DISCLAIMER:    Not mine, but I Rapunzel them occasionally
               when Thames ain't looking.

TITLE:         Score Draw, or Two Can Play
AUTHOR:        kel
PAIRING:       Boulton/Skase
RATING:        NC-17 for lust, language and laughs
SPOILERS:      nah
BOUQUETS TO:   Rie & Lord Hairy for beta, giggles and parquetry.
               Up the Gunners!

FEEDBACK of all kinds is always welcome.  bessie@goldweb.com.au

=========

SCORE DRAW, or TWO CAN PLAY
By kel


John Boulton's enjoying a day at home.  No suit, no phones, no stress, just
chilly evening sun and a house that looks like a bomb site.

He's rather pleased with himself.  Two rooms stripped and plastered.
 Another hour or so today, couple of weekends, and that'll be downstairs out
of the way.  Assuming the rain holds off, that is.

He's outside, crouching to rinse out a makeshift carry bucket when he hears
the gate swing open, sees a dark, tall silhouette loping hesitantly towards
the house.

//Bugger.//

He's not in the mood for visitors.

He shades his eyes, blinking at the sun behind the intruder.

Especially not this one.  Well...

"Rod?"

"Guv."

The man who put the four-letter word in Detective Constable.  Rod Skase.
 Out early, dressed to the nines.  Out very early, considering.

//Blimey, turn my back for five minutes...  Deakin's too soft on him, too
soft by half.//

He resists the urge to look at his watch.

//Skiver.//

Rod slows, halts, hands in pockets, looks around at the yard --- pallets,
tiles, bricks, filler, cement, tools all over the place.

"Don't tell me.  Fly tippers?"

That's enough out of you, thinks Boulton.

He's aware he doesn't cut quite the most impressive figure at the moment.
 Loose cotton shirt, summer shorts, plaster and paint everywhere.  He
straightens up, easily, before speaking.

"What'd'you want, Rod?"

Short.  Commanding.  Just like him really.

Rod at least has the grace to look uncomfortable.  Shuffles a little, rakes
his wayward fringe out of his eyes.

"Word came through after you left last night --- CPS've dropped the ball on
the Phillipson case.  They reckon it won't stand up."

Boulton swears, slams the empty bucket down on an upturned packing crate,
sending a spray of fine white drops into the air.

"Shit!"

"Oh.  Sorry."

Rod bites back whatever else he was going to say.  He's peering at the newly
pointillist arm and shoulder of his jacket.  His new, black, leather jacket.
  He pulls out a tissue from somewhere and starts to swipe at the sleeve.
  Makes it worse.  Swears.  Licks the tissue, gingerly, wipes it again.

//Dear oh dear.//

"Leave it.  It'll brush off when it's dry."

Rod doesn't look convinced, somehow.  Why doesn't he ever listen, thinks
Boulton, exasperatedly.  Not too exasperatedly, though.

//It's rather endearing, when you think about it.//

"Trust me on this.  I've been up to my neck in the stuff for weeks."  He
holds out his forearms, countless plaster streaks startling among the auburn
hairs.  It's a nice contrast.

Rod puts the tissue away, reluctantly.  He can't argue with that, although
he looks as if he'd like to.

"I'll bet Suzy was disappointed."

"What?  Oh, yeah.  That's an understatement."  Rod's dabbing at the spots on
his cuff again.  He catches Boulton smirking at him and hastily turns the
movement into a nonchalant glance at his watch.

//Definitely skiving.//

"There's always next time."

"Yeah, well, I thought I'd better let you know."

"Thanks."

They stand there for a minute, in silence.

Rod's having trouble deciding what to do with his hands, moving them
restlessly from coat to cuff to pocket, rubbing his chin, finally settling
on a run through his hair, producing a burst of tiny zebra stripes
throughout his fringe in the process.  He's looking around, looking awkward,
as if something about the yard bothers him.  Something to do with all this
evidence of actual work, thinks Boulton.

//Stranger in a strange land, and all that.//

He takes pity on him.

"Can I get you a tea or something?  I was about to take a break anyway..."

"Uh, no.  I'm fine, thanks.  Thanks."  Rod starts to shift away, backs into
a large and very muddy pile of bricks.

//No patience, this boy.//

Muttered curses.

"That'll brush off too."

