First off:    The prodigal returns!  Welcome back Rie -- you have been
              missed!

DISCLAIMER:   If they were mine the clear-up rate would plummet
              something chronic.  And Rodney would work nude.
              All hail the mighty Thames, etc

TITLE:        Off Balance
AUTHOR:       kel
PAIRING:      Boulton/Skase (waves to Amanda and Jan)
RATING:       NC-17
SPOILERS:     Nah.
CHRONOLOGY:   Set somewhere circa "Alternative Therapies" (Aust trans
              12/12/98), 'cos the weather's right and the budgeting's right and
              the clothes are right...
THANKS TO:    Claire and Tracey for valiant beta, trivia, information,
              ideas, fun.
              Dedicated to Rod "that's God to you" M. who *this very
              morning* traded me a copy of the Kingsley book in return for my
              eternal soul.  Small price, yatta yatta yatta.

FEEDBACK:    Point at bessie@goldweb.com.au, light blue touch paper and retire.


============
Off Balance
by kel
============


"Told you this was a waste of time."

Boulton takes another look around the lockup.  The very empty lockup.
Rows and rows of shelves, with absolutely sweet sodding FA on them.
Naturally.

And looks again.  Utterly pointless, of course, but truth be told he's
in no hurry to leave.

Outside, it's blisteringly hot, for July --- an oppressive, muggy heat
that mixes uneasily with the petrol fumes on the streets.  Highly
unpleasant.  In here's a different matter.  Dark.  Cool.  Almost.

He thanks God, silently, for the recent budget cuts --- it's put a spike
in the Rigby case, true, but at least with this morning's obbo called
off they're free to work out of those bloody suits for once.  Jeans and
a t-shirt... heaven.

He peers out at Rod Skase, wandering around outside with his hands in
his pockets, looking for all the world like a darkly parboiled praying
mantis.  Hot and resentful.  He should, right about now, be trying very
hard not to lose his temper.

Yep.

Rod scuffs moodily at the radiating tarmac, dislodging a couple of
pebbles and kicking them, hard, against the paint-peeled steel of Number
15's rolldown door.  Scowls as the resulting clatter is lost in the
steady thrum of traffic from the main road.

He looks up, notices Boulton watching him, composes himself slightly.
Ineffectively.

"Look, don't blame me, Guv.  The Charlton girl *said* it'd be here..."

He can't quite keep the petulance out of his voice.

"Yeah, well, she's *said* a lot of things, hasn't she."

Boulton sits down on an empty crate, half-heartedly checks an oil stain
for footprints.  Pointless.

"You do know she's living with Pete Murray?"

Pete Murray, the fence.  Pete Murray, brother and rival of Rachael
Murray, whose lock-up they're currently searching.

"Yeah, but..."

"But nothing.  Get rid of her, Rod.  She's pulling your chain."

Rod's glaring balefully into the distance, radiating irritation and
discomfort.  He mutters something indistinct and mulish.  Boulton can't
hear it over the traffic, but he'd bet a month's salary the words "not
my fault" are in there somewhere.

He stands up, sighs, returns reluctantly to the heat outside, shading
his eyes as Rod steps towards him, hands spread conciliatorily.

"Look, how about I have another word with her.  Maybe something's
happened... I mean, if she's on the level..."

"If she was on the level we'd have had a nice little result.  *If*
there'd been anything here, we'd have been able to do one or both of'em
for handling.  *If* you'd spent more time looking up her associates
instead of down her blouse..."

Rod's reply is lost in the scree of metal on metal as Boulton pulls the
lockup door down behind him.  Short and to the point, whatever it was.

He turns to look at him, grins ambiguously, and gets a muttered "Sorry"
in return.

Fuck it.  Truce.  It's all part of the game.

Boulton checks the lock, dangles the keys in front of Rodney.

"Do me a favour.  We'll *both* give these back to her, ok?  When's she
expecting you?"

