fredbassett | Fic, Bedside Manner, Slash, Stephen/Ryan, 18

Title : Bedside Manner
Author : fredbassett
Fandon : Primeval
Rating : 18
Characters : Stephen/Ryan
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don't sue
Spoilers : None
Summary : Concerning phone calls, and showers
Tags : Fic, Slash, Stephen, Ryan

The block was in an unremarkable area, well kept and anonymous.

Stephen stood on the steps, pressed the bell for Flat 15 and told the intercom, “It’s me.”

The outer door opened with a quiet click. The interior was equally anonymous, equally well kept. And magnolia. Or more probably a more expensive variety that amounted to the same colour. Even the large potted plants were tidy and not plastic.

Flat 15 was on the top floor and the door was open. Stephen knocked but didn’t wait for a reply.

Ryan was sprawled on a large sofa. He gave a tired, apologetic grin and everything Stephen had intended to say died in his throat. The Special Forces captain looked bloody awful. Even smoothly muscled, suntanned nakedness in unsettlingly conjunction with black leather couldn’t and didn’t disguise that inescapable fact.

Ryan’s bruises had faded to a nasty, mottled, yellowish green, reminiscent of a specimen left too long in the dissecting labs. His knee was still strapped up, a wide bandage crossed his chest and underneath a week’s growth of stubble, he was unnaturally pale, a faint sheet of sweat standing out on his skin.

In response to the look on Stephen’s face he said simply, “Flu. Started the day after we left the hotel.”

Stephen crossed the room in three quick strides and Ryan settled into his arms with a comfortable sigh. It felt good. Almost too good. He hadn’t been sure whether Hart would come or not. Hadn’t wanted to admit to himself that it mattered either way. He’d broken his own rules, had let someone get close to him again. And to his surprise, it didn’t feel wrong.

Stephen stroked the dark blond hair, badly in need of a wash. Trying to keep his tone light, he remarked, “Has anyone ever told you that you look fucking awful?”

“Yeah, my ex-wife. Usually when she wanted to go out on her own.” Hart opened his mouth to reply then clearly thought better of it and Ryan’s rueful grin slid into a smile. “I didn’t hear the fucking phone. Sorry. I spent the first three days throwing up. The last two haven’t been so bad.”

“It’s been seven days since the hotel,” Stephen pointed out.

Ryan looked confused. “Must have spent the rest asleep.” He shifted position, snuggling closer, an arm snaking round Stephen’s waist.

The tension of the past week drained away. Stephen rested his head against Ryan’s, pressing a light kiss on the other man’s clammy forehead.

After nearly an hour doing nothing more than holding Ryan and watching him doze, Stephen gently disentangled himself and went to hunt for a blanket, vaguely concerned that lying around uncovered in the cool air of the flat wasn’t likely to be conducive to recovery. He found a dark red throw over the back of a chair and settled it round Ryan, ignoring a muffled protest, then decided to explore further.

When he saw the state of the bedroom he understood why Ryan was still on the sofa. It looked like the aftermath of a particularly good party in someone else’s flat. Or Cutter’s office after a long grant application session.

Clothes were strewn on the floor, the bed was a rumpled mess and there was a sharp, unpleasant smell of stale sweat hanging in the air. He threw open the window and quickly stripped the bed. A short search located an airing cupboard with clean sheets and inside ten minutes, the room was starting to look more habitable. On reflection it had been nowhere near as bad as Cutter’s office. You couldn’t fix that in ten minutes.

Stephen worked his way round the rest of the flat, chucking clothes and bedding into the washing machine, hastily shoving a pan containing what appeared to be a culture more ancient than China into the dishwasher, and dispensing liberal doses of disinfectant and air freshener in the bathroom. The need for a bio hazard suit started to diminish and it seemed safe to breathe normally again.

The inside of the flat, like the exterior, was curiously impersonal. Cream walls, black furniture, functional kitchen. All looking like something from an expensive, but bland of makeover programme. There was nothing to tie it to Ryan himself and although he had no idea what a Special Forces captain earned, he guessed it didn’t run to a place like this, especially not with a failed marriage in the background. A quick look in the rest of the cupboards confirmed that guess. Empty. There was a change of clothes in Ryan’s pack, but that was all.

