Left Unsaid, NC-17, Strangers With Candy, Chuck/Geoffrey, part 2

Mar 08, 2009 17:46

continued from part 1



~ ~ ~

"He's fine.  I'll take care of it."

"Well, okay, but... maybe I should just go check on him-"

"God... damn it, Clair!  Can't I have anything of my own?"

Geoffrey gasped awake, surprised first by the shouting and then by the realization that the light in the room had changed from the natural rays of the afternoon sun to an artificial overhead lamp that cut powerfully through the evening darkness.  He immediately stilled in deference to the hot, stiff ache in his neck and the burning pain emanating from most of his face.  Heart pounding, breath held, he listened intently to the argument in the hall.

He might have wondered how long he'd been out, when Clair had come home, why Chuck hadn't hurried Geoffrey out the window as soon as he'd heard her arrival, whether she'd come into the den and seen what had happened to his beautiful face-even Geoffrey didn't want to see what had happened to his beautiful face-if she'd been responsible for the pillow under his head and the light blanket over his body, and even if the two of them had ever argued over him before.

But what he actually wondered about was the long pause that lingered in between Chuck's angry but awkward accusation and the next time his wife spoke.  Geoffrey couldn't imagine what she might have been thinking after being confronted with what must have seemed to her such a strange rhetorical question: Can't I have anything of my own?  Why should Geoffrey Jellineck, a co-worker and acquaintance, casual friend at best, elicit such a passionate and possessive rage from her husband?  Why, indeed.

"What?" she finally asked, her voice awash in incredulity.

Chuck turned in the hall, heavy steps coming Geoffrey's way.  "I didn't say anything," he mumbled.

Clair's lighter steps followed.  "You said-"

Then she gasped as a swishing sound suggested Chuck had spun on his heel to face her once again.  "Damn it, Geoffrey is a-a friend and he needs my help!  I don't have time to argue.  He could be spilling my life's blood all over the carpet in there!"

Geoffrey winced, not least because of the thought of how much blood he had indeed spilled this day, but mostly because of the slip in Chuck's wording.  Even as a pleased warmth pervaded his body at the no-nonsense way Chuck fought to be with him, he worried at the risk Chuck was thoughtlessly taking with his outwardly normal home life.  Though Chuck's desire for his wife had long ago died, if indeed there had ever been any, his very real need for the status boost he believed a marriage and child brought him had only continued to grow stronger and more desperate with time.  Should he accidentally sacrifice it for Geoffrey's benefit, Geoffrey knew he would be borne the blame.

Clair's meek, "But-" of obvious confusion had no time to gain ground before Chuck was shouting over her with a tone that suggested he believed he'd already won the argument.

"Leave us alone and keep quiet-" an angry flutter of fabric, "-him, too!"

Geoffrey hunkered down a little farther into his pillow, feeling some sympathy for Seamus, who hadn't made so much as a sound at least since Geoffrey had been awake.  He'd been so quiet, in fact, that Geoffrey hadn't even realized he was in the house.

When he felt guilt over Chuck's family and what his and Chuck's illicit relationship meant for their home life, it was always more for the little boy than for the wife.  That might have had something to do with the fact that Chuck spoke fondly of his son while he very rarely managed to remember his wife's name.  But sometimes Geoffrey wondered if there was any possible way Seamus could see his father's love and pride beneath the fear, secrecy, and shame that coloured his every day.  Geoffrey knew as well as anyone what a bad mood it tended to put Chuck in.

He closed his one open eye as the door opened and closed quietly, the lock was turned, and soft steps approached the sofa.  A glass was set down on the end table above his head and Geoffrey's swollen tongue moved dryly in his mouth at the thought of water.  His weight shifted when Chuck sat carefully on the edge of the couch and placed a gentle hand on Geoffrey's shoulder.  If he hadn't heard the anger in Chuck's voice with his own two ears only moments ago, Geoffrey never would have guessed he'd just had an explosive argument with Clair.  But that was the quality of Chuck's emotions.  The man was a rollercoaster of passion and volume.

"Geoffrey," he breathed, and every tiny hair on Geoffrey's body stood on end.  "Are you awake?"

Geoffrey licked one corner of his distended lips and turned onto his back, pretending to wake at the question.  Chuck made an effort to smile gently down at him, but Geoffrey didn't miss the flicker of shock, disgust, and anger when Chuck first lay eyes on his face after a sleep of what felt like a few hours at the least.  Tears attempted to spring to Geoffrey's eyes at the thought of how hideous he must look, and the fear as to whether he'd ever have his classically beautiful features back in place, but he heroically held back his sorrow.

"Are you thirsty?"

He did his best to nod and leaned heavily on Chuck while he was helped to sit up against the arm of the couch, the pillow propped behind him.  Every little movement sent pain screaming down his neck.

Chuck offered him the glass of cool water with one of Seamus's swirly bendy straws in it and Geoffrey suckled it greedily.  He got a kick out of the purple and white swirls on the thin loops of plastic, eying the straw up and down as he drank.  "Artsy," he said with amusement when he was finished and Chuck put the glass back on the table.

A self-satisfied smirk quirked the corner of Chuck's mouth, though he didn't respond.  When he pulled back from the table, he held a powder blue ice bag in his hand and Geoffrey hissed even before the cold fabric pressed against his sore, swollen eye.  It felt familiar and he realized it was what Chuck had held to his face as he'd fallen asleep, and had apparently been refilled.

"There we go," Chuck whispered, as if to himself, and briefly ruffled the short strands of messy hair at the crown of Geoffrey's head.  Geoffrey knew Chuck hated the closely-cropped haircut he'd gotten over the summer, and he was growing it back out as quickly as possible, but he appreciated not being reminded of the dislike just the same.

At the moment he felt a bit like a child being cared for by a parent; he found himself searching his memory, wondering if this was a role playing fantasy they'd ever indulged in the past.  He couldn't recall one and desperately hoped that wasn't where this was going.  He hurt too much and didn't have the energy.

"You should see a doctor," Chuck said, and ghosted a fingertip over the butterfly bandages holding the cut at Geoffrey's left temple closed.  "This might need stitches."

Geoffrey tried to shake his head, but only let out a high-pitched moan at the pain the attempt caused.  "No," he said, his voice even reedier than usual.  "No doctor.  No hospital."

"Why?"  He watched as Chuck's jaw set angrily, the muscles twitching.  "Because you'll have to tell them how it happened?"  Geoffrey didn't respond, watching anger take a seamless hold on Chuck's expression.  Chuck's sudden mood shifts had some time ago lost their threat for Geoffrey and had instead become fascinating to watch.  "Damn it, Geoffrey, who's responsible for this?"

"It doesn't matter.  It's over."