"I dunno... half-five, something like that?  She'll have Rachael there
till about four..."

"Right, then quarter-to should do it.  Get'em both thinking, eh?
Meanwhile..."

He drops the keys, laughs as Rod fumbles for them, misses.  Waits as he
bends down to retrieve them, resisting the urge to run his fingers
through the short dark curls at the base of Rod's neck.  Enjoying the
fact that he *could*, if he wanted to.

And he does.  Want to, that is.  Altogether too much, for his liking.

Been a while between drinks, that's all.  'Course it is.

Meanwhile...

He strolls off towards the end of the cul-de-sac, kicking a pair of
rusty cans out of his way.  He doesn't look back as Rod catches up.
Meanwhile indeed.

The cul-de-sac is deserted, as is the alleyway leading to the
wasteground where they've left the car.  Absolutely deserted.  Well,
fair enough.  Hardly anyone uses the Merson Street lockups anymore...
shithouse security, for a start.  And half of them are falling apart.
You'd have to be bonkers to store anything here, bent or otherwise.

Something that doesn't seem to have occurred to Rodney.

There's nobody on the wasteground, either.  Just a little patch of baked
earth, stuck round the back of yet another crumbling warehouse.

Nobody at all.

Something else that seems to have escaped Rodney's notice.

"Meanwhile what?"

Then again... you can never tell, with Rod.

He grins broadly, unseen.  Keeps his voice even, indifferent.

"Well, we've got half an hour to kill.  What do you suggest?"

"Not worth going back to the nick...?"

Rod stumbles, runs a hand through his hair.  He sounds almost wistful.
Probably thinking about the air-conditioning vent over his desk.

"No."

He turns round, keeps walking backwards, makes a point of looking Rod up
and down, slowly.  Not quite smiling.

"Tell you what.  Why don't you radio in, tell'em what's happened.  Might
be worth staying here for a bit, just in case."

"In case what?"

"I dunno.  Earthquake?  Fire?  Ronnie Biggs' Reunion Tour?  You'll think
of something."

Boulton raises his eyebrows, slightly, delays turning round until light
dawns and a slow smile begins to creep across Rod's face.

'You're not serious..."

He says nothing, keeps walking.  Heads for the car, parked next to the
warehouse wall.

"Guv...?"

He'd never admit what the blend of delight, incredulity and mischief in
Rodney's voice does to him.

Nice to know he can still get him off-balance.  Familiarity breeds, and
all that...

He reaches the wall, leans against it, grateful for what little shade it
affords.  The bricks are still hot beneath his back, but he's not going
to move.  Not yet.

Rod's wandering slowly towards the car, putting the call in, a very
broad grin playing on his face. And in his voice.

Boulton waits, watches the way Rod watches *him* as Polly Page's cheery
tones float faintly through the muggy air.  Has to laugh as she says
"Having a good one, Rodney?"

"Not yet."

//Idiot.//

He bites back a smile, waits, patiently, as Rod signs off, unlocks the
passenger door, tosses the radio in.  Opens a window or two to let some
air in, takes his time walking around the car, walking over to where he
stands.

It's a pleasure to watch him.  At times like this, Rod loses the
awkwardness, the discomfitedness of his usual stance, moves slowly,
gracefully, confidently.  It never ceases to amaze him, the
transformation from sulky clouded twat to... to...

//I should do this more often.  Make it part of a bonus system or
something.  Imagine what he'd get out of witnesses if they saw him like
this...//

"Well...?"

He says nothing, waits until that long, dark frame stands over his,
forcing him to lean back, look up into those muddy blue eyes.  He does
nothing, says nothing.  Just looks at him, lets that insolent, hungry
gaze and the slight, faint tang of sweat fuel his own desire.

And he's thinking about speaking, maybe, when Rod leans over a little
more, dark and mischievous, and says softly "Come on, then."

