DISCLAIMER:     Hollis, Slater and all other Sun Hill personnel
                mentioned herein are, have always been, and will
                always be the property of
                Thames/Pearson/Carlton, Geoff McQueen, yatta
                yatta yatta. Written for fun, not money, honey.
                Well, and because RavenCyr dared me to...

CHRONOLOGY:     Nick is still a probationer.

CONTENT:        NC-17; Adult themes, bad language, two guys
                having a bit o'sex...

THANKS:         to my magnificent beta-reader, Rie... you are a
                marvel, m'dear.

Flames, comments, Certificates of Section under the Mental
Health Act etc to: kel@goldweb.com.au. I am obliged to state that
wcs.net.au's official position on web content like this is "...whatever."


========
With One Bound
By kel
========


Another night. Another *late// night. Reg Hollis shivered as he
stepped from the golden warmth of  the King's Arms, nodding
goodnights to Pol and June and the others as they tumbled,
laughing,  into cars and taxis, goodnights which for the most
part went ignored in the rush to be first to the  Indian
takeaway round the corner. Well, let'em go. At least *he*
wouldn't be hungover in the  morning.

Come to think of it, he couldn't remember the last time he had
been hungover... He sighed,  ignoring the steady drizzle working
its way down the back of his collar, and made his way over to
where he had parked what Alistair Grieg had been known to call
his "trusty wee bikie".

As he started to strap on his helmet, the door of the pub banged
open behind him, signalling  another exit en masse. He didn't
bother to turn around - the raucous tones of D S Beech told him
all he needed to know. Bloody CID. Like to see *them* get up at
4:30 every bloody day.

Strapping on his helmet, he became aware that someone was
calling his name. He turned to see  George Garfield struggling
towards him under the weight of an exuberantly unsteady Nick
Slater.

"Hey, hey Reg. Would you do us a favour?"

"Oh yeah... what's up?"

The pair halted unsteadily next to the bike, Slater giggling
quietly and making vaguely obscene  gestures at the departing
plain-clothes officers.

Garfield grimaced, jerking his head toward Slater. "Him, that's
what. Can you give him a lift back  to the sectionhouse? He's
not fit to be out on his own. I was going to do it but I've
gotta get  straight to the restaurant, and there's a few extra
bodies coming..."

//You've just had your back seat re-upholstered, you mean.//
"Well, I -"

"Oh come on, you've got a spare helmet, haven't you?"

Reg surveyed the younger man dubiously. "Well, yeah, but look at
'im. He can barely stand up  straight."

Nick turned back to look at him, grinning idiotically. "What?
Who can't?" He burped, noisily. "I'm  all right. I jus... I jus
need to sit down, is all. Breffafreshair."

Pulling away from Garfield, he stumbled towards the bike,
leaning down to peer muzzily at the  Danger Mouse sticker on the
mudguard. "Hey, cool. I never bin on a mobo.. moborti.. one of
these before." He looked up, his face shining with anticipation.
"Can I go on the back, can I? Oh,  g'wan. I've always wan'ed to
do that."

"Look, just hang on a sec-"

"Aw pleeeease?"

"Yeah, 'course you can. Just remember to hang on to Reg, right?
Eh?" Garfield moved away,  rubbing his neck ruefully. "He'll be
fine. Grip like a bloody crocodile." He clapped Reg over-
heartily on the back, then moved away before he could argue.

"But what if he's-.. George! Geo- oh, stuff it. You owe me one!"

George turned and waved, making for the car park.

"Git." Reg turned back to the bike, to find Nick ensconced in
the saddle, spare helmet on  backwards, fondling the handlebars
and making "brrrrrm brrrmmm" noises. "Look, stop that. *Stop
that*." He slapped Nick's hands away, and righted the headgear,
fumbling with the straps and  trying not to breathe as another
particularly noxious burp rent the night air. "Christ
almighty... now  listen, you bloody well hang on, and hang on
*tight*, OK? And if you so much as *sound* like  you're going to
throw up, don't care where we are, you're *off*, understand?"

Nick nodded, still smiling maniacally. "Off, right. My Dad
wouldn' let me have one of these." He  giggled. "S'like wossname
Fonda, innit? Only his was better. An 'Arley. D'you know that?
'Course,  you're not really the 'Arley type." He burped again,
lightly. "My Grandma, she 'ad an 'Arley, back  in the war.
Courier job. Loved it."

