ball and put his arms around Jack and guided his motions. They managed to hit the fifty-point mark.

"Yes!" Jack fist-pumped. "Again, Arthur!"

They finished up the game with a pretty good score, and Jack made off with a fistful of tickets. "I'm saving up for the dinosaur!" He pointed at a dusty shelf of prizes, to a tiny plastic stegosaurus. "Ooh, video games." He made a beeline for the bank of machines, pulling Arthur along with him.

He picked out two-player Pac man, which took Arthur back to the sandy summer days of his childhood on the Jersey Shore, but just as they dropped a quarter into the slot, a little girl materialized out of nowhere, her carrot-colored hair in two pigtails, a sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

"You need to come play with me," she declared, hands on her hips, her saucer-big blue eyes focused determinedly on Jack.

Jack stared at her, as if a metric ton of smitten had just fallen on top of his head. "Um, okay?"

The little girl nodded in satisfaction and dragged Jack off toward a mini jungle gym set up in the corner. The video game beeped at Arthur that it was time to start.

"I see a young seductress has made off with your opposition." Eames turned up at Arthur's side, an amused slant to his mouth. "Shall I take up the gauntlet?"

Arthur smirked at him, "Only if you're okay with losing."

Arthur had a competitive streak—to put it mildly—and even if it was Eames he was playing against, he had every intention of winning. Apparently Eames felt much the same way. They battled it out, a Pac man duel of epic proportions. In the end Arthur proved victorious, if only by a handful of points.

"Have you always been good at everything, darling?" Eames gave him a sideways look through his lashes, voice low and flirty.

Arthur wet his lips. He had this too-warm sensation in the pit of his stomach—and, well, other places. "I've always thought if something's worth doing, it's worth doing right."

Eames's gaze fastened on him more intently. "You intrigue me, Arthur, truly. I have this overwhelming urge to sit you down and make you spill every last detail of your life's history." His mouth curved up softly.

"I'll tell you anything you want to know," Arthur blurted out. It was even the truth, he realized with surprise.

"Arthur." Eames laid a hand on Arthur's arm, moving it lightly over the fabric of his shirt.

Jack came running up. "Daddy! Arthur! Pizza's ready!"

For the first time in Arthur's life, he actually resented pizza.

They ate, all the while Jack insisted that he still had one more surprise for Arthur, and after the dishes had been cleared away he produced a package that he'd clearly wrapped himself.

"I wonder what it is," Arthur said as he carefully undid the paper. Inside, he found a lanyard made of braided, brightly colored strands of plastic.

"I almost didn't get to make it! Stupid Cody Prescott." Then Jack thought to add, "It's for your keys."

"It's perfect." Arthur gathered him up in a hug.

"Happy birthday, Arthur," Jack said, his arms tight around Arthur's neck.

Eames watched them with a soft expression.

"This is the best birthday I've ever had," Arthur said, as much to Eames as to Jack.

At home, Jack insisted on having Arthur read him his story and put him to bed. When Arthur came back downstairs, Eames had opened a bottle of wine and was waiting for him in the living room. "I thought you might appreciate a slightly more grownup conclusion to your celebration."

Arthur laughed and joined him on the sofa. They chinked glasses.

"Cheers." Eames smiled and took a sip, and Arthur tried not to pay an undue amount of attention to the shape of his mouth pressed against the rim of the glass. "Actually, I have something for you too." He produced a package that had been hidden from view between the sofa and the side table, a rectangular box, more expertly wrapped than the gift from Jack, although only slightly.

"You really didn't have to." The protest was belied by the eagerness with which Arthur ripped into the paper. His mouth fell open, and he stared. "It's—" The MacBook Air of his dreams. He stared some more.

A thought passed fleetingly through his head that this was too much, that he really shouldn't let Eames be so extravagant, but he didn't say it out loud. Because who was he kidding? He wanted to hug the computer to his chest and never let go. It would have to be pried from his cold, dead fingers.

"Go on then. Open it," Eames encouraged, smiling as if he understood perfectly well that Arthur was having feelings for his new Mac.

Arthur carefully opened the box and slid the computer out and stared even harder than before. It was a wonder his eyes didn't actually pop out of his head. The MacBook was so shiny.

Apparently he said this out loud because Eames laughed. "I'm glad you approve, darling."

"Approve?" Arthur squinted at him. "It's got all-flash storage, a multi-touch trackpad, full-sized keyboard, a screen that's like watching hi-def TV, and seven fucking beautiful hours of battery life, all in one perfectly engineered package that measures .68 inches at its widest and weighs under three pounds. I don't approve. I worship it."

Eames's face went bright and pleased, and he leaned in confidentially. "You know I won't be insulted if you want to go upstairs and spend some alone time with your gift."

It was a tribute to the superlative brilliance of Mac design that Arthur actually considered doing that for a moment. Instead he carefully set his new computer on the coffee table. "Thank you." On impulse, he leaned in to hug Eames.

Eames hugged back, strong arms wrapped around Arthur's back. "I'll expect you to write many brilliant things with that machine," he said against Arthur's temple.

Arthur pulled back to smile at him, and Eames touched Arthur's cheek fondly. It had already been such a great birthday. The only thing that could possibly make it better would be—

"The 400 Blows?"

"What?"

"Actually, you have choices." Eames pulled three NetFlix DVDs out of the side table drawer, Breathless and Jules and Jim in addition to The 400 Blows, three of Arthur's favorites, made all the better by the planning that must have gone into Eames getting them in time for his birthday.

He wanted to watch them all.

This apparently came though loud and clear in his expression, because Eames smiled indulgently, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I think we can manage that."

He popped Breathless into the DVD player and settled on the couch again, arm stretched along the back of it. And the thing was: he'd been flirting earlier, and Arthur was fairly sure they'd almost kissed back at the restaurant, and it was his birthday, damn it. He leaned into the curve of Eames's arm, and for a moment Eames did nothing about it, and Arthur's inner monologue took a turn for the frantic: Oh fuck, did you just fuck this up? Don't fuck this up! But then Eames curled his arm around Arthur's shoulders and pulled him closer, and even Godard's sheer genius couldn't keep Arthur's brain from wandering off every now and then to think dazedly: God, Eames smells good.

By the time they were halfway through the second film, Arthur was starting to feel sleepy—he blamed it on the wine—but he stubbornly insisted to Eames that he could stay awake for the third. It would be a crime not to watch Jules and Jim, and he had Eames's arm around him, and he didn't want to move for the rest of his life. He didn't realize he'd actually fallen asleep until he woke to the sensation of a firm shoulder beneath his cheek, warm breath ghosting his forehead, and Eames's voice, quiet and amused, "You realize I can't carry you upstairs the way I do Jack."

Arthur could feel the flex of Eames's biceps, the coiled strength in the shoulder beneath his cheek, and he suspected that Eames could manage his weight pretty easily actually if there weren't the issue of Arthur's dignity.

Eames flicked off the TV. "Come on then. Up you get."

Arthur let out a resigned sigh and opened his eyes, rubbing at them, and lurched to his feet. Eames rested a hand at the small of Arthur's back as if he weren't certain how steady he was and guided him up the stairs to the door of his bedroom.

It hit then, a rush of awareness, Eames so close and so warm and smelling so fucking incredible, the heat of his palm soaking into Arthur's skin. Want thrummed through him. He was instantly, violently awake.

"Eames." He felt surprised, and then again not surprised at all, to hear himself sounding breathy and expectant.

Eames took a half step closer, his gaze unfalteringly trained on Arthur, his expression assessing and intimately focused. Arthur really thought Eames was going to kiss him, finally, and then there would be other things: nakedness and rumpled sheets and yes, please!

He could see it happen in Eames's face, a slow-motion tipping of the scales in the other direction as Eames's brain cycled through whatever bullshit reasons he'd come up with for why they shouldn't do this.

Arthur got a peck to the cheek instead of a proper kiss.

"Happy birthday, Arthur."

And it really had been. Right up until he watched Eames tread quietly down the hall, stepping carefully so he wouldn't wake Jack, and disappear into his bedroom without taking Arthur with him.

Arthur waited to see if Eames would say anything about what had happened—or more to the point, what hadn't—but the closest Eames came to bringing it up were a few apologetic glances cast in Arthur's direction. If Eames wasn't going to talk about it, then Arthur certainly wasn't. So they both soldiered on manfully, ignoring that there was anything awkward or tense between them.

Arthur spent much of the weekend holed up in his room, pretending he'd come down with a bout of extreme academic inspiration. When he and Eames did cross paths, Eames was so carefully polite it was almost painful. He didn't use the word "darling" even once, which Arthur tried not to be pissed about, not very successfully.

Jack, of course, picked up that something was going on. At the breakfast table on Monday, he glanced up furtively from his Fruit Loops. "Am I in trouble?"

Eames started, guilt flashing across his face before he could plaster on a reassuring smile. "You haven't done anything to get into trouble, have you?"

Jack's forehead creased as he considered the question. "I don't think so." He glanced from Eames to Arthur and back again, his frown deepening. "What's wrong then?"

"Nothing," Arthur said quickly. "Nothing's wrong, Jack." The look of sheer gratitude Eames shot him made Arthur swallow hard.

"Listen to Arthur, darling." Eames dropped a kiss to the top of Jack's head. "You know what a propensity he has for being right."

"What's a p'pensity?" Jack asked, looking yet more confused.

Eames laughed and explained, and Arthur actually managed to smile. For a moment the tension receded.

"You want to go out and play?" Arthur asked once Eames had left for work and breakfast was done.

Jack shook his head.

"Mario Kart?"

More head shaking.

"Dinosaurs? Legos?"

Jack looked down at the floor, a sure sign he wanted something but was hesitant to ask.

Arthur knelt down and put an arm around him. "We can do anything you want."

"Can we read?" Jack asked hopefully.

"Really?" Jack loved a story before bed—Arthur suspected this was at least in part a stalling tactic to put off actually going to sleep—but he was usually too busy zipping around, filled with six-and-a-half year old energy, to have much interest in reading most other times. "You're sure that's what you want?"

Jack nodded emphatically. "Can we go read in your room?"

"Sure. We can do that."

Jack launched himself at Arthur, arms going around Arthur's neck, clinging tenaciously, as if he were afraid Arthur was going to try to slip away. Even once Arthur managed to gently untangle him, Jack grabbed Arthur's hand in a death grip and made himself a child-sized barnacle against Arthur's leg, slowing down progress as they headed upstairs. They retrieved Treasure Island from Jack's bedside table, and in Arthur's room, they settled in the easy chair by the window. Jack curled close, his head tucked beneath Arthur's chin.

Arthur began to see why Eames had been so reticent about their getting involved. Not that Arthur had ever taken the matter of Jack's happiness lightly, but he hadn't realized how much Jack would be affected by a little bit of disharmony between the two of them.

"Hey," he said, lips brushing Jack's hair. "I'm not going anywhere, you know that, right? We've got the whole rest of the summer together."

Jack tipped his head back and regarded Arthur solemnly and nodded slowly.

"Good. So. Treasure Island."

He opened to the place marked and began to read. Jack relaxed after a while, getting over his bout of clinginess; it wasn't long before he began to squirm.

"I don’t want to read books anymore, Arthur," he declared at last. "Let's go outside!" He slid off Arthur's lap and took off for the backyard where he spent the rest of the morning whooping it up on the swing set.

Arthur was happy to have things back to normal with Jack at least; sadly he and Eames couldn't seem to stop being stilted with one another. By the time Friday rolled around, he was actually relieved to have the distraction of Ariadne's party, even if he hadn't been all that excited when she'd first invited him.

He felt kind of bad about that when she threw open the door and broke into a big, pleased smile. "Arthur! It's so fucking good to see you!" She gave him a kiss and a hug and pulled him into the living room where people were jammed onto every piece of furniture. "Yusuf, look who actually showed. You owe me twenty bucks."

Arthur made a face at her.

Ariadne laughed at him. "That's totally what you get when you blow off your friends. We start making bets about you."

"Arthur." Yusuf slung an arm around his shoulders. "You look like a man in need of a beer." He navigated Arthur around clusters of partygoers to the kitchen and handed him a Pacifico from the refrigerator. "Ariadne's playing matchmaker again. She wanted to invite just you and Mark tonight, but I talked her into this party instead. Please never say I haven't ever done anything for you."

Ariadne popped around the corner and narrowed her eyes at them. "What are you talking about?"

Yusuf smiled. "I was just explaining to Arthur why Pacifico is a superior Mexican beer to Corona."

Ariadne looked to Arthur. "So, Yusuf told you there's someone I want you to meet, right?"

Yusuf let out his breath. "I really don't know how she does that."

"You're pretty transparent, actually," Arthur told him.

"Mark's a grad student in English," Ariadne breezed on. "He's smart and cute and Truffaut's his favorite director. You're perfect for each other." She linked her arm with Arthur's. "Come on. I want to introduce you."

Arthur reluctantly allowed himself to be dragged along. "I'm not really looking for a relationship right now." Not with someone who isn't Eames, he silently amended.

"Come on, Arthur, give it a chance," Ariadne urged. "I have a really good feeling about this."

Arthur's mouth slanted down. "Yes, because it went so well the last time you said that."

"One time I set you up with a guy who was wanted in Arizona! One time, and you never let me live it down," Ariadne said hotly. "Anyway, I did a LexisNexis search on Mark. No outstanding warrants. I'm sure you're going to hit it off!"

Mark turned out to be a studious-looking blond in John Lennon glasses and a Che Guevara T-shirt.

"Arthur, heard a lot about you. Good to meet you."

"Yeah, you too," Arthur said, shaking Mark's hand.

Ariadne beamed approvingly. "I'm going to go put out some more dip. You too get to know each other."

She hurried off in a cloud of complete obviousness, and Arthur felt the need to tell Mark, "Sorry about that."

Mark smiled. "Hey, I totally signed on for this. So, Ariadne tells me you're in film studies?"

"Yeah. Actually I just started working on my thesis." Arthur explained his topic.

Mark nodded along. "I'm interested in Marxist analysis myself." He talked about some recent work he'd done, and ordinarily Arthur would have found it intriguing. Tonight he couldn't concentrate. His mind kept drifting away to Eames and Jack, wondering what they were doing, trying not to wish he was there with them instead of here with Mark.

There was a significant pause, and Arthur realized Mark was waiting for him to say something. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't—there's someone. Ariadne doesn't know, or she wouldn't have—" He waved his hand between them. "Not that I'm seeing this other man exactly, although I would be if—"

Mark's expression went sympathetic, which was probably more than Arthur deserved. "Sounds complicated."

"Yeah," and then somehow Arthur was spilling the whole story.

Mark made a rueful face when he was done. "Okay, not just complicated, but frustrating too." He eyed Arthur speculatively. "I could help with that. The frustration, I mean."

"I don't think—" Even as he was saying it, a part of Arthur demanded: Why the fuck not? He'd jerked off alone in his own bed after that night with Eames. Okay, whatever. He'd jerked off every night since then, but he still went around with this hollow ache, this almost unbearable sense of having been left unsatisfied. He wasn't under any illusions that a quick hook up with Mark would take away that ache, not when it was Eames he was hungry for, but at least it was something.

Mark leaned in a little closer. "Hey, I get that you're into this other guy, but you're not actually together, and—" He shrugged. "I came to the party hoping to get laid, so what do you say?"

Arthur didn't say no, and that seemed good enough for Mark. He took Arthur by the hand and pulled him off to the bathroom.

I'm never going to live it down if Ariadne finds out I've had sex in her bathroom, Arthur couldn’t' help thinking.

Mark locked the door, and Arthur tried to imagine kissing him, but the picture refused to take shape, staticky and blank. Fortunately Mark wasn't much of a romantic. He went straight for Arthur's belt. There was a gust of cool air when he got Arthur's fly open, and then his palm closed warm and tight around Arthur's cock.

"You're fucking gorgeous," Mark slurred out, with that crazy-eyed look guys got when they were horny, something that was a lot hotter when it wasn't coming from a veritable stranger.

Arthur was reminded why he didn't go around having quick fucks with guys he hardly knew in the bathrooms of his friends' apartments.

Still, it did feel good to be touched—it had been way too long since he'd had someone else's hand on his cock—and he fumbled Mark's jeans open to return the favor.

"Fuck. Yeah." Mark panted and jerked his hips and tightened his grip on Arthur to the point of being almost too much.

Arthur bit his lip and worked his fist, the scent of sex rising between their bodies. And then…it was over. Mark came, and Arthur did, and there was nothing left to do but zip up and get past the awkward moments.

"Well—thanks," Mark said with a little smile. "If things don't work out with that other guy, Ariadne has my number."

Arthur washed up at the sink after he'd gone, carefully, lots of soap. He couldn't go home smelling like sex. God. Just the thought of home brought on a pang of longing.

He slipped out of the bathroom and made a beeline for the front door, but Ariadne turned up at his side before he could make his escape. "You really hit it off with Mark, huh?" Her smile insinuated that she knew exactly what he'd been doing in her bathroom.

"He was—nice."

"Nice?" Ariadne squinted at him.

"Look something's come up, and I need to—"

Ariadne's eyes went wide. "Oh my God, Arthur! Seriously? You're fucking the dad?"

"No! We're not," Arthur spluttered. "Not—and it wouldn't just be fucking. It's not like that."

Ariadne gave him a hard look. "I hope not, because there's a kid involved here. You get that, right?"

Arthur glared at her. "Yes! I get that!" He let out his breath slowly. "I just—want to be with them."

"Oh, Arthur." Ariadne kissed his cheek. "That's really sweet. Not what I would ever have expected from you. But sweet."

Arthur was so eager to get home that it wasn't until he was fitting his key into the lock that he remembered: Oh, wait, everything is still stupid and tense and totally fucked up between me and Eames. Shit. He pushed open the door, and then he had more dire things to worry about. Eames and Jack stood at the kitchen table, working on some kind of—project. It looked like a bomb had gone off in the kitchen.

Eames glanced up and let out a loud bark of a laugh. "Oh darling, you should only see your face."

It was such a relief to have Eames calling him wonderful, ridiculous pet names again, sounding comfortable and fond and like himself, that Arthur could almost ignore the disaster area that had taken the place of the shipshape kitchen he'd left behind only hours ago. Almost.

"We're making a volcano, Arthur!" Jack called out excitedly. "I get to stay up late to finish it and everything! You want to help us?"

"Needless to say, we'll clean up the mess when we're done," Eames assured Arthur, smiling.

Arthur smiled back. "I'm pretty good with volcanoes actually."

Eames's eyes were bright and amused. "I had no doubt you would be, love."

"Yay!" Jack beckoned to Arthur. "Come on. You can help me build the sides."

Arthur rolled up his sleeves. "Put me to work."

By the time they finally set off the volcano, Arthur couldn't even mind that he was going to be finding traces of "lava" in the grout until the end of time.

"What are you on about now, you bastards?"

This became a frequently heard phrase around the house as Eames's project for the Skid Row apartment complex headed into its final phase of approvals. From what Arthur could gather, this meant a flurry of last-minute paperwork, red tape and harassment from small-minded bureaucrats who wouldn't know a girder from a footing—this was Eames's opinion anyway, muttered under his breath as he sat in front of his laptop, frazzled and irritated, churning out the necessary documents.

Arthur stumbled across the evidence of Eames's preoccupation in the most unlikely of places: a crusted-over coffee cup kicked beneath the sofa, the flash drive Eames had been frantically searching for that had somehow wound up in the freezer next to the Cherry Garcia, one of Eames's eye-stabbing paisley ties hanging like a streamer from the banister at the top of the steps.

Eames grew worn and hollow-eyed, running on caffeine and a few hours of sleep, more distracted than ever. "Sounds good," he said absently when Arthur mentioned that the dishwasher had begun making a noise like a distressed jackhammer. "I love you too, sweetheart," he answered when Jack complained that he had too much broccoli on his plate.

On the morning of the final deadline, Eames was already at the table, mug in hand, hunched over his laptop when Arthur came down at six.

"You need anything?" Arthur asked him.

"Someone to shake the sense into petty-minded civil servants?" Eames made a face.

"Would you settle for more coffee?"

"You're an angel of mercy, darling."

Jack came thumping down the stairs and made a beeline for his father. He leaned against the chair until Eames hauled him up onto his lap. "Why do you have to work so much, Daddy?" Jack asked fretfully.

"Today should be the last of it, sweetheart." He brushed a kiss to Jack's hair as he continued to type.

"I want to do something fun," Jack insisted.

"We will. I promise. Tonight."

This appeared to satisfy Jack. He slid off his father's lap and clambered onto his own chair and let Arthur pour him a bowl of cereal. "We're gonna do something fun, Arthur," he said triumphantly. "Daddy promised."

"That'll be—" Arthur began, but he was interrupted by Eames's, "Oh, bloody hell! How has it already gone past seven?"

Jack giggled; nothing amused him more than his father cursing. Eames grabbed his papers in a frenzy, and Arthur helped him pack up the computer. "Thank you, darling." Eames pressed a kiss to Arthur's temple as if he did that all the time, and then he kissed the top of Jack's head. "I'll see you tonight."

When Eames had gone, Jack said to Arthur, with an air of resignation, "I don't think we're gonna see Daddy tonight."

Once camp was done, Arthur and Jack headed to Brookside Park for the rest of the afternoon. Jack ran over to the swings, brimming with energy, and Arthur settled on a bench nearby to keep an eye on him. Jack hadn't been on the swing long before the same little red-haired girl from the pizza place turned up. She planted herself in front of him, hands on her hips. A second later Jack jumped off the swing and followed the little girl over to the seesaw, veritable hearts shining out of his eyes.

Arthur couldn't help smiling. Jack had it so bad.

"That's my daughter Poppy. Is that your son?" The woman sitting next to him, blond and glossy and very California, regarded him with polite interest.

"I'm actually Jack's babysitter. Arthur Levine." He offered his hand.

"Amanda Van Housen." She shook hands. "So that's Jack. Poppy keeps talking about him."

Poppy and Jack were now happily going up and down on the seesaw, their faces bright with glee.

"Yeah, Jack has mentioned her too." A few thousand times, Arthur thought with a smile.

"We should exchange numbers and make a play date sometime." She dug her phone out of her purse.

"Jack would love that."

As it turned out, Poppy had already taken matters into her own hands. "I'm going to Jack's house," she declared when her mother finally managed to wrangle her off the seesaw.

Mrs. Van Housen shot an embarrassed look at Arthur. "Maybe another day," she told Poppy.

"No," the little girl persisted determinedly. "Today. Jack and me aren't finished playing yet."

"Jack and I," her mother said, "and you know it's not polite to invite yourself to someone else's house."

"Please, Arthur." Jack gave him a beseeching look.

"Um, well—" Arthur knew he should say they'd do it some other time so he didn't put Mrs. Van Housen on the spot, but he'd never been much good at telling Jack no. Happily, his phone chose that moment to ring.

It was Eames. "Arthur, I hate to do this, but there is some painfully dull political thing this evening it seems I really must attend if I'm to speak with the petty tyrant who holds the future of my project in his hands. I'm sorry. I know I promised Jack, but—"

"Don't worry about it." Arthur eyed Poppy and her mother calculatingly. "I'll take care of everything."

Eames's sigh of relief was audible over the phone. "You are an absolute treasure, darling."

Arthur hung up and smiled at Mrs. Van Housen. "So, how about that play date now instead of sometime?"

He totally wasn't above putting her on the spot if it kept Jack from being disappointed.

Poppy turned out to be an easy guest. She liked Mario Kart even more then Jack did, and the fish sticks Arthur warmed up for dinner were a big hit. Jack was happy just to have her there and spent much of the time staring at her with a dazed how are you so awesome? expression.

It was all perfectly tranquil until Eames turned up unexpectedly, even more harried than he'd been that morning, his hair standing on end as if he'd actually been trying to pull it out. Another man followed on his heels, slight and blond and imminently forgettable when standing in Eames's shadow.

"This bloody nuisance is black tie of course," Eames said by way of explanation for his presence, the corners of his mouth turned down in disgust. Belatedly he thought to add, "Arthur, my colleague Brett Anderson. His firm is partnering with ours on the project."

"So you're the famous Arthur." Brett ogled Arthur in a way that suggested he'd never learned the meaning of the word "subtle."

"And who might this charming young lady be?" Eames smiled down at Poppy.

Arthur waited for Poppy to introduce herself; she'd certainly never been bashful before. But apparently having the full force of Eames's charm aimed at her proved somewhat incapacitating. All she could do was stare up at him with huge, love-struck eyes. Arthur totally sympathized and took care of the introductions for her.

"It's lovely to meet you, Poppy," Eames told her.

She batted her eyes. Jack scowled bitterly.

Brett took the opportunity to invade Arthur's personal space. "I've always thought film studies was so interesting." He managed to make an entire academic discipline sound unaccountably dirty.

Then it was Eames's turn to scowl.

"Don't you need to change?" Brett reminded him. "We're going to be late."

Eames went off grudgingly. Arthur could hear Poppy whisper to Jack in her too-loud kid's voice, "Is your dad a movie star?"

Brett inched closer to Arthur, really starting to push his luck. "So who's your favorite director?" he asked with all the cheesy insinuation of What's your sign?

The five minutes it took Eames to return seemed very, very long, and then there he was, sleek and elegant and dizzyingly handsome in a tux. Arthur stared so hard he lost time.

Brett laughed. "Well, you're not going to have any trouble getting that approval, are you?" He leaned in to Arthur, his voice going lower, more confidential. "This guy that heads up the community development department has a thing for Eames."

"That's really not the case," Eames insisted, darting a glance at Arthur.

"It really is," Brett said. "Hey, if wearing that tux doesn't do the trick, you could always take it off. No way that's not going to work." He grinned lewdly.

Arthur had the sudden impulse to throw the Cuisinart at him. Eames settled for simply glaring.

Brett noticed none of this. "Hope to see you again, Arthur." His tone implied, And I hope we're both naked!

This was apparently as much as Eames could stand. He slid an arm possessively around Arthur's waist and very pointedly kissed him on the forehead. "See you later, darling."

Arthur, not remotely content with that, grabbed Eames by the lapels of his beautiful jacket and pressed his lips firmly to Eames's. He hoped to convey: If you take off that tux for anyone but me, I cannot be held responsible for what I might do.

Maybe this actually worked, because Eames tightened his arms until they were practically embracing. "I'll make an early evening of it," he said, voice low and rough against Arthur's ear.

"The party started ten minutes ago," Brett interrupted sourly.

"Goodbye, darling." Eames kissed Arthur softly on the mouth. "And darling." He hugged Jack. "And lovely to meet you, Poppy."

Poppy nodded glumly. Once Eames had gone, she leveled a betrayed, accusatory look at Arthur. "I want to go home now."

She crossed her arms over her chest and said nothing more as she waited for her mother to pick her up.

Jack drooped listlessly after she left. "Liking somebody is hard," he told Arthur plaintively.

Arthur put an arm around him consolingly. "It really, really is."

Despite his promise, Eames did not come home early. Arthur was asleep when a loud crash downstairs jolted him awake. His half-conscious brain kicked instinctively into defensive mode. He grabbed for the first thing that would serve as a weapon, the lacrosse stick he hadn't used once all summer, and crept down the steps to investigate.

He found Eames in an ungainly sprawl in the foyer where he'd apparently tangled with a side chair and lost; he regarded the chair with a deeply bewildered expression, as if he were confused by the concept of furniture.

"You're drunk," Arthur said with an amused smirk.

"Self-preservation, darling." Or at least that was what Arthur thought he said. It came out a slurred mess.

Arthur set down the lacrosse stick. "I really should just leave you there for scaring the crap out of me. Lucky for you, I'm nicer than that." He took Eames by the hand and hoisted him to his feet.

"Mm," Eames said agreeably, leaning heavily against Arthur's side, pressing his nose into Arthur's hair. "You smell nice." He breathed in deeply.

Arthur insisted to himself that this was absolutely in no way a turn on. "It's a little thing I like to call taking a shower," he said dryly.

Eames snuggled closer. "'s good."

Somehow they managed to get to the top of the steps without tumbling back down, which was a minor miracle. Even more surprisingly, they didn't wake Jack up.

"Come on." Arthur steered Eames into his bedroom and dropped him onto the bed.

He knelt down and took off Eames's shoes and stripped the socks off him, his hands quick and efficient, because this wasn't—Eames was drunk.

"Arthur." Eames reached out, hand unsteady, and touched Arthur's cheek. "Arthur. You're so lovely in every way."

Arthur ignored him. He slid the jacket from Eames's shoulders and unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. He took absolutely no prurient interest in Eames's broad, bare chest, in the dark ink he'd only caught glimpses of before—none at all.

Eames showed no such restraint. He pressed into Arthur's touch, pushing his face against the curve of Arthur's throat, licking at his collarbone. "I want you," he murmured, his voice a sexy rumble. "Please."

"We can talk about this in the morning." Arthur managed to get the trousers off him and bundled him beneath the covers.

"Arthur," Eames said, trying to reach for him.

Arthur tucked the covers around his shoulders and kissed his forehead. "Go to sleep, Mr. Eames."

By the time Arthur reached the doorway, Eames's breathing had gone deep and even. Arthur had no such luck when he got back into bed. The moment he closed his eyes, he was swimming in sensation, vivid and arousing: Eames's body beneath his hands, Eames's lips against his throat, the warm shiver of Eames's breath on his skin. He slid a hand into his underwear and curled his fist around his cock, but that wasn't what he really wanted.

It was hours before he finally drifted off.

