Fic: LowLives part 12
LOLOLOLOL. Thanksgiving dinner via skype with the family and mistyzeo on a different computer, also skyping, with that other parent. WE'RE AWESOME. it's also really surreal. XD
LowLives
Word Count: 5716
More porn. This isn't the Porn That Will Not End (which has finally ended), but it's also really unreasonably long. Plus, made up police protocol stuff. :D ALSO, if you read the last chapter, go back and reread it, because I added a scene. also, thanks to mistyzeo for taking all the surprise pirates out of the porn. &hearts
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They take everything in my pockets - thank God I left the po at home, because wouldn't that fuck me over - and lock me up in a holding cell on my own when we get to the station. I've never been arrested before and I don't know why I'm by myself, but I can hear Blake talking to my arresting officers, and it sounds like they didn't get a felony arrest warrant for me. Because Blake apparently didn't expect me to be there.
An officer pulls me out of the lock up long enough to get my fingerprints, and then sends me on to an interrogation room, where she handcuffs me to the table.
It's small, brightly lit, and boring, and my hands are stained black with ink, smearing over my palms and onto my t-shirt before I realise it. I can see myself in the reflective glass of the two-way mirror, and I gotta say I look like shit, washed out and pale, and there's a bruise on my cheek already from where that officer hit me, blood at the corner of my lips, dry and sticky when I lick it.
The glass isn't so opaque that I can't see some movement behind it, though nothing distinct jumps out at me as I watch.
Then the door opens.
And Blake walks in.
"Hello," he says, and his voice is cold, detached, and I know he's found out. He slaps a folder down onto the table, and sits himself down opposite me, twirling a pen between his fingers. "I'm Agent Scott Blake, of the Special Divisions task force. You're here because you're suspected in aiding the man known as Vincent Carlisle, and involved in illegal transactions of human trafficking. You've been read your rights, and I'm required to ask if you would like to call an attorney at this time, or have one appointed to you?"
I glare at him, and I can feel a bitter spark burn in my throat. "Fuck you, Blake."
"Look, I'm sorry, kid," he starts, but I interrupt.
"I'm not a fucking kid," I snarl, losing my temper for no good fucking reason - I'm not in love with the fuck, why should I care that he lied, fucking got me arrested, fuck him - "And since you're a fucking cop, you'd think you'd be a little more conscious of that, wouldn't you?" There's a sour laugh tacked on to the end of it that makes me wince inside, especially when I see his face.
He stands abruptly, the chair screeching back across the tile of the floor, and I can't help but flinch back, even though I know he's not going to hit me.
"Yeah? Well at least you know my fucking name, jack ass. You? I've got no fucking clue who the fuck you are - no one's got any fucking clue, so you're a step ahead of me."
I just looks down at my hands, at the stains of black in the whorls of my fingertips, and purse my lips. I've never felt like so much shit in my life, not even when I killed those men.
"So what then?"
"Well, we're going to have to hold you here. The cameras are off, until we can determine your identity and then your specific involvement within the gang," Blake says, sitting down and affecting a level tone to his voice.
I snort. "You fucking know my involvement, Blake, you were there."
He slams his hands down on the table, and I jump, eyes wide and fixed on him. "No, I don't. I know Arthur Hayes' involvement, because I knew him. Whoever you are, whatever you've done to him -"
"I haven't done anything to him! If anything - it's fucking you that did something to him - what, did you just fucking watch as Vincent fucked him over - fucked them all over? Did you even care? Did you even fucking try to help them?" I'm spitting in fury, I know I'm showing everything on my face, dark anger and disgust, and I can just see the self-righteous wind slip from his self-righteous sails.
"I can't believe I didn't fucking see this," I mutter to myself, sinking back in the chair. The handcuffs clink on my wrist, shining in the light.
"Well, if you had, I wouldn't have been doing my fucking job - I would have been fucking around with my thumb up my ass, and all those people would have been sold into fucking slavery, is that what you would've wanted? And it's not my fucking fault that Vincent fucking Carlisle got away - if you had told the truth, we wouldn't fucking be here -"
But I not listening, and I interrupts again with "Have you ever even been to Africa?"
He does a double take, confusion crossing his features.
"The fuck does that have anything to do with it?"
I slam forward in my chair, hands planted flat on the tabletop, leaning far across so that I'm right in his face. "It has everything to do with it - have you ever fucking been to Africa?"
"I was fucking born there, all right? Does that make you happy?"
I feel my whole body deflate, and the wonder in my voice leaks out as I ask, "Why'd you leave?"
He laughs to himself, shaking his head. I'm not expecting him to keep talking to me, but then to my surprise, he says, "Because I was born in Zimbabwe - and have you seen Africa in the past - century? I got out because I could. Because what else did I have?"
My chest is tight for a moment, because I know that those dreams I had - they're all true. I had been relying on that, obviously, but to hear him confirm it sends cold fingers down my spine.
I look down, and neither of us talk for a long moment.
"The cameras are off?" I ask.
He nods, and runs his hand through his hair, making the strands spike up in new and interesting patterns.
"Is there anyone in there?"
Turning around, like he forgot that there was another room, he look surprised at my question. "Well, yes."
"Can you make them go?"
His face shutters, going shadowed and unreadable. "They're there for a reason, you know."
I drop my eyes, can't hide my disappointment, even though I wasn't expecting anything different. Blake stands after a moment, and the glass reverberates with a low ring when he knocks on it.
Then he sits again, and laces his fingers together on the table, leaning forwards. I look up at him, and there's a sort of desperate hope on his face. I've got no proof that they're gone, just his word to rely on - and I can see the test in his eyes.
"My name's Lucas. Lucas Cameron Hayes," I say. It feels good to tell someone my name. I've been answering to Arthur's name for weeks now, even more so than my own, and I'd wanted so badly to tell him my name that it feels like I just got back something I'd been missing.
Blake looks surprised. Like if I lied about my first name, the rest of me must be fake too.
"Arthur's my younger brother."
His mouth drops open in shock. "You're - are you twins?"
I laugh at the look on his face. "No, no we're not. I'm twenty-five - four years older. Look like it, though, huh? He - he came to me a few weeks back - remember that? Long weekend?" He nods, completely dumbfounded. I take a breath, and hope he's not about to kick my ass for this. "He was changing - like the junkies in the basement, he was changing and he needed out. I don't know, he owes Vincent some kind of debt, and there's a way of finding people through the po, so I couldn't just. I did what I had to," I say, and my voice cracks in the middle of it.
