Title: Wet Dreams

Author/pseudonym: Suz

Fandom: Invisible Man

Paring: Bobby/Dairen

Rating: NC 17 for adult concepts, maybe language

Status: new/complete

Archive: WWOMB okay, all others ask

E-mail address: suzinsf@earthlink.net

Series/Sequel: first of two (I think)

Other websites:

Disclaimers: Don't own 'em, but I like to pretend I do.

I can't even remember the last time I was this tired. Fawkes and I've been on the road for something like a million years since we left San Diego this morning. Most of that was spent standing on a windy mountain road near Lake Arrowhead in the pouring rain trying to stop some

passing car after Golda ended up in a ditch when I swerved to miss a deer.

The cell phones, cheap-ass pieces of junk courtesy of the Agency penny pinching our `buddy' Eberts does like he breathes or presses his underwear, naturally didn't work in the mountains. So there we were, Fawkes and me, bickering and arguing while we slogged around in the wet, early spring grass, trying to figure out how to free the van's bumper from the fallen log it'd got hung up on. We tried everything either of us could think of, but the van was unsteady, really only in contact with the ground on three wheels cuz of the angle we'd hit the ditch at. We finally gave up and scrambled back up to the edge of the road. We'd already passed from banter to bickering to silence as we'd hassled with the van, and now we were just cold, wet, and tired.

It was another hour before we flagged down the only car we'd seen since the accident and got them to drive us to the nearest phone so we could call a tow truck. There're a lotta little communities in the mountains above LA, so it wasn't actually that far. We coulda walked it in the

time we'd spent on the side of the road if we'd known where to go. We weren't talkin' to each other by the time we finally got ourselves and Golda back to the little town, mostly a wide place in the road where maybe 400+ people, tops, lived. The grease monkey at the local garage gave us the news that we'd bent an axle, and it'd be at least 36 hours before he'd have a replacement part installed. Fawkes wasn't even making eye contact with me by that time. Stuck in the middle of

nowhere, soaking wet, no clothes, no car, no cell phones worth the name, nothing but each other and an agency credit card with a three hundred dollar limit. Just great.

I asked the garage guy where the nearest motel was, and he gave me directions to a Hollywood-rustic little place with those individual cabins that're supposed to look like some `50s Catskills resort. The rain had let up to a drizzle and we sloshed our way down the road to the other end of the one-horse town and booked ourselves a cabin for the night. Unfortunately, the only one they had left was a single with a king-sized bed. By then, it could've had a coupla cots with sleeping

bags and we'd've taken it. We sloshed across the courtyard to the most distant, ramshackle cabin on the lot, and I unlocked the door with a real, old-fashioned key and let us in.

Reality is, I've stayed in a lot worse places. Hell, I think even Fawkes has. Prison's just gotta be worse than this, turquoise curtains and matching bedspread included. We stand there in the middle of the room sorta looking around at anything but each other. I can hear the chatter of Fawkes' teeth, and finally turn and sneak a look at the kid. He looks like a drowned rat. The hair goo is long gone, and the wet curls around his face and ears drip steadily down his neck. Can't say I miss that particular sensation, and I run a hand over the top of my head, feeling the last little strands there plastered to my skull.

Both of us are cold all the way through, and cuz we hadn't figured on this being an overnighter, we don't have a change of clothes. "Go get a shower, Fawkes, get warm," I tell my partner gruffly, and without looking at me he slogs over to the bathroom and shuts the door behind

him.

My stomach rumbles and I can only imagine how hungry my bottomless pit of a partner is, what with having an empty belly for most of the day. I take the key and go back outside, heading for the little general store a hundred yards back up the road. I hate shopping, but I'm starving and

my beanpole partner must be ready to kill and eat the frickin' turquoise bedspread, so I wander the three aisles and scan the possibilities. Oreos, peanut butter, chips, salsa, and then I hit the mother lode. Hot soup, coffee, nachos. This town's version of takeout. I fill a couple of containers with minestrone, go back to grab a coupla big rolls, then check out with my haul and get back to the motel around the same time Fawkes finally turns off the hot water.

He comes out in a cloud of steam with a too-small towel wrapped around his waist and plops down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. I take my score outta the paper bag and hand him his soup along with a plastic spoon and a big cup'a coffee, and pull the cap off my own styrofoam

cup.