Arthur got up early the next morning, because what the hell, it wasn't as if he was actually sleeping. He made pancakes, and after Jack had demolished a plateful, he declared, "I'm going to Casey's." At Arthur's raised eyebrow, he insisted, "His mom said it was okay, honest!" He ran and got the phone and brought it to Arthur. "You can call her." He looked up hopefully.

Jack rarely outright lied, but his enthusiasm did occasionally color his perception of things. Arthur called, just to be on the safe side.

"Casey even cleaned up his room so Jack could visit," Casey's mom told Arthur cheerfully. "We're around whenever you want to bring him over."

Jack didn't say, "Told you so," when Arthur hung up, but his smug smile implied it very heavily.

"Are you getting dressed?" Arthur asked, fighting back a smile of his own. "Or are you going to Casey's in your pajamas?"

Jack raced off, leaving Arthur to wonder how small, bare feet could make more noise than a herd of elephants.

"Don't wake up your dad!" Arthur loud-whispered at him.

Not that there was much chance of that, really, from what Arthur had seen of Eames last night. No doubt he'd be conked out for hours to come, and Arthur would have to wait for the very long overdue talk about what was happening between them.

Jack thundered back downstairs, now sporting plaid shorts, black high tops, and a neon yellow T-shirt with the slogan "Don't worry, it's just a phase" that had obviously been purchased by his father. "Let's go, Arthur, let's go, let's go!" He bounced on his toes.

Arthur eyed the dishes piled up by the sink. "I really should—"

"Arthur!" Jack's eyes went big and wild with impatience. "Me and Casey are going to race toys car. He's got a track set up and everything. Please!"

"Well—" Arthur grinned. "Okay." He grabbed his keys.

"Yay!" Jack ran ahead out to the garage.

Where Eames's car was parked. Arthur stopped and stared. No, it had to be some kind of maple-syrup-induced hallucination. Because if Eames's car was in the garage, then Eames must have driven home instead of catching a ride last night. When he'd been too fucked up to walk. Arthur stared some more. That fucking asshole!

"Come on, Arthur!" Jack called insistently from the passenger seat.

Arthur didn't remember much of the fifteen-minute drive to Casey's house. He did manage to hug Jack goodbye and remind him to behave himself. The whole way home, the same thought kept repeating itself over and over in his head: How could Eames be such a stupid, fucking idiot?

The house was quiet when Arthur let himself in, which made him unaccountably even angrier. He thumped around the kitchen, putting food away and washing the dishes. He was still pissed when he'd finished, and Eames still wasn't up, so he took his aggressions out on the spice rack. He grouped the containers alphabetically, threw out anything that looked as if it had been around longer than Jack had been alive, and made a note on the shopping list to buy replacements.

At last he could hear the sound of water running upstairs. Eames was up and would be down soon. Arthur took a breath and let it out. Don't kill him, even if he is a stupid, fucking idiot.

Eames stumbled into the kitchen not long after, in rumpled sweats and T-shirt, still damp from his shower, blinking like a startled mole. At the sight of Arthur, his expression went endearingly rueful, and Arthur had to remind himself why he was furious.

He fixed a long, angry glare on Eames.

Eames looked surprised and then very serious. "Arthur," he said, contritely, "if I did anything last night—if I crossed any lines—"

"If you're going to say you're sorry," Arthur interrupted, cold and clipped, "you should say it to your kid. Because you owe him a hell of a lot better than that."

Eames stared at Arthur blankly, which just made Arthur all the more irate.

"Your fucking car is in the fucking garage!"

It took a moment for understanding to replace utter confusion on Eames's face. "Oh, Arthur, no. No, I wouldn't—my assistant and her boyfriend returned me and my property home last night. Benefits of being the boss and all that."

"Oh," Arthur said stiffly, and after a moment he let out his breath. "That's good."

Eames took a step closer, smiling. "I do appreciate it that you'd mind if I wrapped myself around a tree."

"Not funny."

"Darling," Eames said, conciliatory.

"Don't call me that if you don't mean it," Arthur snapped, angry again for a wholly different reason.

There was no pause. "Darling," Eames said, quietly, firmly.

"Are you going to do something about it?" Arthur fixed him with a challenging look.

Eames gazed back helplessly. "I've been trying to keep my hands off you."

"What if I want your hands on me?"

"Arthur," Eames said, his eyes a little wild. "It's not so—"

"Simple. Yeah, I get that. You've got Jack to consider. You think I don't consider him?" He pressed his mouth into a thin, displeased line. "Do you honestly think all I want is a fling? That I'd ever do anything to hurt Jack?"

"No, of course not, but—"

"So what are you afraid of? Because I hate to break it to you, Eames, but we're already having a relationship. We cook each other dinner and ask each other about our days and plan our weekends together. You're the last person I talk to at night and the first person I want to see in the morning, and you can't tell me you don't feel the same way, because I won't believe you. We're entwined in each other's lives in every possible way, except that we're not sleeping together."

"Arthur, you're twenty-two years old. You have everything ahead of you."

"Yeah, and I'm right where I want to be. So I repeat: what are you going to do about it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You know what? Never mind. I'll do it myself." He grabbed a fist full of Eames's T-shirt, and yanked him close, and pushed his mouth against Eames's, not gently.

"Oh," Eames said, sounding oddly surprised.

Arthur had spent more time than he would ever admit thinking about Eames's lips, and now that he finally had the opportunity he licked at the bottom one, tasting its shape.

"Arthur."

For one horrible moment, Arthur imagined the next word was going to be, "Stop," and then he was going to have to—he didn't even know. Something not good. Happily for everyone involved, the next word wasn't a word at all, but the rough intake of breath. Eames surged forward, pushing Arthur back against the cabinets, hungry and impatient now that his hesitations had given way at last. The kiss went deep and wet and filthy at once. Eames's hands slid beneath Arthur's T-shirt, finding bare skin, and his hips worked, hot and insistent against Arthur's.

"Arthur," he said again, low and rough and like sex.

Fucking finally.

"I want to put my hands all over you." Eames strung kisses up Arthur's neck and along his jaw. "I want to touch you everywhere."

"Fuck, yes. Come on." Arthur grabbed Eames's hand.

If he hadn't already waited so long, he might have had the patience to make it upstairs to Eames's bed, but he'd been waiting forever, so the couch was the best he could manage. He pushed Eames down onto his back and clambered on top and slotted himself between Eames's legs.

"Where's—"

"Casey's. I have to pick him up in an hour."

"I want to do everything to you." Eames was flushed, and his eyes had gone dark.

"Then you'd better get busy."

Eames slid a hand into Arthur's hair and pulled him down into a kiss. It was sweet and fond, at least to begin with. Then Arthur moaned against Eames's mouth, and Eames muttered, "Fuck, what you do to me, Arthur." He grabbed Arthur's ass, and they were off, rutting against each other, desperate and utterly without finesse.

Arthur had been having sex since he was fifteen years old. He'd had girlfriends and boyfriends. He'd even been in love once or twice. But he'd never wanted anyone like this. Never wished he could get inside someone else's skin. Never needed to kiss until his lungs burned. Never pressed his face against someone's neck and breathed in and wanted to live inside that scent forever.

"Arthur." Eames tugged at his T-shirt, and Arthur lifted his arms and let Eames yank it up and toss it away. "God." Eames's voice went hoarse, and he stared at Arthur and stroked his fingers along Arthur's ribs. "You are so very lovely."

Arthur made a sound in the back of his throat, urgent and no doubt embarrassing under any other circumstances. He shoved at Eames's T-shirt until it was bunched up under his arms, because if he didn't get his mouth on skin right the fuck now he couldn't stand it.

"Eames." He licked a nipple, again and again, until Eames writhed and begged in a dark, throaty voice that Arthur was going to hear in his dreams when he was a hundred fucking years old. He kissed down Eames's chest, traced the muscles of his belly with his tongue. "Eames."

"Please, please." Eames's voice wobbled, needy and urgent.

Arthur mouthed his erection through his sweatpants, sucking until the fabric was dark and soaked through, imagining he could taste Eames despite the cotton standing in the way. Eames's breath caught, and he threaded his fingers through Arthur's hair and lifted his hips. Arthur could hear the rush of his own blood in his ears, so it took longer than it probably should have to realize there was another sound in the room.

Eames's cell on the coffee table was ringing. "Fuck!" Eames tightened his grip on Arthur. "Ignore it."

Arthur whole-heartedly approved of this plan and started undoing the drawstring on Eames's pants, biting out a loud, "Fuck!" when it snarled into a knot. The phone stopped ringing eventually, and Arthur managed to work out the knot. He was poised to push the sweats down Eames's thighs when the landline started up.

Eames stilled, and Arthur knew what he was thinking: that if someone was this anxious to talk to him it might be something to do with Jack.

Arthur sat back on his heels, breathing heavily. "You should get that. Just in case."

Eames shot him a grateful look and pushed himself up, using one hand to keep his sweatpants from falling off and reaching for the phone with the other. "Hello? Oh, yes, Chris, how are you? I was sorry to miss you last night. I was hoping we could discuss—tonight?" He darted a glance over at Arthur and then looked away, too quickly for Arthur's liking. "Any time you could give me would be much appreciated. Yes, I know the place. I'll see you then."

He hung up, and Arthur didn't think he was imaging the guilty slant to Eames's shoulders as he sat back down.

"I'm so very sorry to do this, darling, but last night didn't go as planned. The person I was meant to speak with didn't end up attending, so I still have that final approval to pin down, and—"

"That was the guy, and he wants to meet tonight."

"Yes, but I'm sure it won't take long, and then we can—"

"The guy Brett was talking about. The one who has a thing for you," Arthur said stonily.

"Brett is an arsehole who likes to exaggerate. This is purely business, Arthur."

"On Saturday night?" Arthur made a don't bullshit me face.

"Darling—"

Arthur thumped to his feet and retrieved his T-shirt from where it had landed. "I have to go get Jack."

"You're being unreasonable," floated after him as he headed out the door.

He was—he knew he was. He just couldn't fucking help it.

"It's business, can't be helped," Eames reiterated hours later, only this time to Jack.

"But I don't want you to go," Jack said fretfully, hands twisting in the hem of his T-shirt, a storm signal if Arthur had ever seen one.

"I know, sweetheart, and I'm sorry for that, but this will be the last of it, I promise."

Jack wasn't the least bit mollified. "Why do you want to have dinner with him instead of us? I hate him. He's stinky." He crossed his arms peevishly over his chest, and his bottom lip began to tremble.

Eames knelt down to put his arms around Jack. "My colleague is a perfectly nice man, and what have we discussed about saying you hate people? I'll be back before you even realize I'm gone. In the meantime, Arthur will be his usual entertaining self."

The look he shot Arthur was pleading, almost hesitant, and for a good three seconds, Arthur dearly wanted to punch him. If he thought Arthur was the kind of asshole who would fall down on the job where Jack was concerned just because he was pissed at Eames that was fucking insulting.

Arthur held out his hand to Jack. "Hey, yeah, we can draw. It'll be fun."

Jack sagged against Arthur like the air had gone out of him, and the storm cloud broke at last, fat tears sliding down his cheeks, his shoulders shaking.

"Darling," Eames said helplessly, his voice choked.

Jack hid his face against Arthur and wouldn't answer, and Eames looked absolutely wretched.

"Go on," Arthur told him. "I've got this." He rubbed Jack's back comfortingly.

Eames did finally leave, but very reluctantly. Arthur would have taken a mean enjoyment in that if Jack weren't so utterly miserable.

"Hey." Arthur squeezed Jack's shoulder. "What's going on?" It wasn't like Jack to get so upset just because Eames had business to take care of.

"I don't want Daddy with him," he said, watery and tremulous. "I want him with us."

"It's just business," Arthur reassured him, ignoring the irony that this hadn't made him any less pissed at Eames. "We'll spend time together tomorrow."

"Promise?" Jack sniffled.

Arthur nodded. "Promise. You want to draw now?"

"Can we finger paint?" Jack asked, voice still a little hiccupy but with a hopeful lilt to it.

"You can make me something to hang on the wall in my room."

The sun returned to Jack's smile. He went racing up the steps. "Come on, Arthur!"

Later, after Arthur got Jack put to bed, he settled in the living room to do some work. Just work. He was in no way waiting up for Eames, absolutely not. The French Communist Party solicited artist-filmmakers to bring their political vision to life, to create expressions of their views that went beyond mere propaganda. As his fingers flew over the keys, he felt a surge of how much he loved the computer, how much he—work, he reminded himself harshly.

He managed to focus, more or less, until his phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket, stupidly hoping it was Eames, sighing when he saw it was Rachel. "I'm working," he said in lieu of "hello."

"Is that going to be your excuse for why you can't come to Zilla's wedding?" Arthur could hear the smirk in her voice.

He let out an even heavier sigh. Zilla was their cousin, the scourge of every family gathering during Arthur's childhood. She had a good two-inch height advantage over Arthur until they were in high school, the kind of vicious bossiness seen in third-world dictators, and a "who me?" expression that got her out of trouble every time. Arthur still bore the psychic scars. He could only wonder what kind of masochist would actually marry her.

"It's only a few weeks away, before school starts up," Rachel continued. "Mom's determined. She says there's no reason why you can't be there."

"Yeah, well, Mom's not actually the boss of me," Arthur said, rubbing distractedly at the back of his neck. Only a few weeks away. Only a few weeks until the summer was over, until this job was up, and if things didn't change with Eames—

Rachel chattered on some more before abruptly stopping. "Are you even listening to me?"

"I've got other things on my mind besides our stupid cousin and what I'm sure will be the world's most ridiculous wedding, okay?"

"Oooooh, what's got you all distracted?" She'd gone from obnoxious and bratty to wheedling and intrigued, which was far worse.

"Nothing," Arthur said, tight-lipped. "Never mind."

There was a long beat. "Holy shit, Arthur! Are you in love or something?"

"No!" Arthur denied reflexively, because Rachel knowing about his life was never a good thing.

Sadly, a bloodhound's instincts were nothing compared to a curious little sister's. "Liar! You totally are in love. I can always tell. You sound all put out and shit. Which is totally weird, you get that, right?"

"I'm not—" He let out his breath. "I have every fucking right to be put out. He keeps—but then he won't do anything about it."

"I need details, big brother. Spill it."

Stupidly, Arthur did.

"Geezus, Arthur, give the man a break! It was just business, and if he's as hot as you're making him out to be, then you're going to have to get used to people drooling over him. It doesn't mean he's not into you. You're really kind of an idiot sometimes, you know that?"

Arthur started to sputter, "Am not!" But the fact was, he really kind of was.

Despite what Eames had promised, Arthur hadn't actually expected him to come home early, but just before ten the key scraped in the lock. Arthur hunched over his computer more intently and meant to ignore him.

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to hunt you down in your room." Eames's voice was liquid and warm, and it did things to Arthur. So much for ignoring him.

He turned to smile, to say I'm sorry I was a fucking idiot, but the smile slipped away before it could take shape. "What the hell?"

High on Eames's cheek was a mark, puffy and starting to turn colors, as if someone's fist had been there. This was Cody-fucking-Prescott all over again, only this time Arthur could damn well do something about it.

He crossed the room in three furious strides, but when he touched Eames's cheek, he did it tenderly. "What's his name? Where the fuck does he live?"

Eames caught Arthur's hand and lifted it to his mouth—he was smiling, which was completely the wrong reaction to this situation as far as Arthur was concerned—and pressed soft little kisses to Arthur's fingers. "Are you going to avenge me, love?"

Arthur got the distinct feeling he was being laughed at, however good-humoredly, and that just ratcheted up his insane desire to thrash someone. "Just fucking tell me."

"Your quarrel is with a door, I'm afraid, as horribly cliché as I realize that sounds." He kissed Arthur's palm. "I was coming into the restaurant, and my dinner companion was going out to search for me, and I took the brunt of it to the face. Not the most auspicious way to start the evening, but guilt did rather speed along the approvals, allowing me to get home to you all the more quickly, so well worth it in the end."

"Eames," Arthur said wildly, helplessly. "Just—" He slurred a kiss across Eames's mouth, messy, reckless, and caught Eames's face in his hands to kiss him again, more thoroughly.

He forgot to be careful until he felt Eames flinch, then gentled his touch, but didn't stop kissing. Arthur had been the kind of kid who wrote his name in his sneakers and hung a sign on his bedroom door that said, "Private property, keep out!" and asked for a label maker for his tenth birthday. What belonged to Arthur—well, it fucking belonged to him. He licked the curve of Eames's throat, worrying the tendon with his teeth. Eames was his, and Jack was his. He curled his fingers possessively around Eames's hip. His, his, his.

"Arthur." Eames dragged his hands down Arthur's back and over the curve of his ass. He sounded bedroomy and wrecked.

Arthur pulled away, breathing harshly. "I want to fuck you in your bed, and you're going to let me."

It would have taken a bigger man than Arthur not to feel smug at the softly dazed expression on Eames's face. Eames did collect himself as they headed upstairs, wrapping an arm around Arthur's waist and covering the back of his neck in wet, eager kisses, propelling him faster up the steps.

Someday, Arthur thought once they had reached Eames's room and carefully locked the door, I'm going to take my time getting Eames naked. I'm going to strip off his clothes piece by piece. I'm going to use my teeth. Kiss every stray bit of skin hello, learn the lines of his tattoos with my tongue. Today wasn't going to be that day. He threw off his own clothes and started pulling at Eames's. For once he appreciated Eames's god-awful taste in shirts. He felt absolutely no guilt tossing this one onto the floor.

"You should know something about me," Arthur said, pushing Eames back onto the bed and clambering on top of him, straddling his hips.

"God," Eames groaned in the back of his throat, his hands at Arthur's waist.

"I may be young, but I've never been casual about anything." He rubbed his dick against Eames's chest, leaving behind a damp trail in his hair like a mark: Arthur's. "I wouldn't be here," he punctuated this with a liquid roll of his hips, pushing his ass back against Eames's cock, dragging a dark groan out of Eames, "if I didn't have every intention of staying. Now, where do you keep the lube?"

"Jesus, Arthur," Eames said shakily, staring up at him, eyes wide and hazy with arousal.

"Nightstand," Arthur guessed, digging around until he came up with a bottle and condoms. He strung kisses up the inside of Eames's thigh, licked at the crease where leg met body, nuzzled his check against Eames's cock. "Next time I want to suck you."

"You're going to be the death of me, darling," Eames muttered thickly, not looking like he minded in the least.

"Mm," Arthur murmured like a promise, sliding slick fingers between Eames's thighs.

Eames pulled his leg up, knee to his chest, opening himself, letting Arthur in. Fuck, Eames was tight and hot. Arthur's cock ached he wanted to be in him so badly.

"Do it, Arthur, come on," Eames slurred out, and Arthur slid up and pushed Eames's thighs further apart, and, fuck. Fuck.

Eames made an incoherent noise and wrapped a leg around Arthur's waist, urging him on: closer, harder, faster. Arthur wanted so much, everything at once, to kiss Eames and touch him and fuck his brains out; he couldn't decide what to do first.

"Darling," Eames tugged at Arthur's shoulder, making the decision for him.

Arthur leaned up, angling for a kiss, and Eames put his tongue in Arthur's mouth, taking deep tastes. The sound that came out of Arthur might have been a whimper, if you were going to be technical about it. Eames grinned and kissed him some more, stroking fingers through Arthur's hair, running his palm down the line of Arthur's spine, teasing with his thumb along the crease of Arthur's ass. Next time he could do the fucking, with Arthur on his back, his knees pulled apart, begging. Or maybe Arthur on top, riding, sweat sliding into his eyes, Eames staring up at him, his eyes hot and sharp.

Shit. There were going to need to be a lot of next times.

"Arthur, Arthur," Eames babbled, shoving himself onto Arthur's cock.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip and grabbed a handful of the sheets, shaking and dizzy with the need to come. But Eames first. He wanted to get Eames off. He fucked harder, faster, curled his hand around Eames's cock, hot and slick against his palm, and squeezed.

"Darling!" Eames arched up, his body sleek with sweat and gorgeously taut, his lips bitten red and parted around the word as he came.

Arthur didn't even notice the warm-wet splash on his skin, because Eames's body was impossibly tight around him, so hot and good. He was spinning away, his hips working and working. When he came back to, he lay slumped against Eames's chest, weak as a rag doll, probably drooling. Eames had his arms around Arthur's shoulders, a hand in his hair, stroking. It took Arthur several long moments to decide he had the strength to lift his head, but it was worth it to find Eames smiling the softest, happiest smile Arthur had ever seen. He kissed that smile and kissed it and kissed it some more.

"Mm," Eames murmured luxuriously and shifted them away from the wet spot, rolling Arthur onto his side, curving against his back. "Sweetheart." He nosed the fringe of Arthur's hair along his nape and rubbed a hand over his belly.

"Is this—should I—" Arthur had no idea what the etiquette was when you were sleeping with someone who had kids. Was he supposed to get up now and go back to his room?

Eames slung a leg over Arthur's and snuggled closer, letting out a long, contented breath. Okay, that works, Arthur thought drowsily. He curled his fingers around Eames's. He could always get up early, sneak back to his room. Later, he and Eames could discuss what to say to Jack about the change in their relationship.

This was a good plan, except for the part where Eames was just so warm and the bed was so comfortable and the most intense orgasm of his life had knocked Arthur pretty well out of it. When he blinked awake, sunlight was streaming through the window, puddling on the floor, late morning bright. It was a true testament to how sex-soaked his brain was that it took him several long seconds to register that he was being watched. He frowned and focused and found Jack leaning against the bed, elbows on the mattress, chin in his hands.

"Um," Arthur mumbled, very intelligently.

Jack's mouth curved up in triumph. "Told you you're going to get married. Can I have pancakes?"

"Um," Arthur repeated and elbowed Eames.

"Darling." Eames breathed out, tightened his arms around Arthur, and kissed him on the shoulder. Arthur could feel his smile.

"Eames," Arthur hissed more insistently.

Eames yawned and pushed himself up on his elbow and peered around blearily. "Darling," he said to Jack, startled.

"Hi, Daddy. Can we have pancakes?" Jack regarded him expectantly.

"Of course, darling."

"Okay." Jack spun around and thundered away.

"Is this—are you—" Arthur darted a look at Eames, not sure what to expect.

Eames tilted Arthur's chin with his fingers and kissed him. "I was very much looking forward to that blowjob you promised me, but pancakes call. I fear we'll have to settle for something a bit more expeditious." He dragged his hand down Arthur's chest, over his belly, to his cock.

Arthur pushed up into his touch and shifted around until he could get a hand on Eames. "I can work with that."

There was always next time, after all.

Note: Eames's quote when he's reading aloud is from Round Buildings, Square Buildings, & Buildings That Wiggle Like a Fish by Philip M. Isaacson.

Inception FIC: La Vie de Famille (Part 1/2)

scribblinlenore — Sat, 24 Aug 2013 17:31:04 GMT

Title: La Vie de Famille
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: Explicit
Word count: ~22,000
Summary: Arthur takes a job babysitting for Eames's son. Family happens.
Notes: There's a sad story about this story. I wrote it a while back for the Inception kink meme, and I got it to a good ending point, but I wanted to take it a little further. I worked on it off and on, and made progress, and then—lost the flash drive it was on. Sigh. There's no way I can recreate what I'd written, but since it was already a complete story, I decided at last to clean up the existing draft, post it and stop mourning what was lost. So here it is.

You can also read it at AO3:
http://archiveofourown.org/works/939581

La Vie de Famille
by Lenore

If there was one thing Arthur really should have learned by this point in his life, it was not to answer a call from any member of his family on his way to a job interview.

"You don't know anything about kids," Rachel pointed out, sarcasm crackling over the phone from two thousand miles away.

"How hard could it be?" Arthur insisted, taking the exit off the 110.

Rachel snorted in his ear. "According to our mother, very, very hard."

"Stop trying to discourage me!"

Desperate times called for desperate measures and all that. School was out in a week, at which point the dorm would close and Arthur would be homeless, since he had exactly eighty-seven cents to his name, which wouldn't even buy a cardboard box to live in. Not to mention that if he wanted to go back to UCLA next year and actually graduate, he seriously needed to save money this summer. He could manage to duct tape together tuition out of loans and grants and a partial scholarship, but it would be nice to eat.

When you were as totally financially fucked over as Arthur, your desperate measures might even have to involve small children.

"No one's going to trust you with their kids," Rachel insisted.

"Shut up! You don't know that. And why the hell not anyway?"

As soon as Arthur had seen the ad on the bulletin board in the student center for a live-in babysitter, he'd known that was exactly the summer job he needed. A chance to make money and no expenses. Please, yes.

"I hate to break this to you, Arthur, but you look like you've spent exactly five seconds of your life with kids, and that's probably overestimating it by four seconds."

"I've spent time with kids! Remember when that little girl got lost at the Paramus mall, and I helped her find her parents?"

"You took her over to the security desk and left her with the guard. That's not exactly quality time." Arthur didn't have to see Rachel to know she was rolling her eyes at him.

Fortunately he'd arrived at the house of his hopefully future employer and could tell his sister honestly, "I've got to go."

"Good luck." She huffed a laugh. "You're going to need it."

Arthur tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and got out. He'd been to Pasadena exactly once before for a doomed blind date that Ariadne had talked him into with a Cal Tech geek who'd spent the first ten minutes of dinner laughing at the fact that Arthur was a film studies major. There really hadn't been a reason to make a return visit.

His hopefully future employer lived in a white Hacienda style house with a red tile roof and pink azaleas blooming in the yard. It looked like the perfect place to spend a quiet summer reading about film theory while he kept the kid from burning down the place.

He knocked and waited and could hear the muffled sounds of chaos coming from inside. At last the door flung open and fuck. He hadn't been expecting a hot dad.

"Where're the Fruit Loops?" came a high, reedy boy's voice from deeper within the house.

"On top of the refrigerator where they always are," the hot dad shouted back, distracted and frazzled looking. Arthur hoped that explained the shirt he was wearing beneath his suit, a paisley so aggressively bright it could put out someone's eye.

A man who could look that gorgeous wearing a shirt that ugly was seriously—Arthur determinedly pushed the thought away and plastered on what he hoped was a competent and professional smile.

"Hi, I'm—" he started.

The kid came zipping up, a pintsized, tow-headed version of his father, and stationed himself in front of his dad, staring up at Arthur suspiciously. "You ever been 'rested? What about any Nazi party umfilations?"

"Affiliations," his father corrected and then smiled wryly. "This is Jack. He's precocious. At least that's what we like to call it. And you're Arthur, I presume?"

"Yes, Mr. Eames—"

"Just Eames will do." He took a step back, maneuvering Jack out of the way to let Arthur inside. "Come on, we'll have a talk in the kitchen, yeah?" He leaned down to his son. "Shouldn't you be eating breakfast?"

The kid nodded and took off, and Eames and Arthur followed at a more leisurely pace.

"Seeing as the subject has come up already, any arrest record or Nazi party affiliations I should know about? I only ask because some of our other candidates have had somewhat colorful resumes." Eames made a rueful face.

This surprised a laugh out of Arthur. "Not that you should know about, no."

Eames's smile made his eyes crinkle at the corners. "In that case, coffee?"

"Black."

The kitchen really should be declared a disaster area, Arthur decided. Cabinet doors stood open. Items spilled out of drawers. Dishes were stacked up next to the sink even though there was a dishwasher right there. The ad had said some light housekeeping was expected. Arthur made a skeptical face at the notion of "light."

"Here you go then." Eames delivered the coffee, and they sat down at the table.

Jack perched on the seat opposite Arthur, spooning Fruit Loops to his mouth, dribbling milk, watching Arthur with a gaze so unwavering it was starting to get a little creepy.

"So why don't you tell me a bit about yourself," Eames suggested, with a polite look over the rim of his coffee cup.

Arthur launched into his story: about school, and his family back in New Jersey, and his hopes of going to graduate school and one day teaching film theory. Eames nodded along as if he approved, which really shouldn't have made Arthur feel so pleased.

"And do you have any experience with children?" Eames asked.

Arthur hesitated. "I was one once?" At Eames's raised eyebrow, he hurried to add, "But I like kids!" Okay, probably I would if I'd ever spent any time with them, he mentally amended.

Across the table Jack, who'd finished with his cereal, gave him dubious looks.

"Darling, we're going to be late if you don't go get dressed right this very moment," Eames told him. Jack was clearly reluctant, and his father added firmly, "Up you get."

Jack heaved a sigh. "O-kay." He trudged off.

Eames waited until he heard footsteps on the stairs. "He likes to listen outside of doorways," he explained with a crooked smile. "Now, where were we? Oh yes, I was just about to tell you a bit about us. Our nanny, the redoubtable Mrs. Farbush, has gone off to Florida for the summer to help with her new granddaughter, and I need someone around who can look after Jack and," he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the kitchen chaos, "things."

Arthur nodded. Things really could use some attention.

"I believe I mentioned that I have my own architectural firm. So I'm looking for someone who doesn't mind being a bit flexible about schedule. Jack will be at day camp from ten to three every day once school is over, and you'd have most evenings free except when I have a meeting or some such. Naturally I'd try to give you as much notice as possible, but things do have a way of coming up at the last moment."

"Not a problem," Arthur said quickly. "My only real plan for the summer is getting a head start on my senior thesis."

"Oh?" Eames raised an eyebrow interestedly. "What's your topic?"

"It's about the relationship between the French Communist party and French cinema from the 40s through the 90s," Arthur began and then elaborated at some length before he remembered that this usually bored people.

Eames appeared to be listening, though, and asked with what appeared to be actual interest, "Will you be discussing the party's reluctance to accept the concept of the auteur?"