//You bugger.  That's my line...//

And he's determined not to respond, not yet, but finds his hands sliding
under the untucked, heavy, sky-blue shirt, thanking the Obbo Gods once
more as Rod leans into the warmth of his fingers.  Sliding up, slowly,
curved around Rod's body, fingers spread, not looking at Rodney's
widening grin, the wicked dare in his eyes.  He can feel him watching
him.

He hooks his thumbs into the hem, pulls the shirt up, exposing that
lean, smooth chest;  leans in, breathing the hot skin smell of Lynx and
lust; spreads his fingers wide and presses hard so Rod has to push back,
arms braced against the wall.

He bends in, takes a soft brown nipple in his mouth, nips hard and
smiles at the sharp half-protest above him, the way Rodney's body
tenses.

//That'll teach him.//

And he doesn't believe it for a second.  He rolls his tongue around
gently, enjoying the taste of Rod's skin, clean skin; parts wet lips,
lets the pebble-hard nipple slide from one corner to another, slowly,
now along the lower, now the upper.  Slides his hands around and up,
curling over Rod's shoulderblades, pulling him in, pulling him down.
Knows without looking that Rod's closed his eyes, is holding his head
back, leaning into his caresses.

He lets his fingers move smoothly over the shoulders, up towards Rod's
neck, delights in the low chuckle at the soft scrape of nails over the
skin of his throat and down again.  Brings his hands down, slowly,
together, letting the shirt fall back into place and enjoying the
discomfort on Rod's face at the heavy material's return.  Lets his hands
come to rest just above Rod's hips, allowing a little air to reach that
hot skin.  Just a little.

He straightens up, slightly, kisses and scrapes his way up Rod's body,
nuzzling his way through the folds of blue until he reaches the hollows
of his collarbone, nuzzles and nips his way around the thin silver chain
Rodney's taken to wearing, taking it in his teeth and tugging, gently.
Keeps it in his mouth as Rod opens his eyes, smiles darkly and brings
his mouth to his.  The chain passes between them, and back, and again,
clumsily and sexily; the feel of the cool metal warming and wet,
spilling pliantly against the softness of each other's tongues, sparking
a fresh wave of desire.

He rakes one hand, hard, down Rod's back, laughs almost as he is slammed
backwards in answer, flattened against the bricks.  Rod tangles one hand
in his short hair, not gently, brings the other down and pulls, hard at
his belt.  Yanks his shirt out, partly; pulls at the belt again, hard,
impatiently, until it gives.  With a little help from Boulton, who stops
him, just, from pulling it right out and tossing it away.

Well, *intends* to stop him.  Somehow getting that recalcitrant top
bloody button undone seems just that little bit more important.

//I lose more belts that way...//

And Rod's hand is playing around the bare skin above the waistband of
his jeans, scraping, stroking, never falling below zip level.  Never
falling where he needs it.  Damn him.

So he retaliates.  Or tries to.  Tries to pull away to see what he's
doing, but can't.  Is held, firmly, one large, gentle hand behind his
neck, the other firm around his wrist a split second before he's managed
to touch Rodney's hardening self.

"Now now....John... " mumbled into his mouth.  He can feel the smile,
hear it.

The smell of warm skin is driving him crazy.  He pushes forward, just a
little, brings their bodies together, too briefly.  Rod jerks away, lets
the chain fall, bites him gently.  And just looks at him.  Not just a
look, but a *look*, a dark, not-quite-smile, the tips of his white teeth
just visible, pulling gently at his full and wet lower lip.

And looks, and says nothing.  Doesn't have to.  Even lets Boulton's hand
go, slowly, every line of his body reading You Won't, You Know.

//Christ, he's turning into me...//

All part of the game.

And Boulton doesn't push it.  Yet.  Lets his hand settle on the curve of
Rod's hip, thumb circling gently on the bare skin above his jeans.

And Rod leans closer still and laughs, fingers digging deep into the
thick red hair at the base of Boulton's neck, massaging, tangling.

