Author: De Orakle
Fandom: Law&Order: SVU
Archive: You want it, you got it
Feedback: My drug of choice, a hit is always welcome
Disclaimers: L&O doesn't belong to me. I'm poor. It belongs to Dick Wolf. He's rich.
Notes: Sorry for the lateness...Thanksgiving...whole family under roof...disaster. By the way, "Basoexia" is gaining sexual pleasure from kissing.
"Nonononahnah, I'm just saying that was so...cool. I mean...I love being a cop!"
Brian Cassidy bit down on his cheeks as hard as he could in a genuine attempt to curb the rising giggles of hysteria bubbling in his stomach. He didn't want his partner to give him that look again. That, "Brian, Brian, Brian," look that said that he might leave soon. And that wouldn't do. That wouldn't do at all. "Uhmm...What was I saying?"
Munch glanced amusedly over at is partner, who had been moving steadily further and further away from sobriety for the past two hours. While Munch was a little tipsy himself, he wasn't having the all-absorbing inner conversation that were apparently consuming Brian's thoughts, judging from the lost, slightly puzzled look on the younger man's face.
Reclining on the opposite end of the couch from Brian, Munch stretched out his leg and nudged the other man's knee with his sock-clad foot.
He poked again.
Brian shook his head, certain he felt something come loose. Then, slipping out from his reverie, he turned to face his partner, and froze.
John was lying back against the corner of the couch, on arm thrown across the back, the other lying on the armrest. His jacket had been discarded two shots of whiskey ago, his shirt sleeves had been rolled up, his tie and collar loosened. Modest as it was, it was the most bare skin Brian had ever seen on his partner. Munch's head was tilted back, eyes fluttering closed, slender neck exposed, his legs slightly spread... His body language was screaming quite inappropriate and blatant invitations to Brian's baser instincts.
"I'm sorry, what were we talking about?" Brian asked, shaking his head again.
"We were discussing the merits of early Greek theatre upon its introduction to the ancient Roman Empire. You had just made a stirring argument in defense of the dictator Sulla's position of barring Greek culture from the people."
Brian smiled, eyebrows raised, eyes shining. He shook his head in self-deprecation. "I'm pretty drunk, aren't I?"
"Got it in one."
"Oh. I'm sorry. But we don't have to work tomorrow, do we? It's just I was excited. It was a big case, we did pretty well, huh? Sorry if I got you drunk." Brian put on his most innocent smile, hoping that John wouldn't be mad.
John suppressed a groan. Seeing Brian sitting so close, leaning forward eagerly...sweet choirboy smile on alcohol-flushed fair skin...The temperature in the room suddenly shot up.
"Nah Brian, I haven't had that much to drink. Neither have you as a matter of fact. You have a surprisingly low alcohol threshold for an Irishman."
Brian smiled brilliantly, then ducked his head. "Yeah, a bit of a disappointment to my father. I don't usually drink this much. Gives me a tongue loose...A loose tongue. Sorry, don't want to seem like a wuss."
"I used to own a bar. You learn to be careful with knowing your limits."
"I never knew you owned a bar. In Baltimore?" Besides the occasional allusions to his ex-wife and traitorous fellow detective, Munch rarely mentioned his former home.
"The Waterfront. Owned it with two Homicide bunks named Lewis and Bayliss. George Washington took a leak there once."
Brian tried very hard to wrap his head around that last sentence, but eventually had to concede defeat. He was filing the idea away for later when he realized that Munch was still speaking."
"...you remind me of him."
Brian was dumbfounded. "George Washington?"
Munch sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. After a pause, he answered in a sardonic tone which Brian, in his inebriated state, chose to construe as fond exasperation.
"No Brian, you do not remind me in the least of our founding father. I was referring to Time Bayliss. My ex-partner."
A million and one questions ran through Brian's mind. All the things he never wanted an answer to, dance to the tip of his tongue, then subsided.
"What was he like?" softly spoken.
"He was a good kid. A good man." Silence.
The "was" swirled through Brian's mind, weighing the consequences of that one little word.
John closed his eyes. Sighed. A thousand glib replies presented themselves to his lightning quick wit, but looking at Brian's open, earnest face, he simply said, "No."
"Good. I mean, I know you're always saying you'll never go back, but, but you say things like that and...well, I'd really miss you."
Munch closed his eyes.
Another sniffle, slightly louder.
John squeezed his eyes shut tight, then sighed and raised his head, sitting up. He opened his eyes to see Brian's face scant inched away from his own, eyes puffy, and nose beginning to redden and run.
When Brian opened his mouth to speak, Munch's olfactory sense was assaulted by the strong scent of stale whiskey.
"I mean it. You're the best partner in the world, and it's like you don't know it. You're so smart, and experienced..." he dragged out the word like a savoured taste," and I bet there so much more that you can teach me..."