Arthur blinked at him. "Actually, yes. I'm planning a whole chapter on that."

Eames nodded and began to say something else, and then a look of utter panic overtook him. "Oh, shit." He grabbed his phone and checked the time. "So sorry. We're— Jack! Do hurry up, darling." He looked back to Arthur. "I assume you have references?"

"Yeah, sure—"

"Jack!" Eames called out again and made an apologetic face at Arthur.

"Here you go." Arthur handed over the typed up list of names and numbers of family and friends he'd begged to say something nice about him. "Will I need to meet Mrs. Eames?"

"You're years too late for that, I'm afraid."

Arthur froze. "Shit, I'm sorry—"

Eames laughed. "No, no. Nothing more dire than a divorce."

A hot, unmarried dad. Shut up, Arthur told himself.

Fortunately Jack came thumping back downstairs just then. He wore a shirt that had at least fourteen different colors in it, purple most predominantly, and a pair of lime green shorts. Apparently he took after his father in more ways than one.

"Ready to go?" Eames asked him. Jack nodded, and Eames tilted his head skeptically. "Do you have your backpack?"

"Oops." Jack ran off to get it.

"I should let you go." Arthur got to his feet.

Eames shook hands with him. "Very nice to meet you, Arthur. I have your information, and I'll be in touch as soon as I've made a decision."

"Dad," Jack yelled down the stairs. "I can't find my backpack."

Eames smiled at Arthur. "Never a dull moment. If you'll excuse me." He took off upstairs.

Arthur showed himself out, and as he went he heard Eames's voice drifting down the steps. "Well, there's your backpack. Now where have my plans got off to, do you think?"

Days went by, and every time Arthur's phone rang he checked the number only to slump with disappointment.

"I really think you ought to be happier to hear from your sister," Rachel complained. "Still no word about the job, huh?"

"No," Arthur answered sourly.

"How many days before UCLA throws you out onto the streets?"

He let out a heavy sigh. "Four."

"Yeah, somebody's spending the summer in Jersey."

"Stop saying that!" Not that Arthur didn't love his family—he just loved them more when they were on the other side of the country. "Look, I've got to get off the phone in case he's trying to call."

Arthur hung up, and two minutes later the phone started ringing again because Rachel could be a brat that way.

"Stop it!"

There was a beat of silence, and then a confused voice said, "Arthur?"

Of course it was Eames. Fuck. "Sorry. I thought you were—" He trailed off.

Eames laughed. "I won't ask. Look, I'm phoning to offer you the job if you're still interested."

"Really?" Arthur couldn't quite keep the note of disbelief out of his voice.

This earned him another laugh. It really was a nice sound, Arthur couldn't help noticing. "You seemed like the bravest of the bunch," Eames explained. "And Jack likes you."

Arthur thought back to the wary way the kid had watched him as if he were afraid Arthur might steal his crayons. He wondered what would happen if the kid ever decided he didn't like him.

Not that this was going to scare him off the job. "I'll take it."

"Fantastic. When do you think you'd like to move in? On our end the sooner the better."

"Tomorrow after dinner?"

"Jack starts camp the day after, so that works well. We'll see you then."

The moment he hung up with Eames, Arthur called Rachel to gloat. So not spending the summer in Jersey.

All of Arthur's worldly possession fit into two duffel bags, so packing up and moving out took about fifteen minutes. If only Arthur could have said the same for the drive to Pasadena.

"Arthur. There you are." Eames's face lit up as he showed Arthur in, as if he might have been a little worried that Arthur had changed his mind and taken off for Mexico. "Welcome."

Arthur nodded and tried not to stare. Eames was wearing jeans. God. Jack lurked on the stairs, hair damp and slicked back from a recent bath, dressed in pajamas with fire trucks on them.

Eames turned to him. "Come and say hello, darling."

Jack stubbornly didn't budge, eyeing Arthur from a safe distance.

"I promise he was excited all afternoon that you were coming." Eames's mouth quirked up at the corner. "Should we show Arthur his room?" he asked Jack.

Jack didn't answer. He just whirled around and raced back up the stairs, which Arthur figured was kid-speak for "sure."

Eames took one of Arthur's duffels from him. "Just up here." He led the way to a room near the end of the hall, large and airy, with pale blue paint on the walls and lots of windows. There was a Queen-sized bed covered in a white comforter and a painted wooden dresser.

"The ensuite is through there." Eames waved at a door. "You have your own TV, and the password for the wireless is 'poppet'." Jack leaned against his father's leg, and Eames ruffled his hair affectionately. "In honor of a certain someone. I hope the room will do?"

"Oh, yeah, it's—yeah." This was by far the nicest place Arthur had ever stayed.

"Good," Eames said, pleased. "We'll leave you to it then. There are towels in the linen closet in the hall. If you need anything else, just ask."

He turned to go. Jack lingered, regarding Arthur solemnly.

"Hey," Arthur said, feeling awkward. What were you supposed to talk about with kids?

As soon as Arthur spoke, Jack took off like a flash. This was going to go well. Arthur could tell already.

But whatever. He'd worry about that tomorrow. He hefted his duffel onto the bed and started unpacking. It went quickly. Arthur had a system for how he liked his things put away—had had since he was a kid, something his family still teased him about.

He wandered into the bathroom and put away his toiletries and then went in search of towels.

Eames's voice drifted out into the hall as he read to Jack. "Space is a part of the inside of a building. You can't touch it but you know it's there. Habitat holds space tightly between strong, straight walls. Most buildings do this. In the TWA terminal, however, space seems to move: it flies in, roars around a bit, and then dashes off into the sky. With its space racing around corners, the TWA terminal is never at rest."

"Daddy, is that what the book means when it says that buildings wiggle like a fish?"

"Exactly, darling. Exactly."

It was a private moment, and Arthur had no business going to look, but his feet started moving in that direction anyway. He hovered by the open door, peeking in. Eames was stretched out on Jack's racecar bed with Jack nestled in the crook of his arm, the book open between them. Eames pressed a kiss to the top of Jack's head whenever he turned a page, and Jack interrupted every other sentence with a new question, which Eames answered patiently.

Arthur backed away quietly, wishing he hadn't spied on them. He really could have lived without knowing how sexy it was to see a hot dad being a good father.

Eames left for work the next morning before seven in the same whirlwind Arthur had witnessed when he'd come for the interview, mixing in a flurry of babbled, last-minute instructions. "It's all on the list," Eames had promised as he dashed out to the garage.

Arthur found said list on the kitchen counter with a big, sticky jam stain obscuring part of it. Not that Arthur suspected it would have been much more explanatory if he'd been able to read the whole thing. What he could make out was hardly illuminating:

1. Day camp at school
2. Lunch
3. Hates when late

Numbers four through seven—Arthur gave up even trying to make them out. He put the paper down and startled hard when he found Jack standing next to him staring up at him with that big-eyed, unwavering kid-gaze.

"Hey," Arthur said.

Jack didn't answer. He just continued to stare.

"You had breakfast?"

He nodded

"I think I'm supposed to make you lunch."

More nodding.

"Do you have a lunchbox or something?"

From the loud snort of derision, Arthur guessed not.

"Five year olds don't have lunchboxes anymore?"

"I'm six and a half!" Jack told him indignantly.

Oops. "Well, yeah then. Definitely no lunchbox. Brown paper bag?"

Jack nodded, mollified.

"So what are six-and-a-half year olds eating these days?"

The kid flew over to the refrigerator and returned with Lunchables and a juice box.

"Really?"

Jack nodded solemnly. "'s good."

"Uh-huh," Arthur said noncommittally. At least it was simple. He dropped the two items into a bag, and lunch was officially packed.

"I'm bored," Jack complained, sagging against the cabinets. "Camp isn't for hours."

"We can do something. What do you like?"

In answer, Jack went thundering out of the kitchen, and Arthur supposed that was his cue to follow. In the living room he found Jack firing up the Wii and getting out the wheel controllers.

"Mario Kart?" Arthur guessed.

Jack nodded excitedly, face bright as he took a running leap and bounced onto the sofa.

Arthur sat down next to him and did the moral math over whether it was better to build the kid's confidence by letting him win or show him how the real world worked by not taking it easy on him. Then the game started, and it was all moot. Arthur's natural competitiveness took over.

"You're a lot better at this than dad is," Jack said grudgingly after Arthur had won the first game.

This tamped down Arthur's glee at victory just a little, and he offered, "Hey, you want me to show you some tricks?"

Jack's eyes went wide. "Really?"

"Really."

Arthur spent the next two hours showing Jack all the shortcuts and insider tricks that Rachel always infuriatingly insisted on calling "cheating."

"What is the point of playing if you're going to spend hours scouring the Internet for insider information?" she would ask.

To which Arthur could only answer, "You really don't understand shit about video games, you know that?"

Jack, on the other hand, totally got it. "This is awesome," he declared when Arthur demonstrated how to dodge a POW block.

Video game thwarting kept him suitably entertained until it was time to leave for day camp.

"Um." Arthur hesitated once he'd gotten Jack buckled into the passenger seat of his car. "What's the name of your school?" He could only assume that had been on the jam-obscured portion of Eames's list along with directions for how to get there. Fortunately Arthur's phone had GPS.

"I know the way," Jack assured him.

Arthur gave him a dubious look, but Jack gazed right back, bright and steady, and finally Arthur let out his breath. Whatever. If they got lost, he could always call Eames, and besides what was the worst that could happen if Jack was late? So he'd go through life without knowing how to make a lanyard. He'd survive.

But there was no reason to worry. It took all of two rights and a left to get to the school, each of which Jack pointed out with a righteous air of "told you so." Arthur pulled up in front and unharnessed Jack, handing him his lunch bag and backpack.

"Do you need me to come in with you?"

Jack scowled. "I'm not a baby."

Arthur held up his hands. "Okay. I'll see you this afternoon."

"It's over at three," Jack said, with emphasis.

Arthur remembered the third item on the list and smiled. "I won't be late."

Jack scrutinized him and nodded at last and turned to head inside. He'd only gone a few steps before he whirled around and ran back and flung a hug at Arthur, his face pressed against Arthur's side.

"Oh, hey," Arthur said, taken by surprise. He knelt down and awkwardly hugged back. "Have fun, okay?"

Jack nodded, smiling, and ran off inside.

If Arthur had this gravity-defying sensation pushing against his ribs, it was only relief that he'd made it through his first morning on the job. This was what he told himself as he climbed back into the car.

Arthur's ambition to get a head start on his thesis had somewhat foundered the last few weeks of classes with studying for exams and getting talked into marathon rounds of beer pong. It was a lot easier to concentrate, he discovered, when you had a quiet house to yourself and the place didn't reek of leftover pizza, ancient carpet saturated with yesteryear's weed smoke and the telltale acrid stink that suggested vomit was hiding somewhere. He spread out his books on the kitchen table and took notes right up until time to go get Jack, only putting the research on hold long enough to whip up a sandwich for lunch.

Kids milled around on the sidewalk when Arthur arrived. He spotted Jack off to one side with another little boy, white-haired and freckled, who looked to be about Jack's same age.

Arthur went to collect his charge. "You ready?"

Jack's friend leaned in and whispered, not quietly, "Is that him?"

Jack nodded. Both kids stared up at Arthur, and, yeah, that still hadn't stopped being creepy.

"He doesn't look all that awesome," Jack's friend said.

"But he is," Jack assured him.

Arthur just managed to hold back a smile. "Home?" He reached out his hand.

"Okay." Jack curled his fingers around Arthur's and told his friend, "See you tomorrow."

Back at the house, Jack took in Arthur's books and papers spread across the table with interest. "You got homework?"

"Yeah. Kind of."

"Me too," Jack said.

"Really?" Since when did kids get homework at camp? That seemed excessive. Still, Arthur probably shouldn't instigate rebellion on his first day. "You want to do our homework together?"

Jack nodded enthusiastically, thumped his backpack onto the table, and took the seat opposite Arthur. They set to work, and Arthur was heartened to see that Jack's "homework" consisted of placing stickers in the appropriate places in an illustrated story about the history of fire trucks. He'd really hate to think that camp had stopped being fun.

Arthur became so engrossed in his copy of The French New Wave that he didn't notice Jack had finished with his stickering until he announced, "I'm going to read my book too," and pulled Charlie and the Chocolate Factory out of his backpack.

"That's a good one," Arthur told him.

Jack nodded very seriously. "Daddy got it for my burfday."

They both went back to their reading.

Eventually, though, Jack got tired of that and came around the table to lean against Arthur's chair.

"You want to play some more Mario Kart?" Arthur asked him.

Jack continued to look up at Arthur beseechingly, biting his lip. Apparently, he did want something, but it had nothing to do with video games.

Arthur laid a hand on top of his head. "Tell me."

"Can we go look at your room? Daddy says it's your space, and we have to 'spect it. But I really want to see." He bounced on his toes.

Arthur laughed. Did kids always get so excited over such little things? "Sure, we can do that. I'll give you the tour."

"Yay!" He took off upstairs.

Arthur found him waiting not so patiently outside the room.

"Be my guest." Arthur swung the door open for him.

Jack surged inside and flew around the space looking at everything, opening drawers and checking out the closet and squinting at Arthur's books stacked up on the bedside table.

His forehead wrinkled. "How does it get so neat?"

Arthur shrugged. "I have a system."

Jack contemplated that for a moment. "Can I have a system too?"

"Really?" Arthur asked dubiously.

"Please!"

Arthur let Jack drag him across the hall to his room, and, yeah, it totally cried out for a system. They set to work sorting through all Jack's toys and books and assorted junk. Arthur expected him to get sick of it after about five minutes, but Jack seemed to find it fascinating to think about what he needed the most and how he used his things and where would be the best place to store everything. They spent the rest of the afternoon organizing, and Arthur got so caught up in it that he completely forget to consider whether he should try to make something for dinner, a topic he suspected had been covered somewhere in items four through seven on Eames's list.

He didn't think about it again until he heard the door open and close downstairs, and Eames called out, "Anybody home? Or has everyone run away to join the circus?"

"Up here, Daddy!" Jack shouted back excitedly. "You have to come see!"

Eames appeared in the doorway a moment later, his tie loose, briefcase in hand, looking scruffier but just as gorgeous as he had when he'd left for work that morning. At the sight of the room's newly imposed order, his eyes widened almost comically.

Jack ran to him, and Eames hugged him. "I would ask what you did today, but I don't have to, do I?"

"It's a system," Jack proudly informed him.

"Darling, I'd say it's more of a miracle." Eames fixed a look of utter amazement on Arthur.

"Um." Arthur felt like he should assure Eames that this had been Jack's idea, that Arthur hadn't cowed him into being free child labor all afternoon, but he wasn't quite sure how to phrase it.

The soft smile Eames directed his way didn't exactly look accusatory.

"Come on, Daddy. I want to show you everything." Jack pulled at the sleeve of Eames's jacket.

"Don't leave out a detail, sweetheart." Eames brushed a kiss to the top of Jack's head.

Jack pointed out absolutely everything, down to the last sock.

"Me and Arthur did it all," he said, smiling brightly.

"Arthur and I," Eames told him.

"No, me and Arthur, Daddy. You were at work all day." He started giggling.

"A comedian, eh?" Eames blew a raspberry onto his neck, and Jack giggled even harder. "What do you think two blokes who've worked this hard should be served for dinner?"

"Pizza!"

Eames smiled at the completely unsurprising answer. "Go get the menu, love."

Jack made victory arms. "Yay!" And zoomed away.

"He wanted to see my room," Arthur explained once he and Eames were alone, "and when I mentioned that I had a system, he—"

Eames nodded, looking amused. "Wanted to be just like you? Yes, I feel quite certain he will have declared himself a film studies major before the week is out."

Arthur ducked his head, not because he was blushing, because that would be stupid. "I guess we should—" He moved toward the door.

"Arthur." Eames stopped him with a hand at the small of his back. "It's easy to see that Jack had a splendid time today. Thank you for that. It means a great deal to me."

Eames's hand was big and warm and weighty, and Arthur had to swallow before he could say, "I had fun too."

This earned him a wide, pleased smile.

"Daddy!"

"Coming, darling."

Arthur could still feel the ghost of Eames's touch on his back as they headed downstairs.

Arthur turned a page of The Cognitive Semiotics of Film, less than two chapters left to go. In the four days he'd lived in the Eames household, he'd gotten more research done than in the entire last month of school.

Sounds of hilarity floated up from downstairs. Some of it was from Jack. Arthur's mouth curved into a smile. He wondered what they were doing, and then he remembered he really shouldn't care. He pressed his mouth into a serious line as he went back to the page.

Eames had been as good as his word about leaving Arthur his evenings free. They'd settled into a comfortable routine. Eames brought dinner home with him, or they ordered something, and once they'd eaten he took charge of Jack. Arthur usually went up to his room then and broke out his books and notes.

A fresh wave of giggling slipped in under the door. Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose and read the same paragraph three times.

Last night he'd gone downstairs for a bottle of water and found them gathered at the kitchen table with what looked to be about a billion Legos. Jack had very studiously applied a piece to the roofline.

"Like this, Daddy? Is this like yours?"

"Darling, no one could ever tell them apart."

"Arthur, look!" Jack had beamed proudly. "It's just like Daddy's building. Do you want to come and help me build the parking garage?"

"I, uh—" Arthur hesitated. He really had kind of wanted to, but he thought he should probably let them have their time together and not intrude.

Eames had slid an arm around Jack, leaned in and said confidentially, "What did we talk about?"

"Arthur's busy, and he can't come and play," Jack had said in a singsong. "Am I going to have that much homework when I'm big?" His forehead pinched with concern.

"Only if you're as academically inclined as Arthur." Eames's gaze had met Arthur's warmly.

"Okay," Jack had said quickly. "I'll take the homework."

Eames had smiled broadly.

Arthur pulled his laptop closer and frowned at his notes. He could hear Eames and Jack coming up the stairs, heading for Jack's room. Bedtime. He typed in another sentence and frowned some more.

Jack was insistent about being read a story or three before allowing himself to be tucked in, and another half an hour went by before Arthur heard Eames head back along the hall and downstairs. Quiet descended then. Once Jack was in bed he was pretty good about actually going to sleep.

The last sentence Arthur had written really didn't make any sense at all, and he went back and took another stab at it. The tap-tap of the keys sounded thunderous in the stillness. Even after his edits the point still wasn't very clear. It was just way too quiet. Arthur wasn't used to so much silence. How was he supposed to think?

He grabbed up his computer and his notes and went downstairs.

Usually Eames holed up in his study when he brought work home with him, but tonight he'd spread out his plans on the desk in the living room. He sprawled in the chair, studying them with a quizzical wrinkle to his forehead. Music wafted softly from the stereo speakers. Arthur distantly recognized it as Thelonious Monk.

"Uh, sorry," Arthur told him. "I didn't meant to—I'll just—"

Eames waved him off. "Don't be ridiculous, Arthur. I think we can manage to share the living room. This is your home too, after all."

That shouldn't have made Arthur just ridiculously pleased. It really shouldn't at all.

Arthur staked out a spot on the sofa conveniently near an electrical outlet since his laptop's sparkless battery managed a pitiful fifteen minutes of battery life at a time. He took a breath, let it out, and stared at the screen. No more distracting silence, although he still found his gaze straying away every few seconds.

Eames's face took on a more angular quality when he was focused, his full lips pursed in concentration, which just—okay, you'd have to be dead not to want to stare at that. He absently chewed on the cap of his pen, which Arthur would have found gross under most other circumstances, but was totally enthralled by in the current situation. Eames had rolled back the sleeves of his dress shirt, revealing strong forearms, and whenever he turned the pages of the plans, the muscles bunched and flexed. When he shifted in his chair, the fabric of his trousers stretched tightly across his thighs.

Fuck, Arthur was really being unprofessional. He needed to stop it.

He snatched his gaze away and reattached it to his computer screen. After a while he started actually paying attention to what he was doing, and Eames faded to a comfortable background presence. Such was the power of French cinema.

Arthur was in the middle of what he considered to be a rather impressive insight into the film policy advocated by the French Communist Party when the computer screen flickered and went black.

"Fuck!" Arthur spat out before he could stop himself.

Eames looked over; it was obvious he was trying not to smile. "Are the French tormenting you, Arthur?"

"No," Arthur grumbled. "My piece of shit computer is." He jiggled the power cord, taking his life in his hands. He'd had the thing since the eleventh grade, and it was more of an electrocution hazard than an actually useful computing device by this point.

Eames came over to inspect the trouble, disappeared, and returned with a roll of duct tape. "The universal cure for everything." He smiled slyly. "Not that I practice that philosophy in my profession, mind you."

Arthur laughed and let Eames perform minor surgery on the power cord. He hated his stupid, piece of shit computer a little bit less for giving him the opportunity to watch Eames's big, capable hands at work.

"There." Eames handed the laptop back, the power restored. "I don't suppose I could tempt you to a study break if I opened a bottle of wine?" He laughed a little ruefully. "Although I suppose I shouldn't be a bad influence when you're working away so diligently."

"You're not a bad influence," Arthur blurted out and instantly felt like an ass.

He blamed Eames for using the word "tempt." Who could remain cool and self-possessed with that zinging around in the air?

Eames smiled in a pleased way, not as if he thought Arthur was young and stupid, which Arthur really appreciated. "Wine it is."

He returned a few moments later with a bottle and two glasses. Arthur shunted his computer off onto the side table, and Eames flicked on the TV.

"I hope you don't mind." He flipped through the channels until he landed on Dirty Jobs. "Call it a weakness."

Arthur laughed. "I don't mind, as long as you don't mind me knowing you watch this stuff."

Eames handed him a glass, smiling. "There's something about you, Arthur, that makes me think my secrets are safe with you. And I should warn you that I fully intend to win you over to this program and Top Gear before the summer is done."

He stretched his arm across the back of the sofa, and Arthur tried to pay attention to what was happening on TV, but he could feel the warmth coming off Eames's skin. That couldn't be good for anyone's powers of concentration.

"So." Arthur took a sip of his wine—or maybe "gulp" would be more the word. "What are you working on? You've been pretty focused yourself. "

"Trying to convince the city of Los Angeles that affordable housing doesn't have to be a blight on the landscape takes a great deal of effort, I'm afraid." At Arthur's confused looked, he explained, "We're designing an apartment complex in Skid Row to help house the formerly homeless, and our clients seem rather sadly determined that it should look like a prison."

"Are they just being cheap?"

"That and rather grimly unimaginative, but we will persevere." Eames cast a sidelong glance Arthur's way. "There's something I've been wondering about." Arthur half hoped the next words would be: How you'd look with your clothes off. They weren't. "What's made you so passionate about film?"

"My grandfather," Arthur said without hesitation.

Eames smiled. "Not the answer I was anticipating."

"He loved movies. I used to go over to his house in the afternoons after school, and my mother always told him to make sure I did my homework, and he always promised that he would, and instead we'd spend the whole time watching old movies on TV."

Eames's eyes brightened with amusement. "Sounds rather more enjoyable than puzzling over algebra."

Arthur nodded. "My grandfather was a character. He got dressed up in a suit every day, and he wore a fedora whenever he went out. We lived in this little town in New Jersey, and everyone knew him. He'd go for a stroll downtown, and all the shopkeepers would nod and say hello and call him Mr. Levine. He always kept peppermints in his pocket just for me."

"My grandfather was rather a colorful figure as well although more in the fashion of getting roaring drunk and chasing the help around the house."

Arthur laughed. "How did you end up in the States? I've been curious about that too."

"I came to work for Cesar Pelli and after a while found I'd grown used to you lot."

"Do you ever think about going back?"

"Every time the state of California thwarts one of my projects," Eames said with a rueful smile. "But rarely more seriously than that. I wouldn't like to uproot Jack, and I rather doubt his mother would approve such a plan."

Arthur wanted to ask about that as well. He'd overheard Jack on the phone with his mother, and Eames mentioned her occasionally, but Arthur still didn't know any details, like where she lived or when she saw Jack. It was hard not to be curious, but it also seemed like crossing a line to ask about it.

"What about you, Arthur? Will you be returning home to the east coast when you've done with your degree?"

Arthur shook his head emphatically. "I like L.A. I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be." He darted a glance over at Eames, and, God, that was true in so many ways.

Eames nodded approvingly, poured them both more wine, and chinked glasses with Arthur. "Cheers to that."

They settled in to watch the rest of the show, some poor guy installing lightning rods. Eames's arm was still stretched along the back of the sofa, and the wine felt warm in Arthur's stomach. In the small chinks of silence he could hear the in-and-out of Eames's breath. It would have been so easy to pretend this was something completely other than what it was.

If Arthur wanted to be monumentally stupid and unprofessional, which he absolutely didn't.

"What do the orange containers mean again?" Eames glanced over his shoulder, a perplexed wrinkle between his eyes as he surveyed the newly organized kitchen shelves.

"Refined flour and sugar." Arthur answered as he assembled Jack's lunch. He'd managed in his two weeks of residency to phase out the Lunchables and phase in the occasional apple or banana with the PB&J sandwich that Jack had deemed an acceptable replacement for sodium and nitrates.

"And the red containers mean?" Eames asked.

"That you should probably start looking into cholesterol medication."

The corner of Eames's mouth turned up. "So the pantry now has a terror alert system for nutritional value."

"Or lack thereof."

Eames laughed. "How ever did we manage without you, Arthur?"

This sentiment had been echoed rather forcefully by Rebecca, the sturdy, helmet-haired lady who came on Mondays and Thursdays to do the cleaning. The first time she and Arthur had met was Arthur's third day on the job. By then he'd managed to rein in the worst of the kitchen chaos although he hadn't fully instituted a system yet.

Rebecca had come in through the side door, stopped in her tracks, and taken a long, hard look around. Then she'd walked right up to Arthur, practically nose to nose (or really nose to chin since she was a good head shorter than Arthur), and squinted at him. "I don't know who you are, but I like you."

They'd been the staunchest of allies ever since. Whenever Rebecca took a break, Arthur made coffee, and they sat together at the kitchen table and traded tales.

"Last time Mrs. Farbush went on vacation, she left two weeks' worth of dinners in the freezer, so all Mr. Eames had to do was defrost them and warm them up. Apparently he's the only person in the entire industrialized world who doesn't know you can't put metal in the microwave." Rebecca had shaken her head sadly.

Arthur had related how he'd found a box of macaroni in the freezer and a bottle of 409 in the refrigerator. He and Rebecca had agreed, with all due seriousness, that a system was sorely needed.

Eames settled at the table with a level-orange corn muffin and a cup of coffee, typing away at his laptop in between bites, getting crumbs in the keyboard. There was a document that had to go out that morning if the low-income housing project was going to move forward without delay, and Eames had been up well before dawn trying to finish it.

Jack sat bent over his bowl of Fruit Loops, spending more time sloshing milk off his spoon than actually eating. "Daddy, Arthur says he's going to go grocery shopping and cook dinner, and we're going to have vegetables," he told his father, big-eyed, as if the notion of a proper supper was genuinely startling when Arthur knew for a fact that Mrs. Farbush fed them very well when she was there.

"Did he now?" Eames regarded Arthur with an amused smile.

Jack nodded with long, emphatic bobs of his head. "He says we're trying something new."

Eames's smile grew broader. "Well, trying new things is always good, darling."

"That's what Arthur said," Jack agreed very solemnly.

He went back to his Fruit Loops, and Eames became so engrossed in his work that the rest of his corn muffin languished uneaten.

Absently, he held out his mug. "Darling, would you mind terribly bringing me some more coffee?"

Arthur stalled at the counter. He knew Eames couldn't possibly mean Jack, because Jack was under strict orders never to touch anything that got above room temperature, but—darling?

"Uh, sure," he said at last and brought the coffee decanter over to the table, filling up the empty mug.

"Thank you, darling," Eames said, not looking up from his computer screen or breaking the stride of his typing.

Clearly the use of the endearment hadn't really registered with him. It hadn't escaped Jack's notice, however. He shot a big, milky grin at Arthur and continued to smile happily as he finished his Fruit Loops.

Eames gulped down the rest of his coffee and left in the usual frazzled whirl, peppering Jack with kisses and promising Arthur to call if he was going to be late. Arthur cleaned up the kitchen, and he and Jack headed upstairs to spend some quality time with Jack's dinosaur collection before it was time for him to head off to day camp.

They settled onto the rug by Jack's bed and began to play, and Jack kept shooting these sly, I've-got-a-secret looks at Arthur.

At last, Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. "What?"

Jack shook his head. "Nothin'."

But that look didn't disappear, and Jack was still smiling happily when Arthur dropped him off at camp.

On the flowchart Arthur kept of the research he needed to do for his thesis, he'd mapped out the entire week to devote to more in-depth reading on French politics. When the phone rang, he was thoroughly immersed in The French Communist Party in the Fifth Republic as he had been for most of the morning. He scowled, intending to ignore the call, but then it occurred to him that maybe it was Eames.

"Hello?" he said distractedly, not looking up from the page.

A woman's voice came over the line. "This is Lydia Caldwell from the Friendly Smiles Day Camp. Am I speaking with Mr. Eames?"

Arthur let go of his book and sat up, instantly alert. "He's at work. I'm Arthur. I take care of Jack. Did something happen? Is he okay?" His voice rose sharply with concern.

"Please don't be worried. He's fine," Miss Caldwell said, in the soothing tone she no doubt used on the first graders in her care. "But there has been—let's call it an 'incident', and someone needs to come pick up Jack."

Arthur frowned. "What kind of incident?" He couldn't imagine what Jack could possibly have done to get sent home early.