"Is it?  How do you know it won't happen again?"  He sighed harshly when Geoffrey didn't immediately respond.  "Look, this pacifism thing of yours is all well and good in theory, but you can't just let something like this happen to me and not do anything about it.  Whoever did this should pay," his voice darkened briefly, then normalized.  "Why don't you at least report it to the police?  Give them a description?"

Geoffrey didn't point out Chuck's slip of the tongue.  He seemed so often to confuse the two of them and Geoffrey had never figured out whether it was because Chuck saw them as the same person-a beautiful, artistic thought Geoffrey liked to indulge-or that Chuck only understood the things that happened to others in terms of how they affected Chuck himself-the more likely answer.  Chuck saw Geoffrey injured, but what Chuck experienced was the anger and possessiveness that the appearance of an injured Geoffrey caused him to feel.  In Chuck's mind, Geoffrey getting beaten to a pulp was something that had happened to Chuck.  It occurred to Geoffrey that this was either very sweet or very disturbing.

"You don't understand," Geoffrey said with a sigh, closing his good eye against the near pain of his swollen eye becoming numb with cold.  "If I did that, they'd ask me if I knew why I was attacked."

"So what?"

Geoffrey opened his eye and peered at Chuck unblinkingly.  He didn't have to wonder if Chuck really hadn't figured it out.  It had surely not even occurred to him.  On a day-to-day basis, Chuck was the most repressed man Geoffrey had ever known.  Geoffrey had, in fact, known priests-a couple of them biblically-who were more in touch with their sexuality than Chuck was.

"So..." he said with a small, painful shrug, "it happened because the person-or persons-thought I was... you know... gay."

Chuck tensed at the very word and Geoffrey hissed at the increased pressure placed on his tender face through the ice pack.  He pushed Chuck's hand away fiercely, causing him to drop the bag onto the floor, though Chuck didn't seem to notice.  "So tell them it's not true," he said, his voice becoming off-key.

Geoffrey snorted as well as he could through his swollen nose.  "It is true, Chuck."  Reflexively, he lowered his voice to a whisper, not sure where in the house Clair and Seamus might have been.  "Maybe you haven't noticed on any of the many occasions you've had your dick up my ass, but I'm pretty gay."

Chuck swallowed hard and got swiftly to his feet, looking trapped and fearful as if he'd honestly thought that maybe Geoffrey had just never noticed that Chuck fucked him regularly.  But after a few seconds of being stared at, and watching the terror in Chuck's eyes grow and his breathing quicken, Geoffrey realized what it was really all about.  He was, in fact, surprised at himself that he had taken so long to catch on.

He did his best to roll his eyes and rested his head more fully against the arm of the sofa.  "Don't worry," he said wearily, his voice breaking on his utter lack of enthusiasm.  "The person or persons didn't mention or refer to you in any way."  He peeked out of one slitted eye and watched Chuck's posture soften with relief.  "You're safe, Chuck."

Chuck relaxed ever further, and smiled.  He returned to the edge of the sofa and retrieved the ice bag, gently placing it at the corner of Geoffrey's mouth as if the exchange hadn't happened.  With something akin to peace on his features, he resumed watching the swelling disperse on Geoffrey's ravaged face.  Geoffrey was not fool enough to question this transformation of Chuck's mood nor the lack of continuing interest in the justice he had so recently and so vehemently claimed Geoffrey's attacker-or attackers-was due.

He had learned long ago that the safety of Chuck's secret far outweighed the safety of Geoffrey himself in importance.  The secret always came first; it had to be secured and locked down before anything else could happen or even be considered.  At times, Geoffrey had rebelled against it, wanting to step away from the shadows and into the light, not giving a damn if the world saw who he was and what he felt.  Even to this day, Geoffrey didn't care enough about others’ opinions of his ‘manliness’ to cover up what were probably the blatant signs of his not-heterosexuality.  He wouldn't have been caught dead in argyle sweaters and corduroy trousers.

But in time he'd come to accept that as far as Chuck was concerned, they were either together in the dank darkness of secrecy or they were together not at all.

If Geoffrey had ever been a stronger man, he might have chosen ‘not at all.’  He, in fact, probably should have made that choice a long time ago.  But there was something about Chuck-something so hidden that even Geoffrey didn't truly know what it was-that made it impossible for him to do the sensible thing and walk away.  Maybe it was his imagined stature or his delusions of grandeur that Geoffrey privately found entertaining, a little sad, and somehow noble: Like a lion in a cage who still ran his pride with an iron fist, as if he either had not noticed or refused to let it affect him that he was held captive and powerless by something more clever and ultimately more powerful than he.

Maybe it was his enduring playfulness or the surprising skill he showed at lovemaking.  Or maybe it all really did come down to those hidden moments, occasional tender words, secret smiles, and the mischievous twinkle in his eye when Clair and Seamus were out of town, Geoffrey had just walked in the front door, and Chuck had locked it behind him.

One or all of these things came together and somehow gave Geoffrey the strength to say okay: Okay, I'll protect your lies; I'll hide here; I won't ask you to come with me to the carnival or meet me in the park before nightfall.  I'll spend holidays alone or-if you can swing it-I'll meet you for ten minutes in the convenience store restroom after you've convinced your family you forgot to buy something that is absolutely essential for the perfect holiday dinner.  I'll sneak around in basements and boiler rooms and back alleys in the middle of the night, neglecting my students, my sleep, my personal safety.  I'll willfully smash public lighting and press my bare back against cold, wet brick walls, and I'll keep my voice to a whisper, be careful not to mark your skin, and bite my lip till it bleeds when I want to cry out your name.  I'll be your dirty little secret, I won't ask for more, and I'll be satisfied with what you give me.

Because if he succeeded in doing these things, protected Chuck's secret with the ardor that Chuck himself employed to do the same, then though their moments would be few and almost exclusively too short for Geoffrey's taste, they would exist and they would be progressively more real for the security Chuck experienced in their making.

By all rights, that shouldn't have been enough to keep his attention.  Before this afternoon's feature rearrangement, Geoffrey had been a beautiful man with an enviable physique and not a little artistic talent.  Surely if he tried, he could easily find a not-married, not-secretive, not-so-damn-difficult lover-not ‘friend’-to call his own.  But maybe Geoffrey liked the challenge.  Maybe that was why he took it upon himself to teach such a talentless student body the basics of artistry.

Or maybe he'd gone and done something incredibly stupid like fallen in love with Chuck Noblet.  Artists weren't well-known for their ironclad grasp of logic.  Geoffrey supposed he was no exception.

