DISCLAIMER:     Ain't mine, never said they was.
                Borrowed'em off some guy in a Thames
                T-shirt.

TITLE:          Compadre
AUTHOR:         kel
PAIRING:        Beech/Carver
RATING:         NC-17
SPOILERS:       Minor ones for Video Nasty.

COMMENTS:       Had to be done, 'sall I'm saying.
                Rewatch and believe.
THANKS TO:      Rie & family for much, much, much-
                needed beta and inexhaustible
                hospitality; Claire, for feeding
                this little Jimophile as and when;
                and Tracey for fun, catstuff &
                putting up with Mike.
FEEDBACK:       Always!  bessie@goldweb.com.au


==============
Compadre
By kel
===============


After hours.

Not every day you come that close.  So simple, so
deadly - a handful of plastic in a stolen television;
you'd never think of it, you'd never find it, until
it was too late.  Until, even warned and warning, you
stood too close.

Jim didn't, thank God, but only just, and it's that
"just" that's hitting him now, hours after.  After
the grateful sigh at the end of what has to be
written off as just another day, after the pint or
two or three, after the Christ-it's-funny-really
murmurs that push it under the carpet, along with the
awful, guilty gratefulness that someone else got in
the way.

After hours of refuge in the ritual mask of ever-
coarser banter from his colleagues, Jim shrugs on his
jacket, torn and stained, and steps into the night,
alone, tired, fine to drive.  Halfway down the steps
- so few steps, so little light - his hands begin to
shake and it's a matter of course to find himself
sitting down, blank and breathless, in the rain.

The trickle of people going in and out, passing him
by, does not move him; neither do their loud and
impolitely voiced assumptions. Footsteps, jokes,
door; door, jokes, footsteps - one large, long, wet
blur framing the twin and bitter thoughts //thank God
I'm here// and //would it matter if I wasn't//.  The
automatic answers don't help at all.

He knows he should move, go home.  The pale
apparition in the puddle at his feet needs his cut
face washed and dressed a second time.  But it's
easier to stay where there's a reason he's the only
person looking.

He becomes aware, slowly, of a small, dark pocket of
irritation and concern crouched beside him, a compact
man in a damp and shielding coat, waiting.  He knows,
somehow, he's been there a while, and is grateful for
it, and knows it isn't right to say so.  Looks up,
into the street, an acceptable signal.

Don raises a hand, lets it come to rest, gently, in
the small of Jim's back, rubs it gently.  Jim,
surprised, too tired to care, closes his eyes
gratefully.  Lets  the gentle, circling motion and
the warmth of Don's fingers lead his thoughts away
from the What Ifs.

"Better now?"

He nods, barely, rests his head in his hands.  No
need to explain, but it's a habit, now.  A bad one.

"Sorry.  It all just... hit me, I suppose."

Don laughs, a low chuckle barely audible over the
traffic.

"Not what you needed, eh?"

Jim grins ruefully, unseen, shaking his head
slightly.  He concentrates on breathing deeply,
regaining control.  He winces as Don's hand slides up
his back, starts rubbing between his shoulders.

"Dammit..."

"Easy, easy."  Don takes his hand away, prods gently
at the area. "Sore?"

Jim nods, quietly.

"How the hell'd you do that?  When I got there you
were face down."

"Story of my life, mate."

He grins, wearily; Don laughs and starts rubbing
again, under the jacket this time, the warmth of his
hand seeping in, easing the pain.

"So I'd heard..."

Jim laughs, can't help it.

"You okay now?  Reckon you can stand up?"

"Yeah."  He groans, more for show than anything.  It
seems appropriate somehow.

He steadies himself on the step as Don's strong hand
slides around his back, under his right armpit, the
play of fingers on his chest entirely accidental,
more welcome than he'd care to admit.

"Ready?"

"Yeah".

He leans into the warmth of Don's other hand bracing
under his left elbow, lifting him back up, steadying
him on his feet as they rise. Don's stronger than he
looks, but staggers a little under Jim's weight,
ignoring Jim's murmured apologies as he guides him to
the car, Don's car.  Jim wants to argue, but doesn't,
his half-protests turning to wry laughter at the
thought that at least one of them has common sense.

 ********

Don watches with interest as Jim switches on the
television, out of habit, and is halfway across the
room before he realises he's done it.

"Drink?"

"You need to ask?"

Jim disappears into the kitchen, leaving Don to look
around the flat. Relatively tidy, but very lived-in.
Cluttered, but indefinably empty.

Shucking off his wet coat and jacket, he wanders over
to the brightest part of the room; a crumbling
corkboard, salvaged from the office he shouldn't
wonder, covered in scraps of paper and curling
photographs. Interesting.