"In a hurry, are we?"

And he's bloody well not going to smile, but he can't help it.

"Dunno 'bout you, *DC* Skase, but I'm working to a deadline here..."

Punctuates his words with small pinches, not too sharp, not too many.

And Rod chuckles, low... with that wonderful, dark, don't-give-a-fuck
look on his face... and it's almost enough... almost worth it...

Which worries him, a little.  Really.

Although not as much as the fact that he

//needs//

...*wants* Rodney, *now*.

Not a good look.  And not an infrequent one either, bugger it.

Or maybe it just feels that way.

"Come on... it's your case... might be able to... salvage...
something..."

Hard to speak with those long fingers teasing, tickling, sliding under
the waistband of his boxers, just a little... just a fucking little...

And he can barely hear himself over the inner voice going //oh do belt
*up*, John.//

"Don't make me... pull... rank..."

About as threatening as a pot noodle.  And Rodney's taking no notice, no
notice at all.  Grinning, eyes dark and locked on Boulton's, hand
curving, dropped behind, pulling him close, hard, he laughs.  Says
nothing, just *looks*.

Shit.

And Rod captures his mouth again, and this isn't bloody well good
enough, really it isn't, really, so he somehow manages to mumble "Car.
Now."

"All right then..."

And with a sudden, gratifying rake of nails along his lower back he's
pulled away from the wall, whirled round, off balance.

Locked together, they stumble, almost tripping, towards the car,
crashing together against it, Rod pushing Boulton first, the metal hot
against his back and legs.  And Boulton swears, furiously, laughing as
he fumbles for the handle and misses, pushes hard against Rod in
frustration, right hand tangled in his hair.  And Rod uses Boulton's own
hair to pull him back, and opens the back door one-handed.  Swings him
round, hard, and pushes him in backwards, grinning infuriatingly; stands
there, one hand on the open door, the other on the back seat.  Bending
and grinning, eyebrows raised wickedly.

This wasn't meant to happen.

He scrambles backwards along the seat, anyway; has no choice as Rodney
pulls off his shirt, tossing it to lie on the baked ground beside the
car.  As Rod leans in and enters the car, gracefully, slowly, moving
like a cornering panther.  And Boulton can't hold him off, or won't, so
he settles for a violent yank at Rod's belt, and laughs and gives up as
Rodney lowers himself over him, hands braced either side of Boulton's
head.  As Rod lowers his body against his and grinds, hard, forces a
response.

Hands trapped, bent awkwardly between them, he reaches up to reclaim
Rod's mouth, but finds himself pinned down, one hard, hot hand darting
to land flat and heavy against his chest.  Cornered, trapped, iron-hard
against each other.  You wouldn't think there was enough room.

And he could get out of this, if he wanted to.

"You gonna behave?"

And they're both grinning, Boulton helpless and Rod towering over him,
strong, long legs tight across his own.

"No."

And Rod leans further forward, further down, harder; uses that one hand
to yank his shirt up, hard.  It's a superhuman effort to raise his hips,
but he manages, just, feels the grey material burn against his back.
Almost manages not to cry out.

"I *said*, you gonna behave?"

"No!"

And he's laughing now... so Rodney leans down, takes a mouthful of short
auburn hair and tugs.  Hard.  And he can't let that pass, so he works a
hand free, finally, reaches up and twists a sweat-slick nipple, not
gently.  Rod bucks a little, laughs as his thrown-back head brushes the
car roof.

"Have it your way..."

And he grabs Boulton's wrist, brings it hard above his head, pins it
against the hot vinyl armrest.  Grabs the other, almost losing his
balance in the process.  Almost.  Even so, Boulton can't dislodge him,
can't see why, doesn't care, much.  He's more concerned with the
pressure on his wrists, one pinned across the other, forced down now to
rest on the seat behind his head.  One hand, that's all it takes, now
---

Oh, and he's fighting *so* hard...