Blake's gaze drops to the folder in front of him, clicking the pen and tapping it against the cream surface. It leaves little blue dots behind, every time it lands.
"Was it you?"
I don't have a clue what he means. "Was what me?"
"Those deaths. Carlo and Spencer - Clark. Mivshek and Rigger were found yesterday morning in their car. Did you do that?"
I don't say anything, because I've got no fucking clue what he's trying to pull with this, but I'm not going to lie to him any more.
He sees that in my face, and he changes tactics. "Arth - Lucas - Lucas, please, I need to know if that was you or if there is someone else out there killing them."
I just stare at him. I try to cross my arms, show him I'm not budging on that, but I forget my wrist's chained to the table, and it just rattles and jerks me back. "I can't help you with that."
He gets up, leaving his folder and pen on the table behind him, and leaves, slamming the door after him.
It takes a surprising amount of effort not to cry, and I bite into my bottom lip until I taste blood, to keep my focus.
After a few minutes, the door opens again, and I start in surprise. I can see the woman who brought me in here, dark brown hair pulled back in a bun, standing outside behind Blake as he enters again. He's got a set of keys in his hand, which jangle with every movement. The door slides shut behind him.
"You're being let go - clear case of mistaken identity, wrong place, wrong time. I apologise for the inconvenience," he says, taking my hand in his and holding it up so he can fit the little key into the slot on the handcuffs. They fall off easy, and then he's pulling me up by the wrist, fingers stroking over the red marks I gave myself from tugging too hard. "I'll walk you out. Standard courtesy."
It's bullshit, and I let him know exactly what I think of it when we're in the parking garage and out of sight of the security cameras, by tugging him down into me and pushing my tongue between his lips. He cradles me with a carefulness he never had while he was still affecting a lowlife thug, and it's strange how much it makes me ache for him, pressing us together from knee to sternum, so I can feel the whole length of his warm body against mine.
"I've taken the rest of the day off work - they understand, coming out of a long undercover mission like that," Blake says, looking hesitant. "Come back to my place?"
I blink. "Are you sure?" I ask, because apparently neither of us were right - about each other, about anything.
But he nods. "Please, I think we've got some things to talk about."
We get in his car - it's not the silver one he drove earlier, but a classic blue Chevy Impala. It's not a standard issue cop car, and it's gorgeous, well loved and well cared for.
"Nice ride."
He laughs, obviously proud. "My grandmother gave it to me when I turned twenty-five. Used to belong to my father."
The ride back is punctuated by the low, steady noise of the radio, but he and I sit in silence.
He lives in an apartment building close to the centre of town - one bedroom, and a picture window in his livingroom overlooking a small park to the west. His hand presses against my lower back as he guides me in, directing me to sit down at the kitchen table, and strips off his outer layers.
He makes coffee, and brings out a thing of sugar and half-gallon carton of milk, and then he sits down across from me. I sit in silence, hands cupped around the heat of my coffee cup that looks a bit like a rooster - it's charmingly eccentric, none of his cups seem to match, and I can't really tell if it's deliberate or if that's just what he does.
"Why'd you even do that?" I blurt out, and then I want to smack myself, because why the hell should I question him handing me my freedom on a silver platter? But I can't stop my mouth from running on, "You know I lied, you know I've been doing shit with that fucking gang - what the hell is this, then?"
He looks inexplicably exhausted for a moment, before he shakes it off. It's nearly four in the morning, I realise suddenly, with the raid and the paperwork, and the business in the interrogation room.
"I've been on this job for the past three years," he says with a heavy sigh. "Three years. I've seen Vincent do some of the most disgusting things men can do, and seen other men do the rest of them in his name. But the problem is - the problem is that I'm a law enforcement officer. I have a job to do - and there're fucking miles of red tape to get through before we can bust anyone on anything. This one job has been building for ages - contacts, and negotiations - spreading out to work with the fucking Russian mob, and we finally had our chance. But then - these killings started," he looks at me, and he knows, but he's waiting for me to jump in. I don't, so he drops his eyes and continues, "It felt like a relief. Like there was someone out there doing something about it - anything, whatever, it was - it was better than what I had done."
"I was just - I saw what they did, and I had to." I'm lost to my thoughts, watching the milk in my coffee swirl in golden spirals around the inside of my mug.
"You've seen it? Why didn't you go to the police?"
I laugh, and it sounds a bit hysterical. "Because. They'd lock me up."
He shakes his head, "No, no, we would have helped you - if you tell me what you've seen -"
"Not like that."
"Then like what?"
"You know - what po does? It changes you, sometimes - all those people in the basement. Arthur." His face is going white as he understands what I'm trying to say - it's unexpectedly difficult to do, I'm kind of surprised at myself - "I've seen you. Your mother - she was black, right? A teacher? Heh, she was beautiful. I've never seen your father, but I know - I know how she died, the same night you got that wound on your knee. I know you moved to Germany to live with your grandparents, after that. I know so much about you - but I didn't even know your name until almost a week after -" I look down, because my voice is breaking again, there's something thick stuck in my throat, and it hurts to swallow. "That's why I was so surprised, that you're a cop. Thought I would have seen that."
He's pale as a ghost and looking unsettled enough that I'm worried he might be sick.
"How?"
I shrug. "Touch. Seems like. That one kid - what was his name, Will? From the basement. He did something - I saw what he could do when he woke up, he's like. I dunno, like a catalyst, or an amplifier or something. He can't help it, it's not something he could control. After that," I shake my head. "After that, it was easier to pick and choose, I guess. Figure out what I wanted to see, what I needed to know. I touched their skin and I saw what they did, and I had to fucking do something, because no one else was doing fucking anything."
Blake falls backwards into his chair, and heaves out a sigh of disbelief.
"Jesus Christ."
I wince. "I can leave."
I'm getting up to go, leave my half-finished coffee, and whatever the fuck this thing is between us, but he catches my hand as I try to pass him, and it's like that first fucking night, but in reverse, because I stop in my tracks, and he looks up at me with wide eyes, and says "No, don't go."
He stands, and wraps his hands around both my wrists, holding them down by my hips, and looks into my eyes, and says, "Lucas. Stay, please?"
It's too fucking surreal.
I close my eyes, and lean in, not quite kissing him, but I can feel his breath on my lips. "Would you kiss me if I didn't make you?"
"It was you, wasn't it? When I followed you home - that was you?"