He peers closely at the board, lifting an old
Federation notice, and chuckling at the picture
beneath.

Jim returns to the doorway, leans against it, watches
him.

"Is this June?"

"What?"

Jim wanders over, bottle and glasses in hand,
smiling.  He doesn't need to look at the photo to
know the one he means... June in a stiff-necked blue
top, smiling very, very politely - too politely - at
an animated Reg standing far too close for comfort;
looking out of the frame in barely concealed
desperation.

"Yep.  Station party, 1987."

Don whistles, appreciatively.  "And that's you?"

"Oh yes."

In the background, a thin, blonde figure, sandwiched
uncomfortably between a moody-looking Ted Roach and a
too-casually draped Mike Dashwood.  Looking at the
ground, naturally.  He has a vague memory of
listening to the conversation going on behind him,
Roy Galloway and Bob Cryer sharing a cigar and
vitriol about the then-Inspector.  He remembers
wishing he'd stayed over by the bar, with Taff, and
Yorkie, and the others.  All the others, who didn't
make it into the photo and didn't count in the brave
new world of CID.

"Who's that, with that prat from Antiques?"

Jim peers closer, pretends to think, half-smiling at
the fact he still has to think twice before leaping
to Mike's defence.

"Dunno.  Ellen, Helen something."

Mike's latest piece of window-dressing, as he'd put
it.  Window-dressing in a v-neck so plunging and a
skirt so short they practically met in the middle.

"Birchfield!  Helen Birchfield.  Well I never."

Window-dressing Mike had taken home, that night, and
more than a few after.  He'd be lying if he said it
still rankled.  Just another itch, another old
bruise.  One among many, barely memorable.

"Bet your Guv'nor wasn't too pleased about that."

"Sorry?"

Don chuckles, deep in memories of his own.  "Had a
lovely line in hooky credit cards, way back when.
'92, '93, something like that.  I knew I'd seen her
before."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah.  We caught up with her eventually."  He grins,
lewdly.  "You don't forget something like that."

There's a grim satisfaction in the thought.  It
almost makes up for the memory of Mike's arm slung
over his shoulders, casually.  Too casually. You'd
have to look hard to see it, though - the brilliant
smile he's giving seems to outshine everything else.
Whatever else you could say about Mike, he always
knew where the spotlight was.  And found it, dead
set, dead centre, every time.

He can't help smiling.

"Mate of yours, eh?"

Don's looking at him, casually.  Too casually.

"Sort of.  Yeah."

"Flash."  Not quite admiringly.  "Think I might have
met him, once.  It is Antiques, yeah?"

Jim nods.  "Struck me as a bit of a prat, all up.
Selfish."  He looks over at Jim, hastens to add "No
offence."

"None taken."

Jim wanders over to the other side of the room, makes
a show of putting down the glasses and the bottle,
changes the subject.  He doesn't see Don watching him
go, nodding, gently, to himself.  Silently.

"1987, eh?  Long time ago."

Jim settles himself in one of the chairs, thumbs the
sound down on the TV, opens the bottle.  "Tell me
about it.  I'd just made DC."

"Yeah?"  Don takes one last look, wanders over,
loosening his tie. "Well, you don't look too happy
about it."

"Well, we'd had a late night, you know."

"I wondered.  Your mate looks a bit worse for wear
an' all."  Don settles into the other chair,
gratefully.  "I remember when I first got made up.
That was a party and a half, I can tell you."

"I can imagine."

"You wish."  Don kicks off his shoes, then raises his
glass.  "Well, cheers."

Jim leans back, sighs, kicks his own shoes off,
gazing absently at the tiny, fuzzy figures of
Portsmouth and Tranmere running around on-screen.

 They sit, companionably for a minute or so.  Jim
leans back, closes his eyes, briefly, then gradually
becomes aware Don's speaking.

"Very useful lady, that."

"Sorry?"

"Helen.  Birchfield.  Oh, she's not a player any
more, not really, but she still hears things.  You
know."

"One of yours, is she?  Should've guessed."

Don raises his eyebrows, places his hand on his heart
in mock outrage.

"Why, whatever do you mean..."  He laughs, swirls the
ice in his glass round a little, looks down.  "As it
happens, no.  For one thing, she's married, and -"

"So when did that ever stop you?"

Don glares at him in mock reproof.  "And for another,
she's a bloody good source.  Listen, do I look daft
enough to sleep with a snout?"

"You wouldn't be the first."

"James, James, James, you insult me.  Personal charm,
undeniable magnetism and drinking habits
notwithstanding - " he holds out his glass, waits for
Jim to refill it - "I do still have some of the old
grey matter floating about.  Somewhere."