He was certainly a fool if nothing else.  Because as Chuck hovered over him, smiling his small, fond smile, gently tending to Geoffrey's wounds, looking as though nothing was wrong in the world, Geoffrey could easily imagine a small slip of reality where there was no wife and no child on the other side of that door, where Chuck was not happy because he was safe in his lie, but was happy because they were happy, where before the end of the night, Geoffrey would not be shuffled unceremoniously out the door with a whispered suggestion that they meet at three in the morning in the park under dark cover of unkempt hedges and broken streetlights.  Geoffrey could imagine that the fantasy they role-played at most often was the reality, and that the reality of Chuck's wife and family was the fantasy they sometimes played at to experience the imaginary thrill of the danger of being caught.

Geoffrey sighed and closed his good eye, and when the soft press of lips met the least swollen corner of his mouth, he held his breath not in deference to the twinge of pain he feared, but to fully experience and enjoy the tenderness of the touch.  He continued to hold his breath as the ice pack was removed from his face and dropped to the floor once again, as Chuck's chilled fingers slid over the back of his sore neck with a gentle massage, and as his warm lips trailed over the sensitive skin of Geoffrey's throat, using a stronger pressure there than they had dared on his face, yet remaining tender and soft and sweet.

This was not desire but gratitude, or at least more of the latter than the former.  Chuck was attracted to Geoffrey's face-that had always been clear-and why shouldn't he be?  As an artist, Geoffrey could objectively see his own beauty: He was gorgeous!  But the current state of Geoffrey's face made any real attraction or desire on Chuck's part either impossible or at least drawn solely from memory.

But the gratitude over Geoffrey's understanding of Chuck's needs, the bending to his will, that was enough to elicit all manner of benefits.  Chuck had never said ‘thank you’ with words.  Chuck had never said much of anything that mattered with words.

"Chuck," Geoffrey said, his tone meant to still as his hands closed gently over Chuck's shoulders.

But Chuck only took his lips from the hollow of Geoffrey's throat to lean back and hike the thin sunshine yellow shirt up the length of his body.  "This is stained with blood," he said, smirking though the words were ugly.  "You'll have to take it off and let me wash it."

"It's silk," was the only response Geoffrey could construct.

Chuck nodded as if he understood more from that comment than even Geoffrey knew he'd meant, and pulled the shirt over Geoffrey's head, bracing him at the nape of his neck where one rapidly warming hand still rested.  His white A-shirt came along with it, Chuck pulling them both forward so the wide neck would skim only at the back of Geoffrey's head where no wound resided, and not drag cruelly against his raw face.

The sudden exposure to the cool air caused a rash of goose bumps to bloom over his nearly hairless body.  Chuck ran soft hands over the expanse of Geoffrey's chest, smoothing the puckered skin down, warming the flesh and making Geoffrey's breath catch in his throat even when he tried to breathe again.  As Chuck's still smiling mouth lowered to Geoffrey's waist, where he plainly intended to trace a chain of kisses, Geoffrey reached for him.

"Chuck..." Geoffrey took Chuck's wrists in his hands, effectively stilling his teasing fingers.  "I don't want this."

Chuck's smile did not fade, but only flickered as he met Geoffrey's gaze.  "What do you mean?"

"I don't..." he pulled gently at Chuck's wrists, severing the connection between his hands and Geoffrey's chest, "...want this."

Chuck only looked at him in utter confusion.  Geoffrey hadn't expected he would understand.  Not want this?  Chuck always wanted this.  And truth be told, so did Geoffrey.  He even wanted it right now.

He supposed what he really meant was, "Not like this."

"Not like what?"  Chuck's voice was hardening.  He was offended or frustrated.  It wouldn't matter now how Geoffrey answered the question.  It wouldn't help.

"I didn't come here for that."

"I know that," Chuck scoffed, though Geoffrey wasn't sure he did.  "But that doesn't mean-"

"Yes," Geoffrey insisted, trying to infuse his voice with both firmness and empathy.  "It does."

Chuck scowled and, after a short pause, ripped his hands from Geoffrey's grasp.  "Fine," he said tightly, and got to his feet.  He crossed swiftly to the wing-backed chair and crashed into it, crossing his legs and looking not at all regal, but only bitter and full of resentment.

Geoffrey sighed and forced his way to a semi-sitting position, cramming himself into the crease where the back of the sofa met the arm so that he could look at Chuck without turning his body.  "I don't mean that I don't want you."

Chuck's head swiveled toward him, his eyes wide with shock, as if such a thought hadn't even occurred to him.  It probably hadn't.

"I just mean that..." Geoffrey's neck ached from holding his head up and he let it fall unceremoniously back into the sofa, grunting at the spike of discomfort in his renascent headache.  "I don't understand why you can't just say thank you," he finally muttered in misery.  Most miserable, of course, because what he said was a lie: He understood all too well.  "I don't need rewarded like a good dog who brought in the newspaper.  Just say thank you, Chuck."

There was only silence and Geoffrey opened his eye and turned his head painfully and awkwardly against the sofa so he could see Chuck's startled face.  He was blinking at him with owlish shock, obviously completely lost as to what Geoffrey was trying to say or what he wanted.

Geoffrey didn't truthfully know why he'd said it.  Surely he didn't expect his feelings would be suddenly understood in all their complexity just because he'd voiced a single objection to something he'd greedily accepted every other time it had been offered over the past three years.

My god, had it been three years already?  Three years since that truck stop restroom and its stall at the very end with the bogus Out of Order sign hanging on the door, known far and wide to the right kind of person as the right kind of place that the right kind of person might score an anonymous handjob, blowjob, or even an outright fuck.

Depressed on his birthday, Geoffrey had gone there nervously for the first time, not knowing what exactly he was hoping for and not entirely sure he was willing to let it progress past making out.  He couldn't have described his shock when Chuck Noblet, another teacher at Flatpoint High who he knew only peripherally, slipped through the stall's warped and graffiti-strewn door like an old pro.

They'd stared at each other, flabbergasted, for nearly a minute.  And then they'd talked.  They'd begun to understand one another and, before being chased off by a pair of heavily breathing men insisting they either use the stall as intended or hand it over, they'd started... something.  Geoffrey hadn't gotten the anonymous encounter he'd expected to find, but instead had discovered something perhaps better and certainly much more complicated.

Soon after, they'd met in Geoffrey's classroom-when he had a free period and Chuck's students were being left to themselves as they so often were-and their conversation had picked up right where it had left off only a few nights previous.  Chuck had admitted to regularly checking in on that stall, and to scores of seedy encounters with nameless men he'd never seen-nor wanted to see-again, and Geoffrey explained that he'd participated in only one or two sleazy acts with strangers in his life and had felt pretty out of his element in that place before Chuck had walked in on him.

Still Geoffrey hadn't gotten what he'd been seeking that first night.  But what he had been given was one secret kiss.  And just like that, he was hooked: Deep, wet, and hurried had started there in that moment and quickly after had become the very definition of his love life-perhaps more accurately described as his sex life.  The bell had rung just as they were pressing closer and Chuck had bolted from the room a full minute before the class began to arrive, taking Geoffrey's heart with him, whether he knew it or not and whether he cared to know it or not.