I nod, feel his nose brush against my cheek.
"That was the first day. I never looked twice at Arthur - before he was you."
His lips are wet and salty, pressed ever so softly against the corner of my mouth - I suck in a breath, lick my tongue out to meet his, and then he's kissing me properly, deep and amazing.
I pull him back into what I decided was the door to his bedroom, and drag him through, thankfully, to a large, low bed, covered in light flannel sheets. It's got mounds of pillows at the head of it, looks more like a fucking nest than a bed, and Blake laughs self-consciously when I raise an eyebrow.
He's got just a long-sleeved t-shirt on now, black and formfitting, and he looks good in the half-light. The fabric of the shirt bunches up around his armpits when I slide my hands up under it, spreading my fingers across the warm skin of his chest, and pulling until he lifts his arms and I can tug it all the way off his head. It leaves his hair messy, sticking up everywhere, so tempting. I tangle my fingers through it, and take him into another kiss, tracing my tongue over his teeth and lips, breathing in his scent, and licking the taste of coffee out of his mouth.
His hands stroke down over my sides to fit over my lower back, drawing me in close, and then farther down to cup my ass, bringing our hips together in a slow, steady grind. I wedge my knee between his thighs and they spread to compensate, dropping him down that extra inch until he's settled heavy and firm, spread out over my leg, dick pressing in against my pelvis as our hips roll together.
"Oh, yes," he breathes out, voice already shaking slightly. His eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones, pale and golden. I smooth my hands down his bare back, and into the waistband of his pants, pushing down on his tailbone and encouraging him to move with me, rocking his dick harder and harder into me with each roll of his hips.
He walks me backwards towards his bed until I feel it hit the backs of my calves. I turn us before he tries to push me down on it, and he lands with an oof, looking up at me, knees spread wide around mine.
I sink down, so I'm kneeling between his legs, and push him flat on his back.
He lifts his head, propping himself up on his elbows, so he can watch me as I undo his pants, pulling them and his boxers down his muscled thighs and over his feet, still clad in socks. They're striped, and they make me smile, so I pin him in place when he tries to sit up and yank them off, and distract him by massaging my hands over his thighs, spreading them apart, so he's completely exposed to me, and I can fucking see everything.
"Aah, Lucas -" He looks dishevelled, breathless, and vulnerable. But he doesn't try to close his legs.
I smile and lick my lips, and I see him swallow, feel his pulse jump under my hand, where it rests high on the crease of his thigh.
His stomach flutters with each breath he takes, smooth and concave between his hips. Tangled curls of hair surround his erection, lying fat and curved against his thigh, soft and sparse down his legs, and he shivers when I drag my fingers through them.
I want to take my time with him. Explore him.
His thighs clench tight as I lean forward, tonguing the crease of his hip and down to his sac, taking the wrinkled skin between my lips and licking at his perineum until he groans out loud, throwing his head back.
I shove my hands under his ass, lifting his hips up to meet my face, and run the flat of my tongue up the underside of his dick, tracing the thick veins, and working it over that knot of nerves at the head, red and swollen, and already leaking salty precome. His hands fist in the covers, and the muscles of his ass flexing in my palms when I squeeze, open my mouth as wide as I can get it, and take his dick into my mouth and down my throat.
I feel it pressing against the back of my throat, swallow around it to make him shudder and flick my tongue across the length, smearing saliva all over him till it drips down my chin in sticky strands. It's a fucking mess as I start to bob my head, corkscrewing down over his cock and fisting the base to keep it steady, but over the sounds of my mouth, I can hear him chanting and gasping, "Oh, fuck, Lucas, Lucas, shit, aah, Lucas - aah -" like he can't get enough of saying my name.
I fucking love it when he says my name.
So I show him, opening my throat and taking his all the way down, until my nose is pressed against his sweaty skin, and it's hot and musky, and his cock is so fucking thick and long, cutting off my air, making me choke on him, but God, the way he gasps out loud and fucking moans for it, hands fluttering over my shoulders like he doesn't know what to do with them - makes it totally worth the hoarseness I'm gonna be feeling later.
I pull off with a gasp, drawing the air back into my lungs with relish, and jerk him off as I catch my breath. He looks all fucked out, hair darkening with sweat at his temples, and I lean in to press an open mouthed kiss to his lower stomach, squeezing his cock around the head.
"Jesus fucking Christ, where'd you learn to do that? Oh, God don't answer me, just - fuck."
He sits up and grabs me by the hair, yanking me into a deep, filthy kiss, that I just fucking love, shoving his tongue as deep into my mouth as he can get it, licking the tang of himself from me. His fingernails scratch at my scalp, and my hands tighten involuntarily, making him groan into the kiss. He breaks away before I want him to, but I can only groan as he moves down my neck, pushing me back and rucking my shirt up so he can get at my chest, and lick at my nipple, dragging his teeth over it again and again till it hardens, and all I can do is open my mouth and pant, head thrown back, dick hard as fucking rock in my jeans, and he hasn't even fucking touched me.
I'm not even undressed - and isn't that a power trip, him completely naked and me fully clothed.
That doesn't last long.
His hands - his fucking hands, I could go on about them for-fucking-ever, they're that good - his hands drop down to the zipper of my jeans, not undoing it, he just fists me through the fabric, tracing the outlines of my dick, pinching at the head and twisting it between his fingers. I can't fucking breathe, drop my head to his shoulder and bite into his collarbone - it's just rough enough to make me ache for it, because somehow he just fucking knows me like that, and it hurts too good for me to last very long, even with him naked and spread out and expectant for me.
"Oh, fuck, stop it, stop it, I'm gonna fucking come," I mumble into his neck, and bite him again, no lips, not sucking, gasping through my teeth and fucking into his grip. The inside of my boxers are slippery and damp, and every movement sends heat and pleasure into my gut like a knife.
Blake lets me go with one last twist of his thumb that leaves me trembling, and wrestles me out of my shirt before snagging me by the hair and pulling me into another kiss, wet and sloppy and desperate.
I fumble at my pants, standing even as I keep the kiss going and his head tilts back, and kick them off into a corner, stepping on my socks so they fall in the heap too. I roll my tongue over his, moulding my hands around his jaw, fingers resting on his cheeks where they're hollow, and thumbs over this throat to feel it moving as he swallows.