This time, it's a sigh of relief. Fawkes takes his soup and his coffee and his roll and lays waste to them like one of Chrysalis' inviso-locusts, eyes closed in concentration. He's sucked down both the coffee and the soup before I can even get the creamer packets stirred into my own Kona coffee. "Want my soup?" I ask a little sarcastically, watching him open those big brown eyes and finally look my way. I can see his reluctant shake of the head and I flick a half smile his way. "You sure?" I bug him.

The wistful look goes hard as he glares at me. "It's your soup, you bought it. You eat it." He snaps and shivers again.

Ok, that chill he's caught is worrying me. "Get under the blankets, Fawkes, before you catch cold," I order.

He glowers and turns his back on me stubbornly. I shake my head, annoyed at him, and go rummage in the closet, finding a spare blanket. Which turns out to be a good thing, cuz the heater is one of those old baseboard kinds and doesn't seem to be putting out any more heat than a match. Leaving my soup on the nightstand next to him, I toss the blanket at Fawkes and strip down on my way to the bathroom.

He didn't leave much hot water, but I use what's left, feeling my muscles start to thaw a little. When the water runs colder than blood temperature, I get out and wrap the last towel around my waist. When I go back out into the room, Fawkes has found the remote and is busy channel surfing. At least the TV has satellite reception, I think as he finds one of the movie channels that's showing some sci fi thriller. "Mimic", it looks like. Saw it in the theaters a few years ago. Hot

chick, that Mira Sorvino. I guess Fawkes thinks so too, cuz he's all eyes as he focuses on the flick and her in snug jeans running around in the subways of New York. He's lyin' on his belly on top of the bedspread on one side of the bed with the extra blanket draped over him. I pick up all the wet clothes and hang them up, and then stick Fawkes' and my shoes next to the piddly heater in the hopes that they'll dry a little faster that way.

When the laundry is taken care of, I yank down the blankets on what I guess is my side of the bed and climb under them, noticing that the soup is gone. I eat my roll and break open the Oreos I picked up. They're the new ones with the chocolate stuff in the middle, and I take a few, then bump Fawkes on the arm with the package.

He finally tears his eyes off the TV and eyes the package, taking a couple. "Thanks," he says. "I ate your soup," he adds, a little embarrassed.

"I figured," I grin a little. "I got salsa and chips, too. If I get hungry, I'm not gonna starve," I tell him, twisting apart my cookie. "Got us toothbrushes, too," I add as I lick off the chocolate cream.

He grins. "Mr. Clean," he teases me, and as easy as that, we're back in the groove where we spend most of our time. See, I like my partner. I haven't always been able to say that about the people I've worked with. Actually, it's more than just liking him. I trust him. I can talk to him about almost anything. I think he feels pretty much the same. Makes for a nice change to have someone at my back I can count on.

"That's me," I agree, crunching the cookie part of the Oreo. "She's a babe, huh?" I jerk an elbow towards the TV, and Fawkes glances that way.

Mira is on screen, going on about the giant genetically modified mantas-things she unleashed on the unsuspecting cockroaches of New York, that are now the size of your average basketball player and prey on people.

"Oh, yeah," he agrees, practically drooling. "I've had a thing for her ever since I saw her in "The Replacement Killers,'" he confesses.

"Now that was one of the best kick-ass movies I've seen. Almost as good as one of the Bruce Lee classics," I agree.

"Oh, please," he scoffs. "Chow Yun Fat is only a thousand times better as an actor than Lee ever was," he disagrees.

"Hey, you're dissing the Master, Fawkes. He was the first one to give martial arts a good name," I complain, taking another cookie. "Every kung fu movie since Lee can thank him for their funding."

"Give me a break, Hobbes. You put Jet Li, Chow Yun Fat and Bruce Lee in the same room, and it ain't gonna be Bruce who comes out on top, pal." He's rolled onto his side, the blanket pulled up under his ears, ignoring the TV in favor of arguing with me.

"You know that much about martial arts?" I question snidely. "You know not of what you speak, grasshopper," I rib him. "When was the last time you were in a dojo?" I ask.

"When was the last time YOU were?" he asks, thinking he's got me.

"Two weeks ago," I inform him.

"You shittin' me?" he asks, startled.

"I go every other week. Breaks up my workout routine a little. `Course, I do the exercises every day." I can see his eyes widen a little.

"Really?" he asks, a little startled.

"I do work out, Fawkes," I tell him a little ironically. "May not look like it compared to you, but I can hold my own."

He has the grace to look a little chagrined. "It's not that, Hobbes, you're buff. A lotta muscle," he backpedals. "I just figured you more for a pumping iron kinda guy."

I eye him, surprised at that comment. "You bein' funny?" I ask a little warily.