Geoffrey supposed he'd spent the better part of the last three years reaching back for those first moments: The acceptance, the understanding, the very idea that there was someone else out there not satisfied with what life offered to men like them, whether it be the occasional hasty touch of a stranger or awkward, mismatched relationships fated to end bitterly within a few short weeks.  In that beginning, when they'd talked so much and seemingly gotten to know one another so well, Geoffrey was sure that he could say anything, feel anything, be anything, and Chuck would understand it.

Over time, perhaps he should have grown to see those thoughts as the slanted, inaccurate fantasy they were, and maybe he had.  But what was it Alexander Pope had said?  ‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast.’  ‘Heart,’ he'd meant, of course.  And deep in Geoffrey's heart, he supposed he still foolishly hoped that maybe Chuck understood him or could understand him or would try to.

He sighed, looking down at his hands in his own lap to avoid the blankness of Chuck's stare, and opened his mouth to apologize or change the subject or ask for Chuck to come back to the sofa and continue down the path he'd been headed, because that at least was one thing they both wanted.  "I-"

"Thank you."

Geoffrey froze, an unused breath caught in his throat.

His jaw might have dropped had it not been so swollen.  But as it was, his lips merely parted and the hinge of his jaw loosened slightly.  Slowly, he lifted his head, ignoring the protesting ache in his whiplashed neck, and stared at Chuck with one wide eye.  Certain he'd misheard or was hallucinating due to head trauma, he breathed a careful question: "What did you say?"

Chuck cleared his throat, looked down at his hideous pea green trousers, smoothed the fabric, and gazed back at Geoffrey, his expression placid.  "I said: ‘Thank you.’"

Geoffrey's spine tried to elongate on its own, making him want to sit up straight, lean in, but he willed himself to remain slumped where he was.  "For what?" he asked, desperate for clarification and certain the coming explanation would be much less incredible than what it seemed to him to suggest.

"For..." Chuck shrugged and clasped his hands together on his knee, a casual movement but that they were not steady, "protecting my..." he trailed off, then suddenly met Geoffrey's gaze and started over.  "Thank you for understanding, Geoffrey."

Geoffrey had entered a very surreal place that he didn't recognize.  He was dreaming or hallucinating or Mr. Tidbits had hit him so hard that he'd sent him into a parallel universe wherein Geoffrey Jellineck got what he wanted from Chuck Noblet just by asking.  He was sorely tempted to push the limits of this fantasy world and ask Chuck to leave his wife, come out to their co-workers, and stop wearing every conceivable shade of green and brown.  He was even tempted to ask him to honestly answer a question he'd never dared ask aloud, ‘Do you love me?’

But, most likely out of pure self-preservation, Geoffrey only said, "You're welcome."

Chuck nodded at this, his chin dimpling slightly as if Geoffrey had said something very interesting that deserved mulling over, and he focussed his gaze on the floor, probably near where he'd left the melting ice pack.  "Was that what you wanted?" he asked steadily, not meeting Geoffrey's gaze.

He lifted a shoulder, then dropped it in an uncertain shrug.  "Yeah," he said, his surprise plain in the pitch of his voice.  "I... I guess it was."

Chuck continued to nod and dug his elbow into the arm of his leather chair.  Turning to look toward the door, he rested his chin on two splayed fingers and his thumb, wearing a considering expression.  "And..." he scoffed lightly and shook his head as if surprised at himself, or maybe the situation, "may I touch you again now?"

Geoffrey swallowed hard, thrown by the blunt question.  "I-"

Chuck's gaze flew to him, so much hunger in his eyes, so much desire even as he looked on Geoffrey's twisted, swollen visage that it seemed incredible his glasses weren't melting to his face, and a flood of heat began to pool in Geoffrey's groin.

"Say yes."

Geoffrey tried to swallow again, but mainly succeeded in choking.  "Yes," he said, his voice a squeak.

Chuck was off the chair and kneeling before him with the speed of a much younger man.  He tugged at Geoffrey's loose slacks until he tilted his hips and helped push them off along with his briefs.  "Lay back down," Chuck said gruffly as he yanked at his own boots-a pain in the ass when a man was in a hurry, those boots-tossed his glasses carelessly onto the end table beside Geoffrey's carefully folded pair, and then lay down beside him.

Though on his side, Geoffrey had to stare at the ceiling, unable to stand the pain of the left side of his face against even the softness of the plush pillow he'd been provided, and Chuck quickly adjusted.  He nudged Geoffrey onto his back and leaned over him, first gazing heatedly down into his open eye, then diving for the far side of Geoffrey's neck once he'd elicited the first of a litany of gasps with firm, nimble fingers.

"This isn't a thank you card, Geoffrey," Chuck breathed hotly against the shell of Geoffrey's ear as Geoffrey writhed and pulled ineffectively at Chuck's shirt, still tucked into his ugly green slacks.  "Some things remain unspoken not because they don't exist, but because they're so intrinsic they've become tacit."

His words were poetic on purpose, Geoffrey knew.  In any other situation, he would have said it much more simply: ‘I don't say everything I think.’  But worded like this, it speared Geoffrey's poetic soul and weakened his hands ever further until he could only claw at the fabric over Chuck's back, letting out the occasional quiet whimper and remaining otherwise mute.

"Didn't it ever occur to you that when you... do that-when you understand..." he bit playfully at the lobe of Geoffrey's ear, and his grin invaded his voice, "it just puts me in the mood?"

Geoffrey did little more than gasp a response, the sensation of Chuck's warm, soft palm stroking his flesh making coherent replies difficult if not impossible.  But what he wanted more than anything was to laugh.  It was hilarious how alike they were and absolutely tragic how hard he found it to pick up on.

Geoffrey ground his teeth to keep quiet, wincing at the sharpened pain in his jaw and head, and Chuck ran a hot tongue along Geoffrey's neck.  "It's okay," he said in a soothing voice.  "I heard them leave."

Mouth dropping open with a dull ache, Geoffrey let out the groan that had been building in his chest, and felt Chuck shiver against him.  He wanted to touch him, stroke him, do something, even if it was just to get him out of those hideous trousers.  But he was uncoordinated and pinned to the sofa with Chuck's weight on his chest, so he did little but ride the sensations gathering quickly in his groin as Chuck's hand moved faster and faster with more dexterity and more skill than a man who wore wool sweaters and taught history to high school students should ever rightfully have.