He's got his hands all over me, kneading into the muscles of my back, smoothing down to my ass to spread my cheeks, wrapping them around my thighs to pull them wide apart as I push him back, crawling up over him to straddle his hips, our mouths still connected in that long, dirty kiss.
"Oh," is all he says, in a low, airy whisper, when I adjust the angle of my pelvis, and our cocks brush, wet and sticky. He won't let go of my thighs, fingernails digging in as little pinpricks of pain into the tender skin, and he uses that grip to drag me in, building a rhythm, slow and hard, grinding our dicks together between our abdomens. I have to brace myself on arms outstretched over his head, snagging fistfuls of sheet like it's gonna anchor me, keep me from being blown away from this fucking amazing man, as I fuck into the cut of his hipbone.
It's so good, so hot, and there are no lies between us anymore, and for some reason that actually makes a difference, knowing that, even in the state I'm in. I'm breathing, panting, gasping into his mouth, tasting his tongue, every trace of his dick licked out of me, and fingers slide up my ass, dipping into the crack and rubbing across my hole.
They're slick and slippery, sinking in easy and pressing in deep, before I'm fucking ready for it, and oh my fucking God, where the hell did he get lube?
It's so much better than the last time he fingered me, stuffed me full and fucked me with his long, incredible hands. The lube is cool but his hands are warm, one cupping my ass cheek and spreading me wide open, crushing me down against him, and his fingers delving so far inside me that it feels like he's stirring my guts for how good it feels.
Blake's got two fingers in me now, twisting them in slow, agonising turns, scissoring and stretching me, and fuck it feels like it's been forever.
I ride his hand, gripping his chin so I can tilt his face towards mine, kiss him softly while I roll my hips over his erection, teasing, promising.
His fingers slip from me, down my thigh to hike my knee farther up on the bed, and I have to pull away from the kiss, bury my face in the sheets by his neck. His cheek rubs scratchy with stubble against my jaw.
He grabs my hand, presses a foil packet into it, and I'm almost too fucking gone to figure out what he wants, but I get myself together enough to rip the packet open and roll the rubber down over his erection, sliding on easy with the precome that's been leaking everywhere - his and mine.
I lean back, sit up because I can't breathe, can't fucking get enough breath, and lift my hips, kneel over him, so I can reach between us and guide his cock into me. His hands land soft and gentle on my hips, not pushing but supporting as I go slow, sink down onto him so fucking slowly, because it's a damn fucking tight fit, and he's big, pressing deep, splitting me open.
It's not until he's all the way in me, bottomed out with his hipbones digging into the backs of my thighs, that I can finally draw in any air, and I have to just sit and adjust for a long moment, head back and spine arched, supporting myself behind me on his knees.
Sweat stings my eyes, and my contacts are burning, but I wouldn't fucking give the sight of him for anything, gasping and writhing underneath me, trying so hard to stay still for my sake. His hands run over my skin like he needs to be doing something with them, but doesn't know where to settle, so I take charge, grabbing his wrists, and bringing one up to my mouth and shoving the other down, wrapping his fingers around my dick. I bite his fingers as I start to move my hips, push my tongue underneath his nails, drag my teeth over his fingertips, raising up and sinking down, increasing speed every time until I'm just fucking bouncing on his dick, gasping and making little whimpering noises.
"Lucas, yes, Lucas, God fuck, aah," Blake pants, fisting my cock, squeezing tight, hips bucking up, pushing himself in deeper, harder, faster.
All of a sudden he drops his hands to my ribs, pressing finger-shaped bruises into the softness of my sides, and he stops all of my movements, and draws me inexorably down, just rocking his hips, so deep it's like I can feel it all the way in my throat, pressing against my prostate with every slide, forcing groans from my throat that I just can't help, as electricity sparks up my spine. My thighs ache from holding myself over him.
"Touch yourself," he says to me, and I slap my hands down on his chest, shifting forwards, changing the angle to where I cry out, almost scream, with every pass of his cock head over my insides, and reach down to grip my dick, tugging at it almost viciously I need to get off so fucking badly. My mouth drops open, jaw hanging loose, and then I'm coming over my hand and his chest, can't even stop it, can't warn him, just fucking come, like my whole body's on fire, like my world's exploding, imploding, burning, and all I know is the feel of his hands on me and his body against mine.
He shouts when I clamp down, all my muscles seizing, and fucks up into me once, twice, three more times, and then stiffens all over, shuddering.
We collapse together in a sticky, sweaty heap, and he slips out of me with a wet noise that makes me groan, and flex my over-sensitive dick into his stomach one last time.
I roll over, off him, onto my back, and drop my arms up over my head, panting like I ran a fucking marathon.
"Oh. Wow."
He snorts, and turns into me, and kisses me so sweet that it's almost like we didn't have the best sex of my life a moment ago.
"Nicely put."
"Oh my God, fuck you. Jesus. I - what. I don't think I can feel my toes," I tell him, scratching my fingers through his hair, curling them around his ears to drag him into another kiss.
He laughs, deep and hearty, and it's the most amazing thing I can think of. I remember abruptly the first time he spoke to me - cold, indifferent, and dangerous.
"You're -"
I stop, haul myself to my feet, even though he's looking at me curiously, and stumble my way to the bathroom to find something to clean up with. I wash my hands, wipe my contacts from my eyes, and splash my face with water cold enough to shock me more awake.
"So what now?" Blake asks when I come back from the bathroom carrying a wet washcloth. He's still sprawled naked across the bed, sticky and sweaty and gorgeous, long muscles highlighted in the lamplight. "What're you going to do?"
I slide back onto the bed, folding myself around his body, smoothing the washcloth over his skin to wipe away the residue, and then I just toss it vaguely at the bathroom again. "I promised Alyssa I'd come for her. And I can't let Vincent go."
"Who's Alyssa?"
"The girl, the super strong one - Vincent sold her to a man named Matthew Brannon, lives on Oak Blvd in the North Quarter - and I told her I wouldn't leave her there."
He looks at me - I can see it at this distance, wrapped around him like I am - and there's something weird in the way he's watching me.
"What? What is it?"
He shakes his head, and opens his mouth to say something, but pauses, stops, and starts again. "You're just - I can't believe I ever mistook you for Arthur. You're so, you're so different from him."
A wry smile finds its way onto my face. "I'm really not. We were really close as kids - I just. I just know how to use it better than he does. You've only seen him at his worse. I'm not afraid of doing whatever I have to to take care of him - and if that extends to taking care of other people, then I'm gonna do it."
