Title: Anodyne
By: cassie_jamie
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Obviously.
Rating: R
Warning: Rapefic.
Spoilers: Lord knows at this point if there are any. But like I always say - everything up to whatever episode was shown last is fair game. Pairing: H/S. (And Calleigh/Eric just in case I use them in any way.)

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He knocks on my door as I knew he would. Work was an unpleasant mix of a murdered child and a hit-and-run vic who had been a busy mother of five, so I had been expecting his arrival. He always does after days like today. There are other days, but when those kinds of cases are all we have in a day, he needs me like a stoner needs weed. I tease him about being an addict, and he sometimes will smile and joke too.

Tonight, there will be no teasing.

"I...I.." He stumbles over what he is attempting to say. He's still dressed in his clothes from work, which means he hasn't gone home. They are a bit disheveled, like he'd been shoved around, but it's probably from walking the streets the way he sometimes does.

I simply hold the door open for him to come in. He accepts the blatant invitation, even though it isn't needed. He knows he is allowed to come in here; I've given him a key.

The door has barely closed before he pounces on me. Rosebud lips capture mine. After a moment, his urgent need is slightly diminished, making it much more manageable. I can begin in earnest now.

I suck his tongue, his lower lip. Licking a path from the corner of his mouth to his Adam's apple, he relaxes and moans continually. He writhes as I ghost my fingers over his face, and blow into his ear.

My hands rove over his back, tracing over scars I know are there through the fabric of his shirt. I begin to get impatient and rip the shirt from him. It wasn't his favorite so it won't be a problem, though I know he'll be re-attaching the buttons on his next day off.

His arousal has built up quickly, and it's straining against the cloth. I lower the zipper, dive my hand into the opening, and clasp my hand around him.

Another writhing moan. I remove myself from him, and with a `come- hither' look, I stroll to my bedroom. He's so close behind me that I can feel his breath on my neck.

The memory of our first night comes rushing back. He was so scared that night. He'd never down anything like this, barely understood what would happen. Though the entire event, I had to hold him and he shed many a tear. I had worried that he would regret what had occurred, ignore me at work. Yet, it was all for naught, because he keeps coming back. He can't get over me, I guess, or maybe he senses there's something between us that is begging to not be avoided. I do not care which it is, all that matters to me is that, at the end of the day, he's in *my* life.

My bed is in the middle of the room, the walls a dull, soothing blue. My hardwood floors cool our feet from the humid Miami air, which is filtering in from the windows across from the door.

He continues to stand, his back against the doorframe. Arms crossed in front of his chest, he stares at me, watching as I flip the lamp off. There are some strawberry candles lit on my dresser; they're casting enough light for us to see each other.

Now...on to more *pressing* matters... I shift to remove his pants. He stops me with a mild look, one I know well.

Ah. It's to be one of those nights then.

I end my ministrations, letting him take over as my shirt is lifted over my head. My pajama pants are shoved to the floor. I step out of the fabric that is now pooled at my ankles, discovering that I had forgotten to put any underwear on when I changed.

He chuckles at me, causing me to issue a growl. I'm standing here in the nude and he's still dressed. I again attempt to...

I'm thwarted. He's already unfastened the snap. They slip off too easily. I knew he wasn't eating. Not for the last three, four weeks in any case. But he's never stayed long enough for me to have a good conversation about healthy eating habits. He is normally gone in the mornings.

He knows I'm watching him and why I am doing so, and blushes a cinnamon red. I don't give him enough time to shrink away like he did last week.

Instead, I crush him to me, then attack his mouth, abusing it.

Once we are left gulping at the air, I take my chance to strip him of his cream-colored, silk boxer shorts and spin him so I am now the one with my back to the door. It is a position that I don't often allow myself into.

He takes the advantage I have inadvertently given. A lick and nip are applied to each of my nipples. Mewling sounds escape me, until I find my voice.

"Bed."

He obeys. He isn't submissive by nature, nor am I a dominant person, but I know from his look earlier that it is what he desires. Not to mention that he hasn't gotten between the sheets. He's laying on his back on top of the linens.