He panted Chuck's name, then let out a reedy shriek as the building pressure suddenly released with a convulsion seated deep in the base of his loins.  Thick, wet fluid shot forward to coat his stomach as Chuck's hand slowed to a steady but lazy pace, pumping him with the right mixture of care and firmness until Geoffrey stopped shaking and started to breathe again.  Then Chuck cradled him in his palm, still tracing soft, wet kisses over the tingling skin of Geoffrey's neck and throat.

The pain in his head, which had momentarily lessened, bloomed threefold with the culmination of his exertion and Geoffrey closed his eye against the strange mixture of euphoria and throbbing discomfort.  After a short time, Chuck rose from his heated neck and reached over Geoffrey's head, retrieving a tissue or two from the end table, which he used to mop up the sticky mess on Geoffrey's belly and presumably his own hand.  He turned away to tuck the soiled, crumpled tissue into the pocket of Geoffrey's pants on the floor, a long ago agreed upon safety net to avoid Chuck ever forgetting to empty his own pockets or the trash, leaving evidence for his wife to find.

When he turned back and Geoffrey strained to look at him with his one open eye, Chuck must have gleaned his predicament from the pinched expression his facial features were attempting to contort into.  He seemed to wince internally and ran a slightly tacky palm over Geoffrey's chest.  "More aspirin?"

Geoffrey closed his eye on the thought of relief.  "Please," he answered in a whisper.

The warmth briefly left Geoffrey's side, followed by a rattle of pills and then a nudge of cool glass at his shoulder.

Geoffrey looked past the glass of water-sans straw-and the open hand containing two small white discs for a moment, instead taking in the flush in Chuck's usually pale cheeks, the slight sheen of sweat on his brow, and his ruffled hair, tumescent lips, and dilated eyes.  Then he looked down his body and experienced great disappointment that he hadn't even managed to remove Chuck's belt, much less divested him of those horrible, horrible pants.  God, they bothered him so much!

Geoffrey worked his way to a sitting position and took the pills and water with a mumbled thanks.  He eyed Chuck over the glass as he sipped carefully, feeling hunted by his hungry gaze, and thrilled by that.  "Would you do me a favour?" Geoffrey asked, his voice cracking even more than usual through his breathlessness.

Chuck only raised his eyebrows in answer, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, as if he was exerting great restraint to not say, ‘I thought I just did.’

"Would you take those pants off..." he gestured at them shakily, "and then never, ever wear them again?"

Chuck looked down at them, ignoring for the moment the obscene shape the crotch had taken, and looked back to Geoffrey with some confusion in his eyes.  "They're comfortable."

Geoffrey affected a shudder.  "Not for me."

Chuck only grinned and hurriedly unfastened his belt and fly, then tore the pants off without care until they landed half inside out on the floor.  Geoffrey doubted this meant that Chuck was acquiescing to his long-term request, but at least he no longer had to look at them for now.

He put his glass down on the end table, then reached out for the buttons of Chuck's shirt, unfastening them shakily one at a time from the top down.  He was on the third when Chuck's hands covered his own, stopping his progress.  "Are you all right?"  He asked this as if truly concerned Geoffrey might not be and Geoffrey smiled for real despite the pinch.

"Just don't ask me to do anything with my mouth," he said, only partially joking.

Chuck grimaced and Geoffrey was suddenly aware all over again of how unattractive he must look.  Self-conscious, he tried to turn his face away, but only succeeded in pressing the sorest places against the pillow.  He jerked away from it with a hiss and Chuck caught his head gently in his hands, holding him still with a firm touch.  He slowly lowered to kiss the far corner of Geoffrey's mouth, his soft, supple lips moving with so little pressure, Geoffrey felt no pain.

When he pulled away again, he wore a small and perhaps amused smile.  "Nothing with your mouth," he repeated in a hush.

The kissed corner of Geoffrey's lips twitched.  "You mean nothing else."

"Yeah," Chuck laughed softly and his smile grew.  "I guess I do."

Feeling vulnerable as he always did under the infrequent dispensation of Chuck's affection and good humour, Geoffrey ducked his head and focussed once again on the buttons of Chuck's shirt, unfastening them swiftly and helping Chuck shrug it off.  The tee was pulled over his head without Geoffrey's assistance and then Chuck tugged the blanket over them again, their bare bodies each kept warm by the other's heat.

"Are you sure you're all right, Geoffrey?" Chuck asked as he slid a warm leg over Geoffrey's thigh.  "We don't have to-"

"Just be gentle above the neck, that's all I ask," he said, and offered a crooked smile.  "Besides," he added, skimming his fingertips over Chuck's shoulder, "we have the place to ourselves, right?  Can't waste that."

As a pleased grin spread across Chuck's face and he bent his neck to buss and nuzzle softly at Geoffrey's chest, Geoffrey's own words had time to settle and he found himself curious and apprehensive.  He'd never heard Clair and Seamus leave, but neither was he attuned to what that sounded like from this room.  "Do you know where they went?" he asked, his voice becoming somewhat strained as Chuck's hands roamed his body and a fleshy hardness pressed and pulsed against his hip.  "Or how much longer they'll be gone?"

"No idea," Chuck muttered dismissively against Geoffrey's skin.  "Door's locked.  Don't worry about it."

The truth was that Geoffrey was thrown by the fact that Chuck didn't seem worried about it.  He supposed that his ordeal did offer a rather convenient excuse for the two of them to be locked in Chuck's den for half the night, but it was an unusual if not unique situation for him to be in Chuck's house engaging in what Chuck would deem friendly activities when Chuck's family was aware of his presence.  It didn't exactly make him uncomfortable, but it did give him pause.  He kept having to remind himself that Chuck was already aware of the situation.

His thoughts began to turn thankfully away from Chuck's family and Chuck's lies and instead focus on Chuck himself, or more specifically what Chuck himself was doing to Geoffrey himself.  If Geoffrey had been exhausted before, and he had, then his mild exertion and draining orgasm had left him doubly so, and he found himself doing little more than stroking Chuck's back and sides as Chuck kissed and teased him back to life, taking up a slight and perhaps unconscious pumping against Geoffrey's hip.

That was one of the unexpected things about Chuck-unexpected in the beginning, though fully counted on now: He was a quite skilled and courteous lover.  It wasn't at all unusual when they had the time-though actually having the time was not the norm-for Chuck to speed Geoffrey to a first, intense release and then slowly regain his interest for a second, more involved and mutual experience.

Over time, Chuck had made it clear through intimation that before the chance meeting that had brought them together, he'd indulged his urges to be ‘friendly’ in places like truck stop restrooms, public parks, back alleys, and any other seedy meeting place he'd heard tell of in the underbelly of town.  The encounters were usually nameless by choice, often faceless due to lack of lighting, and always quick by necessity.  Geoffrey often imagined that Chuck's lovemaking style was an amalgam of what he knew-the quick and the dirty-and what he'd wanted but rarely had the time or opportunity for-the slow, thorough, and ultimately much more satisfying.