He leans in, pressing tiny kisses to my lips and cheek. "Well, it can wait until morning. You look like you're about to pass out."
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previous / next
LowLives
Word Count: 5716
More porn. This isn't the Porn That Will Not End (which has finally ended), but it's also really unreasonably long. Plus, made up police protocol stuff. :D ALSO, if you read the last chapter, go back and reread it, because I added a scene. also, thanks to mistyzeo for taking all the surprise pirates out of the porn. &hearts
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They take everything in my pockets - thank God I left the po at home, because wouldn't that fuck me over - and lock me up in a holding cell on my own when we get to the station. I've never been arrested before and I don't know why I'm by myself, but I can hear Blake talking to my arresting officers, and it sounds like they didn't get a felony arrest warrant for me. Because Blake apparently didn't expect me to be there.
An officer pulls me out of the lock up long enough to get my fingerprints, and then sends me on to an interrogation room, where she handcuffs me to the table.
It's small, brightly lit, and boring, and my hands are stained black with ink, smearing over my palms and onto my t-shirt before I realise it. I can see myself in the reflective glass of the two-way mirror, and I gotta say I look like shit, washed out and pale, and there's a bruise on my cheek already from where that officer hit me, blood at the corner of my lips, dry and sticky when I lick it.
The glass isn't so opaque that I can't see some movement behind it, though nothing distinct jumps out at me as I watch.
Then the door opens.
And Blake walks in.
"Hello," he says, and his voice is cold, detached, and I know he's found out. He slaps a folder down onto the table, and sits himself down opposite me, twirling a pen between his fingers. "I'm Agent Scott Blake, of the Special Divisions task force. You're here because you're suspected in aiding the man known as Vincent Carlisle, and involved in illegal transactions of human trafficking. You've been read your rights, and I'm required to ask if you would like to call an attorney at this time, or have one appointed to you?"
I glare at him, and I can feel a bitter spark burn in my throat. "Fuck you, Blake."
"Look, I'm sorry, kid," he starts, but I interrupt.
"I'm not a fucking kid," I snarl, losing my temper for no good fucking reason - I'm not in love with the fuck, why should I care that he lied, fucking got me arrested, fuck him - "And since you're a fucking cop, you'd think you'd be a little more conscious of that, wouldn't you?" There's a sour laugh tacked on to the end of it that makes me wince inside, especially when I see his face.
He stands abruptly, the chair screeching back across the tile of the floor, and I can't help but flinch back, even though I know he's not going to hit me.
"Yeah? Well at least you know my fucking name, jack ass. You? I've got no fucking clue who the fuck you are - no one's got any fucking clue, so you're a step ahead of me."
I just looks down at my hands, at the stains of black in the whorls of my fingertips, and purse my lips. I've never felt like so much shit in my life, not even when I killed those men.
"So what then?"
"Well, we're going to have to hold you here. The cameras are off, until we can determine your identity and then your specific involvement within the gang," Blake says, sitting down and affecting a level tone to his voice.
I snort. "You fucking know my involvement, Blake, you were there."
He slams his hands down on the table, and I jump, eyes wide and fixed on him. "No, I don't. I know Arthur Hayes' involvement, because I knew him. Whoever you are, whatever you've done to him -"
"I haven't done anything to him! If anything - it's fucking you that did something to him - what, did you just fucking watch as Vincent fucked him over - fucked them all over? Did you even care? Did you even fucking try to help them?" I'm spitting in fury, I know I'm showing everything on my face, dark anger and disgust, and I can just see the self-righteous wind slip from his self-righteous sails.
"I can't believe I didn't fucking see this," I mutter to myself, sinking back in the chair. The handcuffs clink on my wrist, shining in the light.
"Well, if you had, I wouldn't have been doing my fucking job - I would have been fucking around with my thumb up my ass, and all those people would have been sold into fucking slavery, is that what you would've wanted? And it's not my fucking fault that Vincent fucking Carlisle got away - if you had told the truth, we wouldn't fucking be here -"
But I not listening, and I interrupts again with "Have you ever even been to Africa?"
He does a double take, confusion crossing his features.
"The fuck does that have anything to do with it?"
I slam forward in my chair, hands planted flat on the tabletop, leaning far across so that I'm right in his face. "It has everything to do with it - have you ever fucking been to Africa?"
"I was fucking born there, all right? Does that make you happy?"
I feel my whole body deflate, and the wonder in my voice leaks out as I ask, "Why'd you leave?"
He laughs to himself, shaking his head. I'm not expecting him to keep talking to me, but then to my surprise, he says, "Because I was born in Zimbabwe - and have you seen Africa in the past - century? I got out because I could. Because what else did I have?"
My chest is tight for a moment, because I know that those dreams I had - they're all true. I had been relying on that, obviously, but to hear him confirm it sends cold fingers down my spine.
I look down, and neither of us talk for a long moment.
"The cameras are off?" I ask.
He nods, and runs his hand through his hair, making the strands spike up in new and interesting patterns.
"Is there anyone in there?"
Turning around, like he forgot that there was another room, he look surprised at my question. "Well, yes."
"Can you make them go?"
His face shutters, going shadowed and unreadable. "They're there for a reason, you know."
I drop my eyes, can't hide my disappointment, even though I wasn't expecting anything different. Blake stands after a moment, and the glass reverberates with a low ring when he knocks on it.
Then he sits again, and laces his fingers together on the table, leaning forwards. I look up at him, and there's a sort of desperate hope on his face. I've got no proof that they're gone, just his word to rely on - and I can see the test in his eyes.
"My name's Lucas. Lucas Cameron Hayes," I say. It feels good to tell someone my name. I've been answering to Arthur's name for weeks now, even more so than my own, and I'd wanted so badly to tell him my name that it feels like I just got back something I'd been missing.
Blake looks surprised. Like if I lied about my first name, the rest of me must be fake too.
"Arthur's my younger brother."
His mouth drops open in shock. "You're - are you twins?"
I laugh at the look on his face. "No, no we're not. I'm twenty-five - four years older. Look like it, though, huh? He - he came to me a few weeks back - remember that? Long weekend?" He nods, completely dumbfounded. I take a breath, and hope he's not about to kick my ass for this. "He was changing - like the junkies in the basement, he was changing and he needed out. I don't know, he owes Vincent some kind of debt, and there's a way of finding people through the po, so I couldn't just. I did what I had to," I say, and my voice cracks in the middle of it.
