[Whitechapel] a touch of cloth [Chandler/Kent]
a touch of cloth (
);
Whitechapel:
pre Joseph Chandler/Emerson Kent;
U-rated, 832words;
Written for the Whitechapel_ITV kinkmeme: Kent wearing Chandler's clothes, preferably at work after something happens to Kent's clothes […] Up to the author how well the clothes fit and how much of a reaction this draws from Joe.
Chandler turned his back, politely. Behind him, he could hear the ruffle of cloth, the unbuckling of a belt, a muffled curse as Kent miss-stepped and reached out to grab at Chandler's shoulder, steadying himself.
"Sorry, Sir." He muttered, letting go just as quickly.
Chandler half-turned. Kent's shirt was draped over the sink, his trousers tangled around his ankles, a blush staining his cheeks even as he smiled embarrassedly and ducked his head. Chandler couldn't help the quick sweep of his eyes over Kent's body, his stare lingering a heartbeat too long and broken only when Kent bent over to pull his socked feet through his trouser legs.
He turned away quickly, skin prickling with a sudden flush of warmth. Kent was... more defined than he would have thought. For someone so slight and boyish. He rubbed at his shoulder, feeling the phantom squeeze of Kent's fingers. He felt suddenly awkward, standing here in the men's loo with Kent half-naked behind him. He rubbed his fingers together, listening to the rustle of packaging indicating that Kent was opening one of the shirts Chandler had given him to change into.
It was his own fault, of course. This situation. He'd been running late this morning and knocked into Kent who was on his way back from an early-morning Starbucks run. The tray of coffees he'd been carrying had flown everywhere, though mostly over Kent himself, drenching his shirt and trousers and splashing over Chandler's coat and suit-jacket. Their apologies were mutual and plentiful, and with a case just in and pressing there was no time for either of them to return home for a change of clothes. Chandler had sent Miles and the team ahead of them before leading Kent to the bathroom so they could both get cleaned up.
"I don't think these will fit, Sir," Kent said after a moment. Chandler turned to see him holding the trousers he'd given him from his stash of spares. "I'll just have to wash mine off," he nodded to the pair still lying crumpled on the floor with a grimace.
Chandler nodded, wordlessly. Shuddering just slightly at the thought of Kent putting them back on after being in contact with the bathroom floor. Kent refolded and bagged Chandler's spare pair, handing them over before he picked up his own and shook them out. He shuffled over to the sink in nothing but the crisp white shirt he'd since slipped on. The shirt was long on Kent, hanging well past the hem of his boxers and giving the allusion that he wore nothing beneath it.
Chandler swallowed, fingers twitching. It was an odd thing to notice. He forced his eyes away only to have them return a moment later, mesmerised at the sight of Kent sliding his right foot up the back of his left leg in a lazy rub. The shirt shifted with Kent's movements, catching at the hem of his boxers as he bent slightly to scrub his trousers free of coffee. Kent's legs were surprisingly well defined too.
Jarred by his own thoughts, Chandler looked hurriedly up- and straight into Kent's open-mouthed gaze as his DC watched him in the mirror.
Chandler froze, the prickle of his skin turning into a full-blown blush at the realisation that Kent had caught him looking. Never mind that he hadn't meant to. He turned his head quickly to the side, body tense and poised for flight.
Kent turned the tap off.
Chandler could hear his own heartbeat thumping against his ears, could hear the gulp of his swallow as he tried to moisten the sudden dryness of his mouth. There was sweat on his fingertips now; he rubbed them together again, waiting with trepidation for Kent to say something.
The sound of the hand-dryer coming on startled him into looking back up. Kent had moved from the sink and was now drying the wetness around the crotch-area of his trousers. Chandler tried to swallow again, his eyes flicking up to catch Kent's.
Kent who quirked a small smile at him before ducking his own eyes away.
Chandler cleared his throat. Should he apologise? Should he acknowledge what he'd been caught doing? Or ignore it and hope Kent hadn’t taken offence? Kent had smiled though. Why had he smiled?
"I'll be fine now, Sir." Kent said, softly, looking up with another smile.
Chandler felt his own mouth twitch even as he nodded, cleared his throat and all but fled the room. He stopped in the hall to wait, his hand unconsciously going for his shoulder.
It took a while for his heartbeat to calm, for the heat in his cheeks to fade. The image of Kent’s shirt riding up as he bent over the sink in nothing but his socks, however, was just as fresh and crisp as the shirt he wore.
It wasn't until Kent stepped out a few minutes later that Chandler realised he was still smiling.
And Kent, he was still smiling too.
end.
So, it’s been a while! Can’t believe this is the first piece of fiction I’ve posted since… August last year. Holy shit! I don’t think I’ll be breaking any writing records this year at the rate I’m going.
But hey, at least I’m trying to get back into the swing of writing, right? And thanks to some friendly encouragement I thought I’d start off by trawling the Whitechapel kinkmeme. As you do.
For anyone still actually interested in reading more of my [ 37stitches ] verse, I’ve been inspired (read blackmailed) by my friend Galaxy_Song to get a move on with it. She’s holding one of her own Whitechapel fics hostage and won’t tell me what’s going to happen until I return to writing the last part. Grrr! But it’s working so maybe I’ll thank her when I’m done ;)
I hope everyone is still well and… around? Livejournal has been more than a little dead from what I’ve seen on my occasional flist trawls. Where is everyone hanging out nowadays? I’m missing the distinct lack of community we used to have on this site!