"Look, I've got to be somewhe--"

No, really? thinks Boulton, stifling a grin, that shirt's got "pull" written
all over it.

//Lucky girl.//

He says so.

And is surprised to see Rod blush, a deep, deep red that gets darker the
longer he looks at it.

//Iiiiiiinteresting.//

"Come in anyway.  That won't take a minute to dry.  There's a heater in the
kitchen."

And Boulton leads the way back to the house, navigating the debris expertly
in an offhand sort of way.  Rod follows, slowly, stepping gingerly round the
puddles.

********


Inside, the Blitz motif continues, albeit with a garishness most people
never see outside old Partridge Family reruns.  Cracked, vinyl-topped
benches in Seventies colours contrast strangely with the glaring new
whiteness of the walls.  Globs and splots all over the place, plaster,
filler and God knows what else.  Folding table, folding chairs, ratty carpet
squares over very, very nasty lino.  Rod stops to wipe his feet anyway, out
of habit, and narrowly avoids tripping over a tangle of wires sticking out
of the wall.

Boulton watches him taking in the surroundings with a look of faint
distaste. Typical, he thinks.

//No imagination.
  Not that he needs it, looking like that.//

A faint, puzzled frown crosses Rod's brow as he looks around.  //Nosy sod.//
  Boulton can almost hear him mentally ticking off the contents of the room.

One jug, one mug, one ashtray.  Ashtray?  But...

He smiles, privately.

//Thank you.  A little mystery never goes astray.//

"Go on, grab a seat.  It should all be dry in here."

He switches the heater on and heads for the tap, leaving Rod scratching
suspiciously at the powdery globs on the least bespattered chair.

He retrieves an extra cup from under a bench somewhere.  He's aware he looks
confident, easy, very much at home.  The faint reflection in the kitchen
window shows him Rod's restless, muttering under his breath at the mud on
the back of his legs, but not doing anything about it.  Odd, that.  Or maybe
not.

He dabs absently at the tiny plaster spots mingling with the freckles under
his eyes.

//My turf, so to speak.  Home ground.  I'd be the same with Meadows.  Well,
no, I wouldn't, but still.  Funny how you can spend half your working life
in and out of other people's houses, but when it comes to socialising...//

He wonders briefly about the long-term effects of a career where you'd
actually prefer to be dealing with the dead or burgled.  Hi, how are you,
the VCR's missing and there's a body in the kitchen.

Speaking of which...

Rod's looking back at the ashtray again.  He looks...twitchy.  Like a kid
with an itch he can't scratch in polite company.  Like most of Rod's
mannerisms it somehow manages to be attractive and intensely irritating at
the same time.

//Come on.  Snap out of it.//

He turns, smiles casually.

"So, what do you think?"

Rod's caught off-guard.  "Well..."

"Well...?"  Open, easy expression.

Rod starts to say something, changes his mind.

"Go on.  You can't offend me more than this colour scheme does."

Rod laughs, slightly shamefaced.  Caught out.  "It's a bit of a dump, Guv."

"It's not a dump, it's an investment opportunity.  Get your terms right."

He smiles, is answered in kind.

//There.//

"If you say so."

"Yeah, well.  The way I see it, no matter what I do, at least I can't make
it any worse."

Rod laughs, relaxes a little.

//Good.  He was making *me* uncomfortable.   Must be one hell of a date if
he's this nervous.  Which reminds me...//

"Heater's over there.  You in much of a hurry?"

"What?"  Rod looks flustered, recovers beautifully.  "No, no.  It's, er...
 It can wait."

Boulton raises an eyebrow.

"It's earlier than I thought."

//Bizarre.  And here was me thinking he wouldn't know early if it jumped up
and bit him.  Ah well, we all have our secrets.//

He holds up a teabag.  "So, want one?"

Rod half-shrugs, nods.  "Might as well."  He has the air of someone who's
made a decision.  Much more relaxed.

//That's better.//

Boulton smiles.  "To tell you the truth I could use some company.  Feels a
bit odd having a whole day with no-one to swear at."

It's not exactly untrue.

Rod snorts, leans one elbow on the table, long fingers teasing at his lower
lip as he looks around.   He grins easily, crosses one long leg over the
other and swears at the resulting mud transfer.

Boulton turns to the now whistling kettle, hiding a smile.

//Idiot.//

"There's a clothes brush in the other room if you want to have a look.  Blue
box on the left, under the tarp."