Blake's gaze drops to the folder in front of him, clicking the pen and tapping it against the cream surface. It leaves little blue dots behind, every time it lands.
"Was it you?"
I don't have a clue what he means. "Was what me?"
"Those deaths. Carlo and Spencer - Clark. Mivshek and Rigger were found yesterday morning in their car. Did you do that?"
I don't say anything, because I've got no fucking clue what he's trying to pull with this, but I'm not going to lie to him any more.
He sees that in my face, and he changes tactics. "Arth - Lucas - Lucas, please, I need to know if that was you or if there is someone else out there killing them."
I just stare at him. I try to cross my arms, show him I'm not budging on that, but I forget my wrist's chained to the table, and it just rattles and jerks me back. "I can't help you with that."
He gets up, leaving his folder and pen on the table behind him, and leaves, slamming the door after him.
It takes a surprising amount of effort not to cry, and I bite into my bottom lip until I taste blood, to keep my focus.
After a few minutes, the door opens again, and I start in surprise. I can see the woman who brought me in here, dark brown hair pulled back in a bun, standing outside behind Blake as he enters again. He's got a set of keys in his hand, which jangle with every movement. The door slides shut behind him.
"You're being let go - clear case of mistaken identity, wrong place, wrong time. I apologise for the inconvenience," he says, taking my hand in his and holding it up so he can fit the little key into the slot on the handcuffs. They fall off easy, and then he's pulling me up by the wrist, fingers stroking over the red marks I gave myself from tugging too hard. "I'll walk you out. Standard courtesy."
It's bullshit, and I let him know exactly what I think of it when we're in the parking garage and out of sight of the security cameras, by tugging him down into me and pushing my tongue between his lips. He cradles me with a carefulness he never had while he was still affecting a lowlife thug, and it's strange how much it makes me ache for him, pressing us together from knee to sternum, so I can feel the whole length of his warm body against mine.
"I've taken the rest of the day off work - they understand, coming out of a long undercover mission like that," Blake says, looking hesitant. "Come back to my place?"
I blink. "Are you sure?" I ask, because apparently neither of us were right - about each other, about anything.
But he nods. "Please, I think we've got some things to talk about."
We get in his car - it's not the silver one he drove earlier, but a classic blue Chevy Impala. It's not a standard issue cop car, and it's gorgeous, well loved and well cared for.
"Nice ride."
He laughs, obviously proud. "My grandmother gave it to me when I turned twenty-five. Used to belong to my father."
The ride back is punctuated by the low, steady noise of the radio, but he and I sit in silence.
He lives in an apartment building close to the centre of town - one bedroom, and a picture window in his livingroom overlooking a small park to the west. His hand presses against my lower back as he guides me in, directing me to sit down at the kitchen table, and strips off his outer layers.
He makes coffee, and brings out a thing of sugar and half-gallon carton of milk, and then he sits down across from me. I sit in silence, hands cupped around the heat of my coffee cup that looks a bit like a rooster - it's charmingly eccentric, none of his cups seem to match, and I can't really tell if it's deliberate or if that's just what he does.
"Why'd you even do that?" I blurt out, and then I want to smack myself, because why the hell should I question him handing me my freedom on a silver platter? But I can't stop my mouth from running on, "You know I lied, you know I've been doing shit with that fucking gang - what the hell is this, then?"
He looks inexplicably exhausted for a moment, before he shakes it off. It's nearly four in the morning, I realise suddenly, with the raid and the paperwork, and the business in the interrogation room.
"I've been on this job for the past three years," he says with a heavy sigh. "Three years. I've seen Vincent do some of the most disgusting things men can do, and seen other men do the rest of them in his name. But the problem is - the problem is that I'm a law enforcement officer. I have a job to do - and there're fucking miles of red tape to get through before we can bust anyone on anything. This one job has been building for ages - contacts, and negotiations - spreading out to work with the fucking Russian mob, and we finally had our chance. But then - these killings started," he looks at me, and he knows, but he's waiting for me to jump in. I don't, so he drops his eyes and continues, "It felt like a relief. Like there was someone out there doing something about it - anything, whatever, it was - it was better than what I had done."
"I was just - I saw what they did, and I had to." I'm lost to my thoughts, watching the milk in my coffee swirl in golden spirals around the inside of my mug.
"You've seen it? Why didn't you go to the police?"
I laugh, and it sounds a bit hysterical. "Because. They'd lock me up."
He shakes his head, "No, no, we would have helped you - if you tell me what you've seen -"
"Not like that."
"Then like what?"
"You know - what po does? It changes you, sometimes - all those people in the basement. Arthur." His face is going white as he understands what I'm trying to say - it's unexpectedly difficult to do, I'm kind of surprised at myself - "I've seen you. Your mother - she was black, right? A teacher? Heh, she was beautiful. I've never seen your father, but I know - I know how she died, the same night you got that wound on your knee. I know you moved to Germany to live with your grandparents, after that. I know so much about you - but I didn't even know your name until almost a week after -" I look down, because my voice is breaking again, there's something thick stuck in my throat, and it hurts to swallow. "That's why I was so surprised, that you're a cop. Thought I would have seen that."
He's pale as a ghost and looking unsettled enough that I'm worried he might be sick.
"How?"
I shrug. "Touch. Seems like. That one kid - what was his name, Will? From the basement. He did something - I saw what he could do when he woke up, he's like. I dunno, like a catalyst, or an amplifier or something. He can't help it, it's not something he could control. After that," I shake my head. "After that, it was easier to pick and choose, I guess. Figure out what I wanted to see, what I needed to know. I touched their skin and I saw what they did, and I had to fucking do something, because no one else was doing fucking anything."
Blake falls backwards into his chair, and heaves out a sigh of disbelief.
"Jesus Christ."
I wince. "I can leave."
I'm getting up to go, leave my half-finished coffee, and whatever the fuck this thing is between us, but he catches my hand as I try to pass him, and it's like that first fucking night, but in reverse, because I stop in my tracks, and he looks up at me with wide eyes, and says "No, don't go."
He stands, and wraps his hands around both my wrists, holding them down by my hips, and looks into my eyes, and says, "Lucas. Stay, please?"
It's too fucking surreal.
I close my eyes, and lean in, not quite kissing him, but I can feel his breath on my lips. "Would you kiss me if I didn't make you?"
"It was you, wasn't it? When I followed you home - that was you?"
I nod, feel his nose brush against my cheek.
