DISCLAIMERS:    Rodders & Jimski belong to Thames, but the interstices
                are mine.

TITLE:          Loa
AUTHOR:         Lemmy outta Motorhead.  No, really.  What, I never told you
                'bout my alter-ego?
PAIRING:        Carver/Skase.  Unconscionably close to Happy!Carver
CHRONOLOGY:     Missing scene from "No Guarantees" (Aust transmission Saturday
                21 November 1998) Oh, all right, it's a PWP.  Ish.
                Irredeemable.  You want fries with that?
SPOILERS:       minor for "No Guarantees"

THANKS TO:      Tracey, for stepping into Rie's shoes while she's winging it
                to the UK.
FEEDBACK:       What, I gotta beg now?  [falls to knees immediately]
                Okay.  Whack it to me at bessie@goldweb.com.au
COMMENTS:       C'mon, you can't tell me I was the only one wondering why the
                boys took so long to get outta that bedroom...


==========
Loa
by kel
===========

"Oh James, James..."

Jim snorts, sends the Slinky curling fast towards Rod's face.

"I'll give you 'Oh James'... "

Rod ducks, bats the multi-coloured coils aside, grinning wickedly.
"Promise?"

"Give over."

He can't help laughing, tosses the spring to land in Rod's lap,
expecting him to catch it, throw it back.  He's not prepared for the
gentle force of Rod's hand as it darts, instead, into the warmth between
his thighs.  He clamps down on it, hard, automatically, reaches for it
with playful force.  Laughs, glances hurriedly at the door, as he finds
it immovable.

"Rod... "

"Oh, Jaaaaames..."

Rod's batting his eyelashes outrageously, and there's a familiar
mischief in his eyes, dark

// like Mi--//

...dark mischief that starts a slow, dark burn deep inside him.  He
pulls away hard, really hard,

//yeah right//

... fails, breath sharp at the pressure as Rod turns his hand around,
somehow, brings long, elegant fingers into play, stroking and kneading
just *there*...  Rod's gurning for all he's worth, quiet edge of
laughter breaking up the words.

"Save me, save me James..."

"Not here!"  almost hissing, best tone for a lie, and the spirit of an
idea's just...

"Help me... oh please, heelp... hellp..."

// Peggy bloody Ashcroft or what//

And he stumbles, can't help but laugh, cursing inwardly, desperately
trying to keep his balance, keep his...

//don'teventhinkit//

...voice...

... down.  He stumbles closer, knocking against a discarded
clothes-horse.  There's a line between fun and...

"Stop it!  Look..."

And he's been here before, and the memory is warning...

//warming//

...strangely welcome so when Rod lunges forward, slides his other hand
up and over Jim's, locking it there, forefinger playing over the back of
Jim's knuckles, ghost rider on the growing hardness under the old, soft
suit, he doesn't pull away.  Much.

"Come on, she's halfway down the hall by now.  Relax."

Dead serious.  Sparkling.

"Stop it..."

Liar.  So much for

//privacy//

...and he's been hoping, inside...

//shy boy like you//

...and he'd had a feeling this would happen sooner or later, but...

Rod squeezes, gently, pulls a little so Jim has to part his legs, step
closer; takes the chance to rub hard, up and under, beating a gentle
tattoo with his fingers.  Up, round, over the knuckles, cup.... up,
round, over the knuckles, cup...

"There..."

There's a hoarseness in his voice as he leans in, eyes locked on Jim's;
wild smile, and it's too much to ask, really, too hard to leave, and Rod
knows it, and it's like somebody else...

"I think she fancies you.  Really."

...all over again...

Low, wicked chuckle, drawing him in; warm, firm hand drawing him in; Jim
moans, quietly, takes an open-handed swing at Rod's face, connects,
gently, lets his free hand come to rest cupping that insolently angular
jawbone, so pretty.   Squeezes his legs together, trapping Rod's
kneading fingers in a cocoon of threadbare grey.

And the grin deepens, the voice harsher now, lower.

"I think, if I left you two alone for a second, she'd have you on your
back like *that*..."

Up, round, over the knuckles, cup... his own fingers, hard, tracing this
face, familiar, unknown, and he's forgotten where they are.

"I think she'd push you up against a wall somewhere, and..."

...and the voice blends with

//Mike, grinning, saying the same thing about Galloway//

...of all people, and the memory of opportunities,

//taken and gone and passed him by//

...makes him smile, catches Rod's interest, arch smile, dark smile
playing round the corners of his eyes as he turns to bite gently at the
exposed flesh of Jim's wrist, slide his tongue gently under the
watchband.

And he knows his cue.  "And...?"

And he's been here before,

//too long ago//

...he can barely hear the slow burr, the quickening zipdown hard over
his breathing.  Their breathing.  Slides his other hand free, fumbles
hard, inaccurately at the buttons on Rod's shirt, hips moving in lazy
circles in time with the child's mobile hanging from the ceiling.  He's
dimly aware of the sound of a door, voices somewhere, steps in time with
the ragged edge of indrawn air, the rhythm of breathing and words and
strokes...

And laughs, gasps, waits.

"And... what do you think?"

Daring, open.

He tilts Rod's head back, brushes that full, pouting lower lip with his
thumb, slides it shallowly into the heat of his mouth; brings his other
hand up to frame that insolent, expectant smile.  His fingers trace
provocative whorls on the soft skin behind Rod's ears, down his neck,
stubble kissing his palms, a tactile ghost,

//So like...//

//So different.  //

And call it a safety catch, and they're one step

//over//

"I think..."

...deep breath and one step away now and he's talking to the memories as
much as anything when he says

//so sickandfuckingtired of running//

"I think... you owe me..."

And Rod's smiling, wickedly, he's got the recklessness..