No answer.  He looks up at Rod's reflection while he's getting the tea
together, stops in his tracks.

//Now that's interesting.//

Rod appears to be watching him.  Rather closely.  One elbow propped on the
table, head resting on his hand, foot tapping impatiently, his eyes
flickering from the back of Boulton's neck to the tight elastic at his
waist, down the legs, up again...

//Speculative?  Appreciative?  If I didn't know better...
  I wonder if he knows he's doing it.//

Rod's eyes drift up to the window, sees Boulton watching him.  Looks away,
fast.  Boulton half-turns, sees a young man with his attention wholly
absorbed by the electrical graveyard behind the door.  An engagingly flushed
young man.

"There's no milk."

Rod shrugs an "OK", doesn't look at him.

He turns back, does the necessary with the tea, looks up again discreetly.

//He's baa-ack.
  Well, there's your answer.
  Appreciative.  Distinctly appreciative.
  Should my er... ears... be burning?
  Always nice to be noticed.//

He turns back, brings two steaming mugs over to the table.

//This could be fun.//

He sits, waits for Rod to reach for his tea.

"No sugar either."

"Ah."  Sips at it, impassively, still not meeting his eyes.

"Rod...?"

//He'll have to look up now.//

He does.  Guardedly.

"Guv?"

"John.  We're not at work now."

A flash of something behind the eyes.  Indistinct.

"Er.  John.  Right."  Rod sounds lost, like a priest asked to read an
obscure and possibly lewd word aloud.  Like he thinks he knows what it means
but doesn't quite dare to ask.

"Why didn't you just call? From the office?"

"Sorry?"

"Phillipson."

Rod shifts in his chair, lets his fringe fall forward over his eyes.

"Well... it wasn't urgent.  And I was coming out this way anyway..."

He colours slightly.  Boulton waits.

"It's not that far, really."  Almost defensive.  "And..."

//And Suzy rang me this morning.  But you know that.  You were there.  I
could hear the DI giving you a right bollocking about evidence in the
background.//

Maybe that's it, he thinks, somewhat reluctantly.  More reluctantly than he
cares to admit.  //Maybe he's in trouble.//

"Everything all right, Rod?"

"Yeah.  Why?"  Definitely defensive.

//Nah, can't be.  He'd have pulled a pre-emptive Not My Fault on me three
steps inside the gate if he was.  //

The thought is obscurely comforting.

"Oh, no reason."

Rod's running his hands through his hair again, foot tapping like Samuel
Morse on speed.

//Blimey, he's got it bad, whatever it is.//

The possibilities send a frisson through him, concentrated somewhere between
his navel and the top of his groin.

//Bad idea in these shorts.
  Bad idea full stop.//

Rod's studying the cracks in his coffee cup with almost manic intensity.
  Well, either that or the way the fading sunlight gives the fine hairs on
Boulton's legs a delicately red-gold aura.

Hard to tell.

He resolves not to test the theory.  Really.  It's a good five seconds
before he finds himself shifting position.

//Well, these chairs are murder on the coccyx.//

He makes a point of not noticing that Rod's eyes follow the movement.  With
particular reference to the thigh area.

//Well, well, well.//

He leans back, puts his mug back on the table with just enough of a jar to
recapture Rod's attention.  Oh yeah, son, I noticed.

John Boulton likes a challenge.

"Well, this is nice, isn't it?"

Smiles.  Noncommittal.

"Er... yeah."

Silence again.

//If that's his idea of conversation I'm beginning to see why he needs the
shirt.//

The twitching's getting worse.

"Look, I probably ought to ---"

//Oh no you don't, not yet.  Cards on the table, if you please.//

"More tea?"

"Er, no, thanks."

Scintillating.  Not.

To help him along, Boulton shifts in his chair, reaches for his mug.  Quite
incidentally bringing his hips a little further forward.

Rod bites his lower lip briefly, looks like he's selecting a range of
thoughts from a menu.  Point and prick?  Boulton can almost hear him putting
his vocal chords in 'neutral'.

"So... it's just you here, is it?"

Casual.  Casual with a capital everything.  And he's looking at the ashtray
again.

//Bingo.//

"Yes.  Yes, just me."

"Ah."

The twitching subsides, briefly.

"Usually."

Resumes.