"Fascinating. Move over. And hang on tight." Reg swung himself
into the saddle, bumping the  younger man backwards
unnecessarily hard. "Harley, huh. You know what your trouble i-
ooooff!"  Two strong arms seized him hard, bending him forwards
over the handlebars.

He struggled to speak. "Nick... "

"Yeah?"

"Not like that."

"Huh?"

"Not like that."

"Wha?" The probationer sounded vaguely hurt. "You said hang on
ti'. You *said*."

Reg took a deep breath, or tried to. "Yees, but -" He sighed. "I
need my arms *free*, Nick."

"Oh...?" Slater snorted. "Oh, s'pose you would. To steer the
bike, ri'?"

"... steer the bike, yes."

Nick giggled. "Sorry." He let go and straightened up, just long
enough for Reg to take hold of the  handlebars, then seized him
again, twice as hard. "Better?"

Reg started to protest, then thought better of it. //Double git.
George, you owe me bigtime for  this.// "It's.. it's fine. Now
hang on." He pulled down his visor, kickstarted the engine, and
began  the slow trek through the midnight streets.

*****

By the time they reached the sectionhouse, Reg had recategorised
Garfield several times... Into  the charts at //git//, he had
rapidly risen through //toerag//, //bastard//, and //arsehole//,
and was  now fast approaching //Number One evil scumbag of all
time including Attila the fucking Hun//  with a bullet.

Normally ten minutes, on a slow day, in heavy traffic, the
journey had taken half an hour. Sure  he'd been going extra
slowly, but... God almighty. First Nick wanted a pee, (then he
didn't), then  he wanted a kebab, (then he didn't), then he'd
dropped his wallet (but he hadn't), then he wanted  to be sick,
(but he wasn't), then he'd fallen off at the traffic lights and
sworn he'd broken his leg  (oh *if only*!). And all to the tune
of one and a half verses of "Born to be Wild" sung flatter than
the Mojave over and over and over again...

//I wish I'd never been born. No, I wish *he'd* never been born.
If I never have to speak to the little  git again it'll be too
soon.//

He switched off the engine, and waited. Slater was leaning
heavily against him, not moving.  "Nick. Nick mate, we're here.
Wake up."

"Hmm? I'm 'wake. Not sleep, can' go sleep on a mobi'. Tha'd be
stupid."

"Well, what's the matter? You gonna get off or what?"

"Yeah, innaminute. I was jus' thinking. 'Snice, innit?"

"What?"

"This. 'Slike cuddles. *'Svery* nice. Don't you think?"

Reg tried to pull away, but found himself held fast. "Look, Nick
-"

"An' sexy, too. I heard people say bikes was sexy, but didn'
believe it. Do you think i's sexy?"

//What?// "I think it's late, and it's raining, and we've got to
start work bloody early tomorrow. Now  come on, get off."
Dislodging one arm with difficulty, he managed to get free of
Nick and the bike,  then held out a hand too late to steady
Slater as he dismounted, missed his footing and slid onto  the
ground.

"You do, don't you?" Slater grinned mischievously up at him.
"D'y' enjoy it?"

Reg felt himself blushing. "I'm not sure I know what you mean. "

"You *do*, I can tell." Slater pulled himself up, nearly
bringing the bike down on top of him. "I  would, 'f I had one. "
He reached over to Reg, leaning in conspiratorially. "You can
tell me. I won't  say nuffin'. G'wan... you do." He reached out
and tickled Reg under the chin, almost singing the  words as if
he were calling a kitten. "You do, you know you dooo..."

Reg batted Slater's hands away, then doubled up as the younger
man turned the tease into a full  on tickle attack. "Nick...
gerroff. Stop it! Stop it!"

"Won't. Not till you 'mit it..." Slater closed in mercilessly,
tickling harder and harder. Reg tried hard  to fight him off,
unsuccessfully, laughing in spite of himself. Twisting out of
Nick's reach, he  tripped and crashed into the bushes next to
the wall, hoping for respite, but finding none as Slater  threw
himself on top of him and continued the attack. "Give in... give
iiiin...."