"I'd really prefer to discuss it in person."

"Yeah. Sure. Okay. I'll be right there." Arthur hung up, scrambled around for his keys, and sprinted to the garage.

When he pulled up outside the school, he found Jack standing on the sidewalk with a woman he assumed was Miss Caldwell. She was holding Jack's hand and wearing a stern expression. Jack's head drooped sheepishly, the way it did when he was afraid he was going to get into trouble, and fuck! He was holding an ice pack against what promised to be one hell of a black eye.

Arthur jammed the car into park, jumped out and ran, his heart knocking against his ribs. He knelt down and swept Jack into his arms. Jack hugged back, holding on with all his strength. He sniffled against Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur stroked a hand over his hair. "Are you okay?"

Jack nodded, but the sniffling didn't stop.

"What happened?" Arthur demanded, glaring at the teacher, just barely managing to keep himself from shouting: I thought you said he was fine! By what definition was a little kid with a black eye "fine"?

"Jack got into a fight with Cody Prescott," Miss Caldwell told him, lips pressed together disapprovingly.

Rage rocked through Arthur, fierce and unreasonable. He had to remind himself that he wasn't allowed to kick the ass of a six-and-a-half year old, even one who obviously had it coming the way Cody Prescott did.

Miss Caldwell continued, "By all accounts Jack is the one who started it." She hesitated. "At least where the hitting was concerned. Cody did say some things—things we absolutely do not condone. And I can see now why—" She waved her hand vaguely in the direction of Arthur and Jack. "It certainly makes sense that Jack would have been upset by the comments. But we are very clear with the children that they need to use their words not their fists when they're upset. We have a zero tolerance policy for fighting. I'm afraid we're going to have to suspend Jack for three days. If you could let Mr. Eames know that I'll be in touch to discuss the details with him?"

Arthur nodded, and Miss Caldwell touched Jack kindly on the shoulder before heading back into the school. Jack sobbed more brokenly.

Arthur hugged him closer, rubbing a hand over his back. "It's going to be okay, Jack. It really is."

"Don't be mad at me, Arthur," Jack said in a thin, watery voice that was the saddest fucking thing Arthur had ever heard in his life.

"Hey, hey, I'm not mad at you." Arthur pulled back so he could look Jack in the eye. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

Jack shook his head emphatically no.

"Are you sure?"

Jack nodded yes just as determinedly.

"Okay." Arthur let out his breath. "Let's go home then, huh?"

Jack clung to Arthur's hand as they walked to the car. He was quiet the whole way home, hunched and miserable-looking in the passenger seat. Once they got to the house, Arthur hoped Jack might feel more comfortable and spill it about what had happened at camp. Instead he made a beeline for the couch and curled up in the corner of it, a tiny ball of unhappiness.

Time to call Eames.

He sounded harried when he picked up. "Darling, everything's at absolute sixes and sevens here. Could I call you back in just a few—"

"No," Arthur said firmly. "It's about Jack."

This caught Eames's attention, and Arthur explained about the fighting and the suspension. "I've tried talking to him, but he won't tell me what happened. He's really upset, and I don't know what to do." Arthur's voiced cracked, and that was just fucking great. Now he was sounding like a distraught six-and-a-half year old himself.

There was a beat of silence, and then Eames said, calm and reassuring, "You were right to call me, Arthur. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Arthur hung up and went back to Jack. "Your dad's coming home."

He'd thought this would make Jack perk up a little, but instead he curled in on himself even tighter.

"You're not—" In trouble, Arthur had been about to say. He was reasonably sure this was true, given what he knew about Eames, but it wasn't his place to make those assurances. "Everything's going to be okay, Jack."

Eames's company had its offices in downtown Los Angeles, a good hour away from Pasadena depending on traffic, and Eames had sounded like he was drowning in work. Arthur rubbed Jack's back, doing his best to comfort him, resigned to a long wait before reinforcements arrived.

Instead, the door swung open a mere forty-five minutes later. Eames strode into the living room and exchanged a concerned glance with Arthur, who could only look back helplessly. I have no idea what's going on.

"Darling?" Eames called out to Jack.

"Don't be mad, Daddy," Jack mumbled pitifully, his voice muffled by the throw pillow.

"Oh, darling." Eames scooped him up and hugged him tight. "I'm not angry with you. Just a bit worried."

"I know you said hitting's not good." Jack sniffled, his shoulders shaking. "But I had to!"

"Come on, my love. Let's sit down together and have a nice chat." He sank down onto the nearest chair and settled Jack into the crook of his arm. "Now tell Daddy all about it."

Jack took another gulping breath, and then the story spilled out of him. "We was doing arts 'n crafts, and I was making a candy dish for you out of clay." His face darkened. "And I didn't even get to finish! 'Cause we was talking, and Starla Ashby was telling about how her dad is going to get married to Ursula—that's Starla's nanny—and I said I wanted you to marry Arthur, and Cody Prescott, who's stupid and I hate him, said that you couldn't marry Arthur because boys don't get married to each other, and I said they do too, and he said do not, and I said yes they do, and he said that even if they could, it would be really gross, and I said he'd better take that back, and he wouldn't, so I hit him."

Jack ran out of breath and sucked in a long lungful of air. Eames sat absolutely still as if he'd been mowed over by surprise, much the way Arthur suspected he himself looked.

"And I'm not sorry either!" Jack declared passionately. "Because that stupid Cody Prescott had it coming!" His defiance was belied by the hitch in his voice and eyes that were still shimmery and bright.

Eames managed to get over being startled, at least enough to say, "Sweetheart, it's very admirable to stand up for what you believe in, and I'm proud of you for doing it, but as we've discussed before, hitting is never the way to settle anything. Will you try and remember that the next time something upsets you?"

Jack nodded solemnly.

Eames hesitated. "What made you think Arthur and I might want to get married?"

"It just makes sense," Jack said, duh very much implied, as if he couldn't understand why his father was even asking him the question. "Then Arthur would be part of the family, all official and everything."

"Ah," Eames said, his gaze traveling over to Arthur.

Now would come the part when he explained to Jack that Arthur just worked there, that it wasn't anything personal—which was completely true—and yet Arthur had to work at not flinching in anticipation of it.

"Well, darling, Arthur is part of the family," Eames told Jack, his eyes still on Arthur, and Arthur let out breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. "But that doesn't mean we're going to get married. There are many different ways people can be family to one another. Do you understand?"

"I guess so," Jack said, not at all certainly.

Eames kissed the top of his head. "Why don't you go upstairs, and we'll play toy soldiers? I'll be up in just a minute."

Jack scrambled off his father's lap, smiling happily again, and thundered up the steps, his usual energy back with a vengeance. That left just Eames and Arthur and an overwhelming sense of awkwardness in the room

"Arthur," Eames started and stopped, as if he weren't sure how to go on. "Well, I suppose I should just come out with it. The fact is, I do see men on occasion, which Jack knows, and he must have misunderstood. I do hope this hasn't made you uncomfortable."

Arthur stared at him. "Me? I'm not—" The one who married a woman, but he figured he really shouldn't say that. "Guys with other guys, that's not something that's ever going to make me uncomfortable."

Eames's eyes widened with understanding and a spark of something that might have been interest or possibly thaat was only Arthur's wishful thinking. "Ah. Well, good then. I'm glad there's no—"

"Daddy!" Jack shouted out impatiently from upstairs.

Eames's mouth quirked up. "My progeny awaits." He called back to Jack, "Coming, darling." He got up, and at the living room doorway, he looked back at Arthur and smiled. "Thank you for taking our dramas in stride and being so kind with Jack."

He disappeared upstairs, and Arthur continued to stare at the empty space where he'd just been standing. Fuck. Hot, unmarried, and queer. Arthur was in such deep shit.

While Arthur found Jack's three-day suspension ridiculously over-the-top (especially when Cody Prescott totally had it coming!), he wasn't one to overlook an opportunity. There was a long list of touristy stuff he'd secretly wanted to do ever since coming to school in California—an actual list, typed up and kept in a locked file on his decrepit laptop—the kind of goofy shit families visiting from Iowa would want to do, things Arthur's film-studies friends would only roll their eyes at. In other words, just the thing to entertain a crestfallen six-and-a-half year old.

Jack perked up on the first day when he realized they were headed to the Natural History museum instead of—Arthur didn't even know where he'd thought they were going. Jack still seemed to be waiting for Arthur and Eames to change their minds and decide he was in trouble.

"I like dinosaurs," Jack said with a wide-eyed sidelong glance.

Arthur smiled. "I know."

And, really, what wasn't there to like about a life-sized puppet T. Rex that roamed the exhibit hall roaring and snapping and looking like it was about to eat them all alive? Jack split his time between shrieking his head off and giggling so hard his shoulders shook. Arthur's inner geek had the time of its life.

"What are we going to do now?" Jack asked, face shining, gripping Arthur's fingers excitedly when they left the museum.

They hit the "Let's Make a Comet" demonstration at the Griffith Observatory the next day, which unfortunately left Arthur having to explain why they couldn't do that in the kitchen at home even if they did have all the ingredients. He shuddered just thinking about cleaning up that mess. A train ride at Griffith Park quickly got Jack over his disappointment; Arthur was totally not above bribery. The last day they went to Santa Monica pier, and Arthur bought Jack an ice cream cone nearly as big as he was.

It was a good three days although at the end of them Jack said wistfully, "I get to go back to camp, right? We're supposed to make lanyards this week."

Arthur gave him a reassuring smile. "You start back tomorrow. Totally not going to miss out on lanyards."

"Yay!" Jack leaped into Arthur's arms and hugged him hard, and Arthur got this clench in his throat that he insisted to himself had to be the beginnings of acid reflux.

Jack's suspension had been something of a vacation for Arthur—he'd given himself the three days off from research to spend on fun-having—but the next morning it was time to get back down to work. He set his computer on the kitchen counter and typed stray thoughts in between rushing around packing Jack's lunch and making coffee for Eames, who had an early morning meeting he was going to be late for if he didn't get his ass down here soon.

"I want waffles," Jack declared when he came scampering into the kitchen, because that was what he always wanted when there was something to celebrate.

"Sure," Arthur told him. Going back to day camp clearly counted as a special occasion.

"Eames!" Arthur shouted up the stairs. "You're going to be late!"

"Coming, darling," floated back down the steps.

Arthur's cell rang, and he answered it with a curt, "Yeah?" as he wrangled the waffle iron out of the cabinet.

"Is that how you talk to your sister?"

He snorted. "You know it is."

"Who's that?" Jack asked, sitting at the kitchen island, watching Arthur curiously.

"Rachel," Arthur told him.

"What?" Rachel said in his ear.

"Not you—I was—" Arthur let out his breath. "Does this call have a point?"

"Since when does a member of your family need a point to talk to you? Although now that you bring it up, I do want to bitch you out for not returning any of my calls."

"I've been busy!" he told her, exasperated.

"Too busy for your only sister?"

"You know you sound just like mom, right?"

"Oh my God, fuck off and die. Arthur! You'd better take that back!"

"Darling, you're an absolute lifesaver," came a voice from over Arthur's shoulder.

He jerked around and found Eames smiling beatifically at him, coffee cup clutched in his hand.

"Darling?" Rachel mimicked, doing an incredibly shitty imitation of Eames's accent, and fuck. Fuckity-fuck-fuck. The last thing Arthur needed was Rachel asking him questions about Eames. "Is that the dad? Is he hot? Oh my fucking God, Arthur! Are you screwing around with the hot dad?"

"I have to go," he told her in a clipped tone. "I'll call you later." He jabbed the end button on his phone and ignored the blatantly curious glances Eames was throwing him. "I'd offer you waffles, but you don't have time for that."

Eames smiled, amused, and Arthur pretended not to notice, busying himself with batter, stacking the finished product on a plate and typing at his laptop while he waited for the next batch to be done. At least he did until the laptop flickered and died on him yet again.

"Son of a—" He bit his lip to keep from finishing that thought.

"Still giving you trouble, is it?" Eames peered over Arthur's shoulder. "Allow me." He jiggled the power cord and fiddled with the duct tape, and Arthur was just about to declare the computer a hopeless cause when it whirred back to life, the fan making a sound like a dying water buffalo. "There we are. For now, at least. You really do need another one of these, you know."

"Yeah," Arthur said wryly, "if only I could afford it."

It just slipped out, and Arthur instantly regretted it. Sounding pathetic hurt his pride in any circumstances, and he really didn't need Eames of all people feeling sorry for him.

Fortunately Eames happened to have noticed the clock. "Oh shi—" He clamped his mouth shut, and Arthur had to work very hard not to laugh. "I've got to race." He ditched his coffee mug and babbled goodbye to Arthur and gave Jack a quick, twirling hug on his way out.

Arthur and Jack sat down to waffles, which apparently had come out okay, since Jack nodded his head and made yummy noises the whole time he ate. Arthur cleaned up the kitchen afterward, and Jack hung around instead of going up to his room to play the way he usually did. He slumped against the cabinets and made impatient faces and just generally got under foot until Arthur finally stopped and asked, "What's up? You're not nervous about going back to camp, are you?"

Jack shook his head. "I've got a secret," he told Arthur very seriously.

Arthur's brain immediately went to the worst possible place, and he began mentally cataloging places in LA you could dump a body and get away with it. God, was this what it was like to be a parent?

He took a breath and put on the calmest voice he could manage. "Jack, sometimes secrets can be—"

"Yeah, I know. There are good secrets and bad secrets. We learned about that in school. This is a good secret." Jack broke into a wide, mischievous grin that made him look even more like his father. "And I'm not telling!"

He giggled and ran off, leaving Arthur to wonder.

Arthur couldn't remember being six-and-a-half in any particular detail. He had a vague recollection of liking Legos, and spending most afternoons after school ripping around the neighborhood on his bike, and things usually ending in tears whenever he and Rachel tried to play together. He definitely didn't recall having any secrets, and he couldn't imagine that he would have been any good at keeping them.

Jack was a master of circumspection.

"You really can tell me, you know," Arthur said on the way to day camp.

"No, I can't," Jack said, shaking his head emphatically.

They pulled into the parking lot, and Arthur stopped the car. "I know you think it's a good secret." He put on his most serious, concerned face. "But you should probably tell me, just to be on the safe side."

Jack snorted a laugh. "You're funny, Arthur!" He slid out of the car and went skipping off to join his friends.

"It's just a kid's secret," Arthur told himself as he drove off, not that this did much good. He'd never been able to stand not knowing stuff.

His phone rang, and he fished it out of his pocket, driving one-handed, ignoring the fact that he was breaking the law. "Yeah?"

"Arthur!" Ariadne's voice gushed over the line. "How are you? What have you been up to?" The words came out bright and bouncy, and if Arthur hadn't known Ariadne so well, he wouldn't have heard the unspoken: Why haven't you called me, you asshole?

"I've been kind of busy. You know, working. Doing research for my thesis. And—stuff."

She snorted. "Don't tell me you don't get any time off."

"No. Yeah. Sure. I just—" The fact was he didn't work most weekends, and he could have gone out, could have seen Ariadne and his other friends who'd stayed in LA for the summer. He just preferred hanging out with Eames and Jack, lazing around at home, or going to the beach to build sandcastles expertly designed by Eames, or grabbing brunch at the diner where the waitress served Jack's pancakes decorated with a smiley face in dabs of butter.

"Well, you're coming to my party the Saturday after next. I'm not taking no for an answer."

"I'll see—"

Ariadne had already hung up. For such a tiny little person, she bore a striking resemblance to a bulldozer.

Arthur spent the rest of the afternoon doing some organizing around the house and then wrestling with The French Communist Party in the Fifth Republic: A Crisis of Leadership and Ideology. When he went to pick Jack up, it was a reprise of the morning's "I've got a secret" routine. Jack bounced into the car and fidgeted while Arthur fastened his seatbelt and slid sly glances out of the side of his eye the whole way home.

"You could just tell me already," Arthur said at last.

Jack only giggled.

This continued for the next three days—the giggling and the bright-eyed scheming and the knowing looks—until Arthur had been driven nearly crazy with thwarted curiosity. Friday morning, he rolled out of bed at the first blare of the alarm and pulled on sweatpants, yawning, and padded downstairs to get the day underway.

"Surprise!" rang out when he turned on the light in the kitchen.

He blinked, his fuzzy brain needing a moment to make sense of it all: Eames and Jack smiling expectantly and a bunch of balloons in the gaudy colors favored by the Eames men tied to one of the chairs and an obviously Jack-made banner hung up on the wall spelling out "Happy Birthday!" in crooked, crayoned letters.

"See?" Jack declared triumphantly, face shining with excitement as he zoomed over to Arthur. "I told you it was a good secret."

Arthur knelt down and wrapped Jack up in a hug. "You did. You told me." He looked up at Eames. "How'd you know?"

Eames smiled bemusedly. "We have your government's bureaucracy to thank for that, actually. The documents you gave me for the tax records had your birth date in them."

"We're going to have a party," Jack told Arthur gleefully.

"Tonight. If you're free." Eames smiled crookedly. "To give credit where its due, I should tell you that Jack has done much of the planning for our celebration."

Jack nodded emphatically. "We're going somewhere they have games!"

Arthur smiled widely. "Sounds awesome. I can't wait." He kissed the top of Jack's head and stood up and then he had to laugh.

Eames raised an eyebrow.

"It's just—I totally forgot it was my birthday."

"Darling." The corner of Eames's mouth quirked up, but his forehead creased, as if he couldn't quite decide whether to be amused or concerned at this confession. "I fear you've been working too hard." He drew near and put a hand on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur expected a reassuring pat the way Eames did with Jack, but instead Eames slid his palm warmly in circles over the thin cotton of Arthur's T-shirt, an altogether different kind of gesture. Arthur let himself lean in to it, because what the hell. It was his birthday.

Continued in Part 2

The power of female friendship + Hockey podcast

scribblinlenore — Fri, 23 Aug 2013 19:12:44 GMT

Passing along two links today (and completely glossing over the fact that I forgot to post yesterday, oops):

1. Transformation and Transcendence: The Power of Female Friendship by Emily Rapp

It's an article from last January, a meditation piece on how female friendship is generally treated in the mainstream media (dismissive and denigrating) versus the reality of how strong and nurturing and important these ties so often are. Female friendship plays a really important role in my life, and it was lovely to read a celebration of it.

2. Hockeyfact podcast

Maybe everyone else already knows about this hockey podcast, but I just found out about it recently. And it's awesome! There can never be enough of fangirls talking about hockey. Two episodes are available so far, with a mix of hockey news, opinions, and fannish happenings. Check it out!

Congratulations, Ichiro! (Also TV)

scribblinlenore — Thu, 22 Aug 2013 02:24:43 GMT

4,000 hits. Wow. Just wow. What an amazing accomplishment.

I have to admit, though, that I wasn't watching. I've been a bad Yankees fan this year. It's not that the team has been losing. It's that I don't even recognize them as my team. In pretty much every game, there's someone who comes up to bat or in to pitch, and I'm like: Who the hell is that? The most fun I had at the ballpark this year was at a Mets game watching Matt Harvey pitch.

Is it hockey season yet?

I haven't watched much TV this summer. Teen Wolf came back on and I just...had no interest in tuning in. I caught one episode of Rizzoli and Isles, and I enjoyed it, but then I kept forgetting it was on. I have caught up on some British shows--Broadchurch, The Fall, Luthor--and I've been making use of my Amazon Prime free instant videos to watch many episodes of Trial and Retribution.

Have there been any commercials for new fall shows? I can't remember any. Is it just me or has TV been largely disappointing the past few seasons? I mean, I adore Elementary, and I like POI very much. I watch Castle and sometimes enjoy it. I'm excited about new seasons of Ripper Street, Haven, and Whitechapel whenever they come along. I can't really think of anything else.

So what are you guys watching? What do you recommend? Are there any upcoming shows you're excited about?

Cute animal picture of the week

scribblinlenore — Wed, 21 Aug 2013 02:21:29 GMT

One thing I do really enjoy about Tumblr is all the pictures of hot people and cute animals.

Since I didn't have time today to put together part 2 of the Kaner/Tazer recs, here's an extremely adorable kitty pic instead. Cats! On shelves!

More hockey RPF recs for newbies: Kaner/Tazer (Part 1)

scribblinlenore — Mon, 19 Aug 2013 20:16:59 GMT

First, for anyone who needs a quick primer on these guys, check out this post.

Now on to the fic! The Kaner/Tazer corner of hockey fandom has SO MANY good stories, something I was reminded of when I started making this list. There are so many good stories, in fact, that I'm breaking these recs into two posts. Part two will come tomorrow.

Tour de Force (23529 words) by thehoyden
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Jonathan Toews, Patrick Kane, Patrick Sharp, Brent Seabrook, Duncan Keith, Andrew Shaw
Additional Tags: secret genius
Summary: “Write what you know” was good enough advice for Jo March, so it’s good enough for Patrick Kane.

This story has incepted me into believing that Patrick Kane is at this very moment (or, okay, after he sobers up) working on the third book in his popular hockey series. Patrick Kane has incepted me into believing he's completely adorable, but that's another story.

a light-handed approach to regulation (34078 words) by hazel
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Patrick Kane, Jonathan Toews
Additional Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, bond of convenience
Summary: Patrick Kane has soft hands.

I'm really trying not to be a trope killjoy in these recs, but I have say that omegaverse is a fannish hot button that is usually a big turn off for me. Biology determining destiny...not so much, thank you. Which is why this story is so incredibly awesome! It delivers what (I think) fandom finds so hot about this trope while at the same subverting it. Nobody puts Tazer in a corner! Or on his knees!

Keep You On My Arm (6732 words) by rsadelle
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Patrick Kane, Jonathan Toews, Patrick Sharp, Andrew Shaw, Viktor Stalberg, T. J. Oshie
Additional Tags: Podfic Available
Summary: In which the gay bar is Stalberg's idea and Kaner doesn't notice Jon pretending to be his boyfriend.

I read this story pretty much every day. It delights me every time. There are so many fantastic stories in this corner of hockey fandom that it's hard (okay impossible) for me to choose a favorite, but this story is definitely in the running. Their friendship is just so adorable!

tied if we stay (30068 words) by staraflur
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Patrick Kane, Jonathan Toews
Additional Tags: bb toews is better at life, nude tane, one way ticket to tropetown
Summary: It takes 140 characters or less and one absolute fucking moron to change Jon's entire life forever. He should have known all along it would be Kaner. It always is.

This is much angstier than the usual fake dating fic, which I very much enjoy. I love the way relationship develops and then almost goes off the rails. When they finally declare themselves, it is the best thing ever.

Not a Heart of Gold (14451 words) by queeniegalore
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Patrick Kane, Jonathan Toews
Additional Tags: slight Ds, kind of not really prostitution, Boys Being Idiots
Summary: For the longest time this fic was unofficially titled 'Kaner's not a hooker but Tazer probably wants him to be', and I really can't think of a better way to summarise it than that. Many words of Tazer fantasising, pining, jerking off, and paying for sex, because that's apparently how he rolls.

This is so hot my brain melts out my ears every time I read it. The Tazer feels are equally as compelling. In fact, sometimes I skip to the very end to enjoy how fierce those feels are. But…you know, then I go back to the beginning and read the whole thing, because did I mention how brain-melting the sex is?

Your Daddy's Aim Is True (14986 words) by thefourthvine
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Additional Tags: Kid Fic, Podfic Available

I didn't read this story straight away even though it's by thefourthvine who is always awesome because I'm not really a kid person and I wasn't really feeling the kidfic. Don't be like me. This story is delightful. It doesn't make having a kid seem like it's all puppies and rainbows, which I really appreciated, and the way they get a kid in the first place is so absolutely perfect I can't even.

On the Line (26788 words) by queeniegalore
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Author Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Patrick Jane, Jonathan Toews
Additional Tags: Phone Sex, Dirty Talk, possessive!Jonny, Stupid Boys, Kaner is more emotionally mature than Jonny, i managed to sneak a generator rex reference in here, hahahaha
Summary: AKA the one with the phone sex. In which Kaner finds out Jonny wants to fuck him and is pretty okay with that turn of events. Phone sex, picnic baskets, crazy eyes, hockey and insanity ensue.

Queeniegalore writes ridiculously hot fic. This one teases in all the right ways.

don't look up, down, or to the side (8282 words) by hazel
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Patrick Kane, Jonathan Toews
Additional Tags: Renovations, Nesting, Podfic Available
Summary: His mom had told him not to fall in love with houses; so had his dad, made some crack about them being worse than women, son, while his mom fake-punched him in the arm and then added, "and like people, it's what's underneath that matters, Johnny." But this is the first house he's looked at that he's liked, though he doesn't know why: it's got narrow, pointy windows with stone pieces on the tops like eyebrows, and it sits between its larger, tidier, neighbours like a poor cousin. Johnny thinks it maybe just needs someone to love it; and then he thinks: fuck.

It's curtainfic with bros who are really bad at communicating with each other. <3 <3 <3

do it like they do on the discovery channel (11251 words) by hazel
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Patrick Kane, Jonathan Toews
Additional Tags: Broning
Summary: It turns out that buddyfucking your best friend without shit getting weird requires constant vigilance.

The Kaner voice in this is so perfect, and it makes me laugh every time. That's a lot of laughter because I've read it A LOT. The description of the mental antics that go into buddy fucking the best friend without shit getting weird is truly priceless. Also, did I mention that the story is really hot?

i don't know why (i can't keep my eyes off of you) (26123 words) by vlieger
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Author Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Characters: Patrick Kane, Jonathan Toews, Patrick Sharp, Brent Seabrook, Duncan Keith, Andrew Shaw
Additional Tags: Pranks and Practical Jokes, Miscommunication, Pining
Summary: "Fuck you so hard," said Kaner, turning a blinding grin on him, and Jonny blinked and flashed back to that first time they met way back in World Juniors, when Kaner's smile was just as bright and just as douchey, and punched Jonny's gut just as fucking hard.

There are a lot of super hot stories in Kaner/Tazer fandom, but this has my vote for hottest of them all. Also there are feelings. And Sharpy is a hilarious asshole. What more could you want?

Hockey RPF: Sid/Geno Recs for Newbies

scribblinlenore — Sun, 18 Aug 2013 20:57:29 GMT

Like some many people, I miss the community on LJ/DW. Tumblr just isn't the same. A bunch of people including my dear no_detective have made the commitment to post every day for a month, and I'm going to do my part and join in.

I promised a few people that I would pass on some hockey fic recs for newbies. Here's the first set featuring Sid and Geno. There's nothing startling here. They're pretty much the stories everyone reads and rereads, but for anyone just getting into the fandom, this is a great place to start. I'll have another set for Tazer/Kaner and a set of miscellaneous other pairings.

Fastening One Heart to Every Falling Thing (51519 words) by thefourthvine
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin, Evgeni Malkin/Alexander Ovechkin
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulbond, Trope Subversion/Inversion, Spacetoaster, Podfic Available, No Miracle Cure
Summary: Geno can't. Sidney won't.

Soulbonding tends to creep me out. I'm all about freedom of choice. This story subverts the trope in a way that feels very true to the characters and their relationship, addresses what would be totally not awesome about telepathically bonding with someone, and (for me anyway) is romantic in the best possible way.

Right on the Limits (20926 words) by thehoyden
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Hurt/Comfort, Sharing a Bed, Voyeurism, Phone Sex
Summary: Sidney groans, because this is ridiculous. “I think I’m having an allergic reaction,” he says.

If Sidney Crosby were a Sentinel, that would explain so much!

This Must Be the Place (17818 words) by thehoyden
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Characters: Marc-Andre Fleury, Kris Letang, Mario Lemieux, Jordan Staal, Taylor Crosby
Additional Tags: First Time, Sharing a Bed, oh spacetoaster, Families of Choice
Summary: There’s what everyone else does, and there’s what Sidney does, and there’s not much intersection between the two.

This is my happy place. I've lost track of how many times I've read it. <3 <3 <3

Flip Shut, Hang Up (4085 words) by thehoyden, twentysomething
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Characters: Alexander Ovechkin
Summary: By the fourth time Crosby has hung up on him, Alex has to admit that this has gone from funny to, frankly, a little hurtful.

I read this whenever I need to laugh and go AWWWWW! It has this one particular line that pops into my head all the time: Ah, young love. That special feeling of wanting to throw up and break into song at the same time. LOL! So true.

What You Make of It (3223 words) by thehoyden
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Characters: Alexander Ovechkin
Summary: “I’ve had that since I was eighteen,” Sidney moans. “My grandma gave it to me after the draft. It’s my good luck necklace.”

Hot necklace porn with feelings!

Morning to Wake You (54104 words) by oflights
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Author Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Characters: Rick Nash, Alexander Ovechkin, Marc Staal, Original Characters
Additional Tags: Promiscuity, Virginity, Pining, Growing Up, Sexual Identity
Summary: I've been calling this The Sexual Misadventures of Sidney Crosby forever, and that gives you an idea, but just in case: in which Sidney wins a gold medal, has sex (a lot), falls in love (twice), and breaks a bunch of rules.

This is my own personal head canon about Sid.

sing a lullabye (15031 words) by hapakitsune
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Characters: Sidney Crosby, Evgeni Malkin, Danny Briere, Eric Staal, Pascal Dupuis, Dan Bylsma
Additional Tags: Babysitting, Kid Fic, Podfic Available
Summary: Sidney is starting to get a reputation amongst the Pens for being the go-to guy for free childcare. Or, five times Sidney babysat and one time someone babysat for him.