"My brother-in-law's helping out with the electrics."

Subsides.

//Oh dear.  I shouldn't be enjoying this.  Really.
  There's a word for people like me.//

"Must be a lot of work."

//You should talk.//

"You make it sound like a disease."

"No... "  Rod laughs, involuntarily.  Embarrassed.  "I don't get it, Guv.
  John.  I mean--- What do you get out of it?"

Boulton folds his arms, brings one hand up to brush at his lower lip,
absently.  Ever so absently.  "How'd you mean?"

Well, that got his attention.

"Rod?"

"What?"  Rod tears his eyes away, crosses and re-crosses his legs.

//Jesus, why can't he sit still, he'll have me at it in a minute.//

"You were saying?"

Rod shrugs, gestures at the devastation around them.  "This.  Why not just
pay a builder? That's what they're for."

"You've got no soul, you know that, don't you?"

"Maybe, but I don't have a yard full of crap either."

"You don't have a yard."

"That's beside the point."

They share a laugh.  Connection.  Guarded.  But Rod doesn't look away.

Boulton makes a decision, holds Rod's gaze a little longer than necessary.
  Just long enough to say I know what you're up to.  Maybe.

"Anyway, I prefer to take a... hands-on approach."

And just maybe there's a response.  Maybe.

"Oh really?"

Definitely.

"Really."

//Oh dear.  Ohhh dear.  This could be dangerous.
  On the other hand, he's stopped that damn twitching.
  Completely.//

"Want a look around? You never know, you might learn something."

"What, come up and see my mouldings?"

Low.  Casual.  Not quite dismissable.

"Something like that."

And the fluidity with which Rod unfolds himself and stands up tells him
everything he needs to know.

//Game on.//

********


Boulton's shown people round the house before.  Mess, more mess, mind your
step, I haven't quite got the hang of this floorboard thing yet.  Done.

Three up, two down, five minutes, tops.  Unless they want to hear all about
it.

In excruciating detail.

Nearly half an hour later, Rod doesn't.  He can tell.  And he hasn't even
started on upstairs.

Then again, serves him right for asking such daft questions.

//You'd think he'd never seen a sawhorse before.
  Well, he didn't see *that* one.  I must remember to put that globe back
in...//

He's leading the way up a narrow, dimly lit staircase.  Genuine cedar
treads, something of a find, really.

He stops on the landing, looks back at Rod's face and decides not to explain
exactly why he wants to strip and refinish it all.

//The poor sod's running out of smart remarks, and we can't have that.//

And he keeps missing his cues.

//That's not like him.  You'd think he thought entendre's where the French
go for holidays.
  Throw him a line, John.  A genuinely irresistible feed line.
  Tacky, tacky, tacky.//

He waits until Rod's managed to struggle his way through an inane
observation on the (lovingly restored) cornicing, and says

//...I'm gonna hate myself for this...//

"Yeah, well, I'm good with my hands."

And waits.

"So I'd heard."

Not quite low enough to pass unnoticed.

All *right*, thinks Boulton.  //*Finally*//.

He turns round, leans easily against the wall.

"Kingsley?"

//Says everything, says nothing.  Well done, John.  Took three years to get
that particular shade of mild indifference. This is, of course, where it all
goes hideously, hideously, wrong.
  Sometimes you only get one shot.  Call it an... investment.//

*Someone's* developed an intense interest in the scratches on the antique
handrail.

//Disappointing.//

Practised, relaxed stance.

//Come on.
  Nothing.  Ah well.
  There's the door, Rod.  One.//

"Look, I..."

//Think carefully.  Think very, very carefully.  No point if you won't stand
up to me.  Two.//

He manages to convey the ghost of a shrug without actually moving.

//Time's up.//

"Carver."

And he's looking up again, defiantly unembarrassed.  Not.

//Nice save.
  Nice guess.
  That's one to me.//

*********

Boulton relaxes, lets his full weight rest on the handrail behind him.
 Looks at Rod for a long, long time before speaking.  Until he's sure.

"Come here."  Soft.

Rod steps up, leans against the opposite wall in an uncertain mirror of
Boulton's stance.  Wary, deliberate.

Boulton keeps his voice gentle, neutral.  Lets the non-verbals do the
talking.

"Anything I need to know?"

Rod swallows slightly, shifts.  "No."

