Dan pushes the door closed behind him. It bangs shut, sharp and loud as a gunshot. He’s too tired to react.
Once, he witnessed a madman try to kill a demon with a gun. Before that night, he’d only known what gunshots sounded like from old TV shows. Reality is different. Reality is always different. That’s a lesson he learned a long time ago. Or at least, it feels like a long time. Sometimes, he feels much older than he really is. Sometimes, he feels downright ancient.
Lately, ‘sometimes’ and ‘often’ seem to have become synonymous.
He should clean the axe. He knows he should. And still, he props it against the wall next to the door, blood so dark it looks black sliding along the curved blade and dripping onto the linoleum floor. It’ll stain. As well it should. Some things should not be washed out too easily, and blood is one of them.
When he turns again, Patrick is there, and Dan’s stomach clenches painfully along with his fists. The square of gauze stands out starkly on Patrick’s lower abdomen and the bruises on his face aren’t quite faded yet. Dan wishes that fucking demon were still alive, just so he could tear it apart again.
This time, he would make it slow.
Hurt as he is, Patrick takes one look at him and manages to look worried. He wraps his arms around Dan and draws him close – too close; he flinches against Dan, but he still doesn’t pull back. He’s too stubborn for his own good.
“Bad night?” he murmurs against the shell of Dan’s ear.
Dan sighs and carefully closes his arms around Patrick’s waist, mindful of that square of gauze he hates so much. He rests his cheek against Patrick’s shoulder and his eyelids drop closed. Images pop up at once, steel slashing flesh, cracks of lightning turning everything blue, but he doesn’t want to relive this fight quite yet, so he opens his eyes again. The curve of Patrick’s neck is graceful, even delicate. He presses his lips against it, feeling life and blood pulse, just a bite away.
“Bad week,” he breathes, remembering the fire and that burned doll. “Bad month.” He can almost taste the bile on his tongue; he never wants to see Patrick this broken again. He’s already told their squad leader he’ll quit – they’ll both quit – if it happens again. “Bad—”
Two gentle fingers draw his face up. Patrick’s eyes are too damn understanding, and Dan braces himself for the comforting words he’s already been given too many times. Words don’t mean anything anymore. Words don’t work.
But lips? Lips work, yes, pressing against his own and coaxing them open. A tongue comes next, pushing in like it belongs in Dan’s mouth, the same way Patrick’s cock belongs in his body. Chapped lips, demanding tongue, a little too fast, a little too strong, but fast and strong is exactly right sometimes. Like now.
Dan’s wide-open hands press against Patrick’s back. If he doesn’t do this, he’ll grab and clutch – and hurt Patrick again. There has been too much hurting today already.
Patrick is not as reticent; his hands are all over Dan, sliding under his shirt and stroking his skin like his tongue is stroking Dan’s palate and teeth.
“Getting better?” he asks, almost purrs, when he ends the kiss.
Dan purrs back at him – or tries to. It sounds more like a hum when he does it. Patrick won’t admit it, but Dan knows he loves that sound. He loves to cause it, especially. “Mmmm. A bit. Nice mouth. Other things that nice mouth of yours can do? ‘Cause that would—”
He laughs weakly when Patrick’s hands drop to his hips, fast and strong as they steer him toward the living room, but gentle, too, when they tug at his belt, unbutton his pants, pull them down along with his boxers and push him into his favorite armchair - their favorite armchair - the one that’s large enough for long, slow fucks.
They shouldn’t do this, he thinks dimly. Patrick is still hurt, Dan doesn’t want to cause him pain, doesn’t want—
Patrick drops to his knees and shuffles forward, right between Dan’s legs. His grin is absolutely obscene. Dan holds his breath because he knows what’s coming, but when the same lips and tongue that made him melt earlier, made him want, trail against his cock, he hisses Patrick’s name.
He was thinking. He knows he was thinking. But thinking is so hard. Lips and tongue move against his cock, gentle at first but soon fast and strong. He doesn’t last long — he can’t — but then he’s not supposed to. He knows Patrick; this was just to take the edge off. Round two will be an entirely different thing.
Lips that are much too satisfied smile at him as Patrick steps out of his jeans. With his cock jutting out in front of him, he climbs into Dan’s lap and hands. Eyes like a lightning storm on a summer night ask if his night is getting any better. Dan smiles and swipes his thumb over the bead of precome at the top of Patrick’s cock. He brings it to his lips and sucks on it. He can practically hear thunder when Patrick kisses him again.
In a minute, he’ll answer. When his brain starts working again and he can stop grinning like an idiot, he will. Or he could just forgo words altogether.
Lips. Tongue. Sweet and slow.