If this were any more adorable, I WOULD DIE.

try to map the ocean (13521 words) by oflights
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Characters: Sidney Crosby, Evgeni Malkin, Jordan Staal, Marc-Andre Fleury, Maxime Talbot
Additional Tags: Animal Transformation, Pining
Summary: Geno scowls at him and pointedly Googles can penguins get concussions? while Sidney eats a tuna breakfast. Geno scowls harder when all of the results are about human Sidney’s concussion. (or, the one where Sidney gets turned into a penguin, and Geno's life is really hard.)

If anyone were actually going to turn into a penguin, it would be Sid.

Get It Right, Get It Tight (4630 words) by twentysomething
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Author Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Characters: Sidney Crosby, Evgeni Malkin
Summary: "The biceps peeking out of the sleeves, stretching the material thin and tight, are a lot more impressive than Geno remembers. He would have remembered if Sid had arms like that."

Smokin' hot arm porn. With feelings. (There are always feelings with Sid and Geno.)

Make This Place Your Home (8585 words) by iBear
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Author Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Characters: Alexander Ovechkin, Sergei Gonchar
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting
Summary: Sid is special, even for a wizard. Harry Potter AU.

My personal preference in hockey RPF is for non-AU's, but I really like the way this story captures Sid's exceptionalism. Also, it's just incredibly sweet.

there is a lake in me (21812 words) by hauntologie
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Author Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Characters: Evgeni Malkin, Sidney Crosby, Sergei Gonchar, Marc-Andre Fleury
Additional Tags: Mistaken Identity, Consent Issues, Genderswap, Cunnilingus, Orgasm Control, Pegging, light painplay, Bruises, POV Outsider, POV Multiple
Summary: In retrospect, Flower can totally understand why Geno didn't tell Sid who he actually was. Sid is incredibly persuasive when he wants to get laid.

This is my go-to story for extreme hotness and also for Flower hilarity. LOVE.

It's Really Not That Far (8064 words) by linaerys
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Characters: Sidney Crosby, Evgeni Malkin
Additional Tags: First Time
Summary: Sid doesn't like it when Geno kisses other people.

If you've ever seen one of the many Geno-kissing-girls pictures on the Internet and (like me) you thought "holy fuck, I need more Geno kissing in my life," then you definitely want to read this story.

Des Plus Brillants Exploits (33070 words) by twentysomething
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Author Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Characters: Sidney Crosby, Evgeni Malkin, Alexander Ovechkin, Sergei Gonchar, Ilya Kovalchuk, Alexander Semin, Brooks Orpik, Marc-Andre Fleury, Jonathan Toews, Hayley Wickenheiser, Meaghan Mikkelson, Marie-Philip Poulin, Jayna Hefford
Additional Tags: Genderswap, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes
Summary: “Vancouver!” Sid turns and shouts at the last second as
she goes through the doors.</p>

“Vancouver!” Geno yells back.

I love the Sid/Geno relationship in this so, so much.

ETA: Check out the comments for more recs for great stories.

ETA2: If anyone needs a Sid/Geno primer, check out this post.

Hockey RPF: I'm Your Handyman (Kaner/Tazer)

scribblinlenore — Sat, 03 Aug 2013 17:01:16 GMT

Title: I'm Your Handyman
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Pairing: Kaner/Tazer
Rating: Explicit
Word count: ~7,000
Summary: Patrick breaks things, Johnny fixes them, and then there are feelings; or a tale of home repair and boys being really, really dumb.

Notes: This story is for the vanilla square of my Kink Bingo card. Big thank you to fanofall for the speedy beta. My apologies to home repair.

You can also read the story at AO3:
http://archiveofourown.org/works/910724

I'm Your Handy Man
By Lenore

Patrick likes to think that he's a laid-back kind of guy, but there are some things that are just not okay in his world. Bad reffing. People ruffling his hair—why is that even a thing anyone wants to do? Haters who hate on Buffalo. And any day that starts without caffeine, because that is just bullshit, and he will tell anyone who tries to withhold coffee from him to go fuck themselves.

He tells his apparently broken Keurig machine, but sadly that doesn't convince it to give up his Italian dark roast.

"What the fuck good are you?" Seriously this has to be, like, the third Keurig machine he's owned in the past two years. Probably he should stop buying them, since clearly they're defective pieces of crap that fill his life with disappointment and caffeine deprivation.

He's weighing the pros and cons of throwing the thing up against the wall and grinding its defective insides under his heel—it's all pros really—when Tazer comes shuffling into the kitchen, knuckling the sleep out of his eyes and looking like morning has personally offended him. He passed out in the guest room the night before after one game of Call of Duty turned into an all-out marathon because he's a hyper-competitive asshole who won't just admit that Patrick is the king of gunning down fictional enemies.

"Are you trying to stare down your coffeemaker?" Tazer asks with a yawn.

"Fuck you, I do what I want," Patrick says because, well, because.

Johnny raises an eyebrow, judging Patrick's life choices and probably also his taste in kitchen appliances. Possibly Patrick deserves that last part.

"Shit's broken again."

"Did you clean the, you know, the thing with the—" Tazer waves his hand in a way that's apparently supposed to tell Patrick something, and when it clearly doesn't, Tazer gets his stern, disapproving face on. "Have you ever done any kind of maintenance on that machine? Why am I even asking? It's you."

"I buy those little plastic cup things for it, what?"

Tazer sighs heavily. "Do you have a paper clip?'

"Um, no."

This brings on yet more disapproving frowns. Seriously, what does Johnny want from his life? The last time Patrick was at an Office Depot was, like, never.

Johnny rolls his eyes, disappears for a moment, and comes back holding up a paperclip in triumph. Patrick narrows his eyes and tries to mentally track down where it might have come from, because seriously the Office Depot and Patrick are not buds. The only thing he can think of is the article his sister ripped out of Elle and mailed to him. "You went through the papers on my desk! That shit could be, like, private and stuff."

"Ten Tips That Can Help You Tame Your Temper? Really?"

"Fuck you, I'm growing as a person."

Johnny makes a skeptical face and muscles past him to the coffeemaker. That probably calls for another fuck you—Patrick has a policy of never letting Tazer get away with any shit ever—but there's caffeine on the line here, so he keeps his mouth shut just like tip #4 taught him. Tazer is going to owe Elle magazine a big-ass apology when Patrick becomes a model of self-restraint.

He slumps against the counter, watching unimpressed, as Tazer unbends the paperclip. Clearly a Plan B is called for here, and he decides on guilting Tazer into going to get him coffee when he's finished breaking the Keurig piece of shit even worse. Tazer takes it apart and gives the pieces a serious, pinch-between-the-eyebrows scowl of concentration. Patrick absently notes that the coffeemaker's insides are plastic and would have made a really satisfying crunch under foot if he'd gone with the original throwing-against-the-wall-and-stomping plan.

Tazer does something vaguely obscene with the unbent end of the paperclip, sticking it into a hole and thrusting it in and out. He puts the coffeemaker back together, pops in a new little plastic cup, sticks Patrick's mug under the spout, hits the brew button and—suddenly there's the sweet smell of caffeine in the air.

"Wait. That worked. What?" Patrick can't stop staring at the stream of blessed dark roast pouring into his cup.

Tazer crosses his arms over his chest; if he were any smugger about it, he'd probably hurt himself. But, whatever, Patrick has coffee. All is right in his world.

"If this were porn I'd totally blow you in gratitude right now." It's the kind of thing that Patrick says, and yet Tazer's mouth drops open in a genuinely shocked sort of way, and huh, did shit suddenly get weird in here? "Uh."

"I'll settle for some orange juice," Tazer says dryly.

Patrick even lets him drink it out of the carton because, whatever, he's busy clutching his coffee mug to his chest.

Because Patrick is an awesome friend, he spreads the story of Tazer's Keurig machine glory himself, saving Johnny from an epic inner battle between his crazed need to prove he's the best at everything and his polite Canadian discomfort with boasting. None of the guys seems remotely surprised to hear that Patrick is hopelessly mechanically uninclined and only owns a paperclip because it came attached to a self-help article cut out of a women's magazine. They do, however, appear amazed that Tazer knows how to fix things, which makes Tazer scowl, which would make Patrick laugh except for how he's still really fucking grateful to have the caffeine flowing at his house again.

Whatever. There will always be a next time for laughing at Johnny.

They go on a three-game road trip and sweep, and that makes the long-ass flight back from Vancouver not nearly as tedious as it could be. Patrick's outlook on life is further brightened by the fact that they don't have another game for two days, and he can toss back a few drinks without the judge-y Tazer voice in his head expressing its disappointment.

"You want to hang out tomorrow?" actual Tazer asks before they go their separate ways back in Chicago.

"Mortal Kombat?"

Tazer presses his mouth into a thin, determined line as if he's plotting his strategy. Seriously, he's the best entertainment Patrick's ever had.

The next day Tazer shows up with snacks and swagger, and that is both awesome and bust-a-gut hilarious considering his lame-ass gaming skills. They settle on the couch, and Patrick fires up the Wii. He even lets Tazer go first because he's an awesome host that way.

He's kind of zoning while Johnny takes his turn, idly debating which of his many obnoxious ways of celebrating his upcoming victory will be the most likely to make Johnny turn completely red with rage. His gaze happens to land on the strip of molding along the wall that has been hanging by a thread since a sexy game of naked Nerf football with his last girlfriend ended in tears and property damage. He keeps meaning to call building maintenance about it and then keeps forgetting. Whatever. He's got a demanding job. He should totally have people to take care of that kind of thing for him.

That thought makes him pause. Tazer's people. Well, kind of. He's here right now anyway. Patrick angles a glance at Tazer and then at the molding and then back at Tazer. Johnny is always screaming at Patrick to use him more, and, okay, so he means it in a hockey sense. Patrick doesn't see why that same philosophy shouldn't extend to home repair.

Johnny stares at him when he explains the theory. "Did you seriously just ask me to fix your molding?"

Patrick shrugs. "I thought you might like to do something you're actually good at."

Tazer's expression does this complicated thing where it's smug over his manly fixit prowess and pissy at the slight to his lame-ass gaming skills; this is probably more of a workout than his face has gotten in years. Patrick kind of wants to laugh himself sick over that, but there's a semi-attached molding hanging in the balance here, so he keeps a straight face. This self-restraint stuff is totally a thing that's happening.

"Where are your tools?" Tazer asks at last with a put-upon sigh.

"Duh. In the tool drawer. Come on." He drags Johnny along with him to the kitchen and opens the drawer next to the refrigerator with a flourish. "Take whatever you need."

Tazer looks inside, pulls out a perfectly good screwdriver, and holds it up with disdain. "Seriously?"

"What?"

"You do get that tools is plural, right? As in more than one?"

"Fuck you, don't mock the tool drawer. You just didn't look in the right place."

Does Patrick have to do everything himself? Apparently yes. He pushes Tazer aside and rustles around in the drawer until he comes up with the keychain that has an itty-bitty level attached to it and a pink plastic ruler that his youngest sister left behind the last time she'd been visiting. "That's like a tool, right?"

Tazer just shakes his head as if Patrick is the saddest dipshit in the world and his tool drawer is a deep personal affront to him. "I'll make do."

It comes as no kind of surprise that Tazer's idea of "making do" involves ordering Patrick around as much as humanly possible, sending him off for a spare shoe to use as a hammer and when that fails canned goods from the kitchen and finally a beer—not a shitty American one either—although Patrick is pretty sure that's not actually necessary for the fixing of his molding.

Patrick doesn't even mind, and that's just weird considering that his usual response to Tazer being a tyrannical dickface is loud and borderline homicidal. But it's different somehow with Tazer crouched down on Patrick's floor, nose to nose with Patrick's molding, squinting at it in that meticulous, determined Tazer way of his. A too-warm feeling settles into the pit of Patrick's stomach and—yeah, he's just going to call that gratitude since anything else would be stupid. It's a fucking molding.

"Can you hold it in place for me?" When Patrick doesn't snap right to, Tazer turns to glare, and that's just so very him that Patrick has to roll his eyes. He rolls them extra hard when Tazer declares, "you're not doing it right, like this," and proceeds to demonstrate as if Patrick is too much of a dumb fuck to hold a board in place.

Tazer lines up the makeshift hammer precisely, because he's Tazer and he's going to be the best at home repair even if he is working with a can of French cut green beans. He lands one perfectly placed blow after another, a pinch of concentration between his eyes, biceps flexing with the effort. When he's finished, the nails are secure again, and he runs his thumb carefully along the molding, as if double-checking that the work is up to his perfectionist's standards.

Patrick gets that too-hot sensation again, only this time it's not just in his stomach. It's everywhere. That definitely doesn't feel like gratitude. He snaps to his feet and stumbles back a few steps.

Tazer stares at him like he's crazy. "What?"

"What?" Patrick shoots back. "I'm, like, surveying your work and shit."

This earns him an indignant glare. "Well?"

Patrick shrugs. "It'll do."

Tazer shakes his head. "You're an ungrateful asshole, you know that?"

"Thanks or whatever." When Tazer doesn't stop glaring, he says, "What? You want me to blow you or something?" It just comes out, although this isn't really the best time to ratchet up their years-long game of gay sex chicken, not when Patrick's got this weird wanting feeling or whatever in his stomach. Some backsliding on the self-restraint front is just to be expected, he supposes.

Tazer's mouth pulls into a tight line, and he quickly looks away. "You should stop saying that."

And, yeah, Patrick definitely should, but now that Tazer has told him to—well, it's like he doesn't know Patrick at all. "The hinge is loose on the vanity in my bathroom. You want to give me another reason to be grateful?"

It's tame compared to some of the gay sex chicken stuff Tazer has pulled—exercising in front of Patrick wearing nothing but his underwear, just to name one—only Patrick isn't even sure he's playing a game right now, which is a whole other level of what the fuck.

Tazer fastens a long, measuring look on him. "Do you know what you're doing?"

Patrick nods. "I'm getting the screwdriver."

He brings it to the bathroom and finds Tazer already crouched down, squinting at the hinge, running his thumb over it. Apparently he gets really touchy-feely when he's fixing things. If Patrick is resenting the hinge a little bit right now, he's not going to examine that. He's just going to stand back and let Johnny work—and okay, fine, he's also going to appreciate the view. Crouching is a really good look for Johnny.

"You know, you could have done this yourself," Tazer says, as he makes short work of tightening the screw.

"Mm," Patrick says noncommittally. Maybe he could have, but it's so much better watching Johnny get all manly and competent with the screwdriver. He wonders if he should buy Johnny power tools for his birthday and if he'd let Patrick watch him use them.

"There," Johnny declares and hands back the screwdriver. "And you're welcome."

"Yeah, so now I definitely owe you that blowjob," Patrick says because he's himself, and this game of gay sex chicken has been going on way too fucking long. There's only so much self-restraint a person can stand.

Tazer goes still and gives him a long, speculative look. "Maybe you do owe me."

Patrick swallows hard, because he hadn't entirely expected Tazer to go there, and, fuck, he's really turned on.

Johnny takes two steps closer, gets right up in Patrick's personal space, leans in and says roughly against his ear, "Is that what you want, Pat? To get down on your knees for me?"

A shiver goes all through Patrick. Shit. That's exactly what he wants. Tazer's hand falls heavily on his shoulder. Patrick could throw off his grip if he wanted to. Tazer may be bigger, but Patrick's still a fucking hockey player. But, whatever, this was Patrick's idea, and his ideas are the best. He lets Tazer push him down so he's kneeling on the tile.

Tazer sucks in a sharp breath when Patrick unzips his jeans and takes out his dick. That's pretty satisfying. It's even better when Patrick gets his mouth around Johnny's dick and Johnny starts groaning like he's about to die. Patrick hasn't done this a lot, and he suspects he's not very good at it, what with the drool running down his chin and all, but a guy isn't usually going to complain about technique when he's getting his dick wet. Johnny seems to be no exception to this rule.

"Fuck, yeah," he grates out, staring down at Patrick, sliding his hand along Patrick's shoulder to cup the back of his head. "Take it."

Johnny is bossy as all fuck about pretty much everything, and apparently he never got that memo about proper blowjob etiquette, because he pushes Patrick down onto his cock, practically fucking his face. He's just lucky that Patrick gets off on that shit. A lot, actually. He presses the heel of his hand against his dick and relaxes his throat as much as he can and lets Johnny use him however he wants. It really is like porn. Johnny is the muscle-y, monosyllabic handyman, and Patrick is—well, not the bored housewife. Whatever. It's hot.

"Kaner," Johnny slurs out and presses his thumb at the corner of Patrick's mouth. "Fuck, I'm going to—"

Patrick pulls back, but not fast enough to avoid taking a hit of jizz to the face. Maybe he's more into that than he would have thought, because Johnny's not the only one coming.

"Get up here." Tazer hauls him to his feet.

For a moment Patrick thinks Johnny might kiss him. Instead his hands go to Patrick's fly, and then he freezes, staring in disbelief at the wet spot on the front of his jeans.

"Uh," Patrick says, very intelligently.

Tazer glares, yanks Patrick closer, and practically growls in his ear, "Next time you show your fucking gratitude, don't come before I get to touch you."

He lets Patrick go and stalks out of the room. A moment later Patrick hears him call out from the living room, "Mortal Kombat. Rematch. Get your ass in gear."

Yeah, so Patrick really should put on some pants that aren't stained with jizz and go school Johnny on how video games are actually played, but he's kind of stuck on the whole next time thing.

Of course now that there's the possibility of a next time floating out there, Patrick's apartment goes through a really inconvenient period of everything working exactly as it should. Meanwhile nothing is working right out on the ice. Patrick would worry that maybe the home-repair-slash-blowjob incident was messing up the dynamic between him and Tazer, but the whole team is sluggish and out of sync. They lose to the Islanders at home in a shootout and then get shut out by the Sabres. Patrick now has many reasons to be in a shitty mood.

Thankfully the plumbing in his apartment comes through for him, getting on board with team buddy-sex, offering up a leaking pipe beneath the kitchen sink. Once again he could call building maintenance, and he half expects Tazer to tell him so in the flat, unimpressed voice he uses whenever he thinks Patrick is being a fuck-up.

There's a long pause, and Patrick is making his peace with disappointment when Tazer says, "You're getting me tacos."

"Extra guacamole," Patrick quickly promises.

"And no—"

"American beer," Patrick finishes the sentence for him. "Yeah, yeah. Bring your wrench or whatever and get over here."

He's not actually expecting Tazer to show up with an entire toolbox, but there he is, filling Patrick's doorway, looking more like porn than ever with his collection of wrenches and his tight-stretched T-shirt that leaves nothing about his nipples to the imagination.

Tazer raises an eyebrow at him. "Are you going to let me in?"

"Are you going to get in here already?"

Tazer heavy-sighs in his direction and brushes past him, heading for the kitchen. Patrick hangs back, watching him go, imagining a tool belt riding those hips. Tazer would rock the shit out of a tool belt.

By the time Patrick joins him in the kitchen, Tazer is already hunkered down taking a look under the sink. This means more crouching, and Patrick takes a moment to think fondly of his fucked up plumbing even though it really shouldn't be fucked up at all considering how much money he paid for this place.

"Okay, I turned off the water, and I'm going to need to change your s-curve," Tazer says in that challenging way of his, as if he expects Patrick to argue with him.

"You can change my s-curve any time, baby," Patrick says, as you do. Although come to think of it…"You know I don't have one of those, right?"

Tazer rolls his eyes. "Says the person who doesn't own paperclips. I figured the s-curve was the problem. I picked up one on the way over."

Patrick's not going to examine why Johnny buying plumbing parts for him really gets him going. He's just going to be really glad that he's wearing a shirt that's way too big for him and hides the evidence.

"You should come over here and watch what I'm doing, so you can do it yourself next time."

"Yeah?" Patrick says, not budging. "Why would I want to do that when I have you?" He's close enough to enjoy the sight of Tazer showing the plumbing who's boss. That's good enough for him.

Tazer makes a face, but he doesn't go into lecture mode and he does stretch out his legs as he ducks under the sink giving Patrick a very nice view of his thighs. It's all completely awesome. Changing the s-curve is either easy or Johnny really is a prodigy with a pipe wrench, because the whole operation takes about thirty seconds. Johnny opens the valve to turn the water back on, and he runs the tap to test that the new s-curve is doing its thing. Underneath the cabinet stays nice and dry.

"Awesome, dude," Patrick tells him. "So you want me to—"

"Take your shirt off," Johnny orders, undoing his own belt, unzipping and pushing his jeans down over his hips.

Patrick was already half hard just watching Johnny manhandle that wrench and now—fuck. He throws off his shirt as fast as humanly possible, but apparently that's not fast enough. Johnny glares impatiently, hauls Patrick in, and presses him down to his knees, pushing his dick into his mouth. Patrick barely manages to control his gag reflex, but then fuck yeah he's got this. Johnny's thick and hot on his tongue, so good. Patrick may not have skills exactly, but he goes at it with a fuckton of enthusiasm.

Tazer sinks his fingers into Patrick's hair and pulls too hard, which is probably the least surprising thing that has ever happened to Patrick during sex. The filthy shit Tazer says about Patrick's mouth is far more eyebrow-raising, in a totally awesome way. Patrick has to wonder if Tazer was thinking about doing this during those underwear-clad workouts of his. Fuck, that's hot.

Patrick doesn't jizz in his pants when Johnny grabs him by the ears and comes in his mouth, but it's a close thing. He sits back on his heels and wipes his face with his hand. He's pretty sure he snorted come out his nose. Clearly he has work to do on that whole swallowing thing.

Johnny looms over him, red-faced and panting, eyes dark and a little crazy. Suddenly Patrick's cock is very emphatically reminding him that it needs some action. "You said you wanted—" Tazer yanks him to his feet before he can finish, pressing him back against the cabinets.

"I want," Johnny confirms, as if it wasn't obvious from the way he's tugging off Patrick's belt, pushing his jeans and underwear down his legs.

He knees Patrick's legs apart, spreading him wide, stroking his hand along Patrick's side and staring, totally getting off on the fact that he has Patrick butt naked and pressed up against the cabinets in his own kitchen.

"Fuck you." If Tazer doesn't do something soon, Patrick's going to—Tazer better fucking do something soon. As in now. Tazer roots around in the toolbox and comes up with a tube, and yeah, no.

"Don't even think about putting that industrial shit on my dick," Patrick warns him.

Johnny holds up the tube which turns out to be KY and makes a you're a dumbass face at him. And oh! That means Johnny showed up totally expecting—maybe Patrick is a dumbass if he's only figuring that out now. Johnny slicks up his palm and gets his hand around Patrick's cock. His grip is tight and slick, too tight really, but Patrick likes that there's a little edge to every stroke. He wants to feel completely worked over by Johnny.

"You like that." It's not a question, because Johnny is just smug like that. "You're going to like this too." He slips his other hand between Patrick's thighs, stroking slick fingers behind Patrick's balls, pressing his thumb against Patrick's hole.

Patrick sucks in a sharp breath. "Fuck."

He hasn't done this a lot, and the fingers have always been his own. It feels a lot better with Johnny doing it to him. Patrick presses down against Johnny's hand, trying to get more, and Johnny works a second finger into him. He's been staring at Patrick's mouth pretty much nonstop since they started. Patrick darts out his tongue and runs it over his lips. Tazer's eyes go darker, hotter.

Patrick huffs out, "Just fucking kiss me already, you fuck."

"Turn your fucking head so I can, dickface."

The second Patrick does, he has Johnny's lips on his, urgent and biting. Johnny's a fucking bossy kisser, big surprise, and even bigger surprise, Patrick fucking loves it. Johnny's grip on his dick gets faster and tighter, and he's twisting his fingers inside, and fuck, it's so—fuck. If two fingers feel this good, Patrick can only imagine how amazing Johnny's dick would—

"Fuck," he shouts out, spilling over Johnny's fist.

All he can manage afterward is to slump heavily against the counter. Whatever, he's holding up his own weight. That's a pretty fucking awesome achievement considering that Johnny just rocked his world like it's never been rocked before. The water is running in the tap, and he realizes that Johnny must be washing Patrick's come off him. Patrick would chirp him about ruining the after glow with his clean-freakiness, but that would take energy and a couple of functioning brain cells and the ability to form words, none of which Patrick has at the moment.

"Here." Johnny runs a warm, wet cloth over Patrick's belly. He hisses through his teeth when the cloth brushes his too-sensitive cock. "Sorry," Johnny tells him with a wince of sympathy. He nudges Patrick's legs apart and swipes the cloth between his thighs. It's almost more weirdly intimate than when Johnny was fingering him.

Johnny tosses the cloth into the sink. "So. Uh."

Yeah. That's probably Patrick's cue to hitch his pants back up. Zipping his fly takes more coordination than his post-orgasmic fingers can manage, so he fishes his shirt off the floor and pulls it on, tugging it down to cover his dick.

"Do you want—"

Johnny jerks his thumb in the vague direction of the door. "Yeah, I should probably—"

Go, Patrick realizes after his sluggish brain has had a moment to process. He'd thought they were talking about tacos. "Oh, yeah. Sure thing."

He walks Johnny to the door. Fuck, he hates to see that toolbox go.

"So." Johnny lingers at the door, and Patrick thinks maybe Johnny is going to kiss him again, but he doesn't. "See you at practice."

"Practice, yeah," Patrick repeats stupidly.

He spends a good hour after Johnny leaves trying to figure out how he could have had the hottest fucking sex of his life and still feel this disappointed. He doesn't make much headway on an answer.

The last thing Patrick wants is for shit to get weird between Johnny and him. Johnny is his teammate, his captain and his best friend, not necessarily in that order of importance. Shit getting weird between them would suck, like, on multiple fronts. But Patrick is feeling pretty weird about stuff all on his own, so he doesn't have much hope of shit staying normal when he sees Johnny again.

The locker room is half full when Patrick arrives next practice. Johnny is already there naturally. The day Patrick beats him to the arena will be the day the apocalypse starts. They nod to each other, and Johnny looks away. There's a tightness at the corners of his eyes, a pretty sure sign that weirdness has already set in. Patrick can't fix it right now, so he's just gotta to do his thing and hope that hockey makes everything better.

The weirdness doesn't follow them out on the ice at least, and practice goes fine. Patrick even manages a pass that actually makes Johnny smile—no easy thing, since Johnny's good-play smiles are the equivalent of gold stars handed out by the stingiest grade school teacher alive. As they're leaving the ice, Johnny bumps Patrick's shoulder, gives him another smile, the one that's just a small tug at the corner of his mouth and a warm, conspiratorial spark in his eyes. That smile he saves just for Patrick.

Maybe shit is about to get unweird. Patrick can only hope.

It seems promising that once they're finished dressing Johnny asks, "You want to get a beer?"

"When do I not want beer?" Patrick flashes his biggest smile.

They settle into a booth at the sports bar where they always go when they want a quiet drink. Tazer orders non-shitty non-American beers for them both, and Patrick lets him, but only so he won't have to hear Tazer's mouth about what crappy taste he has in booze. They drink and talk about the matchups for the upcoming Redwings game, and there's nothing weird about it at all. Patrick only has one wobbly moment when Johnny takes a sip of his beer and suddenly he's way too aware of Johnny's mouth, memories rushing back of how it felt, the wet heat of kissing him. Fucking stop it, he tells his brain, and for once it actually listens. Self-restraint: still a go.

They wander off of hockey and onto other topics, taking up their ongoing discussion-slash-chirping over what they might have done with their lives if they hadn't made it in the NHL. Patrick still insists he would have made a hell of a cowboy, and Johnny is an asshole for laughing at him.

"Well, we know you have fix-it skills you could have fallen back on," Patrick says. Or a career starring in handyman-banging-bored-housewife porn, but he keeps that part to himself. He is totally a paragon.

Tazer gives Patrick that little smile, the one that's only for him. "You think I fix things for just anybody?"

Patrick stares, with what he can only imagine is the stupidest expression in the whole long history of faces. Suddenly that too-warm feeling is back, rushing all through him. He may be working on his self-restraint, but he's still human.

When they leave, Johnny walks with him out to the parking lot and gives his shoulder a squeeze before they go their separate ways to their cars. He does that all the time, but the way he strokes his thumb along the edge of Patrick's T-shirt, just a brief touch that makes Patrick shiver all over, is new. It's another of those moments when he really thinks that Johnny might kiss him, and then Johnny doesn't. That is getting to be a thing. A thing that totally sucks.

Patrick goes home, feeling restless and out of sorts. He flops onto the sofa and watches a show about a guy who catches really terrifying fish. He thinks maybe it will be a kind of Tazer aversion therapy, but all it does is make him afraid to ever go swimming in a lake again.

When in doubt, try porn has always been his motto—and, okay, the motto of every twenty-something guy on the planet. He grabs his laptop and trolls the Internet, and the good news is that he is the lowest common denominator that porn is made for. It takes all of five seconds to find three movies with a handyman theme.

He starts up the first movie, a new tube of KY at hand, and he knows before anyone even flashes a dick that he's not into it. The guys are too twinky, and Patrick's more into—yeah, definitely not twinks. The next one has a bigger, dark-haired guy who is more Patrick's type and a curly-haired blonde with exuberantly bouncing tits. Patrick palms his dick, and it's feeling promising until the guy snakes the woman's drain, euphemism not intended, not at this point in the video anyway. His clumsy attempts at home repair look so feeble it totally spoils the mood. The third movie—yeah, just no.

Fine, so he's on his own. He shunts the computer onto the coffee table, stretches out and idly runs a hand along the length of his dick. He's not even going to try not to think about Johnny, because there's self-restraint, and then there's just setting yourself up for failure.