Nervous, thinks Boulton, and is slightly gratified by the fact.

//I should talk.  This doesn't get any easier...//

"You?"

Rod shakes his head slightly, his eyes in shadow.

//Daft question, considering.
  And the rest *should* be common sense...//

Boulton half-smiles, feels intense, absurd pleasure as Rod responds in kind.
 Keeps his voice low, warm.

"Whole new ball game, isn't it?"

It's not a question.

"New rules...."  Almost a whisper, a husky, insolent edge to Rod's voice
that starts a slow burn somewhere deep inside Boulton's body.

"No rules."  Quiet, so quiet Rod has to step close, lean in, to hear.
 Boulton feels an all-too-familiar jolt at the scent of leather, the sight
of the dark hairs on Rod's wrist as he braces his arm against the wall
behind him.

//Cocky bugger.//

"No... rules."  Rod cocks his head to one side, repeats the phrase slowly,
tasting the words.  "You sure?"

"Absolutely."  Almost touching now, eyes locked, searching.  "Work's work,
of course, but..."

"OK."

Soft, so soft, breathed rather than spoken; felt, not heard.  And the
distance between them is no distance at all, and he's never noticed quite
how high that dark head stands above his own...

"In that case..."

...and just how graceful...

"Mmmh?"

...how... confident...

"In that case..."

//...too confident by half, but we'll deal with that later when he's not
quite so close...//

"I must caution you..."

//...slow smile, oh that's the way...//

"...that you do not have to wear anything, but..."

...murmured close, long lashes flicking down...

"... if you fail to mention..."

...breath on each other's lips, so close, and Jesus the smell of skin and
sawdust was just...

"...in court..."

//...and I've got to stop smiling, he's starting to think this was *his*
idea...//

"...Anything you do wear..."

//...and damned if it's going to be me that...//

"...may be..."

//...and just one more second, one more second...//

"...taken down..."

And that's more than enough.

********


They stand there for a long time.  Tasting.  Eyes meeting, closed, wilfully
blind to everything but the salt touch of each other's lips and tongues.
 Detente.  Detonation.

Somewhere in Boulton's head a little voice is whispering //hang on, let's go
back to this confidence thing//, but he ignores it, forgets it in an
instant.  //Fuck off, Will Robinson.//

Boulton prides himself on being a man in touch with his inner smartarse.

Somehow the brush of Rod's open jacket on his torso is just that little bit
more important.  He shivers as it teases, sways against him through the
cotton of his shirt.  He'll swear later he could make out every individual
zipper tooth as it swung back and forth, feel every single nub.  He'd swear
it now if he could remember the word for "jacket".  If he could remember how
to talk.

Rod's shirt, loose, just brushes the hair on his folded arms. The wall cold
against his back, handrail hard,

//...and aren't we all?...//

...the handrail ignorable, moving faintly beneath him as Rod takes hold,
uses it to brace himself.  He imagines the exposed wrist pale, knuckles
white in the fading light, other hand flat against the wall, taking most of
Rod's weight.  He can sense it.

Not touching. The exposed skin on his neck, face, thighs, forearms, burns
with not touching.  And as for his cock...

Probably best not to think about his cock.

It's not easy.

Boulton gives himself up to sensation.  For now.

//He's doing everything right, everything.
  One-all.//

Gives himself up to the probing, gentle touch of lips and tongue, to shivers
again as Rod's wayward hair gives up, falls forward onto his face, whispers
along his cheek and neck.  Gives up to the sound of accelerated breathing,
the brush of leather on cotton and Rod's watch tracking every long second.
 To the scent of sawdust, faint trace of sweat and a dark, cheap cologne
that's somehow very Rod.   To the almost tangible energy between them.

//Oh Christ yes.//

Slight, gentle graze of teeth along his lower lip.

He feels the tension, the trembling in the other's body, by proxy; the
handrail's vibrating slightly against the small of his back.  Vibrating in a
way that's making it extraordinarily difficult not to think about the bits
he's trying not to think about.  He tries very, very hard to convince
himself now's the right time to decide whether that means the brackets need
replacing.

His inner smartarse has a laugh like that kid on the Simpsons.

The vibrations are getting stronger.  He decides muzzily to assume it's his
legs.  What with the cold and... this... and all, they've forgotten what
they're for.