"Will you for Chrissake *shut it!*" A large, muddy and odiferous
boot bounced off the ground,  ricocheting off Reg's helmet.
Looking up, Reg saw Steve Loxton peering down at them, eyes
blazing with anger. "Fuck off, the pair of you. I'm in court in
the morning. Jesus. " He withdrew,  slamming the window and
cutting off an indistinct sentence in which the words "kill",
"bastard"  and Hollis" seemed to feature repeatedly and in no
particular order.

Slater rolled over and sat up unsteadily. "Some people got no
sense of humour." He peered  upwards, puzzled. "Hey, isn't that
Gary's roo-"

Reg coughed, quickly, standing and brushing himself off. "No,
no, just looks like it from here,  that's all. Perspective or
something, //trompe l'oeil//. Anyway, -"

"Tromp loyly? 'Oo's 'e then?"

"Well, it's art, innit."

Nick snorted. "Art? What the fuck'd *you* know 'bout art?"

"Look, I read this article, as it happens, and... Oh, never
mind. He's right. It *is* late. And you,  son, are going to be
in no shape at all tomorrow if you don't get to bed soon."

Nick shrugged and held out a hand for Reg to pull him up. "Yeah,
yeah, I 'spose you're right an'  all. Sorry 'bout that. Didn'
mean to get you into trouble." Upright again, he seemed a little
more  subdued than before. "Mean bastar'. 'Snot fair. Was me he
should have yelled at, not you."

//As usual//. "Don't worry about it. Come on, let's get you
upstairs." He reached out to take the  other man's arm, but Nick
batted his hand away.

"Get people shoutin' at you, noffair. Always shoutin' at you.
I'm gonna go 'pologise to him, say it's  my fault. G'wan, go.
I'll find me own way."

Reg snorted. "You couldn't find your backside with both hands
right now. If you think I'm letting  you tackle those stairs by
yourself, you're a bloody idiot."

"I'm fine. I'm f-" Slater swung a fist at Reg's shoulder, but
stumbled over Loxton's boot and sat  down heavily in a sodden
dahlia bush. "On the other han', you mi' just have a point."

Catching hold of Reg's proffered arm, he hauled himself up
again, and they made their way  towards the dimly lit porch.

Once safely under cover, Reg stopped to unzip his jacket and
shake a little of the rain off,  grinning as he realised Nick's
visor had slipped down over his eyes. He motioned to Nick to
take  the helmet off, watching impatiently as the probationer
struggled manfully with the straps. He  sighed as it became
obvious that at least two of Slater's fingers had somehow become
trapped  inside the buckle.

"Oh, give it here." He pulled Nick's hand free, gently. "I don't
know *how* you do it, really I don't."  Trying not to smile, he
leant in to untangle the mess, reeling as Slater bowed his head
towards  him and crashed their helmets together. Muttering
inaudibly at the other's giggled apology, he  tilted Nick's head
toward the light and started to work on the knot. "Hold still,
will you. Nearly got  it."

Nick giggled again. "Eh, Reg."

"What?" Reg twitched back in annoyance as Nick started to
explore the fastenings on his own  helmet, fingers cold against
his skin. "Stop that."

"I jus' want to help."

The fingers were back, warmer, fumbling at the soft skin below
his ear. "Well you're *not*  helping." Unable to shake off the
attention, he yanked irritably at the buckle and thanked God
under his breath when it came free. He started to lift the
helmet off Nick's head, but found his  arms trapped between
Slater's, the younger man's face a picture of concentration.

"You -" He stopped as a soft click sounded beneath his chin.

"Am *too*. See?" Grinning triumphantly, Slater pulled the helmet
off Reg's head, scraping his  nose with the visor on the way
down, and handed it to him. Reg took it, less than graciously.

"Shame you couldn't have done that with your own, innit?"

Nick pouted. "'Seasier when you can see what you're doing."

Reg raised an eyebrow, then thought better of arguing. "Fair
enough." Reg opened the door, and  gestured towards the dimly
lit stairs. "After you."

"Thank *you*." Nick mock-saluted and stumbled in, only starting
up the stairs after Reg had  caught up and - reluctantly -
offered his arm for support.

"I was right though, wan't I? 'Bout the bike."

"Oh, don't *start*-"

"Well, *I* thought it was nice. C'n we do it again?"