I am not a fan of what I'm going to do. However, he's got a safe- word that we both have the power to use if it gets to be too intense.

Sighing, I grab the folded sheet sitting on my sidetable, and double check that all the necessities are where I need them to be. They are all in their places and I climb in, coming to a stop once I am straddling his stomach. His hands willingly come up to within my grasp, and I bind them with the aforementioned sheet, then push them back so the sheetcuffs catch the rod in the center of the headboard. He's laid out for me.

Leaning forward, I huff huskily into his ear, "What do you want? You'll have to tell me."

"Fuck me." He replies, lust-filled and punctuated with a thrust of hips. Our hard-ons brush together and he gasps, then repeats the action. A rhythm develops. He's happy to rock against me, so I let it go on. He speaks once more, "*Fuck* me!"

Fine. That's what he wants...

I reach for the nighttable's drawer. I dip my fingers into the waiting substance and place them against that place no one except me gets to touch. Kisses across his chin distract him as I press in with one. He always squirms around at this; tonight, he stays perfectly, completely still, staring over my shoulder at the picture on my dresser. It's a picture of all of us at the Mayor's annual Grand Ball.

Two now. "Relax."

"Wor...king...on..on it." He gasps in return. And I know it's time to start the worst part, the part he is searching for.

"You're a failure. A fucking, pathetic failure." The words tumble from my mouth, "You can't even control your own team! What would your family think if they saw you?"

He chokes on a cry, holding back from using the word.

A third, "What if they saw this? Huh? You getting fucked by a *guy*." I know that is something that bothers him. His family would disown him if they found out he was bisexual, but he loves them all and hides his sexuality from them for that reason.

I slick the fingers once more and run them over my aching dick, "What would you do if the people at work found out about this?" He knows what is coming, wraps a leg around my waist and elevates the second one so it hangs over my shoulder.

He's closing his eyes, blocking out what I just said. He may love his family, but our other two co-workers are equally as important. He'd be heartbroken if they rejected him.

Slow thrusts at first, and then I'm buried in him.

His eyes are still closed. I don't like it when he refuses to watch me. But he's moaning and writhing perpetually now. A few tears tremble their way down his temples.

"Horatio." His eyes open at the sound of his name, "Dragonfly." The safe-word flutters into the open. I want to stop here, but the pleading look in his eyes tells me what he must have.

I pull out. I can't concentrate with his arms like that, so I reach and untie the constraining item. He immediately uses them to pull my face to his, "Please."

"Roll over and I will."

The redhead turns onto his belly, and we start the process over again, only this time I press in slower, a few centimeters at a time. I know he wants to rear back and take me in all at once. I'm pressing down on his back with my hands to avoid doing so.

He's whimpering at me, wanting more. My self-restraint is being severely tested. He has no clue what an affect he has on me.

"Tim..." My name falls from his lips as I am finally seated in him. I give him a minute to adjust, and I'm melting into him. Feel so wonderful that I've found him, that I get the express pleasure of coveting him.

"H..." I moan his name in return, moving my hands to the sheets and bunching them into my fists. Calmly, leisurely, I pull back and thrust in.

The pace stays at the one I have set, and I lisp, "So beautiful...so very beautiful. Deserve so much..." I suckle at one of the vertebrae not covered by his white undershirt, so visible beneath his skin that my fogged and lusty mind clears momentarily to remind me that he needs to eat. Then my dick reminds me where I am and what I'm doing.

I want to sneak a hand under him, to stroke him in time with me, but he is already so close that I don't need to any such action. Instead I lift my hand from its place dug in the bedclothes, run a finger from the back of his ear to the tip of his pale chin, and tilt his face to me, "Most precious thing in my life." I breathe it to his lips, then secure them with mine. I count his teeth with my tongue.

There's a roaring wash of blood in my ears, growing in intensity. I know I've stopped moving again, and I can feel him tense beneath me. He cries out, but it is muffled by a pillow.

I fall onto his back and pant wildly. He's crying again. God, I must've hurt him.

