Out

Five minutes after I tried to hit Vecchio, I had him up against the wall in the supply closet with my tongue down his throat. Started out as his idea, not mine, and not the smartest one in the book, but I went along with it. Because at this point, I have not one damn thing left to lose. Not a whole lot to gain, either, but what the fuck.

If I'm gonna end up with nothing, I might as well get something right now.

And the way Fraser looked earlier, when he was talking to Vecchio back in the hotel room, made it even more obvious to me that I was just one hell of a place-holder. Not at all sure that Fraser could even see me right then, pretty damn sure he wasn't thinking about me. A whole lot else on his mind, and I can't fault him for that. What I can fault him for is me becoming invisible the second Vecchio steps back into his life.

Ray. His Ray. His real Ray. Which makes me what, exactly?

I tell you, I am really fucking tired of being the one left on the outside looking in.

By the time I walked in on Vecchio at my desk, fucking with yet another part of my life, I had built up a whole hell of a lot of mad. Hitting him would have felt good right then, would have felt right. He knew it too - wouldn't have minded getting hit, would have given him a chance to hit me back. I could see it in his eyes, could feel it in the clench of his fist in my shirt - that little fight there would have been good for both of us.

Frannie breaking it up just left us with a whole lot of adrenaline with nowhere to go. We were both of us thrumming with it. Just one other fucking thing we had in common. And it took me a few minutes, but when he made that crack about Fraser, I got it. This thing between him and me. The connection there. I mean, I knew it before, guess I had thought about it, but dammit, he had made a decision to do a job the same way I did. But - yeah. Here he is, walking in, taking over my life just the way I walked in and took over his. Hard to see yourself as so replaceable. So damn hard.

So we're talking about undercover work, and Vecchio tilts his head at me when he says it, about the loneliness factor. "Well. You got Fraser."

It was so fucking sorry, I just had to laugh. See, he knew. He knew, knew how fucking hard Fraser made it, how fucking impossible. Not all one thing or all another. Closer than close, closer than best friends, fuck, I was closer to the guy than I had been to my wife. But there are all these - things Fraser gives me, these looks and touches and phrases that get me reading between the lines, only he never, never follows up. And how the fuck am I supposed to figure out what it all means, if anything?

There is no way. I know it, and Vechhio knows it. There's no way to get an answer to what you think you maybe see. Vecchio went through it just the exact same way that I did.

And that maybe has something to do with him and me making out in the supply closet.

I don't know. There's no logic to it. Just me and him and the closet is dark and I don't know what I'm thinking, and I sure as hell don't want to know what he's thinking. It's just that - okay. He gives me this look. And for once, for fucking once, it's a look I can read. Clear as day. The adrenaline-thrum turned into an anticipation-thrum.

All he has to do is tilt his head and look at me with narrowed eyes. Man, that look is hot. And so I follow him. Not complicated. This is something we both know really damn well, and I guess, what with me undercover as him and him undercover as Languistini, it's something we've both done without for too damn long.

During the short walk to the supply closet, my heart beating like mad, all I can think is, sometimes? It's supposed to be this simple.

When we get in there, I have my hands on him right after he gets the door closed, though Vecchio still sorta thinking like the Bookman, he does something with the lock, jimmies it, and now I guess we're sort of locked in here, as safe as guys like me and him are gonna get.

And I don't even let myself think, not one little bit, just push myself up against him, shove him against the wall, and it all sort of slides together. Kissing, groping, all of it, and he responds to every damn thing. That's the best part - he doesn’t just let me, he's not being polite about this, he's responding. When I put my hand on his cock through his pants, he thrusts his hips forward. When I kiss him, hard, messy, he moans into my mouth. And when I say breathlessly, "Keep it quiet, Vecchio," he says, "Fuck you, Stanley," says it like he means it, and then his hands are on me, hard, hard, hard, twisting in my shirt, pulling me around, pushing me back against the wall.

And then he's on his knees, undoing my jeans roughly and sucking me into his mouth so hard and fast that I go lightheaded and my knees nearly buckle as I clutch at his shoulders. The way he goes after me makes me think we have something else in common, that he's just as hungry for dick as I am.

And there's nothing, nothing polite about this. He's not doing me any favors; he's greedy for it, and it's all I can do to stay on my feet here as he opens his throat and sucks me in deep. My head bangs back against the wall, and in the far corner of my mind, there's a fleeting thought that goes, hope anyone out there thinks we're fighting in here, they gotta think we're fighting. Because I’m trying so hard to keep from moaning that I taste blood from where I bite my lip, and I grate out, "Oh, fuck, Vecchio," desperately trying to warn him, but he's good, he's good, pulls off just in time and strokes me with his hand, perfect, once, twice, and I'm shooting off, just losing it, dizzy with it, like I've been waiting for-fucking-ever for this, and maybe I have. Sure feels like it sometimes.

My breath is coming in smothered gasps and I have to lock my knees to keep from collapsing, but when Vecchio gets smoothly to his feet, I manage to raise an eyebrow and cock my head at him. "You need a hand there?"

And he doesn't miss a beat, opens his pants and shoves them down, and I recognize a cue when I see one, and wrap my hand around his cock, and god, god, it's been too damn long since I been this intimate with anyone but myself. I fucking love the feel of his cock in my hand, and the fact that he's this hot after sucking me off, so hot he's leaking against my palm, just turns me on so hard. I give him my best, long, strong strokes, and when he presses his forehead against mine, I tilt my head and kiss him, best I can, wanting to fucking slay him, to show him that yeah, yeah, I get it, I get it. So tired, so fucking tired of ducking and weaving and wondering and being so goddamn careful.

I bet he gets that. I bet he gets that big time.

It's doesn't take long, between my tongue in his mouth and my hand on his dick, till he tears his mouth from mine, puts his teeth in my shoulder, and groans as he comes in my fist.

Jesus. Jesus, that's fucking hot.

He's breathing against my neck, now, and I realize I'm holding on to him, probably wrinkling the hell out of his expensive fucking shirt. I take a breath - it smells like us in here: a mix of sweat and expensive aftershave and come. Jesus. The fucking supply closet.

He moves his head a little against my shoulder. "I don't like you, Kowalski," he says. Then he licks my neck.

My cock twitches. "I don't like you either, Vecchio." I take his earlobe between my teeth and bite it lightly. He tastes salty. He tastes good. I shake my head. Seriously, what the fuck am I thinking?

He pulls away with a sigh and straightens his clothes, tucking himself back in. I do the same and notice that he's managed, somehow, to get all the come to end up on me. Asshole. I zip my jacket to cover the worst of the mess. Look over at him.

He sighs again. "Well. Fraser wanted us to get along."

I nod slowly. Press my lips together. "Then he should love this."

Vecchio grins. "Oh, yeah."

I shrug, grinning back, and gesture for him to undo whatever he did to lock us in. He does, but then turns to me, one hand on the knob. "Kowalski."

"What?"

He just looks at me, and then we're kissing, hotly, intently. I push up against him involuntarily, meeting his tongue with mine, giving just as good as I get. He releases me and I step back, run my hand through my hair.

He looks at me searchingly, breathing hard. "This is a really terrible idea."

"The worst," I agree.

"So long as we're on the same page," he says, smiling a little.

"Yep." Because - Jesus - it feels good to just fucking admit it, and go with it.

"Okay, then."

And he opens the door.

~end~

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