And Rod pulls his other hand away, uses it to tear the soft grey t-shirt
up, pull it so it layers round and under Boulton's armpits, up further
so it gathers against his chin.

He moves backwards, slightly, slides his body back, hard; dips his head
to tease ungently at the wiry auburn hairs on Boulton's chest, grinding
hard against him the while, neckchain brushing warm and light against
Boulton's belly.  Moves back up again, a little; assaults Boulton's hot
mouth with his own, a cheeky series of nips and tonguethrusts,
punctuated by harsh, rapid breathing.  His free hand rakes over
Boulton's skin, making the softness in the hollows of his hips flinch,
making him arch, a little.

And Boulton makes an oh-so, never-so serious attempt to throw him off,
or off guard at least.  But Rod, eyes alight with mischief and
confidence, just laughs and pushes harder on his wrists; laughs and
darts his free hand under the small of Boulton's back, pulling him up,
hard.  And slides it slowly past the waistband, down the back of his
jeans, just teasing at the top of the cleft.  Thus far, no further.

And it's about time he put a stop to this.  Really.

As Rod's hand starts to slide free, he jams himself against the seat,
traps those long fingers hard beneath him.  Pulls his knees up, a
little, forcing Rod forward.   Bringing him closer, laughing, forcing
him in for another kiss.

And Rod dives in, gladly, and reclaims his mouth, again, as he knew he
would.  He lets his "small victory" face show, just a little, but keeps
his eyes open, watching the awkward way Rod's right knee shifts on the
seat beside him.  He moves, writhes, forcing Rod to lean against the
backrest; pulls his right hand free and darts it hard down Rod's lean
body, before he can recapture it.  Runs it hard over the curve of his
jeans, grabs his buttock, hard, kneads.  Kneads, up, down... down as
much of the leg as he can reach.

A leg braced awkwardly somewhere on the floor behind the passenger seat.
Very awkwardly.

And Rod's playing along, grazing down his neck and chest and back again,
oblivious.  Might have noticed, might not, it's hard to tell.  He starts
a not so gentle battle of soft bites, keeps Rodney occupied, just in
case.  Takes his tongue in, deep and rough; nips, and smiles at the
flash of whatever in his eyes.

He twists again, shifts Rod's centre of gravity back towards the front
of the car.  Slides his hand down, up and down the hard, lean leg,
coming to rest, caressing, at the back of the lower thigh.  Just above
the back of Rod's knee.

And he's almost ready to move.  Almost.

He makes a bid to free his other hand, prepared for a struggle; and is
caught off-guard as Rod simply lets it go, more so as he finds it
clasped, Rod's fingers sliding down over his wrist and interlocking
gently with his own.  Oddly gently.

And suddenly that's the centre of everything.

And he feels... he's not sure how he feels, as his own fingers curl in,
gently, in response; as the pressure on his body eases, somehow; as
Rod's kisses soften and without thinking his own become less urgent,
less harsh; and he can't tell which way round it all happens.

As the hand entwined in Rod's doesn't pull away, and the hand poised
behind Rod's knee doesn't pull forward and to the side, throwing him off
balance, and he doesn't somehow twist their bodies round, trap Rod
beneath him, and laugh, which is odd, but doesn't matter really, because
he'll do it in a minute, won't he.

'Course he will.

And somehow his hand is twined in Rod's hair, cupping his head,
stroking, gently.  Christ, how gently.  And it's like reversing a
telescope, suddenly, time and pride and Christ, even his cock forgotten
in the realisation that all he wants to do, really, is hold this hard,
dark body close for a minute, just a minute.  Just hold him.  Hold Rod.


And when he remembers to breathe again he tells himself there's no harm
in that, surely, not just for a minute.  'Course there isn't.  Really.
No harm in it at all.

And he'll stop, any moment now, he'll stop, won't he.  'Course he will.