Ever so carefully, I shift him, his eyes pink. My concern grows, "Horatio? Love, it's alright. Did I hurt you?" I can't help being overprotective of him. He doesn't deal well, sinks his entire heart into our work and can't seem to relax.

"No." His arms suddenly wrap around my torso, and I let him bury his delicate face into my stubbly, tanned neck, "No, you didn't." He mumbles, the warm air passing from his lips to my skin.

"Are you hungry?" The knowledge comes to me that he's emotional, not because of what we just did, but because the days events have caught up with him.

He shakes his head, "No."

I count his ribs through the fabric, "Are you sure?"

H can no longer look at me. He looks away, and shrinks away from my touch. When I refuse to stop looking at him, the redhead allows himself to gaze at me, "They found out."

"Who found out what?" Please no.

"My Uncle Jude." There's a sharp intake of breath, "I had a picture of you and me in my house. He saw it."

Of all people, it had to be Jude, didn't it? The universe is a cruel *fucking* mistress. The one uncle he respects... and the biggest homophobic in the entire Caine family.

"You father knows, doesn't he?"

"Yeah. The only one who'd accept it." He shrugs. He's forty-three, but at the moment he's acting so much younger. I wonder why.

"So don't worry. Everyone else lives all over the country. You don't have to see them."

I hug the sickly frame to me; kiss his forehead, while he lets out all the ills he'd been saving, "Shh, shh. It's..." Alright? No, I can't say that because it's not. Going to get better? I don't know the answer to that. Not yet.

His breathing evens out, and I continue to hold him for a few moments more.

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By dawn, I have gotten a grand total of eighty-two minutes of sleep. I can't get anymore. Not when he's twisting and crying out beside me. There's something wrong, I know it, but I can't out right ask. He's the king of diversionary tactics. I'd never get a straight answer.

Which means I'm going to have to coax it from him.

He's still slumbering, so I am quite able to see that his face is twisted into a look of absolute disgust. Who is *that* toward? One hand is trembling at his side, and he's definitely trying to bury his entire lower front into the mattress, as though he were hiding himself. Odd. I lift a hand to touch him. He likes touch. Another of the idiocies I will be forever doomed to not understand.

There's a sharp intake of air when a finger connects with his jawline, "Tim?"

"Who else?" It's a whispered reply.

In the increasing light, blurred by the sheer curtains I use for some reason, I can see him shiver. He starts to move, momentarily wincing as he turns the wrong way.

Fuck it all. "I did hurt you! Damnit, Horatio, I told you..."

"It wasn't you!" He yells back, his back to me as he sits on the edge of the bed. His head falls into his hands, "It wasn't you." He mumbles, "Was my fault..."

Okay, the lover's a little confused now. "H, what are you talking about?" Again, I reach to touch him, lay a hand on his shoulder, yet he flinches away.

"It's nothing." He gets to his feet, "I have to go. Clothes. Work."

Now he's babbling, and never mind the fact that he keeps outfits here for such an occasion. Or the fact that I got him back into his underwear and pants during the night because I knew he'd be embarrassed if I didn't.

Somehow I have arrived at my bedroom door before he has. He stops in front of me, so I can see his eyes. All sorts of emotions are dancing across the blue pools... then I catch one. The dominant one.

"Horatio."

He's dangerously close to breaking down. And he is well aware of that, judging by what he says next, "I can't be late. Calleigh said she'd have results for me first thing in the morning."

I close my eyes against his stubbornness. I love the bastard, I do. I'll readily admit that... though not to him, and it's mightily worrisome that he's not talking to me the way he often does, "Not so fast. Sit."

"No. I have to..."

My face is literally an inch from his, "What is the matter with you? Huh?"

"What do you care?" He asks, bitter, like I've not shown him how much I care for him. If I didn't, would I tie him up or let him fuck me when he needs it?

I guess the time has come...breathe, Speedle... "I lo..care about you, idiot. I've been wanting to ask if you'd move in with me for a week and a half now." Okay, so I'm not the most eloquent person on the planet.

Horatio takes on the look of a cornered animal. After a moment has passed, he starts panting and flexing his fingers. He mutters to himself to not have a panic attack, then sits back down. He winces when he contacts the semi-firm surface.

