Your daily dose of crack
Title: On giving it another go
AU. Very definitely AU. At any rate, contains comic references and Paul drawing, neither of which is canon. So. :3
Beefcake Nightwing/Paul. Yes. That Nightwing. *cackles*
Wordcount: 4k
Paul had to get to the studio he had to get to the studio now he was late for his life-drawing class and oh my god who is that?
Tallish, lean and densely muscled, shag of black hair to the line of a clean-shaven and angled jaw. Scars, so many, faded white lines or ridged pink ones, all over his body. He lounged against a big dangerous-looking motorbike and the only way to make him nakeder would be to shave his head.
Paul slipped in through the door and gave the prof an apologetic grimace. Dr. Lou gave him a chiding nose-crinkle and waved to the only empty table-- the one closest to the model and his bike. Paul took his place in a jumble of paper and didn't have a hand free to smooth his skirt, which rutched up above his knees when he sat. He dropped his satchel, dug out a 2B and started on his sketch; he wasn't sure how late he was and didn't know when the model was going to move.
A few quick sweeps of the wrist to get the clean lines of those shoulders, and what did this guy do for a living 'cause Paul hadn't seen thighs like that in-- ever. Quick glances while his hand moved-- the bike was all precise curves and gleaming metal, leashed power like some crouching great cat, black and glossy. The human body was beautiful and Paul was growing more adept at conveying that beauty, hinting at suspended motion and feeling with lines and and shade and shadow. There was something to be appreciated in everything, everything, but some days anatomy was easier to appreciate than others, and when Paul glanced up to sketch the model's face he was watching Paul sidelong with an expression of deep good humour.
Dr. Lou had some Celtic something playing and the sky-lighted many-windowed studio was full of light and a rich-voiced Gaelic choir, and the model's blue eyes were merry. "Heyyy," he said, as if he'd been waiting to catch Paul's eye. "Why aren't you on this thing? You're prettier than I am."
Paul blinked at him and hoped desperately that he wasn't starting to blush, which meant he probably was. The model winked at him; his face was free of scars but for a tiny notch of bare skin at the corner of one eyebrow, and Paul was distracted from worrying about how to keep his sketch from looking like Frankenstein when Dr. Lou called, "30 second warning!" and Paul had to speed up, scratching in the shadows at groin and belly and jaw, the aquiline nose and curved lower lip. Paul tugged at his skirt and fought the urge to fuss with his hair. Most of it was up in a glitter-green alligator clip, but he'd been hurrying to get here and straggles fell into his face, tickled his neck. He should pay more attention to his work.
"That's it for this one, Dick," Dr. Lou said. There was a rustling from the class as everyone shuffled great sheets of 20-lb acid-free drawing paper, sharpened pencils. Someone sneezed loudly.
"Dick," Paul said, raising one eyebrow. "You actually go by Dick?"
Dick grinned at him, open and unselfonscious and gleeful, like he had a great secret to tell Paul as soon as there was nobody around. He said, "I like it. Short and easy to yell, you know?"
"People yell your name often?" Paul said, before his brain caught up and realized what his mouth had just said. He suppressed a squeak. What the hell was that, his brain demanded. Dick blinked at him and cackled, grinned dazzlingly. He straightened up and rolled his shoulders, held one extended arm across his chest and pressed on the elbow with his free hand, stretching. He sat on the bike backwards, still grinning. Paul's blue t-shirt had a scoop to the neckline and when he checked the skin there was every bit as pink as he'd feared. Damn, Jasmine was sure to mock him first chance she got, she had a creepy sense for things like that. Paul was suddenly glad that this class was going to be cut way, way short by Dr. Lou's having to leave-- her kid was up for a prize of some sort.
"You just made me losing that bet a good thing," Dick said. A bet? Paul had wondered. Didn't see many naked bikers in figure-drawing classes. Dick was in three-quarter profile now, and Paul was a little in love with the line of his nose. "Babs is going to be laughing at me for weeks, but now I won't mind so much. What's your name?"
"Fleming. Uh. Paul Fleming." The blush was starting to hurt. Paul's hand had gotten tired of waiting for orders and had started without him. He glanced at his paper to find that the bike sketched in and a pair of disembodied legs was taking form. Dick didn't have any scars on his knees, odd considering the marks on the rest of him. An indented old scar curled around his left calf and ended on his shin. Paul glanced around to see if anyone had noticed his blushes; most everyone was busy drawing but Frank at the next table glanced over and gave him a covert thumbs-up. Paul wrinkled his nose at him, mocking, and went back to his work and if Dick wasn't a tight-jeans sort of guy he should be, because thighs like that ought permanently to be on display.
"So Paul," Dick said, and where had he learned to talk without moving his lips? "Wanna know what the bet was?"
"What?" Paul said obediently, focussed on the casual slouch of Dick's back, the musculature. He glanced up again and Dick was still watching him, an easy warmth on his face, and something tiny and shivery had begun to glow in Paul's ribcage, because if Dick's undertone was amiable, that look couldn't be anything but flirty.