He started to make coffee. Black. The milk might serve a useful purpose in a biology experiment, but not in a domestic context.

And what the hell were you meant to do with someone recovering from a bad dose of flu, anyway? Feed them? Starve them? He hadn’t a clue. He was better with gunshot wounds and animal bites. He suspected the same was true of Ryan.

He heard water running in the bathroom and wondered whether vomit was involved again. It seemed to have been a feature of their relationship so far. On this occasion, to his relief, it was off the agenda. Ryan had cleaned his teeth and was now looking around vaguely for a razor.

Stephen ran a gentle hand up the other man’s back. “Leave it. I like stubble.”

Ryan grinned. “Good. My skin feels like some bugger’s dragged sandpaper over it, but at least my mouth doesn’t feel like the bottom of a birdcage any more.” With that he pulled Stephen into his arms for a kiss that tasted not unpleasantly of toothpaste and mouthwash.

Stephen had waited a week for that kiss. A week of acting like a moody kid, dumped after a first date. He squirmed inside, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and inappropriate lust. Ryan was in no fit state for a fuck, that much was obvious, but Stephen couldn’t stop himself pushing back against the warm, sweaty body, enjoying the feel of hard muscles under his fingers and the rasp of stubble on his face and neck as Ryan’s lips tracked down over his cheek and jaw, along the line of his neck and down to his shoulder.

Fingers pulled at the buttons of his shirt, dragged at his belt and zip and shoved jeans and pants down over his hips. This was definitely wholly inappropriate for someone who’d been ill for a week but the tiny part of Stephen’s brain still thinking rationally decided it wasn’t his fault. All he’d done was stroke Ryan’s back. He hadn’t asked to be stripped.

After a brief tangled moment dealing ineptly with shoes, socks and jeans, the pair of them stumbled into the shower. Unlike the one in the hotel, this was certainly big enough for two. Whoever had equipped the flat fortunately hadn’t been into lavender or rose petals, and the shower gel smelt of nothing but fresh, clean soap, which soon replaced the smell of sweat and the vague, pervasive odour of vomit.

“Can these come off?” asked Stephen, running a hand over the bandages on Ryan’s chest.

Ryan shrugged and as the movement clearly didn’t make him wince, Stephen took that as a yes. The chest strap was chucked out of the shower to land wetly in the sink. The knee bandage followed. Ryan leant experimentally on his left leg, taking the weight carefully.

The knee seemed OK. He took a deep careful breath and that wasn’t too bad either, but he still felt weak and more than a little light-headed. He leant back against the cool tiles, enjoying the contrast with the warm water. And enjoying the slip and slide of soapy hands which started with his hair and worked gently but insistently downwards, covering every inch of his over-sensitive skin.

Stephen ran his fingers over Ryan’s body, exploring hard muscles and soft, concealed spots, sometimes changing fingers for mouth, pausing to nuzzle and nip, and to occasionally spit out soapy water.

Ryan kept his eyes shut, letting the water stream down over his face, losing the distinction between hands and lips, feeling the soft pull of an insistent mouth replaced sometimes by a feather light touch, sometimes by harder, more demanding fingers.

He felt himself being turned round and braced his hands on the wall to stay upright, eyes still closed, water and soap still gliding over his body. Taking care to avoid any pressure on his ribs, Hart worked down his shoulders and back, kneading, rubbing, finding the knots in his muscles and driving them out, getting lower and lower. Ryan’s bad arm started to tremble and he folded forward against the wall, pillowing his head in the crook of one elbow.

“I thought knees were meant to tremble in this situation not arms,” remarked a controlled voice over his shoulder. “You need to practise your one-armed press ups, Captain.”

The word Ryan muttered under his breath was neither controlled nor polite but anything else he’d been intending to say caught in his throat as a soapy finger slid inside him. Then another.

Long fingers teased and probed. Slick, scissoring, stretching. Ryan’s pelvic muscles tightened involuntarily It was harder to relax standing up, with his body seeming to magnify every sensation tenfold, and he knew with an absolute certainly that even if initial discomfort did tip over that fine dividing line into pain it was too late to stop now. He might’ve started this, but Hart was going to finish it. And right now it was taking all his will power just to stay upright. He didn’t have anything to spare for a debate about the wisdom of a standing fuck in a shower when this was already the longest he’d spent on his feet in a week.