"Heck no," he claims, sticking an arm out to punch me lightly on the right biceps. "See? Solid muscle. You don't get that kinda definition without resistance training."

"I bet you say that to all the guys," I snark sarcastically.

He snorts slightly. "Oh yeah, all the guys," he says, and there's something there that makes me wonder.

We watch the movie, Fawkes finally warming up enough to relax, and the blanket ends up around his narrow little waist. After a last visit to the bathroom to use my new toothbrush to get the Oreos outta my teeth, I crawl into bed and lie back on the pillow, hands behind my head. I look up at the ceiling, tired after all the crap the day's tossed our way, listening to the drone of voices from the set, falling asleep to the sounds of Mira Sorvino trying to fix the mess she made of her bio-engineered plague-stopper. I guess the moral of the story is that you gotta be careful about the way you solve a problem, or you'll end up with another one, and it may be worse.

I don't have a clue what time it is when I wake up. The room is dark and the rain has picked up again. I can hear it slashing against the windows as the wind rips through the trees. I lie there wondering what it was that woke me up and then remember that I'm sharing my bed with my partner. And it looks like he's the bashful type. He didn't get under the blankets, opting to sleep on top of the bedspread. So naturally, he's lying under his single blanket in a little ball. He's gotten cold again, and I groan. Last thing I need is for him to come down with a bug, so I reach over and nudge him a little, trying to wake him up enough to get him under the blankets.

Fawkes grunts a little and rolls over, his long legs poking out from under the edge of the blanket where it tangles around them. "God, Hobbes, what?" he whines groggily. "I just fell asleep!"

"And you're gonna catch pneumonia if you don't get under the damned blankets," I tell him. It's like talking to a five-year-old, sometimes.

"You woke me up to tell me to go to bed?" he asks in disbelief, pulling his feet back up under the blanket again, glaring at me.

His hair is sticking out in all directions as usual, and he looks like a little kid pitching a fit. I throw up my hands, accidentally knocking my own bedding down around my waist. "Fine. Freeze. See if I care," I glare back, too tired for this, turning my back on him and yanking the bunched blankets and sheets up over my shoulders.

I hear him mutter something under his breath and feel him get off the bed, turn down the blankets on his side of the bed, and then climb under. "There. You happy now?" he gripes sarcastically.

"Overjoyed," I snap without looking his way. Whatever, as long as he stays warm, and I don't get chewed out for not taking care of him. Sometimes it's like babysitting, having Fawkes for a partner.

He grunts and I hope that's the end of the complaining for the night.

It takes me a while to fall asleep, but Fawkes is out like a light now that he's finally warm, and the soft sound of his breathing is kinda nice in the stormy darkness. I fall asleep again with that little sound of companionship warm against the storm outside.

It's warmth that brings me out of a dream, a nice one for a change, that has Viv back in my bed, hands soft on my skin, her scent the thing that makes me know it's a dream. Except I'm not alone in my bed, I realize, dopey with sleep. A warm body is curled along my back, an arm slung across my waist, and I feel the tiny rise and fall of ribs, and the warmth of breath against the back of my head is nice. I lie there, not really awake, for I don't know how long, just relaxing against the body at my back before it slowly dawns on me that the radiant heater along my spine is my partner. And he's dreaming, too.

He's twitching a little in his sleep, and I suddenly realize both of us have lost the towels we were wearing to bed. It's kinda hard to miss the feeling of his hard-on against the back of my thigh, and my pulse ratchets up as I realize his hips are flexing, rubbing himself slowly against me.

Wet dream.

The guess is confirmed as unintelligible murmurs whisper against my neck, his mouth soft on my skin. I freeze, stiffening up, then relax. Poor kid has a crappy social life. I wonder how often he's been laid lately, and decide not to take it personally. "Fawkes," I whisper, hoping to wake him up slow enough to keep from embarrassing him.

"Mmmm," he sighs into my hair. "So good, babe," he goes on quietly, nuzzling me.

"Fawkes," I repeat quietly.

"Bobby," he whispers into my hair.

I lie there, paralyzed with shock, for a split second thinking he's awake. But he's not. He's still moving gently against me, lips brushing the nape of my neck, and I know for sure if he was conscious, me saying his name in a situation like this woulda brought him up short. Literally. He'd'a gone limp faster than a popped balloon.

My partner is having wet dreams about me.

Fuck.

I'm a trained agent. How the hell did I miss this?

Okay, just hold your horses, Hobbes, I tell myself, trying to get a handle on this mind-blowing little revelation. What the hell does this mean?