And he can't think straight, somehow, and it must show a little, because
Rod's all too gentle lips retreat, slowly, body shifting as he lifts his
head, a little, just a little, and just *looks* at him, searching his
face with eyes that darken, just a little.  And Boulton thinks dimly
that it must be something to do with that hand stroking his cheek,
where'd the hell that come from, and it takes a fucking eternity before
he figures out it's his.

And tells himself he's not sure how he feels about that, either.  But he
can't stop it, somehow, just the lightest brush, the soft hairs on the
back of his knuckle invisible against Rod's flushed skin.  And he tells
himself that all Rod looks is puzzled, somehow, but he doesn't, really,
there's more to it than that, and they both know it and that's all
right.  'Course it is.  And it's all right for Rod to slide his hand out
from under Boulton's back, too, bring it up to Boulton's face, let it
rest there, let it rest, fingertips tracing gentle patterns over soft
and freckled skin.  And it's all right, and it shouldn't be, but...

And it's bloody quiet all of a sudden.

And Rod looks like he's going to say something, maybe, and before he can
Boulton closes his eyes, shuts him out.  Has to.

And Rod doesn't say anything, which only makes it worse, somehow.

And Boulton hears a soft sigh, drawn-out; feels Rod's head lower,
slightly, feels the brush of his sweat-dampened fringe on his forehead,
his breath on his lips; feels his clasped hand tighten, just a little,
just for an instant, then let go.

Feels Rod shift, prop himself up, awkwardly, keep his distance.

And he's grateful, and shouldn't be, and can't stand it, can't stand
himself and the only thing he can do doesn't make any sense now, but he
does it anyway; explodes into action, pushing with one hand, reaching
and pulling with the other, not even thinking about it.  Forcing Rod off
balance, wrenching him over, pinning him down.  And it shouldn't work,
but it does, and he doesn't want to think it's only because he's letting
him do it, and he doesn't want to think about why.

Fumbling, working on instinct, he hauls himself up, kneels over Rod,
straddles him; works blindly at his belt and zip, tears harshly at the
blurred, dark blue and fucks it up.  Won't look, won't give up, until
the gentle pressure of Rod's hand on his, and the gentle sound of his
name, spoken low, stops him cold.

Doesn't dare think about what his expression must be.  Doesn't dare
think in case he has to change it, doesn't dare change it in case the
words he doesn't have come out anyway.

And all he feels is helpless, and all he can do is sit quite, quite
still, one tiny, quiet part of his mind letting him let Rod take over,
take care of whatever happens next.  Letting him sit, and rest, and calm
as the seat moves gently and the denim under his hand pulls away, and
warm flesh takes its place.

He finds himself stroking Rod's thigh, numbly, concentrating on the soft
hairs under his palm, the feel of the muscle tensing and relaxing, on
the movement and sound as Rod gets shot of the jeans and settles back.
Finds himself flinching as Rod's hands fall softly on his body, gather
up his shirt and start to pull it off, gently.  So fucking gently.  And
he can't move, he won't, and thinks about nothing as somehow his head
bows and the shirt slides up, and over; concentrates on the soft
material stroking awkwardly down his arms, over his hands.

And he reaches out, blindly, in remorse; catches hold of Rod's arms,
strokes them too hard as deft hands return to his waist, unzip and pull
down, undo slippery boxer buttons and smooth everything down and away
until his forgotten cock is free; feels fingers soft on his flesh,
gentle, soft touches bringing him hard again although it's the last
thing he wants, now.

Sex and... and...

...and he shies away from calling it anything because it's easier, isn't
it.  And they don't mix.  It's something he's learnt the hard way.  And
if he were anywhere else, any time else, with anyone else, he'd walk
away, now.  He should.  He has to.  He doesn't.  He won't.  And by
Christ that hurts.

And the worst thing is Rod hasn't done anything wrong.