Hands slid round to his hips, taking an almost clinical interest in bone and muscle, then Hart started to push into him, slowly, steadily. The other man’s breathing was as quiet and controlled as his voice had been and Ryan knew, with all a soldier’s certainty, that the blue eyes behind him were open, that they were taking in every movement, every reaction, every quiver and every tremble of wet skin and taut muscle.

His right knee wavered under the strain and Hart’s hands simply gripped him harder, holding him in place as he continued the slow, inexorable movement of his hips. And it felt good, there was no denying that, but there was also no denying the fact that he was being fucked by a man who seemed dangerously close to letting out the pent up anger and tension of the past week. A week in which Ryan’s phone had received six calls from the same number, but only one message. The simple one, Hi, it’s Stephen. Give me a call when you pick this up.

He’d known from the moment Hart had walked into the flat that the younger man had spent a good part of the last week angry. That much had been obvious and you don’t wipe away a week of anger and hurt with a few kisses and cuddles.

Ryan’s job had taught him a lot about anger, and even more about hurt. And he knew this wasn’t the time now for soft words or gentleness. He just hoped he could stay upright long enough for Hart to get the anger out of his system. Ryan was aroused, there was no denying that, but neither of the confining hands showed any inclination to stray from the bruising grip on his hip bones, and he couldn’t risk shifting position to free one of his own hands to deal with his own need. All he could do was arc his back, trying to press his body against Stephen’s, seeking warm flesh. Hoping for release.

Strong arms held him in place. A sniper’s arms, corded muscles like spun steel, used to holding a heavy rifle steady. Ryan did his best to relax, letting himself move with and against the thrusts, enjoying the sensations that were being driven into him. Hart’s rhythm became faster, deeper, his breathing matching the thrusts. Ryan felt the muscles in his stomach tightening in response, clenching…….

The unwelcome, insistent ring of a telephone cut abruptly through the hiss of the shower. Ryan’s head jerked up, eyes opening, water streaming into them and down his face. He started to turn, pushing himself off the tiled wall and felt the grip on his hips tightening into a hold that only violence would break. Fingers buried themselves into his flesh, hands that could hold down the recoil of a heavy pistol denied him any freedom of movement.

“You don’t answer the phone while I’m fucking you, Ryan, no way.”

It’ll be the bloody Witch King, thought the Special Forces leader, torn between the almost reflexive desire to make one sudden, unforgivable move to break Hart’s dominance and his own aching need to carry on being fucked.

He tried to straighten his arms, to shift position just enough to gain leverage on the wet, slippery floor, but Hart moved as well, with the speed and skill of a natural fighter, balanced, ready, and still fucking him. Something at the back of Ryan’s mind reminded him that Hart used to fence. It had been in his file. It explained the speed, the balance and also the thigh muscles.

In the manner of all potentially violent encounters, time slowed almost to standstill, leaving the part of Ryan’s brain that had kept him alive for so long free to analyse, to decide, to get so pissed off with that sodding phone. Couldn’t Lester take the frigging hint and ring back later?

Ryan didn’t think he’d allowed even the slightest twitch of his muscles to betray him, but before he could start to straighten out his left arm to push backwards, Hart slammed into him, deep and hard.

“What part of no don’t you understand?” a cold voice demanded.

And this was suddenly one fight that the soldier knew he had no desire to win, even if he could have done, and somewhere in his mind, buried almost too deep to notice, was the small but insistent thought that if he pushed this, he might, just might, lose.

Fuck it, he’d debate this with himself later. Ryan let himself go, melting back into Stephen’s grasp, his own breath coming out in ragged gasps as he closed his eyes again against the water, finally allowing himself to feel, not think.

Stephen tensed in response to Ryan’s sudden lack of resistance. He’d been in enough fights to recognise this trick, but there was no way that phone was getting answered. Not even if it cost him a broken neck. He didn’t care if a hundred tyrannosaurs were running wild in Hyde Park. They could set up a breeding colony there for all he fucking cared. He was finishing this in his own time and he wasn’t quite ready yet.