//arrogance//

...of youth on his side, reminds him of

//stop that//

And this is absurd, and he leans in further, takes that lip between his
teeth, bites gently; opens his mouth and slides tongue to tongue, warm,
hard as Rod's hand slides under his faded boxers, eases his cock free
into the cool air of the bedroom.  He maintains the kiss, dark, frenzied
exploration as Rod's fingers curl around his shaft, tug gently, firmly.

"Yeah?"  Rod chuckles, breathy, low, the vibration travelling through
his lips, his hands, into Jim's spine.  He feels his tongue caught,
held, bitten gently, released.  Slides his hands down, over Rod's
shoulders, his chest, finding, rubbing the nipples under the soft white
material.  Rod's gasp, widened eyes, sends the blood pulsing to his
erection, sends it twitching under Rod's hands.  The room is a blur, a
blur of Rod's eyes, lids half-lowered, intense, grey-blue gaze locked on
his through the thick lashes.

"So... tell me..."

And he knows what's coming next, both hands on his cock now, moving in
unison, soft on the upper edge, harder on the underside, supreme and
gentle force, ghost in his lower back pushing his centre of gravity
closer and closer...

He suppresses a groan as Rod leans in, darts his tongue hard along the
slit, pulls away.

"...tell me...  what you want."

And there are voices, a dim thud from the other room, and he can't
remember why that matters... watches his hands, hard massage on Rod's
shoulders, sees himself, younger...

"Oh, come on... I can't..."

//could//

...and having to, giving in, and by Christ he

//did//

...managed somehow...

//loved it//

...got round it, and he *can't*...

And he means it.  He hates this, it's so...

//embarrassing//

...degrading...

//arousing//

...just not him, even Steve never asked him to...

//but you wanted him to//

... *can't*...

//and you did it for Mike//

and that's the last step, the last, and

"Yes."  Rod's thumb teases at the sensitive fold under the head, sending
a white-hot jolt through him.  "Or..."

He flicks it, hard, smiles wickedly.

"Or... nothing."

And again, raised voices through the wall, lost as Rod cocks an eyebrow,
tilts his head to one side.  "I'm waiting..."

And the absurdity of his situation hits him, suddenly; knickers down in
a kid's bedroom on a grotty estate somewhere, and in the other room,
only yards away, yards away...  and he wants to laugh, almost, and Jesus
he'd forgotten the buzz,

//Mike on his knees, wet summer party in Ted Roach's backyard //

//fevered hands in the old CID hatchback, handmade shoes scratched under
the brake pedal//

//...and like any of that *matters*...//

...and he misses it...

..and Rod's reaching for the waistband of...

//and don't you do this to me, don't you dare//

...and it all comes crashing in, hard, and Christ it's like a fist in
the gut when he hears himself say...

...when he understands...

//I deserve this//...

"Suck me."  It comes out low, an edge to it that surprises him, he
didn't know...

//want Rod to know//

...how much he wants this, and Rod just smiles, seizes his balls, hard,
yanks him forward, rakes short nails hard down his exposed lower back...

"I didn't quite catch that."

"Suck me."  Harder this time, not desperate, commanding.  And he knows
the need's shining in his voice, somehow, and the satisfaction, the
arousal on

//Mike's//

...Rod's face

//Rod's//

//no fucking difference//

...and that's a lie and something lifts in him, quietly...

...the look as he hears the words is breathtaking, and there's a freedom
in that, somehow, a freedom and a joy he hasn't felt in...

//years//

... a bloody long time, so he says it again, hard, harsh, curls his
hands in Rod's hair and pulls him close, feels savage, wild joy as those
lips open to take him, as he thrusts, hard, slow, gives Rod time, no
time, riding his tongue, curling around him and through him, driving out
the ghosts with his eyes shut,

//lifting like smoke//

...leaving them go with breath harsh, slow, low moans

//keep it down//

...though he can't remember why; Rod's eyes closed, lines of
concentration, nails digging into his hips as he copes, takes it all,
hair tangled in his hands, maddening on the back of his knuckles and
he's about to...

... he's...

"Rod! Jim!"

...let go, abruptly, catches a hysterical glance, feral grin as Rod
swears, stumbles to his feet, delicious blankness, how to stop the
laughter bubbling as they recollect...

//oh, shit//

and he's been here before too, and he remembers now

// uniform locker room, bent knees raised on the chair wedged under the
handle, laughter swallowed, chair coming away, coming with Uncle Bob
rapping sharply on the other side...//

...and it's only seconds to tuck himself away, too many seconds and he's
not getting any more bloody graceful with the years...

//and the look on his face//

...and who gives a fuck, and they're suppressing a laugh as they run out
and Liz is in the other room with a face like thunder, and

//shit//

...they make it, just.  Breathing hard, flushed as hell and he wonders
what in God's name they must look like; and as they haul Mitchell out of
the flat down to the car he's coming on aggro, every twist bringing his
body hard against Jim's, which doesn't help at all; and as they're
struggling through the caution Mitchell makes some smart remark and Rod
says "yeah, it's a mouthful isn't it" and they look at each other and
crack up, and he doesn't give a

tiny

//Goddamn//

tuppeny

//flying//

toss

//fuck//

what anybody thinks.

With Mitchell safely in the car, he bends to light up, catch his breath,
catch Rod's eye in the rearview mirror; his hair and suit in mildly
compromising disarray, a light, not unpleasant tang of sweat, as he
moves.  The scent of arousal, unfinished business.

He holds Rod's gaze and grins, freely.  Wickedly.  Portrait of the
artist in euphoria and nicotine.

Oh yeah.

//I'll give you "Oh James..."//


=== end ===

"bessie" is temporarily dead; you want me, use-a-da work addy


=====
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