He waits until the glass is half-full, then signals
Jim to stop.  He sighs, settles back into the chair.

"No respect, that's your trouble."

Jim peels the plastic off a fresh pack of cigarettes,
screws it up and throws it at Don.

"Well, you must admit you do have a reputation..."

Don laughs, mischievously, tossing the plastic
lightly in one hand. "And don't I know it.  More
trouble than it's worth, sometimes."

"Yeah, right."

"No, seriously.  You can't begin to imagine the
amount of work it takes to keep something like that
on full strength.  Tricky."

Jim snorts.  "Depends on the odds, no doubt?"

Don scowls.  "Now that's just uncalled-for.  Don't
believe everything you hear."  He shifts, gets
comfortable, looks at Jim earnestly.  "Look, I'm not
saying it doesn't involve the odd bit of fancy
footwork, but..." He shrugs, grinning.  "Nothing a
bit of the old boyish charm can't fix, usually.  Mind
you, at my age..."

"Yes, well..." Jim nods, gravely.  "Bit more charm
than boy, mmm?"

Don laughs, chucks the ball of plastic back, dropping
it accurately into his drink.  He laughs as Jim
jumps, drops his cigarette into his lap and has to
scramble frantically for it.

"Jeez, Sarge..."

"Serves you right."

Don grins, settles comfortably back into the chair,
stretching his legs out.

"Look, I'm the first to admit I'm hardly Love's Young
Dream, but why the hell not.  And if it helps with
the job... " He grins, wickedly.  "It has it's
advantages, James.  Saves a lot of legwork, or can
do.  When you get to my age you'll realise that.  And
it does get results."

"I doubt the DCI sees it quite that way.  Or Deakin."

"Well, with all due respect to our dearly beloved
lords and masters," he holds up his glass in a mock
toast, "they can bloody well get stuffed. I get the
job done, and I get it done well.  And if you can
find a single section in PACE telling me to hang up
my Saturday Night Knickers I'll buy you a case of
that."

He indicates the bottle, happily.

"If it was up to that lot we'd be a pack of Griegs,
all battery-powered and bollock-high in manila
folders.  I know what I'm doing."

"Hey, don't take it out on me.  I'm just saying.  And
you never know. Might do you good, a bit of the old
abstinence."

"Speaking from experience, are we?"

Yeah, unfortunately.  Not from choice.  But he
doesn't say so.

"No, just saying a change is as good as a rest,
that's all.  Might give you a whole new perspective."

"Oh yes...?"

And Don leans back, eyes Jim speculatively.  He puts
down his drink, slowly.

"So I like a bit of company, so what.  Don't tell me
they're any different.  Or you, for that matter. "
"Well, yes, but..."

"So what do you do, then?  Mmm?"

"How'd you mean?"

Don gestures around the room, including Jim in the
sweep of his arm.

"You're young... ish.  Not unattractive...
Unattached.   So?"

"So what?"

"So... what do you do?  You can't tell me you're just
sitting here waiting for Miss, Mr or otherwise
unspecified Right, can you?  No. You'd go nuts."

Jim shifts, uncomfortably; brushes still-damp, dark
blonde strands out of his eyes.  "I have my moments."

"Not good for you, man of your age.  You want to put
yourself about a bit more, not moulder away in here
all on your tod."

"Who says I'm not?"

"This does."  Don indicates the flat again, then taps
the side of his nose, half-muzzily.  "And this."

"Now wait up..."

"Relax, hey?"  No offence, just an observation.  I
know you, Jim Carver."

"You reckon?"

Don's voice lowers, seriously.  "Yes, I do.  Better
than you think."

"Look, just because I'm not out there screw-"

"Keep your hair on.  No harm in a bit of fun, is all
I'm saying."

"Yeah, well.  It's not always that easy, is it.  Us
mere mortals have to do without your indefatigable
charm."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that.  I've always found you
rather... engaging, myself."

And Jim laughs, lights another cigarette.  "Oh, well,
there's that sorted.  Fancy a shag, Sergeant?"

"Funny you should say that..."

And Don looks steadily at Jim, stretches out one bare
foot, rubs it against Jim's ankle, just lightly.

Jim kicks out gently, unexpectedly gratified, feels
the rough scrape of Don's toenails along the bottom
of his foot.  "Give over."

"No, seriously, James.  You could use the company,
couldn't you?  Just a bit of fun, nothing heavy...?"

And Jim's first instinct is to laugh, or look away,
or bluff it out. But he doesn't, somehow.  He's
remembering the feel of Don's hands cupping his face
as the smoke cleared, dazed wonder at waking to warm
hands and a tired, relieved smile.