He braced himself for Ryan’s next move, not thinking, no, simply not giving a damn about what this might do to their relationship. All he could feel was Ryan’s body pressed against him, the strong back arching upwards in one smooth tanned line, then he abandoned any semblance of rational thought and simply drove his own pleasure into the unexpectedly yielding body. Stephen’s eyes were tightly closed now as he let himself fall abruptly into his own climax. It was good. It was so fucking good that it was worth the consequences. Whatever they might be.

Ryan felt the shudders as Hart came, felt him clutch his hips even harder, if that was possible. He let his own breath out, not even realising he’d been holding it. He’d given up trying to take the weight on his bad knee and his other leg was trembling uncontrollably now. His ribs hurt, his arm hurt and it felt like a chunk had been taken out of the back of his neck. And he still hadn’t come yet.

Hart’s bedside manner sucked, and in between ragged breaths, Ryan delivered that verdict.

Stephen started to laugh, his head resting on Ryan shoulder. “If I let go, will you try and kill me?”

Ryan thought about it for a moment then reached a decision. “No, but if you do let go, there’s a good chance I won’t stay upright.” He turned his head just far enough to look over his shoulder into Stephen’s blue eyes, seeing pupils so dilated as to be almost black, framed by those impossibly long, dark eyelashes, water nestling on them like raindrops.

Stephen reached out and shut off the water, then, doing his best to hold Ryan up with one arm he turned him round, gentle now, the anger gone, washed clean away. “Why did you let me do that to you?”

Because I’m not 100% sure I could have stopped you? Because it was good? Because anger’s easier to deal with than tears and tantrums? Because two broken ribs, a twisted knee and your cock up my ass restricted my options just a tad?

He held Stephen’s eyes for a long moment, turning various answers over in his mind, then said, “Maybe because I enjoy your apologetic blow-jobs?”

Stephen bent his head forward and delivered an open-mouthed kiss to his lover, laughter dancing in his blue eyes. He slid down Ryan’s body until mouth reached hips and replaced hands. His tongue slid hungrily over the spreading red marks. Oh shit, as if the guy didn’t have enough bruises already. He worked his way across the flat muscles of his lover’s stomach, then down through the tangle of wet dark hair, keeping his teeth firmly out of the equation, using lips and mouth only, sucking, teasing, licking. Taking Ryan as deeply as he could, one hand stroking, urging, as he slid up and down his length, concentrating on dragging as many gasping breaths out of his lover as he could, slowing down, letting the rise and fall of the other man’s chest almost return to normal, keeping his touch feather light, before deepening his strokes again and pulling one final, shuddering gasp from Ryan as his hips moved sharply and he came into Stephen’s mouth.

And at that exact moment, the phone rang again.

Ryan leant heavily on his lover’s shoulder, gasping and laughing at the same time. “Can I answer it now?”

* * *

Ryan put the phone down looking thoughtful. He accepted the towel Hart held out to him and started to rub what was left of the moisture off his aching body.

The Witch King had been characteristically brief. “My office, tomorrow at three, Captain Ryan. Casual dress. Check your gun in at the front desk, they’ll be expecting you.”

It wasn’t the first time Ryan had spoken to Lester on the phone. But it was the first time the other man had sounded ……… edgy? Ryan wasn’t used to that tone of voice from the ever-imperturbable civil servant. It had been distinctly unsettling. He preferred Lester without the complication of emotion. And he really didn’t want to know what could make a man like Lester edgy.

In answer to Stephen’s raised eyebrows Ryan shrugged. As an afterthought he took the phone off the hook and left it there. He had no intention of taking the chance of it ringing again at an inopportune moment.

Ryan was in no fit state for a fight.

And he still wasn’t sure who’d win.

And he still wasn’t sure whether it mattered or not.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

deinonychus-1.livejournal.com

Oh, yeah. That chapter was well worth the wait.

In a word - hot.

So many quotable bits, so little time. Loved the descriptions of Ryan's flat comparing it to Cutter's office after a grant application. And the milk that was like a bioloigal experiment.

And then, well, just hot!

Great characterisation again. And I loved Ryan being just that little bit vulnerable. So sweet, makes you want to hug him.

From:

Fic, Bedside Manner, Slash, Stephen/Ryan, 18

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