"That was the first day. I never looked twice at Arthur - before he was you."
His lips are wet and salty, pressed ever so softly against the corner of my mouth - I suck in a breath, lick my tongue out to meet his, and then he's kissing me properly, deep and amazing.
I pull him back into what I decided was the door to his bedroom, and drag him through, thankfully, to a large, low bed, covered in light flannel sheets. It's got mounds of pillows at the head of it, looks more like a fucking nest than a bed, and Blake laughs self-consciously when I raise an eyebrow.
He's got just a long-sleeved t-shirt on now, black and formfitting, and he looks good in the half-light. The fabric of the shirt bunches up around his armpits when I slide my hands up under it, spreading my fingers across the warm skin of his chest, and pulling until he lifts his arms and I can tug it all the way off his head. It leaves his hair messy, sticking up everywhere, so tempting. I tangle my fingers through it, and take him into another kiss, tracing my tongue over his teeth and lips, breathing in his scent, and licking the taste of coffee out of his mouth.
His hands stroke down over my sides to fit over my lower back, drawing me in close, and then farther down to cup my ass, bringing our hips together in a slow, steady grind. I wedge my knee between his thighs and they spread to compensate, dropping him down that extra inch until he's settled heavy and firm, spread out over my leg, dick pressing in against my pelvis as our hips roll together.
"Oh, yes," he breathes out, voice already shaking slightly. His eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones, pale and golden. I smooth my hands down his bare back, and into the waistband of his pants, pushing down on his tailbone and encouraging him to move with me, rocking his dick harder and harder into me with each roll of his hips.
He walks me backwards towards his bed until I feel it hit the backs of my calves. I turn us before he tries to push me down on it, and he lands with an oof, looking up at me, knees spread wide around mine.
I sink down, so I'm kneeling between his legs, and push him flat on his back.
He lifts his head, propping himself up on his elbows, so he can watch me as I undo his pants, pulling them and his boxers down his muscled thighs and over his feet, still clad in socks. They're striped, and they make me smile, so I pin him in place when he tries to sit up and yank them off, and distract him by massaging my hands over his thighs, spreading them apart, so he's completely exposed to me, and I can fucking see everything.
"Aah, Lucas -" He looks dishevelled, breathless, and vulnerable. But he doesn't try to close his legs.
I smile and lick my lips, and I see him swallow, feel his pulse jump under my hand, where it rests high on the crease of his thigh.
His stomach flutters with each breath he takes, smooth and concave between his hips. Tangled curls of hair surround his erection, lying fat and curved against his thigh, soft and sparse down his legs, and he shivers when I drag my fingers through them.
I want to take my time with him. Explore him.
His thighs clench tight as I lean forward, tonguing the crease of his hip and down to his sac, taking the wrinkled skin between my lips and licking at his perineum until he groans out loud, throwing his head back.
I shove my hands under his ass, lifting his hips up to meet my face, and run the flat of my tongue up the underside of his dick, tracing the thick veins, and working it over that knot of nerves at the head, red and swollen, and already leaking salty precome. His hands fist in the covers, and the muscles of his ass flexing in my palms when I squeeze, open my mouth as wide as I can get it, and take his dick into my mouth and down my throat.
I feel it pressing against the back of my throat, swallow around it to make him shudder and flick my tongue across the length, smearing saliva all over him till it drips down my chin in sticky strands. It's a fucking mess as I start to bob my head, corkscrewing down over his cock and fisting the base to keep it steady, but over the sounds of my mouth, I can hear him chanting and gasping, "Oh, fuck, Lucas, Lucas, shit, aah, Lucas - aah -" like he can't get enough of saying my name.
I fucking love it when he says my name.
So I show him, opening my throat and taking his all the way down, until my nose is pressed against his sweaty skin, and it's hot and musky, and his cock is so fucking thick and long, cutting off my air, making me choke on him, but God, the way he gasps out loud and fucking moans for it, hands fluttering over my shoulders like he doesn't know what to do with them - makes it totally worth the hoarseness I'm gonna be feeling later.
I pull off with a gasp, drawing the air back into my lungs with relish, and jerk him off as I catch my breath. He looks all fucked out, hair darkening with sweat at his temples, and I lean in to press an open mouthed kiss to his lower stomach, squeezing his cock around the head.
"Jesus fucking Christ, where'd you learn to do that? Oh, God don't answer me, just - fuck."
He sits up and grabs me by the hair, yanking me into a deep, filthy kiss, that I just fucking love, shoving his tongue as deep into my mouth as he can get it, licking the tang of himself from me. His fingernails scratch at my scalp, and my hands tighten involuntarily, making him groan into the kiss. He breaks away before I want him to, but I can only groan as he moves down my neck, pushing me back and rucking my shirt up so he can get at my chest, and lick at my nipple, dragging his teeth over it again and again till it hardens, and all I can do is open my mouth and pant, head thrown back, dick hard as fucking rock in my jeans, and he hasn't even fucking touched me.
I'm not even undressed - and isn't that a power trip, him completely naked and me fully clothed.
That doesn't last long.
His hands - his fucking hands, I could go on about them for-fucking-ever, they're that good - his hands drop down to the zipper of my jeans, not undoing it, he just fists me through the fabric, tracing the outlines of my dick, pinching at the head and twisting it between his fingers. I can't fucking breathe, drop my head to his shoulder and bite into his collarbone - it's just rough enough to make me ache for it, because somehow he just fucking knows me like that, and it hurts too good for me to last very long, even with him naked and spread out and expectant for me.
"Oh, fuck, stop it, stop it, I'm gonna fucking come," I mumble into his neck, and bite him again, no lips, not sucking, gasping through my teeth and fucking into his grip. The inside of my boxers are slippery and damp, and every movement sends heat and pleasure into my gut like a knife.
Blake lets me go with one last twist of his thumb that leaves me trembling, and wrestles me out of my shirt before snagging me by the hair and pulling me into another kiss, wet and sloppy and desperate.
I fumble at my pants, standing even as I keep the kiss going and his head tilts back, and kick them off into a corner, stepping on my socks so they fall in the heap too. I roll my tongue over his, moulding my hands around his jaw, fingers resting on his cheeks where they're hollow, and thumbs over this throat to feel it moving as he swallows.
He's got his hands all over me, kneading into the muscles of my back, smoothing down to my ass to spread my cheeks, wrapping them around my thighs to pull them wide apart as I push him back, crawling up over him to straddle his hips, our mouths still connected in that long, dirty kiss.