Pictures stream into his head, of Johnny being handy and Johnny being good at hockey, Johnny telling stories that are supposed to be about how annoying Patrick is but are actually stories about what a huge asshole Johnny can be. There's the way Johnny smiles, and how he hugs Patrick when they win the Cup, and yells at him to be better when they lose a game. There's Johnny fixing his coffeemaker, and Johnny making Patrick watch the shittiest movies in the world because he has the worst taste ever. There's Johnny just being Johnny and—Patrick comes with his eyes tightly closed, knowing that he is totally screwed.

He flops back against the cushions and stares up at the ceiling. So, yeah, that's less of a handyman kink then and more of a head-over-heels for Johnny thing. What the fuck is he supposed to do with that?

When he's gone three days and still hasn't figured out the answer and nothing else in his apartment has stopped working, he spends an hour on Google researching how to break the Keurig machine without looking completely obvious about it. He has to draw diagrams and practically do math, since the Internet is biased in favor of fixing stuff, and he has to reverse engineer the problem from the solution. Johnny had better fucking appreciate how hard he's worked on this.

"What do you mean it's broken again?" is the not-at-all-appreciative reaction he gets when he calls for help.

"Seriously? What part of 'broken again' do you not understand?"

There's a long, tired-sounding sigh in Patrick's ear. "I really don't want to do this anymore."

"Come on!" Patrick whines at him. "You're good at this shit. It's not going to take long or anything."

"That's not—" Johnny sighs again.

Patrick is totally not above fighting dirty. "Please."

"Fine," Johnny says, clipped. "But this is the last time."

He arrives with a shopping bag instead of the toolbox, silent and pissed looking, greeting Patrick with a curt nod before heading to the kitchen.

Patrick scrambles after him. "Um—" Usually he knows why Johnny's mad at him—generally because Johnny is screaming his reasons very loudly in Patrick's face—but he has no clue here. Weren't they just having a friendly beer a few days ago? Is fixing his damned Keurig machine really that big of an imposition?

Johnny sets the shopping bag down on the counter and pins a furious, betrayed look on Patrick. What the fuck ever? If he really didn't want to come, he could have said so.

But, whatever, he's here, so Patrick carries on. "Um, yeah, so the problem is—"

Johnny lifts a box out of the bag and thumps it down onto the counter. It's a new Keurig machine. "I don't give a shit what the problem is."

Patrick doesn't have a clue what to make of this plot twist, but he does know that Johnny is glaring at him as if daring him to argue.

"Okay," Patrick tells him.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

Johnny breaks his death glare and nods. "Good." He sounds sufficiently mollified, so when he strides over to Patrick and gets right up in his face, Patrick doesn't think a fist is going to follow. If Johnny wanted to hit him, he's pretty sure he'd wait until the off-season.

"You can be a real dumb ass, you know that?"

"Hey!" That's bullshit, and Patrick plans to tell him so, but before he can get a word out, Johnny is taking Patrick's face in his hands and kissing him. Wait. What?

Patrick kisses back distractedly. Johnny is really fucking confusing. Why was he so pissed? And how is he now over it? Also, what was that whole deal with the new Keurig? He could have just fixed the one Patrick had and then they could have—oh. Oh! Patrick feels the proverbial light bulb going off in his head. Johnny doesn't want to be Patrick's handyman-porn-cliché. He wants to be his—they can fill in that blank later. Right now Patrick needs to push up onto his toes and grab onto Johnny's shoulders and kiss the fuck out of him.

"You don't ever have to fix my Keurig machine again, and I really, really want you to fuck me."

Johnny groans and bites Patrick hard on the neck. "Get in the bedroom now."

Patrick throws off his clothes as soon as they make it to his room and leaves them in a heap on the floor like a normal guy who is about to have sex. Meanwhile Johnny has managed to take off all of one sock. For a dude who doesn't even know the definition of the word "neat," he is surprisingly prissy about his clothes.

"Oh my God, it's a T-shirt and jeans! You are seriously not going to fold that shit."

Johnny smirks at him. "If you want to this to go faster, get on the bed and spread your legs."

Fuck. If Johnny doesn't want Patrick thinking of him as porn then he's really going to have to stop talking like it. Still, that was a pretty good suggestion. Patrick scrambles onto the bed, sprawls out on his back, and opens his legs as wide as they'll go, giving Johnny a good look at what he's about to tap.

The rest of Johnny's clothes hit the floor in a hurry, about damned time, and he yanks open the nightstand drawer so hard the lamp nearly goes pitching onto the floor. "You better have stuff in here."

"It's as well stocked as the tool drawer," Patrick assures him.

This brings on a ferocious scowl that disappears as soon as Johnny lays hands on the condoms and lube. He kneels on the bed and stretches out over Patrick, making him take his weight. That's hot as shit, but Patrick wouldn't be himself if he didn't complain, "Do you know how fucking heavy you are?"

Johnny wouldn't be Johnny if he didn't snap back, "Just fucking take it,"

Yeah, Patrick is in love with an asshole. But he's an asshole who touches Patrick's cheek sweetly and lays these kisses on him like he's trying to woo him or whatever. As if Patrick isn't naked and hard and under him, ready to take it whenever Johnny decides to give it to him. Patrick tangles his legs with Johnny's and rubs against him and melts into the kisses. He could maybe get used to Johnny wooing him.

"Have you—" Johnny runs his hand up the inside of Patrick's thigh.

Patrick shakes his head. "Just fingers, yours and mine."

A strangled sound comes spilling out of Johnny, and his grip tightens on Patrick's thigh. Clearly he is not unmoved at the prospect of taking Patrick's ass cherry.

Patrick waggles his eyebrows. "So we gonna do this thing?"

Johnny answers by snatching up the lube, slicking his fingers, and pushing two of them into Patrick.

"Fuck," Patrick hisses.

"You can take it," Johnny tells him like the bossy asshole he is.

"Fucking-a I can." Patrick grinds down onto his hand to show him who he's dealing with.

There's a third finger, and some twisting, and a lot of rubbing at his prostate that drives Patrick half insane. "Just fucking fuck me already!"

Johnny suits up and slicks up and pushes in, and then he goes still, hissing out, "Fuck, you're so fucking tight."

Patrick digs a heel into his back. "Less talking about my virgin ass and more—" Johnny fucks up into him. "Shit! Yeah. More of that."

Johnny doesn't take it easy on him, because he never does. He does, though, crane his neck at an uncomfortable-looking angle to kiss Patrick and keeps stroking his hands over Patrick's hips, telling him, "Yeah, yeah, so good. You're so good."

It's the perfect blend of filthy and sweet, and Patrick isn't even going to have to wait for something to break before he gets to do it again. He squinches up his eyes, jerks his dick, babbles out profanity, and comes. It takes Johnny just a few more thrusts before he comes too and flops on top of Patrick. He seriously is heavy, but Patrick is too fucked out to make him move.

Eventually Johnny gets off him, pads into the bathroom and comes back with a washcloth. He's careful not to touch Patrick's dick this time. Johnny is going to make an awesome boyfriend.

Johnny slips into bed and slides his arm beneath Patrick's shoulder, tugging. Patrick goes easily, curling against him.

"Mm," he murmurs, eyes already falling closed. "If you stay, I'll show you my gratitude for the new Keurig machine in the morning."

It's a joke, totally a joke, but he can feel Johnny go weird and tense. There's a long pause. "How about you never say the word 'gratitude' to me again, I stay because we both want me to, you stop breaking your stuff, and tomorrow night I take you out to dinner and when we get home you fuck me?" Johnny sounds completely exasperated that Patrick is such a dumb shit that he has to say these things out loud in actual words.

He's kind of adorable.

Patrick leans in to kiss him. "Okay."

He settles down with his head on Johnny's shoulder, and it occurs to him that he has been a dumb shit about some stuff. Like he's pretty sure now that they were never actually playing gay sex chicken. That was Johnny coming on to him in his completely roundabout way, waiting for Patrick to get the message and do something about it. That friendly beer and shoulder squeeze—well, apparently that had been Johnny's way of declaring himself.

Whatever, Patrick may have been slow at figuring things out, but he's totally on board now. He can already picture it: Johnny taking him on hilariously earnest dates and waking up with him in the mornings and fixing the coffeemaker when it breaks because Patrick knows he totally will.

"I win," he declares.

"Yeah?" Johnny says skeptically. "At what exactly?"

Patrick smiles. "Life."

NOTE: I feel like I need to add in defense of Keurig machines that I love mine and it has never given me any problems. :)

Succumbing

scribblinlenore — Thu, 25 Jul 2013 18:20:41 GMT

I finally got myself a tumblr. I'm scribblinlenore there as well. I still prefer DW/LJ as a platform for fannishness, but I don't want to be left behind. I'd love to find old friends over there. Let me know if you're on tumblr, so we can connect.

ETA: LOL! So I actually managed to type in my user name wrong when I created my tumblr account. Off to a great start! But it's fixed now, and you should be able to find me.

Hockey RPF: Hockey Garters (Sid/Geno)

scribblinlenore — Thu, 11 Jul 2013 18:30:33 GMT

Title: Hockey Garters
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Pairing: Sid/Geno
Rating: Explicit
Word count: ~5,000
Summary: Hockey garters can be sexy, Sidney realizes, especially when Geno is taking his off.

Notes: This story is for the prostitution/sex work square of my Kink Bingo card. Big thank you to mindyfromohio for the speedy beta.

Hockey Garters
By Lenore

Sid has been to a strip club exactly three times in his life, never entirely voluntarily. Call it a hazard of the profession. The first time had been his rookie year. Colby had sworn they were just going for a quick drink at this bar he knew, insisting that, yes, Sid did have to come along because if you didn't celebrate your first NHL game, what were you going to celebrate?

In retrospect, the place had seemed suspiciously out of the way. There was no sign outside, just a plain metal door with a keypad. The guys had snickered and darted glances Sid's way as Colby punched in the code. Sid probably should have realized something was up when Colby held the door open and motioned him ahead.

He'd stepped inside, pushed through a heavy velvet curtain, and suddenly there were boobs everywhere, as far as the eye could see. There were big boobs and—even bigger boobs, jiggling and bouncing and all very, very naked. Sid liked boobs just fine, really he did, but this—well, the guys practically laughed themselves sick at how much he blushed.

The second time he went to a strip club—no one talked about the second time. Sid tried never even to think about it. Honestly, lap dances should be against the law.

Last time had been Jordy's bachelor party. The guys had apparently been going for classiness when they'd planned the thing, as classy as an evening of tequila shots and strippers could get anyway. The club had wood paneled walls and leather seats, and the dancers seemed to be trying to make their performances artistic. There had been a lot of feathers involved anyway.

The problem with strip clubs, Sid had always found, was that there was nowhere safe to look. When the actual stripping wasn't completely embarrassing, it was boring, and what if the dancers noticed that he was bored? That seemed rude. He couldn't look at the other guys, because they were usually enjoying themselves a lot, and there were things (many, many things) that he just didn't want to know about his teammates. Staring at the drink in his hand made him go cross-eyed if he did it for too long.

At least at Jordy's party there had been several stages with different performances going on at the same time. Sid found the least embarrassing one, focused on a point just beyond the dancer's shoulder, and tried to keep an attentive expression on his face. The performer was wearing white lacy underthings with a wisp of a garter belt and sheer stockings, giving her an almost innocent look. She sat on a chair, arched her back and stretched out her leg, slowly, toe pointed like she was doing ballet. She flung her shoe—with a very pointy heel that was really rather dangerous in Sid's opinion—into the crowd, flicked the catch of her garter, and teasingly slid the stocking down and off. That also went sailing into the crowd.

It got more embarrassing after that, so Sid switched his focus to another stage and promptly forgot all about the dancer and her garter.

Or at least he thought he had.

Sid loves winning, but even more than that he loves well-played hockey. Tonight's victory definitely does not fall into that category. He leaves the ice with a scowl, replaying in his head sloppy passes, stupid penalties, too many missed opportunities. Yelling at his team isn't his style, but everyone knows what it means when he throws his gloves the moment he hits the locker room. They go quiet and give him a wide berth.

He answers the media's questions as quickly as he can and strides off to the showers when they're finished with him. His mood hasn't improved by the time he returns to his stall to get dressed.

"Sid," Geno says in a calming tone. "We win tonight. Play better next game. Not need to be mad."

Sid rounds on him, ready to snap that they'd better play better or they won't win next time, but the words fall away. For whatever inexplicable reason, his brain chooses this moment to serve up a picture of that dancer in the garter and to note that Geno is striking very much the same pose, sitting with his leg stretched out in front of him to take off his hockey socks. Sid stares as Geno's fingers undo the catch of the—okay, yes, it is a garter, but a hockey garter, a necessary piece of gear. Only now it seems like something else, something that belongs on a stage or behind closed doors. Geno slides his socks down his legs. Technically that's stripping, Sid thinks in a daze.

He blinks. Tries to swallow, but there's no spit left in his mouth.

"Sid? Okay?" Geno watches him, eyebrows drawn together in that way he does when he's concerned.

"Yeah. No. I mean, you're right," he tells Geno, forcing a smile. "We'll play better next time."

Geno appears confused by Sid's sudden mood shift, but he claps him on the shoulder and wanders off to the shower. Sid pulls on his clothes, packs up and gets the hell out of there. On the ride home he tries to forget all about—whatever that was, but he can't. He keeps going over it in his head, wondering what the fuck. He's only seen Geno undress a million times before. Why had it suddenly struck him as something—he'd voluntarily go to a strip club to see? Honestly, Sid doesn't even make sense to himself sometimes.

Routine is the cure for pretty much everything, he's always found. So when he gets home, he follows his usual after-game schedule with meticulous care. He eats dinner cobbled together from leftovers Nathalie tucked into the fridge the last time she was over, watches an hour of SportsCenter, changes into a T-shirt and boxers, gets into bed, and jerks off before he goes to sleep. If you want your body to take care of you, then you have to take care of it, Sid has long believed. Orgasms are as important as proper nutrition or a well-designed workout. His regular masturbation schedule is every morning in the shower and every night before bed.

It never takes much to get him going, a few pulls of his hand, the memory of the last time he had sex replaying in his head. If he wants to come quickly, he thinks about a particularly exciting hockey play. Tonight it's all going according to plan. He's got his hand slicked and curled around his dick. He's remembering Brittany or maybe her name was Bethany—the dark-haired girl in the red dress, the last person he picked up, the one who liked to dig her heels into his back and made high, breathy noises the whole time he was fucking her.

He's getting close, very close when abruptly the movie screen in his head changes reels, and there's Geno. It isn't the same scene from earlier in the locker room. Geno has on a dress shirt, crisp and dark blue; Sid always admires that shirt when he wears it. Geno is undoing the cuffs, slowly, deliberately, before moving to the buttons down the front, easing each one open, taking his time, teasing. This isn't anything Sid has ever seen, obviously. It's pure fantasy. A fantasy that he is having about Geno.

"Fuck," he says out loud.

He can't get off to that—fuck, he really, really can't. But it's too late. He's already spurting over his fingers, the after-image of half-naked Geno lingering behind his eyes. He cleans up with a tissue and flops back against the mattress.

This isn't going to be a problem. He's not going to let it.

Sid heads to Consol the next day honestly believing that he's over it. There are unspoken rules in the locker room. Chief among them is that you don't stare at your teammates when they're undressing, and he's sure that not fantasizing about your teammates stripping for you would be a rule too if anyone had ever stopped to consider the matter. Rules exist for a reason. Sid is a big believer in them.

Only now that he's started watching Geno, he can't seem to stop, no matter what the rules say.

It's okay when they're on the ice practicing drills. It's Sid's job to watch then, his captainly responsibility to notice, to critique. He can think about Geno's body without guilt, free to admire what it can do, the strength in Geno's legs and how fast he covers the ice, his soft hands and quick wrists that send the puck flying into the net with breathtaking precision.

If only Sid could live his entire life on the ice, everything would be so much easier.

After practice Geno wanders around the locker room half dressed, chirping Duper about his passing and making Nealer laugh at some joke that Sid doesn't quite catch. Sid hasn't stopped thinking about Geno's body, but there's nothing captainly about it now. Geno's lanky enough that you wouldn't pick him out as a hockey player at first glance, but Sid knows how deceptively strong he is. He likes that. Likes the contrasts of Geno's body, his long legs and round ass, his thin chest and broad shoulders. He likes how big and capable Geno's hands look as they strip away his Underarmour and—

Sid turns away abruptly and flees into the showers, his face burning.

He dawdles, hoping that everyone will be gone when he comes back, but Geno is still there, dressed, his hair damp. He's sitting on the bench near Sid's stall, waiting.

"Guys go for drink. You come?" he asks hopefully.

"Um, well—" Sid was planning to go home. That's his routine. "Yeah. Okay. One drink."

Geno bounds up, grinning, and Sid can't regret anything.

There's a sports bar they always go to when they want a quiet evening. The bartender greets them with a nod, and they find the rest of the guys in the usual banquette at the back. Duper and Tanger get up and head over to the bar to bring back the next round. Geno slides in beside Sid, sitting close enough that their thighs touch. They've done this many times before, and Sid doesn't know why it feels different now, why he's so aware of Geno, why he holds his breath every time their elbows brush. When Duper sets a beer down in front of him, he downs a big, nervous swallow.

Geno tips back his shot of vodka and darts a conspiratorial smile at Sid. Heat curls in Sid's stomach, and he gulps more of his beer. A waitress circles over bringing more shots. Geno does another, and Sid stares helplessly at the way Geno's shirtsleeve draws up when he lifts his arm, revealing the fine bones of his wrist and pale, naked skin. Sid flushes deeply and quickly finishes the rest of his beer.

That should be his cue to leave. He said one drink.

"I buy next round, yes?" Geno fixes a look on him, lingering and expectant and what does that mean? Does it mean anything?

Sid drinks the next beer more slowly, eventually relaxing into the familiar warmth of Geno at his side. They don't really talk much. Geno seems content to drink his vodka and look at Sid like he's the only person in the room. That's incredibly distracting, so Sid has no idea what Duper's talking about when he calls out from across the table, "Right, Sid?"

Sid blinks. "Um—what?"

Duper rolls his eyes, gives up on Sid, and turns to Tanger. "Right?"

"I should probably go," Sid tells Geno. He doesn't know why he's suddenly whispering. It just seems like the thing to do. Whatever this is—if it's anything at all—it's just between them.

"Sid stay," Geno says firmly, and then his lips quirk into a smile. "Buy next round."

Sid makes a face at him, but he doesn't leave, and he does get the next round. He and Geno clink glasses, and Geno says something in Russian that Sid thinks means "cheers." Sid's not much of a drinker, and now that he's on his third beer he's taking tiny sips, not loving the way the bitter taste lingers, leaving a film on his tongue and teeth. He does like that Geno is still watching him, intent and fond, and he wonders if that's new or if it's always been there and he just hadn't been looking before so he hadn't noticed.

He still has no clue what any of it means.

"Geno," he starts but then he has no idea where to go from there. It's not as if he can just come out and ask: Hey, what do you think it means that I keep staring at you when we're in the locker room and imagining that you're taking off your clothes just for me?

That thought makes heat coil in his stomach. His traitorous brain starts to serve up images to go along with it: Geno pulling his sweater up over his head, dropping it to the floor, undoing the buttons of his shirt, his gaze hotly fastened on Sid as he slips it off his shoulders.

"I have to go," Sid blurts out in a panic.

"Sid," Geno says with a calming touch to his arm. "Everything okay. Not worry."

Sid's voice drops low. "I really need to go, okay, Geno?"

Geno's gaze lingers for a moment, serious and considering, and then he scoots out of the banquette.

Sid scrambles up and stalls awkwardly, feeling stupid. "I, uh, I'll see you tomorrow."

The drive home takes twenty minutes, but that's not long enough for either his arousal or his confusion to fade. Was Geno flirting with him? Or was that just wishful thinking on Sid's part? He has never been particularly good at figuring out when someone was into him, and it's even more confusing with Geno. They've been into each other in a hockey sense since pretty much the first moment they met. How is he supposed to tell the difference between that and Geno being into him in a sex sense? The last thing he wants is get it wrong and hurt their friendship or mess up anything hockey-related.

Nothing can stop him, though, from hurrying inside once he gets home, pushing his pants down his thighs, and wrapping his hand around his cock. He brings himself off to memories of how Geno felt, warm and solid and pressed so close, to pictures of how Geno would look if he really did take off his clothes just for Sid. He comes so hard he sees flashes of color behind his eyes.

When his brain finally restarts, one thing is perfectly clear: he is totally into Geno in a sex sense.

One of the many reasons that Sid loves playing hockey is that everything is always so clear. He knows what the objective is, and he always has a well-defined game plan for achieving it. If only he could say the same about the rest of his life. He heads into the locker room the next day for practice filled with uncertainty about how to act around Geno.

He has the vague idea that he should apologize, but he can't decide if he should be sorry for what he did or what he didn't do, for what he wants or for not realizing it sooner. This is why he prefers hockey to feelings. Hockey is so much easier.

At least, Geno doesn't seem to think that anything is weird between them. He nods hello to Sid as he always does and nudges him with his elbow whenever he wants to get his attention and does nothing to suggest that he thinks Sid is a ridiculous, socially awkward drama queen for running out on him last night. Practice feels good, and when Sid and Geno leave the ice, they share a satisfied smile.

Hockey makes everything better, and that reminds Sid of what's really important: the team, the next game, winning. His feelings are—whatever they are, but he's not going to do anything to jeopardize what they have on the ice together. He feels calmed by this realization, more like himself again.

This sense of self-control lasts until the next day, when Geno scores a hat trick to win the game that night.

The third goal flies cleanly into the net just as the last seconds tick off the clock. That's fucking perfect hockey, hot and amazing, and Sid is the first to clamber over the boards, piling onto Geno in celebration. Geno is grinning wildly, and so is Sid, and he never wants to let go, never wants this moment to end.

In the locker room, after they've finished talking to the media, the team continues its congratulations, slapping Geno on the shoulder and grinning like maniacs. Sid stays close at Geno's side, because he's just so happy, and he wants to bask in the good feeling. Geno wears an enormous smile as he accepts fist bumps and good-natured chirps about expecting four goals from him next time.

Eventually the other guys drift away, and Sid and Geno are left standing together. Geno slants a look at Sid, and his expression turns suddenly serious. He holds Sid's gaze and slowly eases his shirt up his chest, strips it off, and lets it drop with deliberate emphasis.

Sid stares, his mouth falling open as he finally gets it. Geno is completely aware that Sid has been looking, and he's been letting him. That's just as hot and amazing as the hat trick was, and, oh fuck, Sid is getting hard, right there in the middle of the locker room surrounded by his entire team. He turns and bolts for the shower, flustered and impossibly turned on.

The water is cold enough to take his breath away, but he twists the faucet, making it even colder. The only other option is jerking off, and that's just rude in a communal shower. He stays under the freezing spray for quite some time.

By the time he finally gets himself together and heads back out to his stall, the guys are organizing post-game drinks in Geno's honor.

"Sid!" Duper booms out. "Get your ass in gear. Geno needs celebratory shots. Right, Geno?"

"I'm kind of tired," Sid stammers out, his gaze sliding over to Geno.

"Am tired too," Geno says quickly.

Duper opens his mouth to insist, but he must see how determined they are because he just rolls his eyes. "Fine. We'll celebrate without you. Tanger wants shots, don't you, Tanger?"

The answer is loud and emphatic, and Duper wanders off to go round up the rest of the guys.

"Go home now?" Geno asks.

Sid nods. "Yeah, I'm, uh, yeah." His mouth is so dry he can hardly get the words out, which is ridiculous. This is Geno. "But you could still go out and celebrate. You deserve it. You were really, really amazing." His voice drops, low and wanting. He knows he's giving himself away, but he can't help it. He doesn't want Geno to go anywhere but home with him.

Geno watches him closely. "Quiet evening good. Maybe I come to Sid's, we watch movie?"

"Yeah?" Sid's voice lilts up hopefully. "Yeah. That's—yeah. Let's go."

On the way out to the parking lot, Geno rests his hand at the small of Sid's back, and Sid feels so conscious of it, the heat and weight of the touch. They stop when they get to Sid's car. "So, um, do you want—" he trails off awkwardly.

"Have my car," Geno tells him with a little smile. "Meet you there."

Sid spends the drive to his house biting at his bottom lip and trying not to freak out, which is really hard to manage when he's about to have sex with Geno. He's pretty sure about that, anyway. Oh God, what if Geno really just wants to watch a movie?

This sliver of doubt is enough to make him cautious and almost painfully polite when they get to his house. "Come in," he invites Geno and leads him to the kitchen. "Can I get you a snack? Something to drink?" He hovers by the refrigerator

"What you have?"

Sid takes a look. "There's blue Gatorade or—uh, you like blue Gatorade, right?"

"Sid know how to throw party," Geno says, with a teasing smile.

That's familiar, and familiar is good. Sid relaxes a little. "All the blue Gatorade you can drink." He smiles as he reaches for glasses in the cabinet. Even if they're not going to have sex, it's okay. He's just glad Geno is here.

Although he really hopes they have sex.

They settle in the den, and Sid does his best to ignore the nervous flutter in his stomach at having Geno so close, their knees touching, arms brushing. "What do you want to watch?" His voice only cracks a little. That's almost suave for him.

"Scary Movie 2?" Geno suggests, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

Sid shakes his head sadly. "I blame Max."

Geno grins shamelessly. An explosion of heat goes off deep in Sid's body.

He finds the movie on Netflix and starts it. Geno settles back against the cushions, sipping his Gatorade, looking perfectly relaxed. Sid sits tensely, trying to pay attention to what's happening on screen and failing utterly. He keeps darting glances at Geno out of the side of his eye, waiting for something to happen. When nothing does, he goes over it in his head, analyzing, trying to decide if Geno is expecting him to do something first.

After a bit, Geno asks, "Okay to take off shoes?"

"Oh yeah, sure thing," Sid says, nodding. "Make yourself comfortable."

Geno slips off his shoes. Sid has honestly never considered that anything having to do with feet could be that arousing. When the dancer at that club kicked off her shoes, his only thought had been that the heel could put someone's eye out. But with Geno, Sid is suddenly, intensely aware that he's slightly more naked than he was before. When Geno stretches out his long legs, slow and sensuous, Sid stares, holding his breath.

"What are you doing?" he asks in a quiet voice, because he just really needs to know.

Geno angles toward him. "Sid like to watch, yes?"

Sid feels his cheeks pink. "Are you making fun of me?"

"No." Geno gives him a solemn look. "Not make fun."

"Are you mad?" Sid doesn't think so, but it seems like a good idea to double check.

Geno shakes his head. "Not mad."

That makes Sid brave enough to meet his eye. "Are you—" He scoots closer. "Can I—" He doesn't wait for an answer, because he just can't wait any more. He fumbles a kiss onto Geno's mouth.

Geno makes a small, pleased sound, surges forward, and kisses back. It's sloppy and hungry, and how had Sid taken so long to realize that Geno wanted this too? He's beginning to think it was kind of obvious.

"Sid," Geno murmurs, kissing under his chin and along his jaw.

"I've been going crazy," Sid says, tilting his head so Geno can kiss his throat. "Why didn't you say something?"

Geno shakes his head. "Not sure what you want. Never look at me before, and then when you start, not do anything about it, so I try a little, and you run away. I come home with you, and you play good host. Sid very confusing."

"I'm not—" Okay, yeah, Sid can see how he might have been giving off mixed signals even if hadn't meant to. Geno has him there.

Maybe the trick to feelings, he thinks, is to treat them more like hockey: to be clear about his objective and go for it. He shifts so that he's straddling Geno's lap and kisses him again, more urgently. "I want to have sex with you. I mean, not just that. I really want us to be, you know, together."

Geno nods. "Understand now. Kiss more."

Sid nods and presses their mouths together, glad that he and Geno are finally on the same page. Geno murmurs something in Russian against Sid's lips, and whatever it is sounds dirty and hot. Sid loops his arms around Geno's neck, rocks his hips and moans out loud when he feels that Geno is just as hard as he is. Geno strokes his hands along Sid's back and down over his ass, pulling him closer, kissing more greedily.

It's good—God, so good. There's one thing that would make it even better. "I want you to come upstairs and take your clothes off for me," Sid says, almost in a whisper.

Geno groans and clutches at Sid's shoulders. "Want that too," he says, sounding wrecked.

They head up to Sid's room, but the trip isn't a straight line of progress since they have to stop and kiss every few steps.

When they get to the bedroom, Geno pulls Sid close. "Take off clothes. Get on bed." He mouths the words wetly against Sid's throat.

"But—"

Geno lifts his head and gives Sid a look that's quietly insistent. Sid shivers with want. He ditches his clothes—he's always open to coaching—and perches at the end of the bed, feeling a little exposed and incredibly turned on.

Geno nods in approval. He lifts one arm and starts to undo the cuff of his dress shirt, just like in Sid's fantasy. He doesn't take his eyes off Sid as he nimbly works free the rest of the buttons. Sid can't help the noise he makes when Geno slips off his shirt and tosses it to the floor. Sid's already so hard, and he wants, needs to—

"Touch self," Geno says coaxingly.

Sid scrambles to get his hand around his cock, and he bites his lip at how good it feels. He stares, breathing heavily, as Geno slowly lifts his undershirt, pulls it off and lets it fly. This startles a laugh out of Sid, and Geno smiles. His hands settle onto his belt. Sid has never imagined that unbuckling could be drawn out for so long, hot and torturous. When Geno pulls off the belt at last, it's a slow, loop-by-loop tease.