It means my partner is gettin' even less than I am. I can't remember the last time he talked about getting lucky, I realize as I lie there with him moving against me. It's gotta be hell for a guy like him, young, good looking, and no training on how to live the life of an agent. Fawkes is… looking for something. Someone. It's the only thing I can think to call it. He isn't cut out for the life. He likes people too much. Trusts them. Expects the best outta them. It's weird. He acts like a punk a lot of the time, but the reality is, he cares about people a whole lot more than he can really afford to. He's a good kid. Which is a stupid thing to say about a thief and con man. Except I've worked with him under some pretty high-stress situations, and I've seen him risk his life for innocent bystanders without even thinking about it. Just throwing himself into something to protect someone else.

It's the thing that made me respect him. He isn't an agent. But he has a kind of honor that makes me remember why I became one. For him, it's not about the big picture. It's about the individuals.

He's still moving along the back of my thigh, and in spite of the fact that I don't really sleep with guys, I decide this is one of those things partners maybe do for each other. I mean, kicking up a fuss about something like this is gonna make working together tricky, and it doesn't cost me anything, physically or emotionally, to let him get off.

The motion gets sharper, jerkier, his breathing developing a catch as he gets closer. His arm tightens around my waist and his palm is hot against my belly. When it moves down to rest against my pelvic bone, my own cock starts to express an interest.

Okay, this isn't what I was expecting. Getting turned on? By another guy? Not in the Bobby Hobbes repertoire.

"Bobby, oh, god, babe…," and the back of his knuckles brush the top side of my stiffening dick. Christ. It's lightening, thunder, fireworks, everything explosive I've ever experienced, that touch,

accidental as it is. Shit. Holy fucking shit! It takes an act of will to keep from taking his hand and guiding it up and over my cock.

Jesus. I want him to touch me. What the hell is wrong with me? I've… done stuff, with other guys, in the time I've worked in the spy biz. But it wasn't ever my really idea. For the first time, now, it's starting to be.

Okay, Hobbes, just get a grip, I tell myself. Oh, bad choice of words, with me wanting something I don't have a chance in hell of explaining. Fawkes' fingertips are making tiny little circles against the skin right above my pubic hair, and I swallow hard, fighting to stay still. This is so not who I am. Who I thought I was. I feel him shudder, feel the wet heat that tells me just how close he is, and his breathing is rough. But before he can finish, I hear him moan.

"Aww, crap," he whispers against the back of my neck, and in the same instant, I feel the weird chill of quicksilver as it slides over both of us like another blanket. "Bobby…."

Holy shit, I think. Feeling him against me before was hot, but the quicksilver turns it into a whole `nother proposition. I'm never gonna be able to let him shoom me without flashing on this, the icy white heat that makes every nerve in my skin ignite like magnesium in water. A freakin' chemical reaction. Who the hell knew the stuff was an aphrodisiac?

He's moving harder against me, the head of his cock bumping up against my ass cheek, and the quicksilver turns it from scary to amazing when I brace myself against that thrust while my own dick snaps to attention so fast it leaves me light-headed.

The sudden tension in my muscles must register with him on some level, cuz he moans again, the sound broken and needy like I've never heard before.

"Bobby."

The word is a bare whisper and his hand tightens against me, sliding up to rest on my hipbone, his body snugging up even tighter against mine as he grips me harder. I feel the edge of his teeth on my nape and even through the paper-thin second skin of quicksilver, it stings the tiniest bit, that little pain somehow tangling up with the unbelievable pleasure of his body against mine.

I have to ignore the weirdness, just go with the feelings, cuz if I think about this too much, it's gonna make me nuts.

So I feel.

I feel like a frickin' virgin. Terrified. So turned on I don't know which end is up, wanting something I can't even really pin down. I don't know where the hell this is coming from, this thing that's goin' on in my head.

A screaming, freaked-out little piece of my brain is trying like hell to tell me this isn't alright. That it isn't ok for me to want this, that no self-respecting guy would be gettin' off with another guy's cock pressed against his ass. But I am. I want this like I can't remember wanting anything in I don't know how long. "Fawkes -" I manage, god knows how.

And he comes. Like me sayin' his name has made it real somehow. Made it safe.

Jesus, he comes.

Hot, hard, the feeling of his orgasm is… indescribable. How do you define something that you've felt so many times yourself, except, this time, I'm feeling what he feels? What he feels is what's real here. And it's my reality.