//Over my dead body//. "No! Well-"

"'Slike having someone come up and kiss you or something, only
you're sitting down. I *liked* it."

Slater spoke dreamily, swinging gently on the bannister, like a
schoolboy goalie imagining his first  FA Cup appearance. Reg
shook his head, fighting the urge to smile.

"All right. Maybe. I'll think about it."

"An' what about the other thing?"

Reg coughed, not looking at his companion. "No. No. Mind you, I
did see this article once about  vibrational frequencies on
tarmac, right... "

"Reg.... "

"...oscillation rates, only that wasn't the exact term, it was
something like...."

"*Reg*."

"Yeah?"

"You don't 'alf talk some bullshit sometimes."

****

The journey to Nick's room seemed interminable, the stairwell
dark and cramped, lit faintly and  sporadically by a fizzing
neon tube of more than pensionable age. After an initial bout of
near- hysteria at some very old grafitti ("Dave Quinnan did
that. Pol tol' me. 'Sgood, innit?"), Nick had  fallen into a
state of semi-somnolence, which on the one hand kept him
gratifyingly quiet, but on  the other meant he had to be
manhandled up the last flight of steps. By the time they reached
his  quarters, Reg was well and truly knackered. Propping Slater
up against the wall, he stopped to  catch his breath.

"Where's your key, mate?"

"'Sin my pocket. Top one, jacket."

"Well, hand it over."

Nick shook his head, half-asleep. "Can' be bothered. 'Msleepy.
You do it."

//Why me, Lord. Why is it always me?// Reg leaned over, felt for
the key. It wasn't there, so he  tried the other side, without
success. He shot Nick a questioning look, but Slater, head
resting  against the cool brick and singing quietly to himself,
was completely oblivious. //Jeeeezus.//  Reluctantly, Reg slid
his hand into the back pocket of Nick's jeans, praying nobody
would choose  this particular moment to come home, or pop out
for a pee, or whatever.

Nick giggled, shifting under his touch. "That tickles. Do 't
again."

Nothing. //Shit. Try the other one. Oh boy.//

"Nick..."

"...Mmmh?..."

"Front pocket."

"An' the same to you, cheeky bugger."

"No... would *you* have a look in your pocket, please."

Nick opened his eyes, and peered at him, blearily. "Whaffor?"

"Key. Door. Home. Remember?"

"Oh, *that*. Why didn' you say?"

Slater dug around in his pockets and produced his keyring with
an exaggerated flourish,  whacking Reg on the nose. Hollis
snatched it from him and unlocked the door, pushing it open
with a little more force than was strictly necessary, then
turned back to Nick and shoved the keys  unceremoniously back
into his jacket pocket.

"OK. Goodnight." He turned to walk back down the hall, then
noticed Slater hadn't moved. "Well,  come on. In you go, and
I'll see you in the morning."

"'M not going in there. 'Sdark."

"*Nick*..!"

"No, seriously. I can' see."

"Oh for Christ's sake..." Reg grabbed hold of Slater's arm, and
dragged him in through the door.  The light from the corridor
was enough for him to make out the outline of an unmade bed by
the  far wall. He propelled Nick over to it, and sat him down
less than gently. "Now go to bed, all right?  Goodnight." He
turned to leave, but found himself yanked sideways as Slater
grabbed him round  the waist and squeezed.

"Let go."

"No."

"Let go." He folded his arms, feeling absurd. "Come on, enough's
enough."

Slater squeezed harder, burying his head in the other man's
side. "*No*. Don' go. Wanna talk."

"Nick... " Reg tapped his foot exasperatedly, unable to pull
away. "Look... tomorrow, we can talk  tomorrow, OK?"

"No, wanna talk *now*." Nick raised his head, his tone petulant.
"'Simportant."

//God, it's like tucking in a toddler//. "What's important?"

"You are. 'Like you, Reg."

"Oh, for Chrissake..." Reg reached down to unclasp Nick's arms,
and manoeuvred them so that  the other man had to sit back on
the bed. //Come back Ted Roach, all is forgiven//. "And I like
you, all right?". He stepped back, noticing with annoyance that
his hands were wet. He sighed in  resignation. "Look... get your
gear off, you're soaking. I'll find you a shirt or something."