He'd never posited this to Chuck, or asked if he was correct.  Surely the truth couldn't be sweeter than what he'd imagined, and would probably turn out to be depressingly disappointing or banal to boot.  Chuck would say it was a conscious effort or that he'd learned it in his marital bed or-worse-he'd change it.  So Geoffrey kept his observations to himself, and closed his one good eye, and just enjoyed it.

It wasn't long at all before he'd begun to twitch under Chuck's warm touch and exploratory kisses once again, shifting his hips upward to seek for a pressure he couldn't find.  It was an involuntary signal that Chuck picked up on without the need for a single word, and he began to get to his knees where he straddled Geoffrey's leg, the blanket rising with him and slipping off his back to pool around his calves.

Without Chuck curled next to him, Geoffrey had the width of the couch to himself, and he centred himself on the cushions while Chuck climbed between his legs.  As soon as he was certain his knees wouldn't cause any damage, Geoffrey bent his legs and began to turn onto his stomach.

He hadn't gotten far when Chuck reached out and grabbed his shoulder hard, looking down at him with a nearly accusatory expression.  "What are you doing?"

Geoffrey scoffed.  "I'm turning over."

"I can see that, Geoffrey.  But why?"  Perhaps his expression was more confused than accusing.  It was hard to tell with only one working eye, which was hazed with head trauma, a dulling headache, and a rising desire.  "You know that's not how I like it."

Geoffrey gestured at the mess that was his face.  "But, Chuck, if I turn over," he explained as if to a child, "you won't have to look at me."

Chuck blinked blankly as if this was a strange thing to say, then nodded.  "That's why that's not how I like it."  He pushed Geoffrey onto his back again as Geoffrey gaped his disbelief, and directed his legs to rest on either side of Chuck's hips.

Geoffrey stared at Chuck's desire-flushed face as Chuck reached over him and toward the end table.  Did he know what he'd said?  Did he mean to say it?  Was it calculated, a slip of the tongue, or just not near as telling as Geoffrey believed it to be?

Yes, Geoffrey knew Chuck preferred to be face to face during sex, but he'd said that the angle was better, that it felt better, that it was easier on the knees.  He'd never referred to wanting to see Geoffrey as a leading reason-or any level of reason at all-for preferring that position.  Was Chuck just being extra nice to him because he was hurt, or had he let something slip he hadn't meant to reveal?  Could it be another tender, heartfelt emotion that had been there all along, hidden beneath that thick, armour-plated exterior Chuck showed to the world?  Because to say that he wished to look at Geoffrey's face when it was beautiful would mean little, yet he never had.  But to say that he wished to look at Geoffrey's face now was something altogether different.

"Chuck, did you-oh, hey."  He cut himself off as Chuck leaned back, a small bottle of lubricant in his hand, which he had opened and was squeezing onto his fingers.  "It's almost like you were prepared for this."  He glanced back at the end table and its open drawer.  "What do you keep that in here for?"

Chuck didn't say anything, only closed the lid to the bottle and dropped it carelessly to the floor, rubbing his hands together to warm the lubricant.  He was turning pink and wouldn't meet Geoffrey's eyes, and Geoffrey belated realized that Chuck's me-time in this room to which his family was not invited probably sometimes meant more than just reading and lounging.  The bottle of lubricant was not brand new and not full.

"Oh."  Geoffrey felt a bit hot in the cheeks, too, sharing in Chuck's embarrassment.  He let out a small, awkward chuckle.  "Never mind."

Chuck glanced at him briefly, wearing a sheepish smile, before focussing back down between them.  He took himself in one slicked hand and Geoffrey in the other, and focussed on teasing back some of the stiffness that had been lost in the past minute or two.

Geoffrey closed his eye, sighing with pleasure and feeling the muscles of his neck unknot and relax.  In a minute, when he was hard and straining again, and Chuck's breathing had begun to get a little erratic, a slick finger teased his entrance briefly, smoothing over, then darting away to give the muscle a moment to acclimate before starting to push inside.

Geoffrey spread his left leg farther away, the right already bent and pressed against the back of the couch.  He exhaled steadily as Chuck took a minute to stretch him, one finger, then two, undulating inside and giving him a chance to focus on relaxing the right muscles.  Geoffrey's body easily recognized the familiar ritual.  It wasn't much longer before the hand retracted and Chuck's blunt, slick tip was pressing into him.

Geoffrey pulled his legs back toward his chest without thinking about it, and as soon as Chuck was partly buried in him, his still tacky hands slid behind Geoffrey's knees to help.  He sank steadily inward, voice silent and breath held, until his hips were flush to Geoffrey's rear end, and then he let out a loud, long groan as if of relief.

"God," he moaned, and let his head hang loose between his shoulders.  He remained still but for his chest expanding and contracting with uneven breath and his head shaking slightly as if in disbelief of what he felt.

Geoffrey's toes curled with impatience.  He desperately wanted Chuck to start moving, but knew he wouldn't until he was good and ready.  The rushed meetings in stalls and basements might have been degrading and at times unsatisfying, but they at least had the benefit of not trying Geoffrey's patience.  When Chuck knew he had time, he could take all the time in the world.

Geoffrey tilted his hips in a vain effort at a hint and whined softly when it garnered him nothing.  The feeling of being filled but kept still was a maddening contradiction.  He should, he felt, be getting filled again and again.

Inadherent, yet surely not unaware of Geoffrey's desire, Chuck slid forward and down until his hands rested on the cushions on either side of Geoffrey's body and his arms lodged underneath Geoffrey's knees.  Chuck's weight then did the work of keeping Geoffrey's legs back and out of the way with little effort, making the position easier on both of them.  But still he did not move his hips or make any suggestion of a thrust.  He only looked down into Geoffrey's one good eye, gazing at him steadily and yet paying no heed to the surely pleading expression he must have worn on his distorted features.

Feeling a bit bellicose about his incapacitation in this position, Geoffrey did the most efficacious thing he could think of: He bore down and flexed his inner muscles just as powerfully as he could.

Chuck gasped sharply, his hips hitching forward and down, his eyes widening with shock.

Geoffrey's self-satisfied smirk pinched like hell and he couldn't have cared less.

But Chuck's surprise remained for only a moment before quickly fading into an appreciative grin, as if to say ‘well played.’  Then, without a word, he began to move.

At the first stroke, Geoffrey's smirk was banished in favour of a loud, satisfied groan ending on a heartfelt, "Oh, yeah..."

"You like that?"

Geoffrey's good eye was rolling so much it had closed, but he could hear the trace of smugness in Chuck's voice.  His hips moved in long, deep thrusts that smoothly rocked them together, and he knew the angle all too well.

"Hm?  Is this what you want?"