//Oh God, do that again.
  What cold? It's searing in here.//

He's enjoying this, the control it takes not to reach out, confident it's as
hard for Rod as it is for him.  Hoping it's *harder*

//...that's enough, you...
  ...because I don't think I can take this much longer.//

Decisions, decisions.

He bites back, gently.  Very gently, and smiles at the faint taste of
plaster and the evoked ghost of a moan.  The gratifyingly sharp shuddering
of indrawn breath.

Opens his eyes, sees and feels Rod pull away, only millimetres but it might
as well be the other side of the world.  Eyes clouded, unfocused.
  Beautiful.  Jesus, and the *desire*...

//I'll think about whatever I damn well like.//

"Uh..."

//Go on.//

Unable to concentrate, euphoric, his mouth feels swollen, oversensitive.

//I couldn't talk if I wanted to.//

And neither can Rod, by the look of it...

//Makes a change.//

...which is rather gratifying really.

//Two-one.//

"Guv..."  Hoarse, low.

//Oh Jesus.//

He shakes his head, just.  Or thinks he has.

"John..."

"Mmh?"

//Damn.//

Definitely unfocused.  Or is it just him?

"Where..."

//Ah.  The Awkward Moment.  Bedroom's up there, Rod.//

"I mean..."

//Up there being a long way away.  Quite an unconscionably long way away. Oh
Christ, I think I've forgotten how to walk...
  Stop looking like you don't know what you want to do with your hands.
 Read me.
  Read me? Yeah, right.  I don't have a back cover with a picture of Paul
Gascoigne on it.
  Silly me.
  Jesus I hope I didn't say that aloud.//

The faintest touch of confusion appears in Rod's eyes, mixed with something
darker, here and gone almost too fast to catch.

//This is unbearable.  I'm on fire, for Chrissake.//

He waits until Rod looks like he's going to speak, raises his hand, slides a
finger along Rod's lips and into his mouth.  Stares at the long, downturned
lashes, willing him to look up.

//Bloody hell, do I have to write you a note?  Dammit I am not going to...//

Despairing, desperate, he shivers as Rod's tongue teases the tip of his
finger.

//To...
  Oh God...
  Two all.//

He gives up, slides his other hand down, cups Rod's swollen groin.  Not
kneading, not stroking, not tearing the fly open, just resting.  It takes
all the strength he has.

//Yes.  Here.  Now.  *Please.*//

Rod raises his eyes, clear now.  Definitely dark.  And he's *smiling*.

The.  Bastard.

And there's admiration dawning in his eyes as he's slammed against the wall,
hard, Rod's body moulded against him,

//Two-three.//

...kisses, bites hard enough to mark along his neck.  Strong fingers in his
hair, tearing down the waistband on his shorts, peeling away, everything
away, his own hands in Rod's hair, tangled up and under the jacket, burning
at smooth, pale skin.  As he's spun round, gasping as his freed cock bobs,
coming to rest just under the cool wood of the handrail.

As he's yanked backwards, large hand closing just hard enough around the
base of his cock, groans loud at the hot mouth on the back of his neck,

//...I *knew* he'd have a thing about hairlines...//

Teeth grazing, small bites, hard enough to make him cry out; muffling shock
of fingers in his mouth.

//...and about bloody time too...
  Three all.//

Closes his eyes, concentrates on taking them as deep and wet as he can, so
sensitive he'd swear he can feel every ridge of skin, tongue working
overtime in rhythm with the hand on his cock.  Slow, strong strokes, not
strong enough but that'll change, that'll change.

He gasps as the hand disappears, laughs involuntarily at the sound of
fumbling behind him, at the feel as he presses back into hardness, into
denim and satin,

//..that figures...//

...and finally flesh, rewarded by a moan.

//Four-three.  //

And grinding and gone and somehow the fumbling's going on longer than it
should; muffled curses,

//...call *me* that sometime and see what happens...//

...and something rings a dim bell in the back of his mind and he turns, Rod
the very picture of concentration, frowning and biting that lower lip as he
struggles with...

He bites back a laugh as an empty blue and white package flutters to the
floor.

//Four all.
  The bastard.  I knew I was right about that shirt...//

And the hand returns, slides down, gently teasing slick now and somehow that
doesn't surprise him at all...

//...and thank God because I'd have killed him if he'd walked away...//

Rod meets his eyes, grins very wickedly indeed.  Raises his eyebrows in a
parody of Boulton himself. Boulton loses it and laughs.  Deeply.
  Delightedly.