"What... you and me?"

And it's a rather nice idea, to tell the truth, and
he can't quite hide that.  And he watches, silently
as the foot moves a little further up his leg, toes
hooking into his suit hem and pulling it up, just a
little.

"You're not serious..."

Don puts his drink down, leans his head on one hand,
sharp blue eyes boring into Jim's.  The very picture
of the ageing roue, dark mischief in a fading
armchair.

"Whyever not?  No strings... "

Jim doesn't respond, but settles back a little in his
chair, moves his legs a little further apart, angling
them so his calf presses against the sole of Don's
foot.

Don reaches out to stroke the back of Jim's fingers
lightly, his expression one of absolute innocence.
It's as if he's suggested a walk in the park.

"No complications..."

And Don's turned his fingers over now, is stroking
the palm, gently, with broad fingertips, moving up
the wrist slowly, stroking around Jim's watchband.

"Course, if you're not interested..."

He shrugs, lets his voice tail off.

You bastard, thinks Jim, you know damn well I am.

"Then what...?"

"Then... you pour me another drink, and we'll go back
to bitching about the brass and forget all about it."

And Don grins, confidently, knowingly.  So Jim leans
forward, a little, moves his fingers to clasp Don's
wrist.

"Oh, I don't think I could do that..."

Don smiles, wickedly.

"Thought you'd say that."

He sits upright, moves over to the edge of the chair,
stroking Jim's wrist the while.

"So what now...?"

"We-ell...."

Don moves closer, stands up, stands over Jim, leaning
down.  "Put that damn thing out, will you. "

And Jim obliges, crushing out his cigarette slowly,
eyes flickering away and back to meet Don's, hold his
gaze.

And Don reaches down, cups Jim's face in one gentle
hand.  "And stop looking so surprised.  You're
putting me off."

He grins, wildly, easing an answering laugh from Jim,
shifts to sit on the arm of the chair, starts
unbuttoning Jim's shirt.

"But..."

Jim raises one hand, lets it rest on Don's waist,
tentatively, then decides discretion can go fuck
itself.  He starts work on the lazily knotted tie,
slowly, seductively.

"But nothing.  You can't tell me you've never thought
about it."

And it's true, and they both know it.

"Aaah.  Well, timing is everything..."

In a perfect parody of Meadows' accent, and Don
laughs, hooks his fingers in Jim's collar and drags
him up, drags him in for a hot, open-mouthed kiss,
hard and messy and genuine.  And Jim responds, hard
and messily, brings his arms up and hooks them around
Don's shoulders, pulls him back down until he
overbalances, lands heavily on top of him.

"Oh, so that's the way you like it..."

And Don moves, quickly, straddles him, knees digging
into Jim's thighs, hard on the incipient bruises.

"Watch it..."

But he's not complaining, far from it. And as Don's
hands push him back into the chair their mouths meet
again.  He gives up on the tie and fumbles blindly
for the buttons on Don's shirt, lost in the
rediscovered joy of opportunity and shared desire.
He reaches up, knots his hands in Don's short,
greying hair, regains the initiative; lets the
twisting of his fingers communicate need and
gratitude.

And Don pulls away, laughing.

"See?  You're looking better already."

"Come back here."

"Nuh-uh.  You young ones, always in such a hurry..."

He seizes Jim's hands, places them firmly on his
waistband.

"Tricky bits first.  Blimey, don't they teach you
anything at Hendon these days...?"

Jim fumbles obediently with the button and zip,
ripping it down harshly. "I wouldn't know.  Does this
constitute the taking of intimate samples under s63
of PACE amendment--."

"Shut up."  Beech grins.  With his hair tousled and
his shirt half-open, he looks like a particularly
dissolute extra from a paella Western. "All I'm
saying is there's a right way and a wrong way with
these things.  They require thought, preparation,
attention to detail."

"Care to demonstrate?"

"If you insist."

And Don reaches down, seizes Jim's shirt in his hands
and tears it open. Literally.

"Jesus, Don..."  Half-laughing, half-outraged.  He
picks up one side of the torn material, gingerly,
disbelievingly.

"Calm down."  Don laughs, pokes a finger through a
blackened hole in the material.  "You were gonna
claim for it anyway, right?"

"Possibly... but..."

"Not been your day, has it?"  says Don, cheerfully,
yanking the remains of the shirt down over Jim's
shoulders, trapping his arms by his sides. "Never
mind, I'm sure they won't ask to see it again..."

And he waggles his eyebrows, mischievously, and Jim
cracks up again, struggling ineffectually as Don
dives in, starts an urgent, harsh campaign of small
bites and stubble scrapes against his throat.  Jim
attempts to respond in kind, and fails; curses and
laughter filling the room as each movement drags the
shirt further down his back, pins his arms tighter.