He stepped over to where he assumed the wardrobe would be but
was brought up short, his head  smacking into something cold and
metallic. Cursing, he put out a hand, finding what felt like a
standard lamp. //Oh look, here's the bright side. Boom bloody
boom.// He switched it on,  revealing a cluttered, tiny room,
scattered piles of discarded clothing making up for the lack of
furniture.

The door to the corridor banged shut behind him, and he turned
just fast enough to see a sodden  shoe bouncing into the corner,
followed closely by its twin.

"Oi! Keep it down, will you?"

Nick frowned, squinting into the soft light, pulling his shirt
free from his jeans. "You're not  *listening*, hey. 'Mserious."

"I'm sure you are, mate." //Seriously pissed//. He turned back
to the mess. Long years of  sectionhouse living told him he'd be
lucky to find anything remotely clean within easy reach, so he
settled for the nearest woolly thing with armholes.

"'M *really* serious. 'M really, really, *really*... bugger."

"You got trousers for this anywhere?" He reached for a pair of
mismatched socks peeking out  from under the washbasin.

"Mmmflp."

"What?"

Reg turned and saw the younger man hopelessly entangled, shirt,
pullover and jacket pulled up  over his head, arms trapped
somewhere inside the bundle.

"Oh... fuck.. You're *hopeless*, you know that?" Dumping the
clothes on the bed, he reached for  the pullover hem and tugged
it up sharply, ignoring Nick's protests as he tumbled backwards.
"There. Better?"

Slater sat up, damp hair tousled, rubbing a zipper scratch on
his jaw. "That *hurt*."

"Serves you right. Put these on." He held out the vest and
socks.

Nick reached out and took Reg's hand instead, looking up at him
earnestly. "I *like* you."

"Yeah, you said that. Let go."

"Nah, wait up. 'Simportant. You've been so nice to me... I mean,
everyone has, but you've been  really nice. Well, 'cept when
you're a git. I really 'preciate it, honest."

Reg shrugged, touched. "Yeah... well, one thing you learn as
Federation Rep is -"

"Reg, shut up. Shutupshutupshut*up*. "

"Oh. Charmi-"

"Haven't *finished*. Get fed up sometimes, you being so nice an'
nobody's nice to you."

//And don't I know it.// "I wouldn't say *nobody*...."

"There. Proves my point, dunnit?" Nick blinked, peering
seriously up through his fringe. "That's  'cos they only see the
git bits. 'Cos you can be a git. 'Nfact you're quite a lot of a
git. But not *all*  the time. An' it's the other times I mean,
when you're nice. Wanna say thank you. Be nice to you,  f'once.
F'r everything."

Reg smiled and started to draw back, embarrassed. "Don't be
daft. It's all part of the job..."

Slater shook his head emphatically. "No 'sbloody well not. An'
you know it. So shut up and let me  do something for you." He
patted the bed next to him, hard. "Sit down."

Reg raised an eyebrow, suddenly oddly uncomfortable. "Why?"

Nick sighed and spoke slowly, as if to a child. "'Cos I say so.
Sit down. Wanna show you  something. Only take a minute." He
pulled hard on Reg's arm, exasperatedly. "Come on. 'Sgreat."

Reg, suddenly too tired to argue, gave in, albeit choosing a
spot a little further away from the  younger man than he had
indicated. "All right. But make it quick. You got any idea how
late it is?"

Nick grinned. "Don't care." He moved closer, snatching the socks
from Reg's hand. "Close your  eyes, turn that way and put your
hands behind your back."

"What for?"

Slater slapped his shoulder playfully. "Just *do* it." He looked
up and snorted at the look on Reg's  face. "'S*magic*, you
idiot. Well, s'a *trick*, anyway. Like you at Christmas, only
better. You  don'know this one."

Reg's face contorted with a curious mix of relief and umbrage.
"I'd forgotten you were there. What  d'you mean, better?"

"I mean this one'll *work*. Come on, hands."

Reg complied, interest piqued despite himself. "Where'd you
learn to do this?"

Nick grinned mischievously, pushing up Reg's sleeves and winding
the socks around and  between his wrists, his fingers warm
against Hollis's skin. "None'f your business. How's that, not
too tight?"

Reg gave an experimental tug to test the bindings. Soft and
springy, they held firm and were  surprisingly comfortable.
//Perfect. He must've practised a lot//. "Nope, that's fine.
What now?"