Oh, god, I think I'm losing my frickin' mind for sure, this time. I feel what he feels, the release, the need, the total rush, and I haven't even come myself. God, what the hell is going on? How can I

come without shooting my wad? Without actually coming? And the quicksilver flakes away in a rain of silver flakes, leaving us naked in a full-body press.

I'm still working on that when I realize his breathing is different, and the tension in his muscles has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with embarrassment. I'm hard as a rock, but there's no chance I'm gettin' off here. Not now, not with him awake at my back and obviously wondering if I am. I take the bull by the horns and decide to let him know there's no harm done. "This happen every time you sleep with someone?" I ask softly, with a little sarcasm, hoping the usual banter mode will chill him out.

"Aww, crap, Hobbesy… I'm sorry," he apologizes, voice sounding strangled, rolling away from me, pulling his arm off my waist like he's been burned

"Nothing to apologize for, Fawkes," I assure him, knowing if I don't nip this in the bud he'll be leaving on an extended guilt trip. I flop onto my back, then roll onto my other side to look at him. He's lying on his back staring at the ceiling with wind-whipped shadows of tree branches waving across the plaster as if it was the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "The quicksilver thing… It always get away from you like that?" I ask.

I can see his adam's apple bob as he swallows hard, jaws clenching. "You mean in bed?" he asks rhetorically. "Pretty much, yeah. Why do you think I sleep alone?"

I snort. "Not cuz you want to, I take it."

"You got that right," he admits.

I think about that for a second. "You talk to Claire about this? Maybe she -"

"She what, huh, Hobbes? She can do some more tests?" he interrupts, turning his head to glare at me. "You don't get it. How much of your sex life do you talk to her about? I don't care why it happens, and I don't want the kind of help she's gonna be giving!" he presses his forearm over his eyes. "I just want it to stop." I can barely hear that last statement.

I try for the light touch. "I'll bet," I agree, a little more sarcasm creeping in. "It's gotta be bad if I'm the best you can do," I tease him.

The arm drops away and he glares at me. "Fuck you, Hobbes." He goes back to the staring at the ceiling. "Mr. `chick-magnet'. I get to hear about your conquests, the babes in the bars you go to, hanging all over you, and you lie there and tell me I can do better?"

I'm floored. He actually listens to those stories? "Fawkes," I start.

"Just… Forget it." He rolls over onto his other side, turning his back to me.

I sit up in bed, the sheets and blankets sliding down around my waist. All of a sudden, I'm wondering what they sounded like, those ego-stroking stories about my many conquests, all so much fantasy and wishful thinking. What they sounded like to a guy who hasn't been laid in god knows how long. "Fawkes," I repeat.

He sighs. "Hobbes, just try… Try and forget it happened, ok? I promise, it won't happen again."

The hard-on between my legs is a good argument for why I'm not gonna be forgetting this any time soon. "Fawkes."

The silence speaks volumes. He's not gonna tell me anything I don't force outta him.

"Darien."

I hardly ever use his first name. It gets his attention like nothing else could've. "You think I spend every night in another bed?" I ask.

His in-drawn breath is shaky. "You sure don't spend it in mine," he answers.

Oh, man.

This isn't what I was expecting. "What about that Casey dame? And the mermaid?"

"Casey dumped me, and Allionora is dead." He collapses in on himself and it amazes me that a guy as big as Fawkes can look so vulnerable. "The last woman I slept with was Mei Lin, and we know how she felt about being invisible," he confesses.

Mei Lin? The Chinese scientist? That was way over six months ago. Christ. "What're you telling me, here?" I demand, my world dipping and weaving like a carnival ride. "I'm the last resort for a guy who can't get it any other way?"

He sobs. Oh, fuck. It's almost inaudible, but he's a half step from losing it completely. "God damn you, Hobbes," he manages. "You wanna hear this? Ok. You know what it's like? Prison, I mean? No. You wouldn't. You get sent away, you find out exactly what it takes to survive. And the shitty thing is, it may not be something you ever figured on."

Crap. Adrenaline is racing through my bloodstream like amphetamines. I know… I thought I knew… what happens inside. I forget so damn easy that Fawkes has been through things I've never had to. I mean, in theory, I know that the joint will take men back to basics. And sex is basic. You don't have access to women , you're gonna find relief somewhere. I just never figured that Fawkes had found out he liked it that way. At least sometimes. I put my elbows on my knees and rest my head in my hands. "I'm sorry, partner," I tell him, then look his way. He's closed his eyes again, only I think he's crying. God, can this get any worse?

