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.ficlet: Off Time - D/M (PG)
Title: Off Time
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: D/M
Rating/Warnings: PG, nothing horrifying.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine.
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wordclaim50 challenge #31, "first time," though it was written with other purposes in mind.
Notes: Written mostly on the back of a take-out menu while waiting for pizza and trying to keep a nosy kid from looking over my shoulder. (Hope you learned a little something, kid. Love,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aesc.) For nekosmuse, on her birthday.
OFF TIME
The first time Martin had come over for dinner, Danny had tried to persuade Martin into the living room with a glass of water and an order to find something on the TV. Martin had rematerialized in the kitchen a few minutes later, hoisting himself up on the countertop with the declaration that the news depressed him and the only shows on these days were crime dramas, which were also depressing and too much like work.
You probably have the case solved in, like, ten minutes, Danny had said.
Yeah, Martin had agreed, filching an apple from its bowl.
Get your ass off my countertop, Danny had told him, gesturing with a dish towel for emphasis.
Martin had looked at him blandly, taken a bite out of his apple and shrugged the command off, and Danny let it slide.
They had this dance the next ten times they’d eaten together, and by the eleventh – this one – Danny’s come to realize that it doesn’t matter how many times he tells Martin that counters aren’t for sitting on, Martin will always sit on them while Danny cooks. (And it’s always Danny who cooks and it’s always Martin who cleans.) Legs swinging meditatively and he’s tossing a red pepper from hand to hand, watching every move Danny makes, from refrigerator to sink to cutting board, back to the refrigerator again.
Most times Danny likes being looked at – likes it a bit too much for his own good, he knows, he always has – but he doesn’t really like it when people watch him cook. He’s never been able to explain it, either to the few people he’s had over at his apartment or to himself. But Martin, though... the pressure of his gaze is gentle, warm on Danny’s back, like Martin’s seeing more than movement.
The thought brings him up short.
Eleven evenings together, informal agreement to have something not takeout whenever they have off time and aren’t too exhausted. Sam had come a couple times, Danny extending the invitation to her for some reason that probably had something to do with cowardice on his part, though she hasn’t come lately. But Martin’s still showing up on Danny’s doorstep at six precisely, still sitting on Danny’s counters and eating Danny’s apples.
He turns around, question on his lips – he’s not sure what it is, maybe to ask Martin to quit mangling the pepper – and Martin’s still looking at him.
Looking, really looking, blue eyes open and honest, relaxed like Martin hasn’t been caught staring. His tie is undone and his sleeves rolled up, hair sloppy after a long and frustrating day, loose and casual, which Martin almost never is.
Except, Danny realizes abruptly, when he’s here. And that has to mean something.
It doesn’t have to mean anything at all, could be his own selective perception, but Danny needs it to mean something. And he’s not sure if he’d ever have found the courage to do what he’s doing now – stepping closer, allowing Martin to take his wrist to pull him hard against the counter – if he hadn’t had that need, something he’s lived with for four years now, and wanting something this badly, for this long, makes him not care.
Can’t care, because Martin’s here, sigh that tastes of apples and satisfaction as he presses Danny’s mouth open.
Martin’s knees bracket Danny’s legs, barely brushing against his thighs as Martin hitches himself forward on the countertop, using his grip on Danny’s wrist as leverage. And then his fingers are in Danny’s hair, low where it’s gotten a bit long and brushes against his collar, the sensitive skin at the back of his neck. Earns a shiver that Danny can’t keep back and Martin laughs against his lips, low, little more than breath.
In the thousands of fantasies he’s had of this moment, he’s never really imagined how Martin kisses, too busy thinking about what would come next: pulling Martin’s clothes off, taking him to bed and keeping him there.
But this, this.
Methodical, like Martin always is – lips firm against his, thorough, not rushing things, kiss becoming deeper, something meaningful before Danny realizes it. And later – much later – he’ll wonder how he stumbled on courage enough to do this, how Martin had come to his own decisions about the two of them, but for now he can’t get past what this is like, kissing Martin, thoughts and sensations tangled together and disbelieving.
And there’s one other thing that sort of amazes him, though he doesn’t know why.
Martin’s mouth, he thinks, Martin’s mouth is warm.
-end-
*facepalm* This feels like it belongs to something longer. Dammit.
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: D/M
Rating/Warnings: PG, nothing horrifying.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine.