"This what Sid want?" Geno asks, his voice silky and arousing.

"Geno," Sid moans, gripping his cock tighter.

Please, that's what Sid means, but Geno still takes his time, keeps teasing, strokes his fingers up and down his fly before pushing down the zipper and stepping out of his trousers. He's hard too, and he palms his dick, rubbing himself through the cotton of his boxer briefs.

"Fuck," Sid blurts out. "Fuck, please."

"Yes," Geno says, sounding pleased.

He pushes down his underwear and kicks it away, and then he lunges, spilling Sid back onto the bed and crawling on top of him. He kisses Sid, smiles at him, and then kisses him some more.

"What you want?" Geno asks, rubbing affectionate circles over Sid's chest.

"You," Sid answers promptly, without needing to think about it.

Geno's eyes go darker, and he kisses Sid again and again, murmuring things in Russian that sound very promising. He strings kisses along Sid's throat and starts working his way down Sid's body, exploring with his hands and mouth. Sid's a little ticklish around the ribs, which makes Geno smile, and he has a fading bruise on his side that Geno kisses tenderly. When he starts to tongue the lines of Sid's abdominal muscles, Sid can't stop trembling.

"Please." He's more than willing to beg if that will get him Geno's mouth around his dick.

Geno lifts his head with a slow, sly smile as if he's going to tease, draw this out longer. Sid makes an insistent noise, trying to spur him on, and somehow that works. Geno bends down again, and then all Sid can think is so good, so good. Geno holds him down with one hand on his hip, curls the other hand around his cock, and works him with fist and mouth. Sid was already so turned on, and now he's falling apart, fingers gripping Geno's shoulders, thighs trembling, a steady stream of the most ridiculous noises spilling out of him.

Geno hums appreciatively, a low rumble around Sid's cock, and that's it, as much as he can handle. He pushes at Geno's shoulder, trying to let him know: now, I'm going to, have to—. Geno just hums more contentedly and doesn't pull away. Sid squeezes his eyes tightly shut and comes in Geno's mouth.

It takes Sid a moment—okay, maybe a few moments—to get it together enough to think about reciprocating. He pulls Geno close for a kiss and says, "Do you want—I can—with my mouth."

Geno groans, presses his face against Sid's neck, and ruts against his hip once, twice, and comes.

"Or that's good too." Sid smiles crookedly.

Geno goes slack, his cheek against Sid's shoulder, his breath coming in warm puffs against Sid's skin. Sid reaches for tissues on the nightstand and does the best clean up job he can. He's too lazy and content to get up and go to the bathroom for a washcloth. Geno settles onto his side and nudges at Sid until they're spooned together.

Sid almost never sleeps with the people he has sex with. Even when it's a relationship and not a one-time thing, he finds the closeness of another body, the hot press of someone else's skin oppressive and not the least bit restful. But with Geno—Sid likes being close.

"Why you start looking?" Geno asks softly, his lips brushing the back of Sid's neck.

Sid's eyes are already half-lidded, his thoughts fuzzy, and all he can offer is, "Hockey garters."

Geno stills, and his voice is low and husky when he says, "Maybe you ask nice, I wear just for you." He tightens his arm across Sid's chest. "But now we sleep."

Sid's eyes are wide open. "How am I supposed to do that when I'm thinking about—" It's a really good thought, but not the kind that makes him want to go to sleep.

Geno kisses his shoulder. "Close eyes."

Sid does, not that he expects it to lead to anything. But he's underestimating how easy it is to relax with Geno pressed close, so warm and familiar and loved, Sid realizes. He places his hand over Geno's where it rests on his chest and falls asleep.

Inspired by this amazing photo (and I really wish I had a version with Geno):

Kink Bingo card

scribblinlenore — Wed, 03 Jul 2013 20:08:52 GMT

ropes / chains	silk velvet feathers furs	pictures	negotiation	confined / caged
vanilla kink	endurance	bondage	tattoos / tattooing	mummification / immobilization
torture / interrogation	bodily fluids	wildcard	animal play	ageplay
leather / latex / rubber	wet messy dirty	consent play	shaving / depilation	bloodplay
temperature play	chastity devices	fucking machines	breathplay	prostitution / sex work

Last year I was all about Teen Wolf. This year I'm going to see what I can do with hockey. I've got my eye on the endurance, wet messy dirty, negotiation and consent play squares. I also want to look for ways to subvert kinks that really aren't to my taste. Seems like this is going to be it for kink_bingo for a while, so I want to really do it up.

Hockey RPF: Side effects include... (Part 2/2)

scribblinlenore — Tue, 18 Jun 2013 01:51:00 GMT

See previous part for notes.

They win the game 5-0. Sid has two goals and two assists, and the fans go half insane cheering for him. Naturally everyone on the planet wants to talk to him afterward. Geno packs up his hockey bag and waits. As soon as Sid gets free of reporters, he materializes at Geno's side.

"Hey," he says, shifting his weight, looking more nervous now than he ever has before a game.

"How head?" Geno can't help reaching out and touching Sid's temple lightly with his fingers.

Sid's gaze fastens on him, his eyes dark and intent. "Fine. It's fine. We get to talk now, right?"

Geno nods, but that's all he manages before Tanger swoops in. "Cap is back! We are definitely drinking to that."

"Actually—" Sid starts.

Tanger cuts him off, "We're going to Foley's. No is not an answer."

Sid's eyebrows knit together. He's clearly ready to argue, so Geno steps in. "We come," he tells Tanger.

Tanger claps Geno on the shoulder and heads off to wrangle the rest of the guys. Sid turns a look on Geno that is exasperated verging on furious.

Geno holds up a hand to mollify him. "We go out now, talk afterward."

"Geno." Sid's voice pitches up the way it does when he's very close to throwing a fit.

"Sid," Geno says firmly, taking him by the shoulders. "Team miss you. Happy to have you back. We go, have few drinks, laugh at the way Jordy can't hold liquor. Then we go home, just you and me, and we talk."

"Promise?"

"Promise," Geno tells him solemnly.

Sid looks antsy and ready to go from the moment they get to the bar, lingering at Geno's elbow like he's glued there. Geno considers just taking him home already, but they've waited this long to talk. They can wait a little longer. It's important to the team to be able to celebrate with Sid.

He puts a hand on Sid's arm. "Go talk to Duper. Tell him he pass you more, you score five goals all by yourself."

Sid rolls his eyes. "He assisted both my goals. He passed to me just fine."

"Go." Sid looks at Duper at the other end of the bar as if it's way too far away. "I still here when you come back." He nudges Sid with his elbow.

Sid trudges off to go talk to Duper like he's heading off to war, and Geno has to hide his smile in his drink. When Sid has an assignment, though, he does it. Geno can tell from Duper's eyerolling that Sid has delivered the chirp.

Flower plunks down next to Geno. "So you thought any more about what we talked about?"

"Yes."

Flower lets out an exasperated breath. "And—"

"Fixing now."

"Really? Because it looks like you're here and Sid's down there pretending to listen to Duper while he's really just sulking."

Geno makes a disappointed face at him. "Maybe goalie eyes not see everything after all."

Flower snorts indignantly, and Geno cheerfully orders another drink. When he finishes it, he decides it's time to go claim Sid.

By this point Sid has actually managed to relax and is in the middle of an animated description of Tavares' backhander in the third, but the moment he spots Geno he trails off, looking up so hopefully that Geno's heart clenches a little in his chest.

"Enough celebration for Sid. Not overdo," Geno declares.

"He's all better!" Jordy protests.

Sid quickly jumps off the stool. "No, Geno's right. I'd better go."

He holds onto Geno's sleeve on the way to the exit as if afraid that Geno might try to make a break for it. Then suddenly he takes a detour, pulling Geno along the corridor that leads to the bathroom and into an empty coatroom, closing the door behind them.

Geno shakes his head. "No, Sid. Not do this here. Talk at your house or mine."

"I can't wait," Sid says in a rush as if he's barely been holding it in. "You wouldn't talk to me, wouldn't let me say sorry, and I really, really am. You were right. I did take advantage. And it was a stupid thing to do, because you're my friend, my best friend, and the last thing I want is to mess up our friendship."

"Why you do it, Sid?" Geno asks quietly. "Because I think maybe you know how I feel, and when you want sex, is just easy with me and—" He shakes his head.

"How you feel?" Sid blinks slowly. "You mean about me? Wait. You have feelings for me?" He gets really excited for about a second before his expression clouds over. "But what? You thought I knew and just—didn't care?" His expression hovers between offended and upset. "I wouldn't—Geno. I wasn't trying to hurt you."

"What I supposed to think? If you want to be with me, why you not say? Why you let me think it all just because of medicine?"

"Because I didn't think you'd have sex with me otherwise!" Sid stops and looks appalled. "Okay, that sounds really awful when I say it out loud. But it didn't seem awful at the time. I just—"

He lets out a long breath.

"As far as I could tell, you only wanted girls. I mean, I looked for signs that maybe you were into guys too, but there weren't any. So I got used to the idea that nothing was going to happen. But then the medicine—and I was so out of my head—I never would have done anything, never would have asked you for that if I wasn't totally messed up. And you didn't seem to mind. I mean, I thought you liked it? And I just—" His voice drops low. "Didn't want to stop."

Sid says all of this very fast. Geno needs a moment to put it together in his head and then an extra moment to really take in what it means. He's kind of alarmed to realize that Sergei was right: he is just as bad at this as Sid is. At least now they can be bad at it together.

"Not look for right signs." He pulls Sid to him. "I want you since I first see you in Mario's living room."

It's so good to be able to kiss Sid again, sliding a hand around to his neck, holding him close. When he can drag himself away from Sid's mouth, which is not easy, he kisses Sid's neck, jaw, his forehead, his cheeks. Sid makes a sweet, pleased sound and keeps trying to press closer as if he'll never be close enough. Geno knows that feeling. He knows it so well.

"I really am sorry," Sid murmurs.

Geno strokes a hand over his hair. "Am sorry too. Not handle things well. Jump to conclusions instead of talk. We both idiots. Be smarter next time."

"Oh my God, there's not going to be a next time!" Sid huffs indignantly. "No more injuries. No more experimental treatments. No more lies, I promise. And no more picking up blondes at clubs, okay?"

Geno regards him fondly. "You think I sleep with that girl in DC? I not. You think I want anybody else after I have you? Not possible."

"Geno," Sid says, almost wildly, leaning up to kiss Geno, hands going for Geno's belt.

"Wait," Geno says, although there's nothing he wants more than Sid touching him.

"No more waiting either. Come on." He pulls at Geno's fly with renewed determination.

Geno has to actually take Sid's hands in his own to stop him.

"Why not?" Sid demands, frustrated.

Geno kisses Sid. "Because I take you home now and fuck you in your bed. That better plan, yes?"

A full-body shudder goes through Sid. "Okay. Yeah. Good. That's good thinking."

He grabs Geno's hand and throws open the door, and they run headlong into Flower out in the corridor.

"Uh," Flower says, his gaze moving from Geno to Sid and back again.

Geno can just imagine how they must look, as if they've been—doing exactly what they've been doing.

"So that seems pretty fixed. Good job and everything. I'm just going to—" Flower jerks his thumb in the opposite direction. "Go somewhere else."

In the parking lot, Geno guides Sid over to his car. "We come back for yours tomorrow." Or possibly the next day. There's nothing going on tomorrow, and Geno seriously doubts they will stray far from bed.

Sid looks like he doesn't care if he ever sees his car again just as long as Geno drives them to his house as soon as humanly possible. This works for Geno, and the moment he gets Sid inside, he unbuttons Sid's shirt and leans down to bite a nipple.

"Fuck," Sid slurs out, his hips pushing against Geno's. He's hard, already, so hard.

"I suck you off now," Geno says thickly against Sid's neck, worrying a place that will definitely have a mark tomorrow. "You get it up again, then I fuck you."

"Jesus." Sid is shaking, but Geno can feel him square his shoulders. He has to smile. There is nothing like setting performance goals to get the best out of Sid.

Geno drops to his knees, opens Sid's pants and pulls them down his thighs. Sid moans when Geno puts his mouth on him, hands braced on his hips, holding him right where he wants him.

Sid's hands move through Geno's hair. "I think about this. All the time. I have since—" Whatever he was going to say gets lost in a gasp.

Geno smiles around Sid's cock. Another time he'll tease him, draw it out, see how crazy he can make him, but now he just wants to take the edge off.

"Shit," Sid mutters, sounding as if he can barely breathe.

Soon he's gripping Geno's shoulders, making frantic noises, hips jerking erratically. Geno doesn't pull off quite quickly enough, and Sid's come stripes his cheek.

"Um," Sid says in a daze, looking apologetic.

Geno swipes a finger over his cheek, pops it into his mouth and grins up at Sid, who stares down at him, a little stupefied and very turned on.

"Naked now," Geno declares, rising to his feet and stripping the shirt off Sid.

"You too. "

Geno shakes his head. "I naked later."

He hurries Sid out of his trousers and underwear, steers him upstairs, pushes him down on the bed, and kneels beside him.

"So this is a thing we're doing, huh? The thing where I'm naked and you haven't even taken off a sock yet," Sid says, looking like he might argue about it if he weren't really eager to keep going.

"Yes, this thing we do. You pushy, always want so fast. I take time now, have chance to look at you."

Sid makes a dubious face at him. "You've seen me kind of a lot actually."

"In locker room doesn't count. Shush now. Am concentrating."

Geno slides a hand up Sid's chest. Sid's eyelids flutter closed, his mouth drops open, and this is the end of any argument from him. The power of Sid's body is masked by his hockey pads, but it's perfectly on display now as he lies naked against the sheets. Geno wants to touch him everywhere.

Sid watches intently, making encouraging noises as Geno skims his fingers up his arms, traces the lines of his biceps, slides his palms along his thickly muscled thighs, presses kisses to his belly, into the hollows of his collarbones and along the curve of his throat.

"Geno," Sid says softly. His mouth is so pink and wet that Geno has to kiss him there too.

"Sid beautiful," Geno tells him.

Sid blushes all the way down his chest. "Come on." He tugs at Geno's sleeve. "I want to see you too." When Geno doesn't snap right to, he scowls. "Fucking come on already."

Geno laughs. "Since you ask so nice." He slides off the bed, pulls off his clothes, and tosses them over a chair.

Sid stares, his gaze never straying from Geno for a moment.

"What?" Geno teases. "You see me in locker room too."

Sid does his best to glare, but he keeps sliding into a smile. "Shut up. And get over here."

Geno goes happily, stretching out beside Sid, cupping his cheek and kissing him. Sid pulls at Geno's shoulder until he shifts positions and covers him. This seems to be Sid's favorite thing. It is quickly becoming Geno's as well.

"Sid feel so good," Geno murmurs, rubbing their bodies together. Sid is definitely meeting the challenge Geno set for him, already getting hard again.

"Please. Geno. Fuck me." Sid stares up at him, beseeching and kind of heartbreakingly vulnerable. "I wanted you to so much, and you wouldn't, and it's all I can think about."

Geno kisses him lingeringly, reaching out with one hand for the bedside drawer. The lube is still there along with condoms. Sid arches his back as Geno opens him with slick fingers, hips working, as responsive as ever.

It doesn't take long for Sid to start insisting, "I'm good. Come on, Geno. Just do it."

Geno nods. "How you want?"

"Like this. Face to face." Sid lifts his legs, wrapping them around Geno's waist. "But next time I want to ride you."

Geno groans, pressing his face against Sid's neck. "Keep talk like that, won't be this time."

"You're not going to come before you fuck me," Sid informs him sternly.

Geno grins and kisses him. "Bossy."

"Geno."

There's no resisting that, and Geno pushes inside. Sid groans loudly and pulls at Geno's shoulders, urging him deeper. The look of fierce, ecstatic concentration on Sid's face—Geno has to close his eyes just for a second to keep this from being over far too soon.

"Mm, feels so good," Sid murmurs.

It's even better when they find their rhythm, hips moving in tandem, and Geno can angle sweet, filthy kisses onto Sid's mouth.

"Sid, Sid." There's so much he wants to tell him, but English is even more uncooperative than usual right at the moment, and words fail him altogether when he comes.

He's vaguely aware of Sid's fingers digging into his shoulders, the harsh rasp of his breath, and the warm wet of Sid's orgasm against his belly. Mostly he just slumps there in a daze until Sid starts to squirm, pushing at Geno to reposition him until Sid can lie in his arms, head tucked beneath Geno's chin. Sid breathes out and relaxes. Geno traces patterns over his back and drops the occasional kiss to the top of his head, sated and sleepy. His eyes are drifting closed when he feels Sid go suddenly tense.

"Sid?" Geno says, confused and instantly awake.

Sid tilts his chin up to look at Geno and says in a rush, "I couldn't get what I want from craigslist, because all I've ever wanted is you." Once it's out he relaxes again, now that he's finally been able to tell Geno what he meant.

Geno gathers him closer, holding him tight. "All I want is Sid."

It's sappy and heartfelt, and he can feel Sid smiling against his shoulder. Geno imagines there's an evening of weak-ass Canadian beers with Flower in their future, where Flower sits them both down and tells them to stop being so happy all over each other, because being in love is great and everything, but nobody wants to see anybody glowing in the locker room.

Geno is already looking forward to it.

Hockey RPF: Side effects include... (Part 1/2)

scribblinlenore — Tue, 18 Jun 2013 01:44:59 GMT

Title: Side effects include…
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Pairing: Sid/Geno
Rating: Explicit
Word count: ~11,500
Summary: In this rewriting of history, Sid gets an experimental treatment for his concussion that has some rather unusual side effects. Geno helps him out, and there are complications.

Notes: This story would bear much less resemblance to actual facts if it weren't for the hard work of my beta readers, stlkrchck and mindyfromohio. Thank you! There are still some (hopefully minor) details of the Penguins fall 2011 schedule that I'm fudging in places where history just refused to cooperate with my dramatic arc. Beware dub con of the sex pollen variety.

You can also read it on AO3:
http://archiveofourown.org/works/847368

Side effects include…
By Lenore

There is nothing Geno loves more than the start of a new season—next to winning the Cup of course—the electric feeling in the air, the heady anticipation that this is going to be their year. Last season's playoff loss to Tampa Bay is all in the past now. Geno's knee feels good, training camp is going well, and he's eager to start playing preseason games. The only thing he needs to be perfectly happy is for Sid to get back out on the ice with him.

All of Pittsburgh desperately wants that. Half the questions Coach fields in any interview are about Sid, how he's doing and when he might be able to play again. Among their teammates, Geno has become Sid's unofficial spokesman. There's always somebody loitering around after practice, just waiting to pepper him with questions.

Today it's Tanger. "So Sid's at the doctor's, huh? Some new stuff for—" He waves his hand at his head.

"Yeah."

Jordy drifts over. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Geno confirms.

It suddenly falls quiet, and Geno glances around to find everyone watching him impatiently, as if he has inside knowledge about Sid's condition and is holding out on them. He rolls his eyes. What do they think? That he calls Sid constantly, pestering him for details? That's no way to heal a concussion. Actually, he's pretty sure that's no way to heal anything.

"Not only one who talk to Sid," Geno points out.

"Yeah." Tanger claps him on the shoulder. "But you're the only one who understands him. So keep us posted, huh?"

Geno holds back a sigh. There's no use in pointing out that he's not actually Sid's interpreter.

Out in the parking lot he fumbles in his pocket for his keys, fingers brushing his phone. He wants to call, can't help feeling a little worried. Sid looked so pinched and determined the last time Geno saw him, for diner breakfast at the place in Sid's neighborhood where he trusts them not to make a big deal over him.

"It's an experimental treatment." Sid had tilted up his chin as if daring Geno to question whether playing guinea pig was a smart idea. "They've had good results in Switzerland."

"Mario think it worth trying?"

Sidney pressed his lips into a thin, stubborn line. "He came around."

Sid's appointment was for early this afternoon, so he should be home by now. Geno could just check in and see how it went. Of course Sid is probably busily following doctor's orders—eating something depressingly healthy or stretching out on the couch resting his head, waiting for his miracle cure to kick in.

Geno leaves his phone in his pocket. Sid will call when he's ready.

He isn't expecting the call to come quite as soon as it does. He's barely through the door, Jeffrey still lolling at his feet drooling happily, when his phone starts to ring.

"Geno." He's definitely not expecting Sid to sound slurred, the words disjointed and punctuated by random pauses. "I think maybe—they said it could, but I didn't think it would—but yeah, I'm pretty sure, and I really need—Geno."

"Sid not make sense," Geno says, frowning.

"Please."

Geno zooms right past worried, well on his way to being scared shitless. "I call doctor."

"No! She can't help me. Just you. Geno." There's a tinge of desperation to it and a lot of insistence, and then strangely Sid sounds like he's trying to sing, "Geno, Geno, Geno."

"I come now."

Only the thought of how disapproving Sid is about speeding keeps Geno from breaking every traffic law on the way over. He doesn't bother knocking, using his key instead, the one Sid gave him when he bought the house, explaining, I think I'm supposed to give the spare to someone, so. The last thing Geno needs is Sidney woozy and falling on his head while he's trying to answer the door.

"Sid?"

There's no answer, so Geno trails through the house in search of him. No Sid in the kitchen, no Sid asleep on the couch, no sign of him anywhere on the first level. Geno heads up the stairs and down the hall to Sid's room.

It's dark inside, the blackout drapes pulled closed. Sid makes a pained noise as light spills in from the hall. When he realizes that Geno is there, his sounds turn demanding and kind of frantic. The demanding part is familiar at least, and this brings on a rush of affection. Maybe one day Geno won't find Sidney Crosby impossibly endearing, but today is clearly not that day.

"Geno," Sid murmurs, voice raspy and weak.

Worry spikes in Geno's chest, and it only grows worse when he gets close enough to make out Sid's face in the dim light, feverish and glassy-eyed. He puts the back of his hand against Sid's forehead, well trained by his mother. Sid is burning up, and he moans out loud at the touch. Geno snatches his hand away, afraid he's hurting him. This only makes Sid moan louder, with more distress. Geno has no idea what to do, so he just follows his instincts, settling his hand on top of Sid's head, brushing sweaty curls back from his face.

Sid lets out a soft sigh. "Geno." He butts up into the touch.

Geno continues to pet Sid's head even as he's pulling the phone out of his pocket. "I call doctor now, okay?"

Apparently the answer is no, because Sid shoots out his hand, moving fast even though he's probably half delirious, clamping his fingers around Geno's wrist and yanking with all his strength. Geno pitches off balance and topples onto the bed, barely managing to avoid jabbing Sid in the ribs with his elbow, catching himself just in time to keep from falling on him.

Sidney shows no appreciation for Geno's quick reflexes and keeps tugging at his shoulders, cajoling with broken noises until Geno is stretched out over him. There's only a sheet covering Sid, no evidence of clothes, and Geno can feel that he's hot all over, hot and—

He's the one making broken noises when Sid kisses him, mouth wet and hot. Sid groans and pushes up with his body, hands scrabbling at Geno's arms, fingers sliding up over his shoulders and into his hair.

It's everything Geno has wanted for years, and he reacts instinctively, kissing back, running his fingers over the heated planes of Sid's face. Sid lets out a loud, cracked half-whimper. He twists his fingers in Geno's shirt, clinging with all his strength.

That finally gets Geno thinking with his brain again. Sid has always been okay with Geno touching him, never shrugging out from under his arm or flinching away the way he does with other people. He's comfortable enough that he even initiates casual touches of his own, nudging Geno with his elbow when he thinks something's funny or reaching for Geno's arm to get his attention. But if there's one thing Sid doesn't do, it's cling.

Geno pulls back to look at him. "What you doing?"

Sid shakes his head as if he himself doesn't know. "They said it might—but probably not, really rare, and I didn't think it would be like—" He stops, as if there are no words. It's a lucky thing that Geno became fluent in Crosby long before he got the hang of English.

"Treatment make you like this."

Sid nods, staring up at him with eyes that are too wide, too bright. "I tried, you know, doing it myself, but I can't—it's not enough." He grinds his hips up into Geno's.

Heat curls in Geno's belly, and it's instinct to match that rhythm, to push his body against Sid's. Except that it isn't Sid doing this, not really. It's just a side effect, and Geno can't ignore that fact.

When he tries to pull away, Sid grabs him by the shirt and glares with a mix of outrage and stubbornness. It reminds Geno of the ill-fated nutritionist who suggested Sid change his pre-game sandwich to almond butter and jelly for a better ratio of monounsaturated to saturated fat. Reasoning with Sid when he's really set on something is generally a waste of time.

Geno tries anyway. "No, Sid, I can't, we can't—"

"Geno," Sidney says insistently, still not letting go.

"No, Sid."

"Why not?" It comes out sulky and a little offended, and maybe Geno could ignore that, but then Sidney's voice goes soft when he says, "I'd do it for you."

The worst part is that Geno knows he would. He can imagine it so easily, Sid with his responsible captain face on, awkward but willing, taking care of Geno because they're friends and they're teammates and there's nothing Sid won't do for the good of his team.

"Okay." He brushes his lips along Sid's jaw. "You need, we do." If it also happens to be what Geno wants, well—he pushes that thought away and focuses on Sid.

For a while Sid is content to clutch at Geno's shoulders and kiss eagerly, but eventually he starts to squirm, wanting out from under the sheet. Geno has seen Sid naked before, too many times to count by this point, but he's never seen Sid like this, hard and wanting and flushed all over, thighs falling open like an invitation. Geno swallows; his mouth has gone suddenly dry.

If they were really doing this, Geno would take his time, touch Sid everywhere, tease him until he'd heard every ridiculous noise Sid makes. But this is—what it is, and all that matters is what Sid needs. Geno gets a hand between them, fingers curling around Sid's cock, and starts jerking him off with quick, efficient twists of his wrist.

Sid bites his lip and shoves his hips in jerky motions, pushy even when he's half out of his mind. Plenty of ridiculous noises stream out of him, and Geno kisses his neck and tells him he's going to be okay. It's not long before Sid comes.

He's still hard afterward, muscles tensely coiled, fingers clenching and unclenching against Geno's biceps.

Geno stares at him. "Sid, what you need—"

"Come on, Geno." He tugs at Geno's T-shirt and continues to complain until Geno ditches his jeans and boxers too. He's not completely satisfied until Geno is naked and on top of him, and then he goes kind of wild, writhing and overheated and frantic, wrapping his legs around Geno's waist and shoving his entire body up against him.

Even knowing this isn't real can't keep Geno from thinking how hot it is to have Sid under him, kissing like it's the last thing either of them will ever do. He moves with him, their bodies sliding together, hand cupped protectively around the nape of Sid's neck.

"Geno, Geno," Sid says, high and reedy, eyes wide and a little unfocused. "I—you're so—oh God." Geno kisses him harder to keep him from babbling out endearments that he can't possibly mean, that will just make everything more complicated later.

Sid comes again, gasping out Geno's name. Geno is only human, and he squeezes his eyes tightly shut and comes too, making even more of a mess on Sid's belly. It doesn't seem possible, but Sidney is still hard, his noises turning cracked and wounded, less horny now and more hysterical.

"Ssh," Geno soothes him, petting his hair. "I take care of you. I make okay."

He kisses Sid's chest, rubbing at his nipples, trailing his lips down Sid's belly, stroking his thighs, coaxing them open so he can settle between them. It's been a while since he sucked cock, but he doesn't hesitate, taking Sid as deep as he can.

A cross between a sob and a sigh comes spilling out of Sid. He tightens his fingers in Geno's hair, but just as quickly he loosens his grip, stroking instead of pulling. Being drugged is no match for Sid's good manners.

Geno keeps sucking, rubbing his hands in circles over Sid's hips. When he feels Sid's body tense, he starts to pull away, meaning to finish him with his hand, but before he can manage it Sid's cock jerks like he's trying to come but there's nothing left. One last desperate noise spills out of him, and then he relaxes all over, slumping back against the pillow. The fever in his body seems to have broken finally. Geno cleans him up with a corner of the sheet.

"Thanks," Sid mumbles right before passing out.

Geno shifts so he's lying beside him and listens to his deep, even breathing. He doesn't want to leave in case the treatment has other, more dangerous complications. If there's fallout to face when Sid's in his right mind again, he's not going to be a coward about it. He closes his eyes, and it doesn't take long before he's fast asleep.

In the morning, Geno wakes, checks the clock, and flops back against the mattress. He needs to get moving if he's going to make the optional morning skate. Sid doesn't stir beside him. Geno angles a look at him, and he seems back to normal, not sweaty or pale the way he was last night. Geno could wait for him to wake up so they can talk. He's not sure Sid would appreciate that, and he knows for a fact that Sid doesn't approve of people skipping optional skates.

Geno heads down to the kitchen and brings back up a glass of water, leaving it on the nightstand where Sid will see it when he wakes. He lingers just a moment, smoothing a hand over Sid's hair and adjusting the blankets around his shoulders. If it's too tender a gesture for a friend helping out another friend, at least he's the only one who's awake for it.

At practice, Geno thinks about hockey and nothing but hockey, because when he's on the ice that's all that exists. Once his skates hit the rubber flooring again, though, the worry sets back in. It hadn't seemed like taking advantage last night, not when Sid was so desperate, so determined that only Geno could help him, when he'd seemed to be in actual physical pain. Now in the harsh light of day, he's remembering how bleary Sid's eyes were, the way every word he said came out with the edges knocked off.

Fuck.

All through getting dressed, walking out to his car and then driving home, he toys with the idea of calling, but somehow he just can't make himself do it. He takes Jeffrey for a walk and warms up something to eat, his phone sitting right there on the counter, but he still doesn't pick it up.