He laughs, sounding like he's gonna choke on it. "Not half as sorry as I am," he says.

Okay, I can't just pretend like this never happened, not with him bleeding out over there. So that means we have to talk about this. I don't want to hear this, whatever it is, but I need to know. Because if I judge the situation wrong, I may get one or both of us killed the next time I make an assumption about him in the wrong place or time. "Fawkes. You tellin' me you…" hell, how do I say this delicately? "…had something going with other guys in prison?"

"The first time I did time as an adult, I was maybe18. Had hair down to my shoulders, hell I looked like a girl. No big surprise I got drafted into playing that part." He goes quiet on me, and I sit there thinking about him, a punk kid with nothing but attitude to protect him against hard guys who were serving hard time. And he's such a fucking prettyboy, even now, I can only imagine what he musta been like at that age. "You do what it takes, Hobbes," he tells me.

"Yeah," I agree sadly.

"Sometimes, you even get to like it," he adds.

Crap. It's not that I have anything against that kinda thing as long as everyone's on the same page. But I doubt Fawkes willingly went down that road the first time. It freaks me out that he learned to enjoy it.

"So… what is it about other guys that… uh… interests you?" I ask him, deciding I better hear the rest of this.

"You mean besides the fact that we all have the same equipment?" he asks sarcastically, glancing at me finally, hating me for making him talk about this. "Maybe the fact that it means we all know how to use it?" he goes on bitterly. "It's about power, Hobbes, who has it, and who doesn't. I spent my whole life trying to pretend like I had things wired, you know? Like I had all the answers, like I was master of my own fate. Prison was a reality check."

I'll just bet it was. I sit there, waiting, knowing that now that I've finally got him talking, I'll get the whole story, eventually.

"I found out I wasn't anywhere near as smart, or as tough, as I thought I was," he says at last. "You can only butt heads with that for so long before you gotta get with the program. I got tired of being handed around like a six-pack pretty damned fast. So I picked the top dog, or as close as I could stand." He glances at me again, and in the darkness of the room, his eyes are huge. "He had the power, I had the talented hands. And other stuff. Match made in heaven," he tries to joke about it, but the whole idea of him shacked up with some tattooed motherfucker to stay alive and in one piece is giving me a bellyache.

Man. It's my job to protect him. But it's damned hard to protect him from something that happened before I ever met him. Which is when I make the connection he's been leading me towards. "Oh, crap," I sigh. "That's it, isn't it, huh kid?" I ask, and he just stares at me, knowing I'll blunder on into the truth here all on my own. "You exchanged one prison for another when you got stuck at the Agency, right?" I ask him. He just watches me as I sit there putting the pieces

together. "And I'm the sonovabitch you picked to protect you, this time."

He laughs again, and the irony is audible. "I didn't even pick you, you were handed to me as part of the deal," he tells me. "But I still fell for you," he finishes sadly. "You're just about the only thing in the last two years I don't regret."

Wait a frickin' minute here! Fawkes has feelings for me? I mean, romantic ones? What the hell am I supposed to do with this? "You know I don't… I haven't… Hell," I trail off, totally at a loss for words.

"Yeah, you made it pretty clear you can't feel the same way," he says, and the assumption makes me mad.

"Don't put words in my mouth," I snap at him. "I didn't say I can't, ok? Just give me a second to get my head around this. You're kinda comin' outta left field, here." I sit there massaging the back of my neck, and I can feel the tension coming offa him on the other side of the bed while he waits for me to figure a few things out. I don't know how to handle this, exactly. Except I'm sitting here and I can't forget the rush I felt as he came against the back of my thigh. And the hard-on is still iron against my thigh and belly. I take a deep breath and decide the best, maybe the only, thing I can do, is take this one step at the time.

I try and break it down, do a cost/benefit analysis on the whole thing. On the cost side is the risk that we'll screw up a really good friendship if I chicken out, or he does. On the benefit side, both of us stand to get a little regular action. I'm not ready to think about more than that. Romance isn't something I wanna drag into this. At least not yet. Fuck-buddydom, though, that has some possibilities.

I hear him sigh. "It shouldn't be that hard, Hobbes," he says sadly. "Don't worry about it, ok?"

Fuck. He's pissing me off here, and maybe that's what makes me reach over and grab him by the wrist, dragging his hand into my lap and laying it across my cock. "Maybe it shouldn't be hard, but it is," I growl at him. "And that's not the only thing that's hard, gland-boy. What's really giving me a headache here is the idea that we do this, we may trash a beautiful relationship!"