I open my mouth to state again that I hurt him, but he beats me to the punch, "He...uh...he cornered me. Asked for a ride. I didn't think about it. But I had to stop for milk." He's clamming up already, and barely spits out the rest of what he has to say, "I didn't even get the seatbelt all the way off." His head is back in his hands, "He left af...after. Left me...in...the car." He sniffles and chokes back sobs, and the pieces are falling into place.

"Who is ^he^? And where does he live?" Helpful information if I'm to kill someone.

He finally looks up at me, and then holds open his arms. He's not going to tell me. Shame and fear are powerful emotions. I return to the bed, back against the headboard. Letting him crawl into my embrace, I feel the tension in his torso and a thought comes to me, "Oh, god. Cal's gonna kill us."

"Why?"

We destroyed evidence last night. Wee bit obvious, don't you think? Not to mention that by waiting so long that there might be no evidence left. But I won't say that...exactly, "Evidence."

H flinches against me, "Not reporting it anyway."

"You were raped. You're reporting it. Eric and Cal will process it." When the hell did I start turning into him?

"No." The mouth connects with a patch of skin just above the waistband of the boxers I put on when I dressed him. It moves higher, above my bellybutton and then to the space between my nipples.

"Horatio...stop. We can't." I catch his face in my hands, "Are you going to give me a name?"

He shakes his head to the negative. I'm not surprised. He's not going to say anything that will help us... like many of the rape cases we've seen.

"Then you know what has to be done."

Fuck. I pushed too far, causing him to pull away from me and jerkily trying to get out of the bed. He slips to the floor, cries out at himself.

The reality finally sinks in for me as I watch him struggle on the floor. He was hurt. Badly, by the way he's trying to avoid what he's been trained to do for others. My poor baby, "Horatio." I call out, rising up from the bed and walking slowly around the square object to him.

He moves away from me before I can even sit next to him, "You don't have to get a kit, alright? But, please, *please*, let me take you to the hospital." To emphasize my point, I notice the blood stain on the seat of his pants.

"I'm..."

If he says he's fine, I'll have to use every ounce of my self-control to refrain from smacking him upside the head.

Those eyes connect with mine, "Tired. Sore."

Finally, he lets me stroke his cheek, his forehead, "I can fix it." He knows *exactly* what I'm implying. Hell, I've been pushing it for the last five minutes.

H huffs for a moment, gazes away then to me once more. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Instead, he nods and shifts a little closer.

The silence goes on for a moment, until I lay a light kiss in his fiery hair and he sighs at my notice. I get up, helping him to stand as well, then settle him on to the bed while I turn to my dresser. I really think showing up at the Emergency Room clothed solely in black silk boxers might convey the wrong message.

I pull on a black turtleneck sweater and jeans, and turn back to him. Horatio's undone his belt, busily trying to adjust his pants so they're not so tight against him.

Changing is something we don't advocate with rapes. It has the potential to screw with the evidence, but he's in pain... So I grab the loosest pair of sweatpants I own, "Stand up for a sec."

He becomes aware of what I'm handing him. I hope for an argument, a fight, something to tell me he's still in there, but all that happens is that he obeys my subordinate order.

As I tug his bottoms off, he tenses then relaxes, knowing it's me who's touching him and not someone who's going to hurt him. I leave him for a literal second to get a paper bag out of my bathroom, and shove the pants in them as I go back.

"Horatio, do you want to call Yelena or your father?"

"No." He comes to me, lays his head on my shoulder, "I just want you."

"Okay." I should probably put more force and effort into getting his father, at least, to wait for us, but at this point, I'll give in to anything if it'll make him feel any measure of safety. I'm not sure what to say, so I turn him and begin walking down the hallway. When I push open the front door, he squints at the morning light.

My neighbor in the housing complex waves at us, and he waves back as though nothing were wrong.

I grumble to myself about good acting skills, click the button to unlock the doors of the glistening yellow car. Without thinking, I open the passenger side so he can get in and close it once he's belted in.

I hate Mondays.

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