"You've...  you've done this before, haven't you..."

"Ah now, that'd be telling..."

And Jim's laughing too much to even begin to escape,
so Don relents, pulls back a little, makes a show of
looking him over.

"Not bad, for a mere mortal."

"Bastard."

"Now now..."  He chucks him under the chin, starts
unbuttoning his own shirt.  'You're falling
behind..."

"I'm..."  tangled hopelessly, one way and another,
and he's only making it worse.  "I'm stuck..."

"Rubbish, you're just not trying."

With a grin, Don unfolds himself, stands, somehow
retaining his dignity as his suit trousers fall to
the ground.  He takes the chance to remove his own
shirt fully, fold it neatly, and hang it over his arm
like a waiter.

"Does Sir require any assistance?"

"Fuck off."

"Very well."

Don clicks his heels and bows, tossing the shirt over
one shoulder to land unheeded on the floor.

"Remind me to pick that up later.  This carpet has
the air of something which requires feeding at
regular intervals..."

With a flourish he steps out of his puddled trousers,
then stands back, arms folded.

"I'm waiting..."

Jim finally rids himself of the shirt, balling it up
and throwing it at Beech.  He hauls himself to his
feet, a touch unsteadily; wincing a little at the
effort.

Beech extends a hand, automatically, and Jim grabs
it, pulls himself up hard, crashing them both into a
hard embrace, enjoying the feel of the older man's
skin against his own.  Enjoying that hard, ungentle
kiss and Don's expert hands divesting him of the rest
of his clothing.  Enjoying Don, singleminded and
mischievous.

"Hope you've got an iron."

"Shut up."

And Don bites him hard, twists him round so he
stumbles out of his fallen trousers; so he makes a
playful grab at Don's erection, comically tenting out
of a once-smart pair of blue and white striped Y-
fronts.

"Oh no you don't.  Later."

"You what?"

He tries again, with more success, has his hand
gripped firmly and removed.

"Prerogative of age.  What I say goes."

"Yes.  Sarge."

"And you can cut that out right now."  A large, warm
hand closes around his balls, squeezes, lightly.
"It's Don, right?"

"Right.  Ow."

"Right what?"

"Right S... Owww.  Don.  Right, Don."

And Don hooks one leg behind him and twists so they
crumple gracelessly to the ground; a slow-motion
tangle of limbs and laughter, thankfully missing the
coffee table on the way down.

"Dammit."

And Jim rolls them over, trapping Don's body
inelegantly under his.  He smiles at the warmth of
Don's hands on his waist, pulling him up. Impatient.
He seizes the opportunity to pin Don's hands behind
his head, for all of a second, then changes his mind
and starts working his way aggressively down Don's
body, teasing the greying hair, enjoying the
reflexive twitch of hidden muscle.

Such a body.  So fit, so strong; so solid under his
hands and tongue. Different.  Familiar and strange at
the same time.  Don simply shifts to get comfortable,
buries his hands in Jim's hair and lets him get on
with it, eyes closed and chuckling, or cursing.

He reaches Don's groin, and pulls down the faded
briefs without comment, but finds himself hauled up
unceremoniously just as his lips reach the hardened
flesh beneath.

"I won't tell you again.  Later."

"Getting cold feet, are we?"

"Hey.  Timing is everything, remember?  You said it
yourself.  Man of my age..."

Don raises his eyebrows, lets his hands slip to Jim's
shoulders, and grins.

"Go ahead if you want, but you won't get much change
out of me if you do.  And I've never been one to hit
and run."  Jim snorts in disbelief, but moves further
up Don's body again in deference.

"You disappoint me, James, man of your...
experience...  I'm just being practical."  He grins,
slides a hand flat against Jim's chest, teases his
hardened nipples.  "Think of it as a matter of
logistics..."

He waits until Jim's face is almost level with his
own, then turns onto his side, gently pushing Jim
onto his back, chuckling as he struggles to remove a
discarded shoe from under him.

"Comfortable?"

Without waiting for an answer, he rolls over onto
Jim, instigates another playful kiss, then works his
way down his younger, softer body, pausing
occasionally to prod thoughtfully at the small burns
and bruises.

"Tell me if it hurts, okay, and I'll stop.  Well,
unless you like it that way..."

"Oh, get on with it..."

And Jim gives up trying to reconcile the composed,
suave superior of the office with the flushed, untidy
and cheerily enthusiastic man poised over him, lies
back and accepts the tickle and scrape of stubble,
his own body's response to Don's just-ungentle-enough
caresses.