He's wide-eyed, locked onto me like a scud missile, so I see his face as he does what I wanted him to half an hour ago and strokes me. Christ, he wasn't kidding about the talented fingers quip, I think, before I stop being able to think about anything.

"You sure?" he asks softly, fingers sliding down to my balls through the sheets, and I'm sure.

"Tonight, right now, I'm sure. I'm not gonna promise anything tomorrow," I warn him as my brain starts to leak out my ears.

"For tonight, that's good enough for me," he says and hitches himself closer, never taking his eyes off me as he peels down the blankets so he can get his hands on me directly. Oh, God, it's the same as before, like sirens, red alerts, and I let go of anything like control, trusting Fawkes to do whatever he wants. All I want is relief. From the pressure in my dick, and the pressure in my soul, the pressure in my conscience.

He was right about one thing, anyway, I'm willing to admit as his hand circles me and his fingertip stokes up my cock to the leaking head. But when he moves to put his face into my lap and sneaks his first taste, I know there's not gonna be any way to back out now. I've been blown by other guys before, in the line of duty, I mean, but it's a whole different thing when someone I like is doing the deed. I've enjoyed it before, but not cuz of the one doin' it. But this is Fawkes. My best friend.

I lean back against the headboard of the bed and relax into it as I feel Fawkes lick me like a popsicle, his hand stroking me from the inside of my left thigh, across my balls and the bottom of my shaft, and then over the inside my right thigh, back and forth with some kind of unpredictable rhythm. The side-to-side thing is a counterpoint to the up and down of his tongue on me, and I know I'm gonna explode pretty damn quick. Until he circles me at the base with forefinger and

thumb and clamps me off.

Jesus! More than just his fingers are talented, and he flicks his tongue under the edge of my glans like a feather on a humming bird's wing. It drives me outta whatever mind I have left and I can't help the moan and the lift of my hips as I start to thrust up into the heat of his mouth. He isn't shy, I'll say that much, moving down on me deeper and deeper. The muscles in his throat ripple along me. I can't stand it anymore, and I run my fingers into his hair, gripping his skull, vaguely aware of how soft it is, his spiky do. I stroke his head like he strokes my cock, with long firm caresses.

It's his turn to moan, and the tiny vibration takes me over the top. "Fawkes!" I groan, and he lets me go, his fingers loosening to the lightest of touches as he gulps me down. I don't know if I come first, or if it's his swallowing that takes me over that edge, but it's been way too long since I've gotten off like this. My breathing is total chaos, and my dick twitches and jerks and pulses with a mind of its own. It amazes me that I'm not choking him, cuz I ain't small, and this turned on, I'm bigger than usual. He knows what he's doing, the punk, and he backs off as he swallows my load without blinking, licks me clean with the softness of his mouth and eases off me to lie there with his head on my thigh.

"You okay?" he asks me softly, and I just look down at him lying there. I can't help myself: I run my fingers through his hair again, smoothing the wild mop under my palm.

"Fuck you, Fawkes," I smile down at him.

"I sure as hell hope so," he grins up at me, and I smack him on the head gently.

"In your dreams," I laugh at him and he laughs back and kisses my softening cock. I can't believe how sensitized I am, that I'm seriously thinking about another round with his breath warm on me.

"Got that right," he agrees. "Just about every night for the last year and a half."

"Seriously?" I ask, a little startled to hear he's been thinking along these lines for that long.

"Hobbesy, don't you ever look at yourself in a mirror? How'm I not supposed to dream about this hyper, wacky little tiger I've got as a partner? Huh?" he smiles up at me, and I stare back down at him, working that out. Trying to get a handle on the fact that he's telling me he's noticed my body, the way I look, whatever. It's weird. I just didn't have a clue. And I call myself an investigator…

It's not like I didn't do my share of the noticing, I mean, the kid is built like a greyhound, long, sleek, and he works out pretty hard from the look of the muscles he's got, but he's naturally thin, and all the weights in the world ain't gonna make him look like Schwartzeneger. He's a good-looking guy. Kinda hard to miss that, even if I never really thought beyond it to the whole attraction thing. It was more of an abstract awareness, not a practical one.

"Don't start freakin' on me now, ok?" he says worriedly as he sits up next to me, reaching for me, then thinking twice, instead dropping his hands into his lap as he peers at me in the gloom.

"I'm not freakin'," I tell him, and damned if it isn't true. Who'd'a thought I'd fall off the company pier without even noticing the splash I made? I've stayed away from office romances my whole career, cuz I've seen what happens if they go south. It's not like there haven't been people – women – I've worked with and been attracted to, like Claire, for example, but I've never once made an exception. Till now. With my male partner.