//Four-five.  Hell, four-ten.  Anything.  Just get on with it...//

...and Rod doesn't need to be told.

Shock of cool fingers, deep, just the right kind of ungentleness,

... doesn't need to be told at all, and why doesn't that bother him as much
as he thinks it should...

...and the other hand burning against his chest,

//Jesus he knows his stuff, talk about sensitive//

...nipples straining against Rod's touch, so hard you'd think they were
analysing his fingerprints, and then down, grasping, stroking again, steady
stroke and he's going to lose it...

//Oh no.  Ohhhh no you don't.//

He leans back, braces, more than ready for more than this now please but
Rod's taking his own sweet time which is great, fine, but between the shorts
elastic pressing on his balls and the hand on his cock and those bloody
fingers he's going to have to get back to that not thinking about it thing
and he's not sure he can do that...

//and what did you just say?//

...and he mightn't have to after all, as the fingers slide out of him and he
waits...

//...funny, I could have sworn I heard something...//

...and waits...

//And dammit no I will not, I WILL NOT...//

And maybe, just maybe, Rod knows better than to push it... or maybe, just
maybe, it's because Boulton's radiating authority in that Now Or I Fillet
You kind of way...

//ah, so the sheer animal need in your voice when you said "fuck me" doesn't
come into it? Well, when I say "said", it was more of a shouting, pleading,
begging thing, really...//

...either way it doesn't matter because he's there, he's inside him, arm
wrapped around his chest, crushing him close.

//Four-twenty.//

And oh God this is good.  Just the right pressure and just the right speed
and //don't tell me, there's a little label with boffing instructions sewn
on the back of my neck...//

I've been set up, he thinks, outraged, delighted.

//Blimey, if he put this much research into his casework...
  Maybe there's a database.  The PNC must be good for something...//

The image is too much, and he laughs.  Owww.

Feels Rod hiss, brace against the sensation --- //oh, must remember that//.
 Is bitten hard, at just the right distance behind his ear, in retaliation.

...and what a very comprehensive label, he thinks, hysterically.  //Should
get an award under the Trades Descriptions Act...//

//Oh do that again, thank you, no, don't, not yet, oh don't don't don't stop
oh God.
Ohhhh God.//

He becomes aware of a low, breathless, sobbing voice echoing in the
stairwell.  Begins to feel a warmly righteous satisfaction before he
realises.

//Oh no.
  Ohhhh no.  I don't do "beg".
  Shit.  This was a bad idea.  Bad, bad, ba-uuuh...
  Christ, he'll be impossible in the office.//

But the thought's lost in a warm, firm grasp on his pressurised balls, thumb
stroke and stretch under the cock and //I've definitely been set up and
whoah there go the legs// and the jolt as they fall is unforfuckinggiveable
//do it again//... and somehow he's on his knees now, kneeling high, hands
whiteknuckled on the bannister, dimly registering the scrip of tearing cloth
as his shirt's pushed up, torn over his head, left hanging absurdly and God
knows where the shorts went...

Rod warm, heavy against him, hard in him and pounding's the only word for it
and you can bet he's still fully clothed.  And the image of that and Rod's
leather-clad wrists slipping in the sweat on his chest and that damn zipper
harsh against the back of his thighs...

//That wasn't me.  Oh please, please please tell me that wasn't me.//

Soft pinches on the edge of hurt.  Completely indelicate scratches, thumbs
hard on the tendons either side of his groin.  The rumbling of a subliminal,
satisfied laugh at the reactions of his shuddering body.  And he can just
feel Rod concentrating, enjoying this, enjoying him like this, playing him
on a bloody wire...

//And we can't have that.  Really.
  Damn damn damn damn damn.
  Think of something else.  Anything.  Bathroom floor.  Picture rail.
  Carpeting.  Roof tiles.  Yes, think about roof tiles.  Think about sitting
up there in the sun, hammering the --
  ...no, don't think about hammering...
  He'll never take me seriously again.
  Oh go on, give a monkey's.//

He's about to give in, let go, when he becomes aware of a murmuring
somewhere behind him, feels the heat of lips moving rhythmically against his
shoulder.  He could kick himself for the absurd rush of gratitude he feels
for having something, anything to concentrate on.