Geoffrey kneaded Chuck's shoulders, wanting to dig his nails in though he knew better.  "God.  You know it is."

He loved the times like this: When it was so real, when it was just them.  Oh, Geoffrey loved the roleplay, too-he'd never had such imaginative sex as he'd had with Chuck.  But in these rarer times, Geoffrey felt made of nothing but emotion and nerve-endings.  There was no need to think of the next story progression, no need to remember or to create his character's motivation.  He needed only to feel, to use the name he knew, and to be the person he was.

But these times were frightening, too; they held their own dangers.  For when Geoffrey was only himself and no other, there were certain things that he knew must remain unspoken.

"God!  I love... that."

"Oh, yeah, Geoffrey," Chuck panted, puffs of hot, sweet breath blowing over Geoffrey's tingling lips.  "Oh, god, yeah."

How he wished he could occupy his mouth with a deep, messy, searching kiss.  But every slight effort at expression reminded him it was out of the question.  He might not have needed to remember the details of a fantasy or what his character's name was, but with his mouth kept firmly out of play, he would have to remember what not to say, and that might have been the hardest task of all.

Geoffrey watched Chuck watch him: His eyes were wide and unfocussed and nearly black with dilation.  He hadn't blinked in some time and his eyes shone with the need.  "I want to kiss you," he strained, and Geoffrey realized that perhaps Chuck's gaze had a point of focus after all.  "Don't let me do it."

Geoffrey arched his back at a particularly sweet thrust and twisted the flesh of Chuck's back in his sweaty hands, knowing he was dangerously close to leaving a mark.  "Chuck-god, I want you to."

Chuck shook his head, a droplet of sweat racing down the side of his face.  "Don't let me do it," he said more quietly, and then, as if unwilling to leave it up to Geoffrey's resolve, he ducked his head and found the curve of Geoffrey's neck instead, where he latched onto a sensitive place below his ear to suck and nip.

Geoffrey's eye rolled as Chuck's hips continued to churn.  His legs were so tight to his chest, Chuck bending him in half with his solid, warm weight, that Geoffrey could barely take a breath, and so panted constantly: Small, high-pitched noises issuing from his throat with every smooth stroke.

Chuck knew just how to aim, and he was relentless.  Every full circuit of movement sent a tingling shock of pleasure racing from Geoffrey's ass to his groin to the very tips of his toes and fingers.  He knew the most sensitive places on Geoffrey's neck and just how hard to bite his earlobe, and was taking advantage of all of it.

But though Chuck's onslaught might have made Geoffrey feel powerless, in truth he was not.  Geoffrey knew a few things about Chuck's sweet spots, too.

Struggling to coordinate himself, Geoffrey stopped scrabbling ineffectively at Chuck's shoulders and reached around his own leg to let a hand trail down Chuck's back instead.  Straining to reach, he grasped one fleshy ass cheek in his hand and squeezed hard, purposefully curling his fingers into the crease.  Chuck gasped against his neck, momentarily abandoning his attack there, and thrust a little harder than he had intended.

Bolstered by having thrown him off balance, Geoffrey hurried his free hand into the short, fine hair at the back of Chuck's head, and yanked.  Chuck's face came suddenly into view, an expression of shock quickly fading into deep pleasure, his fluttering lashes flashing over thin strips of the whites of his eyes.  "Oh, god," he droned from a wide open mouth.

Despite his short breath and aching face, Geoffrey smirked.  While it was mostly nirvana to be dominated, so was it sometimes damn nice to wrench Chuck's control away from him, even if only momentarily.  Once in a while, having the upper hand was just as hot as being under it.

Geoffrey took advantage of Chuck's lapse by leaning up to nip at his exposed neck, but he was quickly chastised by his injuries, and let his throbbing head drop back to the cushions.  Chuck didn't seem to notice the failure, burying his face back where it had been in the crook of Geoffrey's neck, and trailing hot, wet kisses along the ridge of his shoulder.

Only momentarily frustrated, Geoffrey easily handed over control once again, straining to breathe as Chuck slipped so deeply into him again and again and again, every iota of his weight behind every thrust, bringing power without true effort.

Geoffrey groaned and then, very suddenly, Chuck froze, breaking what had become a beautiful rhythm.  "What... what's wrong?" Geoffrey panted in confusion and frustration.  "What-"

"Shh!"

Chuck slowly leaned up until their gazes locked and, perhaps just from the familiar startled and wide-eyed expression on Chuck's face, Geoffrey realized what he was hearing.

It was the sound of a door closing.  Heels on linoleum.  Keys tossed onto a table.  Two muffled voices, both high-pitched.

Chuck's family was home.

A small sound of distress escaped Geoffrey's throat.  He knew this ritual-he'd lived it a thousand times.  The possibility of being caught was too close, and desire and passion would take a backseat to fear piled upon paranoia piled upon self-loathing.  Now Chuck would jump off of him, pull on his clothes, run a hand through his disastrous hair, and go greet his family, leaving them both aching and frustrated and scathingly short-tempered.  And there wasn't a goddamned thing Geoffrey could do about it.

As his hands tensed on Chuck's shoulders in both anticipation and protest of his upcoming absence, Chuck slowly let out the breath he was holding.  "Shh," he said, the sound soft and drawn out, and he smiled, and smoothly began to move once again.

Geoffrey let out a rush of disbelieving breath, his swollen jaw doing its best approximation of a gape.  While he couldn't honestly call Chuck's behaviour courage, as he clearly seemed to believe he wasn't risking anything, Geoffrey could certainly call it brazenness, and most definitely call it out of character.  But more even than this, he could call it damn refreshing.

He hitched his hips up a little farther, rocking to meet Chuck's next thrust.  For once there would be no running away, no rush to cover themselves, no grasp at a straw of an excuse for their compromising predicament.  The second bell was ringing, the principal was walking down the stairs, the police cruiser was scanning the park grounds with the brightest of spotlights, but this time they would not be interrupted, not chased off, not scared into silence and stillness.  This time-this time-Geoffrey was going to hold onto his temporary place at the top of Chuck's list.

Chuck's eyes lolled as Geoffrey began to meet his thrusts with greater and greater enthusiasm, his fingers digging in deep behind his shoulder blades.  He bent his head close, stopping just short of pressing their foreheads together, and graced him with a sweet, lopsided smirk.  "Couldn't stop this-if I wanted to-right?" he whispered between a chorus of panting, and winked.  "Couldn't possibly-pull away from you-now, Geoffrey.  Wouldn't even-try," his voice deep and breathy, a heat darkening his eyes even further, and then his face ducked out of sight, a hot breath and hotter tongue soon bathing Geoffrey's ear.

And that was it right there: Soft teasing words, small mischievous smile, and the warm tenderness in his deep brown eyes-all of it perfect, all of it rare.  This moment and others like it were the reason Geoffrey pushed his way through so much more of so much less-to make his way here.