Munch tried to swallow through his constricted throat as his partner crept unsteadily forward on his knees until he was straddling Munch's left leg.
"er...Brian," Munch protested, afraid to move, as Brian's knee was now a little too close to a very vulnerable area.
"Shhh...If, if I don't say this now, I'll lose my nerve and I can't remember why I kept losing my nerve before, 'cause I know we both want this, so I'm going to shut up now," and with that, he parted his lips, and closed the distance between the two.
John screwed his eyes shut tightly, and felt the softest brush against his lips...then -
Munch's eyes shot open to see Brian, sitting back on his heels and clutching his left eye with both hands.
"Owww," then, a hoarse chuckle. "I poked my eye on your glasses."
Munch fought off nervous laughter. He was becoming all too accustomed to finding himself in situations running the gauntlet of absurdity.
While Brian rubbed his eye, Munch reached up to remove his glasses, then paused. A heated debate flashed through his mind. Taking off the glasses would mean acknowledging that he wanted Brian to kiss him...which would mean taking advantage of someone under the influence. But Brian was staring at him with that look, like a dog expecting to be kicked, but hoping for a pat nonetheless, chewing his lower lip nervously. Oh, screw it. If Brian was all that drunk, then he probably wouldn't even remember this tomorrow... This made a ridiculous amount of sense to Munch's brain, and with that final decision, it gladly took the backseat to his libido.
He reached up, took hold of the younger man's shoulders and tugged him forward until Brian's delicious weight was pushing him back into the sofa cushions.
With no further hindrance, their lips met once more. It was a first kiss, that could only be described as a first kiss. It was a little awkward, angled wrong, too much teeth, and a bumping of noses. Brian drew back, a dopey grin appearing on his face. The apartment was deafeningly silent until they both exhaled harshly.
Munch heard an incredibly undignified moan rise up in the back of his throat as those soft lips descended once more onto his. They took it slower this time, Munch slowly caressing Brian's lower lip with his tongue, then softly pressing until Brian acquiesced and parted his lips. Their tongues met, caressed, tickled, retreated. John slowly catalogued every part of Brian's heated mouth, slipping over the hard, sharp, teeth, the velvet-softness of an inside cheek, the taste of alcohol smoky-sweet saliva. His tongue ran over the textured roof of his partner's mouth until Brian was twitching and swallowing so convulsively that Munch feared his tongue would be bitten.
Brian's mouth moved lower, leaving kisses and a damp trail down the soft skin of John's throat. The wet warmth of a kiss, then a chill where the wet skin met air, the pure sensation was raising gooseflesh on every square inch of the elder man's body. Unfortunately, that was the only thing rising, and while alcohol had severely hampered Munch's physiological reactions, Brian's was currently pressing against him, hard, hot, and insistent.
Munch threaded his hands through Brian's hair, digging his fingertips into his scalp, breaking up bits of styling junk. That sweet mouth was still nuzzling his neck, now with sharp edge of teeth. Brian was whispering something between kisses, too soft to be heard, and his hips were starting up a slow slow rhythm against John's thigh.
The kisses and thrusts regulated, then slowed, slowed, until Brian was lying still atop him. His mouth was still attached to a spot left of Munch's adam's apple, suckling lazily. Munch slowed his own movements, and let himself relish the comforting weight against him, the pulse of Brian's erection a perfect counterpoint to his own heartbeat.
They lay like that for minutes, Munch assuming that Brian was waiting to regain control over his body, but when Brian's lax body showed no sign of movement, concern started to edge away at John's haze of lust. Munch squeezed Brian's shoulder gently. "Brian, you still alive?"
He received a soft snore in return.
Munch squeezed a little harder.
A tiny whimper was his only reply before Brian burrowed his head into the crook of John's shoulder, sighed, and fell promptly back into unconsciousness.
Munch wasn't sure how long he lay there with Brian's sleeping body resting comfortably against him. He stayed as still as possible until the crick in his neck from lying against the armrest became too unbearable. He glanced at the clock, and made a face, then slowly, inch by inch, he eased his way out from under his partner's dead weight.
His knee popped loudly as he knelt, and arranged Brian comfortably on his stomach, should he be sick during the night. He stayed there a moment, watching the sleeping form. He felt a pang of guilt at how young and innocent the young man looked. He felt a twinge of regret that the night's passings would probably never repeat themselves. He felt a rush of satisfaction knowing that it was damned well worth it.
He pressed a kiss onto the top of Brian's head, inhaling the smell of rotting alcohol, apple-scented hair gel, and salty sweat. Standing, he picked up his glasses, cleaned them on his shirt, and put them on. Then, he switched off the table lamp, and quietly left, hoping that no one in this less-than-affluent neighbourhood had messed with his car.