"Ow."

He arches at the play of Don's mouth over a
particularly sore spot below his hip, bats mockingly
at the other's fringe, then props himself up in
puzzlement as the caresses stop.

And has to laugh as Don raises his head, making a
very wry face indeed.

"What?"

"You wanna change your soap, mate.  Christ."

"Do what?  That's antiseptic, you prat."

And he falls back, laughing, leaving Don grimacing
and wiping his mouth.

"Oh great.  Dettol and second-hand plastic residue,
perfect..."

And Don resumes his task, deliberately tickling more
than before, hands playing on Jim's parted thighs,
over his cock and balls - finally - inching his way
down until he's nuzzling at the reddy-blond bush.
And he lingers there, for a minute or two, then with
one last cheeky nip at the top of Jim's thigh, he
takes Jim into his mouth, not gently. Carefully,
slowly, inexpertly.

Definitely inexpertly.  But Jim doesn't mind, at all.

He shifts, gets as comfortable as he can on the
floor, ignoring the itching of the carpet beneath
him.  Don's right, it's about time he replaced that
bloody vacuum...

He laughs, spreads his legs a little wider, reaches
down to run his hands through Don's hair, enjoying
the feel as it slips through his fingers; enjoying
the faint, damp smell arising from each movement.
Clean hair and rainwater.

He props himself up on one arm, watches the play of
Don's hands and mouth over his body, enjoying the
nanoseconds between movement and touch, between reach
and impact.  And marvels, not for the first time,
that something so inelegant can be so arousing.

He listens to his own breathing catch and deepen at
the sight of his own, spit-slicked flesh as it slides
between Don's lips; the look of absolute
concentration on the other man's face... the
awkwardness of someone smiling around his cock as he
reaches out to stroke the stubbled jawline.  And
understands, instinctively, that Don has a need for
approval, now.  That this is, all braggadocio to the
contrary, something new and untried, for him.  And
feels warmed by it, wanted.

He pulls himself up further, slowly, awkwardly,
drawing his knees up to allow Don more room, allowing
himself the freedom to lean forward a little, touch
more of Don's body; stroke those broad shoulders and
study him.  Hard at work, haha.  He grimaces as the
movement teases the day's injuries, takes care to
keep the slow brush of his fingers on Don's face and
neck light and gentle.  Lets him know he's seen, and
desired, and appreciated.

He'd normally be too embarrassed, with someone he
knows, to do this.  To be so open.  Hell, even with a
stranger he'd have a hard time.  But this time, it
doesn't matter somehow.  Doesn't matter, because
Don's already made up his mind about who Jim Carver
is, it's not going to change on the strength of one
night, one encounter.   Because Don can be trusted
not to give a toss, when all's said and done.

It's strangely liberating.

He waits for Don to catch his eye, isn't too
disappointed when it doesn't happen.

Bollocks he's done this before.

It's interesting to see Don's confidence improving.
No, not confidence - that's something he's got in
spades.  Assurance, then.  As the hands working his
shaft, rolling his balls become stronger, more
adventurous; as he finds and maintains a rhythm at
odds with the strangely tentative movements of lips
and tongue, hidden.  He has to admit that he finds
the idea that this is something new for Don - and the
evidence of Don's own arousal at the prospect, at the
reality - extremely exciting.  And there's something
oddly touching about his tender hesitation.

He relaxes into the situation, gently, resisting the
urge to correct, to speak, something he'd not
normally hesitate to do.  Foot-in-mouth Carver, in
bed and out.  Concentrates on the sensation, finds
himself enjoying the lapses and the near-misses, the
little slips that in anyone else he'd call a mistake.
Finds the awkwardness only spurring him on.

He makes small, involuntary sounds of approval; notes
with appreciation their effect on Don; experiments
with harder, more sweeping touches, guiding without
guiding; stops at an almost unexpressed resistance;
is pleased to find he feels none of that automatic
urge to interpret it as a rebuke.  It's fair enough.

Jim rests a hand on his own flushed inner thigh,
strokes it gently; smiles warmly between the gasps as
Don notes the movement seemingly without looking,
brings his own broad fingertips up to echo it, then
bat the intruding hand away, not irritatedly.  Bat it
away and trace beyond, higher, over Jim's abdomen,
the movements alternately gentle and hard. And Jim
laughs, easily at the clear, firm, friendly message,
accompanied by an inelegant and indistinct murmur
which somehow translates as bloody back-seat drivers.