Sid is the one who finally does the calling. "Hey." He doesn't sound angry, only a little cautious.

"How you feel?" Geno asks, just as carefully.

"Okay, I guess. I mean, definitely better than yesterday." He clears his throat, only to lapse into a long, awkward pause. "Um, did I say thanks? I can't remember."

It's so very Sid that Geno has to smile. "Said thanks."

"Good. That's—good," Sid says feebly. There's another awkward pause, even longer than the last one. "So—we're okay, right?" His voice lilts up uncertainly.

Geno lets out the breath he's been holding. "We okay."

"Okay. Good. That's good. You're a good friend." Sid stops talking, and this pause is perhaps the most awkward one of all. "I should probably go."

"Night, Sid."

Geno hangs up without the flood of relief he was expecting to feel. If Sid wants to shrug off what happened and file it under "that's just what friends do for each other," Geno can certainly do that. It's probably for the best. But it's hard to be happy about it. He keeps flashing back to how Sid sounded when he was begging, the way he said Geno's name, how he looked when he came. Geno is going to replay that picture in his head every time he jerks off from now until forever.

Life was a lot less complicated before Sid decided to become a medical experiment.

Things are less strange between them in the aftermath than Geno would have predicted. Sid still isn't cleared to skate, but he comes to practice and watches them take drills, passing along things he's noticed from the four million hours of video he's reviewed. Geno receives the usual number of texts from him on the usual subjects: thoughts about preseason matchups, an in-depth analysis of why he still hates everyone on the Flyers (except Max), a random rant from the grocery store when the Skittles are sold out.

On the next rest day Geno decides to be lazy, staying in bed, pillow over his head to block the morning light until Jeffrey's whines grow too desperate to ignore. They ramble through the neighborhood, Jeffrey visiting all his favorite spots, sniffing and peeing gleefully. Geno fixes tea when he gets home, strong and sweet enough to make his teeth ache, just the way he likes it, and eats leftover Chinese cold from the cartons. He's thinking about going back to bed when his phone rings.

"Geno."

"Sid." Geno goes instantly alert at Sid's tone. "What wrong?"

"Nothing. It's just—I'm at the doctor's. You know, getting treatment. I'm not supposed to drive, and Mario was going to pick me up, but something came up and—"

"Give me address."

He does his best to tamp down his worry on the way over to the doctor's office. Sid just needs a ride. There's no reason to think it's anything more than that. When Geno finds him in the waiting room, he looks fine, not feverish and dazed the way he was the other night.

"Hey." Sid licks his lips, the way he does when he's nervous. "Thanks for coming."

Geno waves off the thanks. "Everything okay? What doctor say?"

Sid shrugs. "It's fine. She still won't tell me when she thinks I might be cleared to play." His mouth twists sourly.

Geno puts a hand on his shoulder. "Come on. I take you home."

On the way out to the parking lot, Sid seems antsy, but then he's never good when he's at loose ends, no hockey to play and nothing to focus on but hoping his symptoms go away. He's quiet during the drive. Geno watches him out of the corner of his eye, not sure what's going on in his head. He likes to think that Sid confides in him, but if he got bad news from the doctor, he's not likely to admit that to anyone, not even himself.

When they get to his house, Geno walks him to the door. Sid stands close, their shoulders brushing. It's the normal degree of Sid-touching, so Geno doesn't think anything about it. He's completely taken off guard once they're inside and Sid launches himself, pushing Geno against the wall, muscling up against him, and kissing frantically.

"Sid, what—"

"Please, Geno."

Geno runs a hand over Sid's forehead. There's no heat, no sign that anything is wrong, and yet Sid drops to his knees and starts scrabbling at Geno's fly. Obviously the medication must still be affecting him. It's not as if Sid has ever showed any interest in blowing Geno before.

He tells Sid as much, trying to pull him back up to his feet, but Sid yanks down Geno's boxers and stubbornly insists, "I want to. Just let me." He stretches his mouth around Geno's cock, and that's the end of that discussion.

"Sid," Geno groans, all the oxygen burning up in his lungs.

The team teases Sid about his pretty mouth, speculating about whether he knows what to do with it or not. Geno never expected to get the answer firsthand: Yes, fuck yes. Sid knows exactly what he's doing, his lips mobile and eager. It doesn't take long for Geno to get hard. Sid makes an approving noise, slurping and humming and taking Geno's cock deeper, because of course he's competitive about cocksucking. Of course he is.

Geno's hold on English is quicksilver at best and nearly non-existent when Sid is sucking cock like he has something to prove. So he curses in Russian and mostly just tries to hang on, fingers sliding through Sid's hair, rubbing at his scalp. Sid arches into the touch like a demanding cat. He sucks harder and does things with his tongue, and that's it, as much as Geno can take.

He grips Sidney's shoulders and warns, "Sid, stop, have to—"

Of course, he doesn't stop. This is Sid, who always wants to win, and apparently that means making Geno come in his mouth. He tightens his grip on Geno's hips, using all his strength, and takes Geno so deep there's drool sliding down his chin. Geno's eyes squeeze shut, and he grabs at Sid's shoulders, probably leaving bruises, his hips bucking as he gives Sid what he wants.

It's good, so good, and the moment he opens his eyes and sees Sid still down on his knees, chest heaving, face flushed, his erection clearly outlined by his jeans, arousal hits Geno all over again like a punch to the gut.

"Upstairs?" Sid blinks up at him hopefully.

Geno settles a hand on top of his head. "Sid."

"Geno." Just that one word carries a world of obstinacy.

It would be easy to find excuses for why Geno lets Sid sweep him up the steps and down the hall to the bedroom: Sid is his captain, Geno's used to giving him what he wants, friends don't let friends deal with the side effects of their experimental concussion medication by themselves. But the actual reasonis the way Sid looks once he's thrown off his clothes and flung himself onto the bed, hard and wanting and spread out just for Geno.

Geno undresses, apparently not fast enough for Sid, who he makes impatient noises the whole time. When Geno stretches out alongside him, he's just as frenzied as he was the last time, grabbing at Geno's shoulders while they kiss, slotting their hips together. There's still no hint of fever, though, when Geno brushes the back of his hand over Sid's forehead. He thinks maybe this means the side effects are lessening in intensity. Maybe next time Sid gets treatment there won't be—maybe he won't need Geno.

"What you want?" Geno asks, because if this is the last time then he's going to make it good.

"Fingers," Sid says quickly, almost before Geno is finished asking, and then he promptly turns red as if there's something embarrassing about asking for that so eagerly.

Geno kisses him, tracing his thumb along the line of his jaw. Whatever you want. He doesn't say it, but Sid seems to get it because he kisses back almost gratefully.

The lube is right there in the top bedside drawer, because this is Sid, and Sid likes things in their places. Geno warms it between his fingers and reaches between Sid's legs. He's thought about Sid, of course, admired his mouth and his ass and his—everything really, but he's always stopped there, just looking. He's never let himself picture doing anything, never imagined Sid's sharp intake of breath when Geno rubs at his hole, the low, desperate groan that spills out of him when Geno works a finger inside, how his eyes fasten on Geno, dark and intent, like he can't see anything else.

Geno bends his head, gets his mouth on Sid's cock, works a second and third finger into him. Sid moans, "Geno," hips lurching as he rides Geno's hand, his sounds growing more high-pitched and insistent until he's babbling out warnings, "I can't—you have to—" Geno pulls back and works Sid's cock with his other hand. Sid bites his lip and makes a noise like a dying goose as he comes all over Geno's fingers.

"Grrmmbr," Sid murmurs into the pillow.

That could mean, Thanks, you can go now, except for the way Sid sags against Geno, head lolling onto his shoulder, and falls instantly asleep. Their legs are tangled together, and Geno can't slip away, not without waking him. So he does the only logical thing—the kind of tortured logic that leads to inevitable heartbreak—and curls more tightly around Sid and closes his eyes.

When he wakes up again, sun is streaming through the windows, so he can't have slept too long. There's an empty place next to him, but the sheets still feel warm. Sid probably hasn't gone far. Geno lets out a sigh and looks for his pants. If there's going to be awkwardness, he'd rather just get it over with.

He finds Sid in the kitchen, bending into the open refrigerator. "Hey," he says over his shoulder when he hears Geno come in. "You hungry? I was going to make dinner, but—" He looks hopelessly back into his mostly empty refrigerator.

Geno nudges Sid out of the way to have a look for himself. That makes Sid roll his eyes, and suddenly they're both smiling, and it's not awkward at all. It's just them. "Eggs?"

Sid nods and tries to take them out of Geno's hands, but Geno waves him off. His cooking isn't anything to get excited about, but at least he can keep the shells out of the pan unlike Sidney. He scrambles all the eggs left in the carton, and Sid makes toast. They sit at the kitchen island and bend over their plates until they've polished off every bite.

It's nice, and Geno doesn't want to spoil the mood, but he isn't a good friend if he doesn't say what needs to be said. "Sid," he starts, taking a deep breath. "Maybe need to talk to doctor. Keep having side effects no good."

Sidney immediately stiffens, his face going blank. "I thought you said you didn't mind."

"Is not about that. Is about Sid."

"I'm fine," Sidney stubbornly insists. "And this is fine, right? You helping me out. Like friends do."

Geno can't help wondering what Sid has been doing with his other friends. He has to tamp down the very serious desire to cut them. "It fine."

"Good. That's good." Sid's shoulders drop, the tension flowing out of him. "So you want to stay and play some Mario Kart?"

No, I really have to go. That's the smart answer. That's what Geno should say. Instead he finds himself saying, "Okay."

They settle on the couch, and Sidney leans forward, as competitive at this as he is out on the ice. Geno tries to pay attention, but Sid still smells like sex, like the two of them. Every time Geno loses Sid just grows more gleefully smug, face practically glowing with triumph. All Geno can think is how beautiful he is.

This is his ridiculous life.

Next time Geno picks Sid up from the doctor's office, they don't even make it all the way into the house before it starts. As soon as the garage door closes, Sid flings himself across the seat, pushing his mouth onto Geno's and getting a hand down his pants. The close confines of the Porsche aren't exactly designed for having sex, but Sid keeps murmuring against his mouth, "Come on, come on," until Geno slips a hand into his underwear and starts jerking him off.

Coming in his pants—there's something Geno hasn't done since he was a kid. Sid seriously makes him crazy.

Sid is still gulping down air, hair wildly curly and dark with sweat along his forehead. "Let's go in." His voice is deeper than usual, still wanting.

Geno keeps a hand at the small of Sid's back, and as soon as the door closes behind them, he pushes Sid up against it and kisses him. Sid's body is hot and already thrumming with need again. Geno runs a hand down his chest and belly and over the wet spot on his jeans. A wild noise is torn out of Sid, as if he's still too sensitive, as if this is too much and he likes that, likes being pushed past his limits. Geno has no way of knowing if this is an effect of the medicine or just—Sid.

"I really want you to fuck me," Sid blurts out, biting his lip. "Please, Geno."

Geno shudders against him, presses his face against Sid's neck and breathes in a shaky breath. He really wants that too, but he's already crossed enough lines. He's not going to cross this one. He straightens up and presses a kiss to the top of Sid's head and takes a big step back. "No. Can't do that."

"Not now," Sid says hastily. "I mean, we both just—but later, we can—"

Geno shakes his head. "No. We not do that, Sid. Need to talk to doctor. Not good you still have trouble."

Sid's face goes pinched and defensive. "I thought you said it was okay. What we're doing."

Geno makes a frustrated noise. "Side effects never okay. Talk to doctor. Maybe change treatment." Sid's gaze drops away guiltily, and suddenly Geno knows. "You already talk to doctor."

"Not exactly."

Sid still won't look at him, so Geno tilts up his chin and makes him. "What then? Exactly."

"Um—the side effects kind of went away after the first treatment?"

The words don't make any sense. Geno half hopes it's just his faulty grasp of English. "What? But you say—" He trails off. "Why you tell me you still having trouble?"

"I didn't? Not exactly."

Geno gives him a hard look. "You let me think."

"You said you didn't mind!" Sid drags a hand through his hair. "I mean, it was good, right? I thought it was good. We're friends, we get each other. It just—works. And you seemed to like it too, so I thought—"

Sid trails off, and Geno is left trying to imagine what he was thinking. If he actually wanted something like an actual relationship—well, even Sid wouldn't be clueless enough to believe that this was the way to get it. We're friends, we get each other. Geno is suddenly remembering all the times Sid shied away from someone who was flirting with him, how he whined that he didn't know what to say to strangers whenever the team teased him about it. Faking his side effects must have seemed like the perfect solution—a way to have sex without awkward conversations, without having to go out and meet people.

"Next time you want to get laid, not leave house, get girl on craigslist," he says, jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt.

Sid's face flushes bright red, and he lifts his chin defiantly. "What if I don't want a girl?"

"Get boy then." Geno takes a step toward the door.

Sid blocks his way. "I didn't mean—I only thought—"

That's it, as much as Geno can stand. His voice rises angrily. "No, you not think. You just do what you want. Whole time I feel bad. Like I take advantage. Sid head hurt. Medicine make Sid not act like Sid. But you the one who take advantage."

"Geno."

Sid is still standing in front of the door, and if he doesn't move then Geno is going to have to move him, because he really needs to get out of here.

Sid must see that in Geno's face, because he reluctantly steps aside. The car still smells of sex and Sid's aftershave, and Geno's underwear is sticking to his body, a constant reminder. He drives too fast, and when he gets home, he takes the longest, hottest shower he can stand and drinks a truly staggering amount of vodka. None of it helps.

The good news is that there's hockey to play. Preseason games are just what Geno needs to take his mind off things. When he's on the ice he's focused and Sid-free, and his game feels like it's starting to click. Off the ice he does his best to avoid Sid. It's easier to manage than he would have expected; Sid is so intent on his treatment and busy getting back into playing condition.

Geno goes out with the other guys after practice to have something to do, laughs too loudly at things that really aren't very funny, and flirts half-heartedly with the girls who are always hanging around. At the end of the night when he gets home, he deletes the barrage of texts and the occasional voicemail from Sid without looking at them, without ever listening.

No one on the team seems to have noticed that anything is wrong. That means Geno doesn't have to explain, which is good. It also means that everyone still expects him to be Sid's spokesman.

Tonight they're out at a bar for a quick drink before heading home. Duper slips onto the barstool next to Geno and asks, "So what's up with Sid's head? That experimental shit working?"

Geno shrugs. "Ask Sid."

"Yeah, yeah, I will, but I just thought you'd know—"

Geno grits his teeth. "Ask Sid."

Duper's eyes go wide, and he says quickly, "Sure, sure. Yeah."

He gets up and wanders over to talk to Flower, but he keeps giving Geno confused looks the rest of the evening.

Apparently Sid's treatment has been working, because he shows up for practice a few days later finally cleared to skate. The guys greet him with smiles and friendly punches to the arm. Flower chirps him with a big grin, "I see you finally got off your lazy ass."

Sid ducks his head and grins back, as bright-eyed and pleased as a little kid—until he catches Geno's eye, and the grin fades. The other guys go still, looking from Sid to Geno and back again. Suddenly everyone has somewhere else to be.

"Geno." Sid comes shuffling over to him, and Geno has an unwelcome flash of sense memory: the warm, smooth feel of his skin, the way he tipped his head back whenever Geno kissed his throat, demanding more. "I've been trying to call you. I really wanted to say—"

"Practice now. Talk later." Geno picks up his stick and leaves Sid standing there.

Maybe it's petty, but Sid couldn't be bothered to tell Geno the truth, so Geno isn't much in the mood to listen to his excuses. He spends their time together in the locker room brushing off Sid's attempts at making peace and ignoring the increasingly concerned looks the other guys direct their way.

Of course Sid is nothing if not determined, so he goes out for drinks with the team just to try to get Geno talk to him, raising the eyebrows of pretty much everyone who knows him. Sid goes clubbing the way other people go to the dentist, with the stoic resolve that at least it will eventually be over.

At least Geno manages to maneuver Jordy between them when they settle at the table. Jordy looks confused, because Geno and Sid always sit next to each other, but he shrugs and goes with it. Geno is relieved. He can't take Sid pressed close in the small booth, the heat of his body, the feel of his hard, muscled thigh. When the waitress circles over, Geno orders three shots. He tips them back one right after the other, ignoring Sid's sideways looks of disapproval.

Guys come and go from the table, making trips to the bar and disgracing the team out on the dance floor.

"Hey, look." Jordy elbows Sid. "That hot girl is smiling at you. Come on."

"What? No!" Sid hisses at him, but Jordy drags him off anyway.

Geno stays at the table and keeps on drinking and hopes that Sid won't come back any time soon. But he and Jordy reappear all of five minutes later.

"Dude, seriously, way to mess up a sure thing," Jordy chirps Sid. "That girl was totally into you, and she was smokin' hot."

"I wasn't interested, okay?" Sid says tightly, darting glances over at Geno.

Jordy makes are you crazy? eyes at Sid.

"I didn't know what to say to her," Sid insists.

Geno clenches his jaw and stares at his drink, pretending he's not hearing any of this. Why couldn't he have just gone straight home tonight?

Jordy snorts. "Talking to people really isn't that hard, Sid. I don't know how you ever expect to get laid."

"Shut up!" Sid says, voice sharp now, his face turning red.

Geno finishes the rest of his drink in one long swallow.

Jordy senses none of the tension in the air and keeps going. "No, seriously. When was the last time you had sex, dude?"

Geno slams down his glass on the table. "I go home now."

Jordy blinks, startled. "Sure, G. See you tomorrow."

"Geno," Sid says, softly, urgently. "Wait."

Geno doesn't. He gets the hell out of there.

The season starts with a road trip and two wins. Sid is well enough to travel with them now, so Geno gets no more peace in Vancouver or Calgary than he does back home in Pittsburgh. Every time he turns around Sid is shooting him hopeful glances while the rest of the team appears to be plotting an intervention.

Against the Caps, they take a hard loss in overtime. After the game Sasha insists on dragging Geno and any other Pens who will give him the time of day out to a place he knows. There is nothing like winning to make him play the host. At least the vodka is good, and there is plenty of it. Geno tips back his—he's lost count by now how many shots this makes.

"Your Crosby is watching you," Sasha says, with the usual mix of amusement and sarcasm that Sid brings out in him.

"He's not mine," Geno snaps, motioning the bartender for another.

This makes Sasha's eyebrows shoot up practically to his hairline. Geno curses his overreaction. Sasha always likes to make insinuations about Sid, and Geno usually just rolls his eyes, and then they talk about other things.

"Oh Zhenya, is the honeymoon finally over?" Sasha asks, with mock dismay. "What happened? You should tell me. I can help. I'm very good at relationships."

Geno snorts, and Sasha makes a wounded face. At the other of the bar, Sid is sitting with Flower, pretending to listen to whatever Flower's saying, but his gaze is fastened on Geno. When he sees Geno looking back, he licks his lips nervously, his eyes wide and begging. A flurry of images fills up Geno's brain, the things he did to that pretty mouth, the things he'd still like to do.

He slides off the stool and heads toward the bathroom, flipping off Sasha when he calls after him, "You decide you need marriage counseling, you know my number."

He's almost safely to the bathroom—the door is so close, right there—but suddenly Sid is there too, materializing out of nowhere, blocking the way. "I couldn't get what I wanted from craigslist," he blurts out. It takes Geno a moment to realize that he's picking up the conversation they had weeks ago.

"Sid have very kinky tastes then," Geno says flatly.

Even in the low light Geno can tell that Sid flushes spectacularly. "It wasn't like that!" he insists hotly. "I'm not like that. I just—I wanted—Geno." He trails off helplessly, turning big, pleading eyes on him.

He's standing so close that Geno can smell him, his sweat and the last faint traces of his cologne, the same scent he's worn since Geno has known him. It is all so familiar, has been for such a long time, and now Geno knows what he smells like after sex, after Geno has rubbed himself all over him.

Sid moves in even closer, still watching him intently. Geno knows he could drag him into the bathroom and lock them both in a stall and fuck him. Sid would let him. Sid would beg for it. But when it was over, Geno would still love him desperately, and Sid would still think this is just what friends do for each other.

"Can get whatever you want here. Go have fun, Sid." He turns on his heel, giving up on the bathroom.

"Geno!"

But Geno is already slipping through the crowd, looking for something, someone to take his mind off it. He finds her on the other side of the dance floor, a cool looking blonde in a very short, very sparkly dress, taking in the room with an ironic tilt of her head.

"Okay, you either really need to dance or you're running from the cops," she says when he comes to an abrupt stop in front of her.

He laughs, louder than he should, which makes her widen her eyes at him. "Yevgeni," he says, holding out his hand.

"Ursula." She shakes, her fingers delicate and just as cool as the rest of her. Geno imagines there would still be a hint of that coolness even if he had sex with her, nothing at all like the feverish, over-eager, frantic sex he had with Sid. Suddenly that seems like exactly what he needs.

"You help hide me from cops on dance floor?" he asks with the slightly bashful smile that usually makes girls smile back at him.

Ursula puts down her martini glass and takes his hand. "I won't let them take you alive."

The music is so loud it's less sound than an earthquake erupting beneath their feet. Ursula slides in close. She's tiny and soft against him, nothing at all like Sid. Geno slips his arms around her waist to draw her in even closer.

"Kissing might help you hide your identity," Ursula muses. "You know, from the authorities."

He smiles and bends down and tips up her chin. She leans up and kisses him. She smells nice, and she tastes like cherries from her cocktail or maybe her lip gloss. It's just—nice, no desperate urgency, no wanting more. Geno can relax into it, kissing and moving his hands over her back.

"You want to go to my place?" she asks after a while.

He really wishes he did, but he doesn't. He's planning to smile ruefully and make excuses when he catches sight of Sid standing at the edge of the dance floor. He's watching and glowering, his expression hurt and betrayed as if Geno is the one who—and that's it. That makes the decision for him.

"We go," Geno tells Ursula.

The air is cool outside, especially after the overheated club. It's like a bracing slap to the face. The hurt look on Sid's face floats up behind Geno's eyes, and he feels it, an ache beneath his ribs. He doesn't want to hurt Sid, no matter how much he's been hurt. Ursula seems like a nice girl. She's not some consolation prize.

She drifts over to the curb, scanning the traffic, and flagging down a cab. When she turns back to him, realization dawns over her face. "I'm taking this cab alone, huh?"

"It not you," he says quickly, because it really isn't. Under other circumstances— "It just—"

She waves him off, with a wry smile. "I did know it wasn't the law you were running from. Whatever, whoever that's about, you should probably figure it out."

"Sorry," he says contritely.

She rises up on her toes to kiss his cheek. "It was fun while it lasted."

He sees her into the cab and pays the driver. The hotel isn't particularly close, but he walks anyway. It will give him something to do besides watching Sports Center and moping over Sid.

It changes after that. Or Sid changes, anyway. Geno expects him to be sulky and offended the next time they see each other—even if he has no reason to be when all he wants from Geno is a convenient fuck—but Sid can occasionally be surprising.

"Hey," he says as they pass in the locker room.

"Hey," Geno says, a little warily.

Sid nods, and that's it. He moves on, giving Geno his space. Patience isn't typically Sid's strong suit, but he's clearly decided to wait out Geno's anger, biding his time until they can get back to being friends.

Geno sighs. He doesn't know why he can't just get over it. It's not as if he likes being mad at Sid. He fucking hates it. There's just this possibility that lurks in the back of his head and he can't shake it, that maybe Sid knew how Geno felt about him and decided to take advantage of it. That he saw it as an easy solution to the problems he has trying to hook up with strangers or as a safe way to have sex with a guy without fear of being outed on Deadspin. Not that Sid would be cruel on purpose. There's nothing mean about him. In his cluelessness about things not related to hockey, though, he might not have realized how cruel that was.

Geno shakes his head as if that can clear away thoughts he doesn't want to have and goes to practice, ready to focus on something that actually makes sense.

The team's intervention arrives a few weeks later in the form of Flower, who loiters around after their win over Dallas, waiting for Geno to get dressed.

"So you want to grab a beer?" he asks.

Geno does his best to brush him off. "Why? Fiancée not want you home?"

Flower rolls his eyes. "My fiancée always wants me home, asshole. Being a dick isn't going to get you out of this. So let's go."

They head to the usual bar, and Flower orders the usual weak-ass Canadian beer for the two of them, and Geno complains about it as he always does.

"You will drink it, and you will like it," Flower says imperiously, downing half his pint in one gulp, as if he needs the reinforcement. "Fuck, I don't know why I always get stuck with this job. I'm a goalie, not a therapist."

"Goalie crazy," Geno tells him. "Make you good at understanding people who not right in head."

"Yeah, thanks for that," Flower says dryly. "So, look, I don't know what Sid did, but I do know Sid. When he does something shitty, it's usually less because he actually means to be shitty and more because he was raised in the wild by hockey instead of by humans."

"So what? If Sid not mean to be asshole, then I not supposed to be mad?"

Flower holds up his hands. "Totally up to you. I'm just making an observation. Not that it's anything you don't already know."

"Yes," Geno says with a sigh. "But knowing not helping."

"Well, think about this then. Sid's going to get cleared for contact any day now, and you can't take this shit out onto the ice. Also? You're both miserable bastards without each other, and we're tired of the two of you looking like somebody just shot your dog and ate your last KitKat. Nobody wants to see that. It's depressing as all fuck."

"What I should do?"

Flower throws up his arms. "I don't know. Just fix it!"

Geno makes a face at him. "That it? That fancy goalie advice?"

Flower rolls his eyes. "Still not a therapist."

Geno makes Flower buy him two more weak-ass Canadian beers just for being so useless.

It seems like a good idea to go home and drink something that's not at all weak-ass and then drink even more until he's had so much that it seems like a great idea to call Sergei at two in the morning.

"Somebody better be dead, Zhenya," Sergei mumbles into the phone.

That's when Geno realizes: hey, not such a great idea after all. "No, no, it's fine. Sorry. Go back to sleep."

"Zhenya," Sergei says sternly. "I'm awake now, so you will start talking if you know what's good for you." The or I will sic Ksenia on you goes unsaid, but Geno knows.

He takes a breath, and the whole thing comes tumbling out of him, probably in more detail than Sergei really wants to hear.

There's a long pause. "Did he actually say he just wants to be fuck buddies?"

Geno lets out a sigh. "More or less."

"If you didn't hear those exact words, then I'm pretty sure that's not what he meant."

"Who was there?" Geno snaps. "You or me?"

Sergei continues on undeterred. "I'm not going to pretend to understand what goes on in Sidney Crosby's head, but there is one thing I'm absolutely sure of: he doesn't take anything about you casually. What was the first thing he did when you joined the team?" He answers his own question as if he thinks Geno might not get it right. "He changed one of his precious rituals to let you walk out on the ice last."

"He did that to make me welcome, to show respect. It's what good teammates do." Geno has always found it so maddening that sports writers try to trump up stories about how he and Sid are waging a battle of egos when the truth is just the opposite and has been since the beginning.

"From anyone else, I'm sure that's what it would have meant, but from Sid, it's practically a marriage proposal." Sergei can apparently sense the disbelieving face Geno is making because he adds, "How many fights has he been in?"

"Five," Geno says—too promptly, if Sergei's amused snort is any indication.

"How many times has he raced across the ice to punch someone in the face for upending one of his teammates?"

Geno pauses. "He's a good captain. He'd do anything for his team."

"But he's only gotten into a fight for you."

Geno has no idea what to say to that.

Sergei makes a frustrated noise. "How are you as bad at this as he is?"

"Fuck you," Geno says without any heat. He can't decide if maybe Sergei is right or if Geno just really wants him to be right.

"Talk to him, Zhenya. I'm hanging up on you now."

Geno has every intention of taking Sergei's advice, but he's not sure how to start, which is weird and unsettling since he's never had trouble talking to Sid, not even when he knew all of six words of English. Then suddenly Sid is cleared for contact, and he's there in the locker room on game day, smiling ecstatically as he laces up his skates, laughing when Duper chirps, "So you finally have your head on straight. About fucking time."

His smile wavers a little when Geno approaches as if he doesn't know what to expect. "Good to have you back," Geno says, laying a hand on Sid's shoulder to show he really means it.

"Thanks, Geno," Sid says very seriously.

"We play now, kick Islander ass, then later we talk, okay?"

Sid's eyes go wide with surprise, and he nods very eagerly. "Yeah, sure, talking is—good."

When it's time to go out on the ice, Sid hesitates for just a split second as if afraid that Geno might refuse to do their thing. Which is just stupid, because no matter how mad Geno ever was, he wouldn't fuck with Sid's hockey. Sid actually breathes out in relief when Geno bumps fists with him, and Geno gives him an extra hard swat on the ass just for doubting him. Sid jerks his head around to give Geno a confused look.

Geno smiles. "Good luck."

It comes as no surprise at all that Sid lights it up that night. He always does when he's been off the ice and can finally get back to his natural element. He scores his first goal early in the first period, his face glowing and triumphant, so very Sid, and Geno loves him so much it really kind of hurts.

"Five minutes into game already, only one goal," he chirps Sid when they're on the bench together. "You Sidney Crosby. Expect better than that."

Sid doesn't even bother to chirp him back. He just smiles, and it's huge and blinding, and Geno has really missed it.

In the second, Geno scores on an assist from Sid, and they pile into a hug, Sid tucked beneath his arm, his face bright and happy, and everything just seems to click into place. This is how it's supposed to be. Geno has been an idiot not to fix things sooner, but it's going to be okay. He knows that now.

Continued in Part Two