And it'd be so easy not to say anything, do anything, but it's only fair
to be sure he understands that, and he forces himself to open his eyes,
finally, somehow, and is relieved to find himself looking down, almost
laughs, almost as he concentrates on focusing, as Rod's hard, thick cock
swims into vision.  And he hopes that's a good sign.

And he takes his time, lets his gaze travel up Rod's naked form slowly,
takes in the lines and the hollows and the curves and the colours; takes
in the dark and the light, the sparse damp hairs on his flushed, heaving
chest, on his arms.  Doesn't want to look at his own hands, still
kneading, pleading on Rod's forearms; forces himself to look, forces his
fingers to quieten, to rest in mute apology.  And it's minutes, slow,
deep-breathing minutes, before he moves on up, past the chain, past the
open, wet lips, to meet Rod's gaze.  And it feels like the hardest thing
he's ever done.

And maybe there's a tinge of concern in the shadows under the damp
fringe, maybe, but it could just be the light, couldn't it.

And his hands move down, slowly, to Rod's wrists, and rest there,
gently, stroking along the line of the watchband.  And Rod's fingers
curve to compass Boulton's own wrists, in turn.  And just before it all
gets too uncomfortable, there's the tiniest nod that could mean
anything.  Could mean he understands.  Could mean it's all right.  Could
mean his fringe was in his eyes.  You can never tell, with Rod.

All part of the game.

And Rod smiles, fiercely; yanks his hands down, tightens his grip on
Boulton's wrists and pulls him down, hard and fast, and he can breathe
again.  Can lose himself in blessedly aggressive kisses, in helping
Rodney scramble up and brace himself against the door in a tangle of
spread limbs and whispered goads.  Can bury himself in him, hard; lose
himself, lose today in thrusts and scrapes and bites, all just-so-hard
and no more; lose the lingering urge to lash out, to hurt.  Because he
knows he *could*, if he wanted to.  And he doesn't.  Not this time.  Not
ever, with this one.

Lose himself in the harsh scrape of seatcover on skin, in mild red
chafes and fevered flesh; in the feel of dark, damp hairs on Rod's
chest, in the sound and movement and taste and feel of sweat-slippery
bodies as he rides him, hard, just harshly enough for both of them.  And
Rod fights it, delights in it; softens, hardens, pushes, hauls, arches
and moans against him, keeping it hard and fun and light and demanding.
Keeping it animal.  Keeping the balance.

And he can almost forgive him for pulling him tight as he comes, buries
everything in the effort to keep going just that little bit longer, just
a little, so he doesn't notice.  For pulling him down, holding him until
he stills, until their breathing dies away and the ever-present hum of
traffic fills his ears again.  For knowing when to let go.

And it's almost the same as always, after.  Almost the same, but not
quite.  As Rod makes the same old --- bad --- jokes as they pull apart,
and clean up, and tissue and zip and clothe, and he makes the same old
--- sharp --- remarks in response, and tries not to think about the fact
he couldn't care less that it's too late, now, to catch Charlton and
Murray on the hop; and he's not going to think about why, either, not
just now, thank you.  And he feels Rod watching him, quietly, as he
dresses; and finds any number of places to look as Rod retrieves his
belt and hands it to him, gently, and the jokes and smart remarks dry
up.

And he's almost sure Rod understands.  Almost.

And doesn't want to know, and knows for sure, when Rod falls carelessly
into the passenger seat, and starts talking ten to the dozen about
nothing very much.  Starts the same old round of irrelevancies,
complaints, and interminable bloody anecdotes about his mate in SO-10.

Just filling the gap, keeping things light.

Just being him, same as ever.

Almost the same, but not quite.  And it's all in the eyes, but Rod's
looking out the window, mostly, and Boulton... well, he's got to
concentrate on the seatbelt and the gearstick and the ignition, hasn't
he.  And it's second nature now, to ignore deliberate kindnesses, so
that's all right.

And as he pulls out into the rush-hour chaos, John Boulton tells himself
it's all part of the game.  Isn't it.

'Course it is.


=== end ===