And he's damn well enjoying this, so he gives in,
puts both hands on the floor behind him and just
relaxes, shuts his eyes and lets himself sink into
the purely physical.  Listens to his own, rapid,
ragged breathing, something of which he is normally
absurdly self-conscious.  Tries to hold back, just a
little, but can't, and can't hide it; and Don might
be new to this but he ain't wet behind the ears,
because he pulls away smoothly and darts his mouth to
where Jim's hand had rested, bites him sharply, on
the inner thigh, the sharpness of teeth and scrape of
stubble enough to send him over the edge, hard, Don's
hand softly cupping his balls, squeezing gently in
time with his involuntary groans. As he spills,
messily, all over himself, thick semen landing in
Don's hair; and Don's deep chuckle vibrates hard
against him, adding to the exquisite aftershocks.

Dazed, who knows how long later, he opens his eyes,
to find Don stretched out, comfortably, one hand
teasing himself gently; head resting heavy and warm
on Jim's thigh, grinning expectantly.  Finds himself
smiling back, warmly.

"So?"

The query is light-hearted, off-hand, jokey, but
genuine.

Jim laughs, takes his weight off one now aching arm
and brushes his dampened fringe out of his eyes.

"Mmmm...  Eight point five."

"You what?"

"You lose points for the follow through."

He flicks Don's shoulder, gently.  "Come on, 'op it."
He waits until Don's lifted his head, then pulls
himself round, awkwardly until he's leaning against
the armchair.  Don stays where he is, one hand behind
his head.

He reaches up, picks up Don's glass and places it on
his flushed chest.

"So I'm a bit rusty.  I hope you're not asking for a
refund..."

"Hey, I'm not complaining.  Far from it."

And he reaches for his own drink, and grins, and is
once and for all sure from Don's answering smile that
this is definitely a first.

"Oh all right, then.  Ten for effort and
presentation."

"Always been my strong point."

"Bollocks."

"That too."

Don grins, and hauls himself to a sitting position,
kicking off his y-fronts and rescuing the glass at
the very last minute.  Raises it, in a mock toast.
"Your very good health.  Judges' decision is final."

"Oh come on.  Not like you need my approval, is it?
Or are you applying for the Michelin?"

"Now now.  No harm in asking for feedback."

"I take it all back.  Keep that up and you'll be
Deakin's blue-eyed boy...  Just don't ask me to fill
out a performance appraisal form..."

He laughs, then looks down ruefully at himself.
"Chuck us that, will you?"

Don tosses over his discarded shirt, grins as Jim
mops himself up.

"You're definitely going to have to clean this carpet
now..."

"Shut up."  He grins at his own sensitivity, murmurs
half to himself. "Rusty my foot."

"What?"

And Jim doesn't want to be the first to say it.  And
Don looks at him quizzically, then nods his head in
understanding.  Grins, wickedly.

"Ah now, that's why I'm a Sergeant, and you're a
DC..."

He reaches up, sagely, puts his glass back on the
table.

"And there was me thinking it worked the other way
round. "

Don splutters, spraying Jim with Scotch.

"Wilingness to experiment, James.  Break established
behaviour patterns."

"-haviour patterns.  Keep'em guessing."

And they both crack up, again.  It's one of Deakin's
litanies.

Jim tosses the shirt at Don, not gently.

"Well, I had you going, didn't I?"

And he can't deny it.  Laughs.

"You should have said."

"Why?"

And Don's looking at him keenly.  "Would it have made
a difference?"

"'Course not."  And it's the truth, but he can't help
adding "Maybe..." out of mischief.

"There you go.  And if you say one word about jaded
palates I'll deck you."

"Fussy bugger."

"You don't know the half of it."

Don drains the rest of his whisky, tosses the glass
past Jim to land with a muted 'ching' on the
armchair.

"Watch it!.."  Jim turns to rescue it, placing it
gingerly on the battered occasional table, turns back
to find Don laughing at him.

"Well?  What are you waiting for?  'All units, go go
go?'"

And Don reaches for him, all hesitancy gone, hand
strong and pulling hard on the back of Jim's neck,
much more forceful than before.  And Jim slides over
to him, gladly, ignoring the burn of carpet on his
tender skin, determined to have the upper hand, just
for a minute, and finds Don responding with fierce
good humour.  He pushes against him, hard, the pair
of them toppling backwards and landing on yet another
discarded shoe.  Don tosses it out of the way,
without looking, knocking something off a shelf
somewhere, by the sound of it.  But Jim doesn't look
up, concentrates on pinning Don to the floor.  He
reaches once more for Don's renewed erection, finds
his hand grasped, welcomed; guided firmly to its
target and instructed.

No stranger to this part of it, then.