"What?" he wants to know. "What're you thinking?" I can hear the anxiety in his voice.

"Ground rules, here, buddy. We need some. Since we've already broken out the poles, it's a little late for the `no fishing' rule…" I look over at him and he nods slightly, listening hard. "So. How do you wanna handle this?" I ask him, wanting to know.

He swallows. "It's your call, Bobby. I've told you how I feel. It's ok with me if you want to just keep it physical… or even if this was a one-time thing. It's up to you, whatever we do. Only as much as you're comfortable with, buddy."

"And you're not gonna go all jealous on me if Miss Right comes along?" I ask warily.

"I thought she already did," he smiles slightly. "Claire's been getting the ole' Hobbesy eye for a year now."

I scowl at him, a little annoyed that he can read me that easily. "You know my rules on that," I say.

He nods again. "Yeah. I do. Why do you think I never made a pass at you?" he asks, straight-faced.

I cock an eyebrow at him. "So what do you call the little wake-up call you just gave me?" I ask sarcastically, and I can see him blush, even in the dark.

"I was asleep," he defends himself.

"Uh-huh," I snark. "There are reasons I don't screw around on the job, Fawkes. Not just cuz the government sorta frowns on it, either. It can make people sloppy, make them take risks they shouldn't to protect their… uhm… lover." Strange how that word is so hard to say.

This time he cocks an eyebrow at me. "Like we don't already?" he asks with that ironic tweak of the mouth. "Take risks for each other?" he clarifies. "Like you haven't done whatever it took to protect me? Like I haven't returned the favor?"

And maybe that's why there wasn't any splash when I took that step off the company's dock, I think, feeling a little like someone just turned on a light in my head. Fawkes went beyond bein' my partner a long time ago. He's my friend. My best one. I trust him. I sit there realizing that I even trust him not to push this, to let me take it at whatever speed I want. He's been straight with me, told me how he feels, and he's willing to let me have the time it'll take to figure out how I feel. I think it's the fact that I'm not freakin' out here, that tells me just how much I trust him. So what's the big deal about a little sex? Right now, it doesn't seem like such a big deal at all. "So you're saying, this is just another way of givin' each other a hand?" I ask.

He grins at the accidental joke. "Yeah."

"I think I can live with that," I agree eventually. "On the condition we swear we'll tell each other when the novelty wears off and we go back to the way it was, no hard feelings. Ok?"

He nods. "Fair enough," he concurs. "Jut one thing, though, Bobby," he goes on, and just the tone in his voice telegraphs his next words. "Hard feelings are what got us into this in the first place," he grins at me, and the hands in his lap don't do anything to conceal the nice hard-on he's sporting. In fact, I'd guess they're optimally positioned to draw attention to the package they bracket.

I snort. "Always the comedian," I razz him as I push him backwards onto the mattress and slide my hand up his leg to cup him. "Maybe with enough practice, your little disappearing act will stop bein' such a handicap," I theorize as I grin down at him.

"Hey, I'm all for practice, Hobbesy," he grins back. "Go ahead and make me practice as often as you want."

Well, I guess he's got two years of near abstinence to make up for. Practice can't hurt. Hell, it might even help. And it'll sure make things a lot more interesting on some of those long, boring stakeouts we get sent on…

I flip down the sheets so I can see him in all his glory, because he really is damned good-looking , even in the dark, then grab myself a handful, grinning when he starts to flicker like a bad light bulb. "Looks like you need all the practice you can get, partner," I tease him as the quicksilver flows over us like a tide one more time.

"Oh, yeah," he moans as I play him like a violin, trying to see what he likes. It's harder to do than you might think, when your partner is invisible. It's all touch and the sounds he makes.

"You really want me to fuck you?" I ask, curious. I've never fucked another man. Not the way I think he's talking about. It's a little strange to think about it, about what's involved. But it's not a bad strange.

And he comes all over my hand with a low yowl. The mingled chill and heat of his quicksilvered climax is answer enough, and like before, it's as if I'm sharing his skin. Man, what a rush. He's still panting when the quicksilver flakes off. "Hell yes," he answers the question. "All night, every night."

With the way his orgasms feed my libido? It might just come to that. "Be careful what you wish for, Fawkes," I growl at him, turned on all over again. "You might just get it."

"God, I hope so," he grins up at me, still breathing hard. "I sure do hope so…"

end