It shouldn't have been worth it.

But damn it, it was.

~

Chuck's damp fingers trailed over Geoffrey's chest, drawing awkward but nonetheless fascinating patterns on his skin.  Geoffrey imagined the powerful beats of his slowing heart left their own signature on the shapes drawn, like tiny vibrations of sound on a spinning clay pot.

Clair had never come to the door.  Chuck had said he'd heard Seamus go upstairs.  And Geoffrey was sure he'd left a mark on Chuck's shoulder when he'd bitten down to hold back the sound of his release.

Chuck hadn't mentioned it.

"Geoffrey," Chuck breathed, his searching fingers crossing Geoffrey's chest and shoulder to caress at the side of his neck.  Geoffrey's one good eye closed, the rest of his face's throbbing feeling almost disturbingly pleasant in this moment, and he sighed at the unusually gentle touch of Chuck's hand.

He lay on his back, unable to see Chuck's face, but drowning in the warmth of his body draped against his side.  An arm had found its way under the gap between Chuck's neck and the cushion of the sofa, and down his sweaty back.  His own fingers danced lazily across the soft skin at the small of Chuck's back, making no attempt at a design, but only spreading the droplets he found there.

"Chuck," he said back in a sigh, and smiled as best he could.

"Geoffrey," Chuck said in a harsher, more serious tone that tried to turn Geoffrey's uneven smile back into an inexpressive line, "if you tell me who did this..." he trailed off, burying his fingers in the curls at the nape of Geoffrey's neck, and his voice darkened, "I'll take care of it."

Such a suggestion might have been laughable in nearly every other situation: Chuck was, and always had been, most clearly a coward.  But there were in reality two-perhaps more-Chuck Noblets: There was the man who would run away from any fight when it came to him suddenly, unexpectedly, and with the threat of exposure buried within it.  This was the man who smoothed his face of joy, passion, and desire with placidity in the blink of an eye, the man who grabbed implausible excuses out of the air and ran with them and made them work, the man who went to every extreme to hide the truth of his daily life.

But then there was the possessive, angry, righteous Chuck.  There was the man who, given time to think, to brood, could become overwrought and overrun with his desire-perhaps his need-to protect what was his.  This was the Chuck who kept a small axe in his desk and came running with it in hand when Geoffrey screamed in fear and disgust.  It was the man who couldn't stand to see Geoffrey distraught or coolly interrogated when at his most vulnerable.  It was the man who saw Geoffrey's injuries as his own, if only because he fully believed that Geoffrey belonged to him.

And while Geoffrey was certain which Chuck had asked the question, which man Chuck believed himself to be at this moment, he was not honestly sure, as he met Chuck's steady gaze, which would emerge if he should give the name, the circumstances, the venue.  Would the man who struggled so hard to keep his family and public lives separate from the reality of his private life take hold, mumble a thinly veiled excuse, and let the subject fade forever?  Or would the avenger, the protector leap to action-action that could bring a gruesome result for Geoffrey's attacker and devastating consequences for his vindicator?

The very concept of this latter possibility chilled Geoffrey to the bone and made his breath stall in his chest.  He knew as well as anyone how intense and how violent Chuck's moods could become.  But he'd never seen it go past a certain point.  And he was damn sure he didn't want to.

So, in response, he only laughed-not cruelly, or to mock, but as if at a private joke-and said toward the ceiling, with some measure of impishness, "Actually, Chuck, I kind of took care of it."

The hand in his hair slowed.  "How do you mean?"

"I mean...  Well, you never did ask me how the other guy looks."

"Geoffrey," Chuck scoffed, "you're a pacifist."

Geoffrey nodded, a smirk turning one corner of his mouth.  "A pacifist who has learned how to..." he searched for the proper phrase, "‘button it.’"

With difficulty, he turned his head and met Chuck's confused gaze as well as he could.  The smirk was painful to maintain, and he felt his good eye attempt to water, but only blinked and continued to wear what he hoped was a somewhat smug expression.

Time passed too slowly, the tick of a clock somewhere in the room suddenly making itself known to Geoffrey with an all too powerful and foreboding tick... tick... tick...

He saw what seemed to be a flicker of suspicion in Chuck's eyes, perhaps a momentary thought that Geoffrey was attempting to put one over on him, and then it faded, and he smiled.  "I see," he said simply, and chuckled.

Geoffrey's laugh was made of far more relief than humour, and he watched with nervousness as Chuck held his gaze in far too knowing of a way for several beats before he lowered his head to place soft kisses on Geoffrey's chest.

Geoffrey couldn't help but instantly and obsessively wonder: Did Chuck know?  Could he tell that Geoffrey would have been willing to say just about anything to get Chuck to relinquish the idea of visiting retribution on Geoffrey's attacker?  It was true that Geoffrey had gotten his revenge, but Chuck couldn't know that.  Did he, then, believe that nothing of the sort had happened, but had decided to allow Geoffrey to ‘fool’ him just the same?  Or was this the meeker Chuck showing himself once again?  Was he accepting without further question what looked to be a flimsy and badly presented case as an excuse to not have to make good on his secretly insincere threat of vengeance?

The result was the same, so why should it matter?  But somehow it did.  Because the things that were left unsaid were only tacit if they were already understood without having been spoken.  That which was left both unsaid and unrealized would lead only to confusion and misunderstanding and, ultimately, bitterness and sadness.  If the past three years had taught Geoffrey nothing else, they had taught him that.

"Chuck," Geoffrey asked softly.

"Hm?"

He swallowed and struggled to keep his always uncooperative voice steady.  "Do you... believe me?"

Chuck raised his head from Geoffrey's neck and Geoffrey turned to look at him, repressing a wince as his ravaged face made contact with the pillow.  A wide, lazy smile was resting on Chuck's lips.  He looked satiated and unconcerned.

He said only, "I look forward to seeing the results."

Geoffrey blinked as Chuck laid his head back on Geoffrey's chest and whispered to him to go to sleep.  He didn't need to hear any more or ask any further questions.  The tone, the expression, and even the words, to an extent, gave him the answers to all he wondered: Chuck would see the results of the revenge Geoffrey had administered, or he would deliver his own.  Either would satisfy him, and neither gave him pause.

Violence was not in Geoffrey's nature.  Pacifism was not so much a choice as a bowing to what was inherent in his own evolutionary makeup.

But somehow, knowing-if not hearing-that he who should take it upon himself to visit violence upon Geoffrey's person would beget the same unto himself-one way or another-made Geoffrey breathe easily, and smile despite the pain.

~  ~  ~

Feedback relished. And sometimes catsupped.

bipolypesca

geoffrey jellineck, fic, stand-alone, strangers with candy, chuck noblet

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