"Stop lookin' at me. Close your eyes. An' properly, no peeking."

Reg obeyed, and felt the bed shift as the younger man pulled his
legs up onto the bed and knelt  behind him.

"C'n I have your belt?"

Reg turned in surprise. "What for?"

Nick took his head in both hands and turned it firmly to look
forward, away from him. "I *said*, no  peeking. I jus' need it
for the trick."

Reg shrugged. //In for a penny...// "OK." Eyes closed, he half-
turned back as a suspicion dawned  on him. "'Ere, you're not
going to tickle me again?"

"*No*, Reg." Nick laughed, softly. "Promise."

Reg felt Nick slide his hands under his jacket and around his
waist, starting a little as the other's  fingers brushed lightly
across his stomach, warm, unexpectedly warm through his thin and
drying  shirt. He shifted, embarrassed, as he felt them begin to
work at his belt buckle, felt Slater lean  gently against his
back as he eased the strap out of its restraints, a curious
physical echo of their  ride home. //Come to think of it, it was
rather nice. Being trusted like that, I mean//, he added to
himself, perhaps a little too quickly. It was true, though,
everyone else he knew had always been  oddly reluctant to come
for a spin with him. Not that they didn't trust his driving or
anything, of  course... //Maybe I could take him out for a ride
sometime. 'Course, he'd have to be sober. Go to  a match or
something, maybe...//

The mattress creaked and bounced, springing up as Slater got off
the bed, the sudden absence  of his warmth shocking Reg out of
his reverie. He was surprised to feel his feet pushed together,
but kept his eyes shut, stifling a smile as realisation dawned.
//Oh, I get it. It's the old "with one  bound" thing, betcha.//
He nodded to himself as he felt the belt being passed around his
ankles,  looping and twisting. //Left over right, then
underneath, then back... or was it right over left?  Doesn't
matter. "You don't know this one," ha. Didn't think it'd work
with leather. I'll have to  remember that.//

He sensed Nick leaning back, his hands readjusting the bindings
before coming to rest gently  around his ankles. //Now we 'check
the knot' and bingo.//

"Not too ti'?"

Reg grinned. "No, it's f- Hey!" Slater pulled upwards sharply,
then down, sending Reg backwards  onto the protesting bed.
Instinctively trying to brace himself, he found he couldn't
move; his hands  were pinned behind him, his legs bent at just
the wrong angle for leverage.

"What the hell ..." He craned his neck and saw Nick grinning
triumphantly down at him through his  fringe. "Look, I don't
know what you're playing at, but..."

"Shut up, Reg." Slater moved forward, kneeling over Reg's feet,
pinning the older man's legs  together between his own. He
reached for the pillow and plonked it down on Reg's face,
knocking  his head back into the mattress. Red-faced and
spluttering indignantly, Reg tried desperately to  dislodge it,
free his hands, free his legs and swear simultanously, but
succeeded only in knocking  his forehead on the wall. Swearing
vituperously, he renewed his struggles, only to stop dead as  he
felt light fingers working the button on his jeans.

//Ohmigod.//

The light buzz of the zipper, gently, carefully drawn down...

Oh//migod//...

...gentle brushing of fingers, warm through cotton, smoothing
the sides of the open fly...

//Ohmi//god...

...warm against his skin, hooking the sides of his jeans and
wriggling them slowly, carefully down,  just a little, sliding
under his shirt, sliding it up, just a little...

"Nick..."

...cool air, warm breath on his torso, muscles tightening at the
feather-light brush of a fringe...

"*Nick-*"

... kisses and nuzzling, stubble through cotton, tongue, fingers
tracing the sensitive line where  cotton met thigh, the graze of
teeth, gentle, then harder, met with hardness, flesh straining,
confined, warmth, wet warmth turning to heat, turning to
*burn*...

"Nnnuh...."

...heat and hardness and he could *see* now, just a little, but
enough... see *Nick's* fingers,  *Nick's* tongue, working him
hard, *Nick's* secret smile as the cotton lifted up and peeled
down  and the cold air and the *heat* and the *heat* and their
eyes met and *ohmigod..*.

//Shut up, Reg. S'magic.//



=== © bessie ===

You like? You hate? Tell me.

cheers
kel