"Oh," is all he says, in a low, airy whisper, when I adjust the angle of my pelvis, and our cocks brush, wet and sticky. He won't let go of my thighs, fingernails digging in as little pinpricks of pain into the tender skin, and he uses that grip to drag me in, building a rhythm, slow and hard, grinding our dicks together between our abdomens. I have to brace myself on arms outstretched over his head, snagging fistfuls of sheet like it's gonna anchor me, keep me from being blown away from this fucking amazing man, as I fuck into the cut of his hipbone.
It's so good, so hot, and there are no lies between us anymore, and for some reason that actually makes a difference, knowing that, even in the state I'm in. I'm breathing, panting, gasping into his mouth, tasting his tongue, every trace of his dick licked out of me, and fingers slide up my ass, dipping into the crack and rubbing across my hole.
They're slick and slippery, sinking in easy and pressing in deep, before I'm fucking ready for it, and oh my fucking God, where the hell did he get lube?
It's so much better than the last time he fingered me, stuffed me full and fucked me with his long, incredible hands. The lube is cool but his hands are warm, one cupping my ass cheek and spreading me wide open, crushing me down against him, and his fingers delving so far inside me that it feels like he's stirring my guts for how good it feels.
Blake's got two fingers in me now, twisting them in slow, agonising turns, scissoring and stretching me, and fuck it feels like it's been forever.
I ride his hand, gripping his chin so I can tilt his face towards mine, kiss him softly while I roll my hips over his erection, teasing, promising.
His fingers slip from me, down my thigh to hike my knee farther up on the bed, and I have to pull away from the kiss, bury my face in the sheets by his neck. His cheek rubs scratchy with stubble against my jaw.
He grabs my hand, presses a foil packet into it, and I'm almost too fucking gone to figure out what he wants, but I get myself together enough to rip the packet open and roll the rubber down over his erection, sliding on easy with the precome that's been leaking everywhere - his and mine.
I lean back, sit up because I can't breathe, can't fucking get enough breath, and lift my hips, kneel over him, so I can reach between us and guide his cock into me. His hands land soft and gentle on my hips, not pushing but supporting as I go slow, sink down onto him so fucking slowly, because it's a damn fucking tight fit, and he's big, pressing deep, splitting me open.
It's not until he's all the way in me, bottomed out with his hipbones digging into the backs of my thighs, that I can finally draw in any air, and I have to just sit and adjust for a long moment, head back and spine arched, supporting myself behind me on his knees.
Sweat stings my eyes, and my contacts are burning, but I wouldn't fucking give the sight of him for anything, gasping and writhing underneath me, trying so hard to stay still for my sake. His hands run over my skin like he needs to be doing something with them, but doesn't know where to settle, so I take charge, grabbing his wrists, and bringing one up to my mouth and shoving the other down, wrapping his fingers around my dick. I bite his fingers as I start to move my hips, push my tongue underneath his nails, drag my teeth over his fingertips, raising up and sinking down, increasing speed every time until I'm just fucking bouncing on his dick, gasping and making little whimpering noises.
"Lucas, yes, Lucas, God fuck, aah," Blake pants, fisting my cock, squeezing tight, hips bucking up, pushing himself in deeper, harder, faster.
All of a sudden he drops his hands to my ribs, pressing finger-shaped bruises into the softness of my sides, and he stops all of my movements, and draws me inexorably down, just rocking his hips, so deep it's like I can feel it all the way in my throat, pressing against my prostate with every slide, forcing groans from my throat that I just can't help, as electricity sparks up my spine. My thighs ache from holding myself over him.
"Touch yourself," he says to me, and I slap my hands down on his chest, shifting forwards, changing the angle to where I cry out, almost scream, with every pass of his cock head over my insides, and reach down to grip my dick, tugging at it almost viciously I need to get off so fucking badly. My mouth drops open, jaw hanging loose, and then I'm coming over my hand and his chest, can't even stop it, can't warn him, just fucking come, like my whole body's on fire, like my world's exploding, imploding, burning, and all I know is the feel of his hands on me and his body against mine.
He shouts when I clamp down, all my muscles seizing, and fucks up into me once, twice, three more times, and then stiffens all over, shuddering.
We collapse together in a sticky, sweaty heap, and he slips out of me with a wet noise that makes me groan, and flex my over-sensitive dick into his stomach one last time.
I roll over, off him, onto my back, and drop my arms up over my head, panting like I ran a fucking marathon.
"Oh. Wow."
He snorts, and turns into me, and kisses me so sweet that it's almost like we didn't have the best sex of my life a moment ago.
"Nicely put."
"Oh my God, fuck you. Jesus. I - what. I don't think I can feel my toes," I tell him, scratching my fingers through his hair, curling them around his ears to drag him into another kiss.
He laughs, deep and hearty, and it's the most amazing thing I can think of. I remember abruptly the first time he spoke to me - cold, indifferent, and dangerous.
"You're -"
I stop, haul myself to my feet, even though he's looking at me curiously, and stumble my way to the bathroom to find something to clean up with. I wash my hands, wipe my contacts from my eyes, and splash my face with water cold enough to shock me more awake.
"So what now?" Blake asks when I come back from the bathroom carrying a wet washcloth. He's still sprawled naked across the bed, sticky and sweaty and gorgeous, long muscles highlighted in the lamplight. "What're you going to do?"
I slide back onto the bed, folding myself around his body, smoothing the washcloth over his skin to wipe away the residue, and then I just toss it vaguely at the bathroom again. "I promised Alyssa I'd come for her. And I can't let Vincent go."
"Who's Alyssa?"
"The girl, the super strong one - Vincent sold her to a man named Matthew Brannon, lives on Oak Blvd in the North Quarter - and I told her I wouldn't leave her there."
He looks at me - I can see it at this distance, wrapped around him like I am - and there's something weird in the way he's watching me.
"What? What is it?"
He shakes his head, and opens his mouth to say something, but pauses, stops, and starts again. "You're just - I can't believe I ever mistook you for Arthur. You're so, you're so different from him."
A wry smile finds its way onto my face. "I'm really not. We were really close as kids - I just. I just know how to use it better than he does. You've only seen him at his worse. I'm not afraid of doing whatever I have to to take care of him - and if that extends to taking care of other people, then I'm gonna do it."
He leans in, pressing tiny kisses to my lips and cheek. "Well, it can wait until morning. You look like you're about to pass out."
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