Advertisements: first kiss, domesticity. Coincidentally answers
wordclaim50 challenge #31, "first time," though it was written with other purposes in mind.Notes: Written mostly on the back of a take-out menu while waiting for pizza and trying to keep a nosy kid from looking over my shoulder. (Hope you learned a little something, kid. Love,
aesc.) For nekosmuse, on her birthday.OFF TIME
The first time Martin had come over for dinner, Danny had tried to persuade Martin into the living room with a glass of water and an order to find something on the TV. Martin had rematerialized in the kitchen a few minutes later, hoisting himself up on the countertop with the declaration that the news depressed him and the only shows on these days were crime dramas, which were also depressing and too much like work.
You probably have the case solved in, like, ten minutes, Danny had said.
Yeah, Martin had agreed, filching an apple from its bowl.
Get your ass off my countertop, Danny had told him, gesturing with a dish towel for emphasis.
Martin had looked at him blandly, taken a bite out of his apple and shrugged the command off, and Danny let it slide.
They had this dance the next ten times they’d eaten together, and by the eleventh – this one – Danny’s come to realize that it doesn’t matter how many times he tells Martin that counters aren’t for sitting on, Martin will always sit on them while Danny cooks. (And it’s always Danny who cooks and it’s always Martin who cleans.) Legs swinging meditatively and he’s tossing a red pepper from hand to hand, watching every move Danny makes, from refrigerator to sink to cutting board, back to the refrigerator again.
Most times Danny likes being looked at – likes it a bit too much for his own good, he knows, he always has – but he doesn’t really like it when people watch him cook. He’s never been able to explain it, either to the few people he’s had over at his apartment or to himself. But Martin, though... the pressure of his gaze is gentle, warm on Danny’s back, like Martin’s seeing more than movement.
The thought brings him up short.
Eleven evenings together, informal agreement to have something not takeout whenever they have off time and aren’t too exhausted. Sam had come a couple times, Danny extending the invitation to her for some reason that probably had something to do with cowardice on his part, though she hasn’t come lately. But Martin’s still showing up on Danny’s doorstep at six precisely, still sitting on Danny’s counters and eating Danny’s apples.
He turns around, question on his lips – he’s not sure what it is, maybe to ask Martin to quit mangling the pepper – and Martin’s still looking at him.
Looking, really looking, blue eyes open and honest, relaxed like Martin hasn’t been caught staring. His tie is undone and his sleeves rolled up, hair sloppy after a long and frustrating day, loose and casual, which Martin almost never is.
Except, Danny realizes abruptly, when he’s here. And that has to mean something.
It doesn’t have to mean anything at all, could be his own selective perception, but Danny needs it to mean something. And he’s not sure if he’d ever have found the courage to do what he’s doing now – stepping closer, allowing Martin to take his wrist to pull him hard against the counter – if he hadn’t had that need, something he’s lived with for four years now, and wanting something this badly, for this long, makes him not care.
Can’t care, because Martin’s here, sigh that tastes of apples and satisfaction as he presses Danny’s mouth open.
Martin’s knees bracket Danny’s legs, barely brushing against his thighs as Martin hitches himself forward on the countertop, using his grip on Danny’s wrist as leverage. And then his fingers are in Danny’s hair, low where it’s gotten a bit long and brushes against his collar, the sensitive skin at the back of his neck. Earns a shiver that Danny can’t keep back and Martin laughs against his lips, low, little more than breath.
In the thousands of fantasies he’s had of this moment, he’s never really imagined how Martin kisses, too busy thinking about what would come next: pulling Martin’s clothes off, taking him to bed and keeping him there.
But this, this.
Methodical, like Martin always is – lips firm against his, thorough, not rushing things, kiss becoming deeper, something meaningful before Danny realizes it. And later – much later – he’ll wonder how he stumbled on courage enough to do this, how Martin had come to his own decisions about the two of them, but for now he can’t get past what this is like, kissing Martin, thoughts and sensations tangled together and disbelieving.
And there’s one other thing that sort of amazes him, though he doesn’t know why.
Martin’s mouth, he thinks, Martin’s mouth is warm.
-end-
*facepalm* This feels like it belongs to something longer. Dammit.
no subject
I suggest staging a CBS coup.
I definitely agree. There are enough of us; we can take 'em!
no subject
eep, I hadn't thought of that!