He wonders, briefly, what exactly Don's expecting,
but finds the lack of space to move a greater
distraction; breaks away, shifts Don firmly and
awkwardly away from the chair, gives himself space to
move over Don's body, space to give.  And again
starts a slow, roughly affectionate progression down
Don's body, musing his way down the broad shoulders
and chest, taking time out to concentrate on the
nipples, the lines between his ribs, an old scar or
two.

"Wait.  Wait wait wait...  No, stay there, just a
sec."

And Don's hands are run deliberately, carefully
through his hair, and his body shakes beneath Jim's
as he laughs again, tutting over the feel of the gel
on his fingers, systematically combing Jim's hair
out, down around his face, letting the long strands
fall naturally to brush his own skin.

"There, that's better.  Whoever put you onto that
bloody stuff should be shot."

Jim looks up, not understanding.

"Sorry?"

Don smiles, touches the fresh scar on Jim's cheek,
gently.

"Nothing.  Go on..."

And he chuckles, lies back, pressure of his hand on
Jim's head harder than before.  He's used to getting
what he wants, is Don.  The urgent, hard movement of
his body against Jim's tells him he's well back on
familiar ground, and Jim respects that, by not giving
in.

He waits for the insistent, gentle push down Don's
body, and resists it, just a little, refusing to be
hurried, enjoying the mock-punishment of Don's hands
kneading his shoulders, scraping over his skin.

And finds him unexpectedly ticklish, and takes
merciless advantage of it, stopping only when Don's
flailing leg connects with his bruised side.

"Serves you right."

And he has to agree, and relents; dives in, hands and
mouth working overtime, working roughly, because it
feels like the right thing to do. He enjoys the
feeling of power as Don's chuckles fade into harsh,
rapid breathing and small moans, as he's gripped and
guided, the older man thrusting involuntarily, not
watching.  He enjoys the stream of murmured
indelicacies, half-crude and genuine, escaping from
Don's lips, glances up to see Don giving in wholly,
touching himself roughly, one hand twisting in the
sparse grey hair, teasing; the other leaving harsh
red trails across the softer skin of neck and thigh.
Not quite frantic, but not quite enough, he thinks,
and smiles.

He reaches up to help, but is again batted away and
nearly chokes with laughter as Don automatically
mutters something half-hearted about duplication of
effort, another Deakin quote, another management
millstone, so inappropriate and so fucking funny
somehow.  And it's damn hard to laugh through a
foreskin, but Don doesn't seem to mind so he plays up
to it, renews his efforts; is rewarded shockingly
suddenly by a heartfelt curse, groaned out of view as
Don arches, bucks and comes hard.

And Don's half-laughing, half-swearing, and the last
thing you could call either of them at this point is
serious, but he takes Don's frustrated cuff in good
part and collapses, still giggling, into Don's lap,
shuts his eyes and buries his face in the soft,
sticky flesh; collapses in near-hysteria and sticky
companionship.

And the whisky and the tiredness and the fun seem to
kick in all at once, and the last thing he wants to
do is get up, so he doesn't, just turns onto his
side, pillows himself gently on Don's groin and
watches the faint green flicker of the television on
the ceiling.  Smiles warmly in happy exhaustion as
Don's breathing and the excitable drone of
commentators mingle dimly in the background.

Not as fit as he thought, he thinks, with some
satisfaction; then chides himself just in case.  The
sticky wetness at the back of his neck is becoming
uncomfortable, so he reaches for his shirt, again;
brushes gently at his own face and throat before
moving hesitantly to apply it to Don.  Don't want to
take liberties, after all.  But Don doesn't seem to
mind.

He looks over, decides against speaking - Don has one
arm thrown across his face, his eyes in shadow, which
worries Jim a little, until Don seems to feel his
gaze, raises his head with difficulty and breaks into
a broad grin.

"I did warn you..."

That warm, rich, laugh again... infectious even now,
stretched out on the increasingly embarrassing floor.
Jim lies back again, realising too late he's using
the bloody jacket instead of the shirt.

And gives up.  Fate.  Karma.  Whatever.

"Should I apologise?"

"Hell no.  Utterly pointless.  Consider yourself
permanently unforgiven. Unless there's any more of
that...?"

Beech gestures vaguely in the general direction of
the bottle.  It's patently obvious Jim can't reach
it, but he waits until Jim's half-up before saying
"Nah, stay there, I'll get it."  He ducks the
awkwardly tossed jacket, balls it up behind his head
before snaffling the bottle and the one remaining
glass.  He settles back, props the glass on his chest
and refills it, letting the empty bottle roll away
under the table.

He takes a sip, lies back, contentedly.

"Comfortable?"

"Relatively."

And a large, caring hand reaches down, strokes Jim's
face, gently.

"Good."

 === end ===

(c) bessie April 1999