The sounds make no sense, the words blurring round the edges, but it's
something.  It's something like a mantra? Like...

Like...

"...erseamanwinterbuhh...erabouldadamsviva..."

Like...

"...Vivuh... Ljungb... Anelka... uuhh"

And there's something awfully familiar about this...

"...Bergkamp... Keown... Hughes... Petit..."

...horribly, horribly familiar...

A part of his brain he's always denied exists is having a field day.

//Say it with him now, you know you can.//

"Grimandi... Grondin.. oh God..."

He's outraged.  Well, the bits of him not busy appreciating the effect it's
having on Rod are, anyway.

//Oh Jesus, that'd better be a delaying tactic and not a wank list, or...//

"...Dixon, Bould, Adams..."

//Oh God, that's Arsenal.  Tell me I don't know that's Arsenal.//

Yup, says his one sport-related neuron, kicking back and grinning smugly.

//Bastard.  Bastard bastard bastard.
  Can't be a wank list if it's Arsenal...//

Oh, absolutely, says the neuron.  These Southern clubs are rubbish.

On the other hand there was a definite gasp in the middle of "Lukic".

//Right.
  *Right.*
  If that's the way you want it...//

He whispers the name, experimentally.

"Nuuuh."

The words become rougher, indistinct.  Rod's grasp on his body shifts,
tightens, everything suddenly urgent...

So he says it again, lower.  Slower.  Turns slightly, just enough to see
Rod's brow crease under his perspiration-matted hair...

"Don't.  Dooooon't..."  the words torn out of him, sobbed.

And again...

"Oh Jesus Guv... Ohhhh..."

Feral smile, remorseless.

//I.  Don't.  Do.  "Beg".//

"LukicLukicLukicLukicLukic..."

And that's it.

One last, tearing breath, thrust so hard his forearms slam into the wall,
white fire up his spine as Rod shudders into inarticulacy.

He orders his body to do everything it can to draw it out without giving in.
  And it's almost too much, almost hurts, does hurt, but oh how sweet.
  Pulsing, deep, and Rod's arms crossed on his chest, holding him hard,
tight, close.

Squeeze, shift.  Dips his head to nip gently at the skin on the back of a
trembling hand.  Smiles at the sharpness of the resulting moan.

//'Guv.'  Really.//

He relents, stills, not quite as soon as the tortured breathing behind him
tells him Rod needs him to.

//Nothing to do with me, no.//

Lets himself hang forward, Rod's weight searing, heavy against him.  It's
murder on the arms but he really doesn't want to move just now...  just
yet...

He finds an instinct for Rod's timing, knows exactly when to expect the
awkward pull away, sliding out of his body.  Knows when to let go, let
himself be pulled round and down, arms absurdly tangled in the remains of
his shirt, be laid awkwardly across the landing.

The fevered removal and pillowing of Rod's jacket under his head is a nice
surprise.  He's delighted at the feel of strong fingers on his wrists,
shredding the material further to get it off, tossing it to land somewhere
in the near-dark with the sawdust and the discarded condom.

There's just enough light to see, now.  Just enough light to reflect
sleepily in Rod's eyes, highlight his face and hands as he runs them over
Boulton's body, stroking, too light.  He looks stoned, sated, exhausted,
ferociously happy, manoevring slowly, gently, eyes locked on Boulton's in a
silent war of wills...

//...and damned if I'm going to reach out...
  ...and it'll bloody kill me if I don't...//

...until Rod finally leans in and closes those bitten, swollen lips around
the head of Boulton's cock, runs the tip of his tongue around, over, in...

...and the sight of his own, plaster-marbled hands tangled in Rod's hair,
coaxing, urging, his hips held down, dark fringe brushing the inside of his
parted thighs is just...

And there's not a lot he remembers after that.

********

Later, as he's soaping over the bites and bruises in the shower, still
trembling from the melange of touch and thrust and oh, everything, Boulton
feels his whole body smile.

//What a day.//

A victory, of sorts. An unexpected gift.  A new beginning.  Game on.

"LukicLukicLukic..."

He laughs, bows to let the warm water kiss its way down his aching back...
 and pretends really, really hard he can't see Rod, damp and tousled,
practising his blushes in the bathroom mirror.

==fin==

Feedback, crit, whatever welcome at
bessie@goldweb.com.au