A barely-muffled snicker. "Bet was for who could cause the longest Awkward Ba--er, Awkward Bossly Silence. Babs won. She flashed him. He couldn't talk for several minutes, just raised his eyebrow as high as he could and humphed and wandered off. I tried to argue that the humph was talking, but--"
"Doesn't count," Paul said, in the absent tone he used when the nonverbal parts of his brain were in charge.
Dick let out a huff of breath. "Yeah. Tim said the same thing."
"Mmph," Paul said, wrist moving quickly. Then his brain caught up with the conversation and a burst of sudden laughter got stuck in his sinuses. He didn't look away from his paper, but his tone was incredulous. "What? Where do you work, anyway?"
"Security."
Paul's eyebrows rose sharply without asking his permission, and he couldn't seem to get them back down. Dick's cheeks twitched, fighting a smile. He said, returning to the previous topic. "It was worth it, though, to see the old guy flummoxed."
"Thirty second warning," Dr. Lou said. Paul got the little panic-thrill he did whenever he felt he was running out of time; he focussed on his paper, shifting his grip on the pencil until it was almost parallel to the paper and sketching in loose extravagant lines. Dick's forearms were blocky, his hands long and capable. Thirty seconds vanished. Dr. Lou came over, her low heels quiet on the tile. She touched Dick's shoulder and addressed the class. "Alright you charcoal-smeared miscreants, that's it for today. Sorry to cut the session short, but I'll see if Dick can be coaxed to return. And stop snickering back there, if you wouldn't mind awfully." This last was addressed to the blonde twins in the back row, who were famous for their twittering laughter and penchant for unexplained and prolonged gigglefits.
Paul put a few last streaks down and set about tidying things away. The room erupted into rustlings of paper and people standing, as if someone had startled a flock of cranes. Sounds of moving cloth, buttons and zips, as Dick dressed. Paul didn't look-- for someone who had no qualms about naked, half-dressed was not something that ought to be embarassing. Something, though, something about watching that transition was a bit too intimated. Without an invitation, at least.
A few people crowded round to talk to Dick-- everyone liked a classic face and a hard body, but artists seemed more susceptible than most. Glitter, unsurprisingly, was there first, flicking her immaculate dreadlocks. Her nosering was silver today, the pale metal gleaming against her dark skin. Frank eyed Dick wistfully for a moment, then waved at Paul and shoved at his glasses on his way to the door. "Bye," Paul said, whether to Dick (dressed now in faded jeans and a thin blue sweater, not that Paul had looked), or Frank, who was already out of sight. Paul stood and smoothed the back of his skirt, bundled everything into his satchel. He followed Dr. Lou out, waved at her and headed for the bus-stop. His satchel butted the backs of his legs rhythmically as he walked. The bus stop was clear on the other end of the campus.
There was a thin layer of cloudcover, very high, and the sky had a luminous quality, as if air had become aether, and the erratic wind carried the smell of distant rain, though Paul didn't expect any to fall until late. Paul paid only minimal attention to his feet (clad in fantastic white sandals that Tiffany, of all people, had found for him); he was busy watching the leaves twist in the wind, the earliest of the summer flowers. "Hey," someone called, and Paul felt something almost like a hiccough catch in his chest when he turned to see Dick trotting towards him, a handkerchief balled up in one hand. Dick wagged his eyebrows. "You dropped this."
Paul's eyebrows did the unauthorized forehead climb again. He didn't look at the handkerchief; he didn't carry one, though he always had kleenex. Kleenices? "That isn't mine."
Dick had a wide mouth, made for laughing. "I know. It's mine. I just wanted an excuse to follow you."
"Oh," Paul said, and automatically cursed the blush he knew was overwhelming his face. Why couldn't he be flirted at without blushing? Normal people did it all the time. Perhaps Frank was right about the tanning lotion. An orange tan might hide the blushes, if nothing else.
"The skirt looks good," Dick said, and brushed one thumb lightly against Paul's hipbone.
"My sister bought it for me," Paul said. Part of his brain immediately started scolding the part that had spoken without consulting the rest of the committee. Could he have been any more inane?
"Looks good," Dick said again. He bounced on his toes. "I can't find anything else to say, but I don't want to just grin at you like an idiot. There's a circus in town, you know."
Damn and drat. "Ahh, I can't. I've got to get home, I'm supposed to watch the kids-- mom's got to fill in for Kathleen at work."
"Aww," Dick said. "Ride home?"
Motorbike. Dick's bike, on a windy afternoon in early summer. "Absolutely!"
Dick flung his arms out in a grand, gallant gesture. "Sweet! Bike's still over by the studio."
Paul hefted his satchel onto the other shoulder and trailed along as Dick swept back up the path. The wind shoved at his hair and tugged strands of Paul's into his face, their shadows were two interlocking shapes on the path.
The bike was, to Paul's untrained eye, awesome. It was also slightly problematic, since the seat was higher than Paul's waist and Paul's manouverability was limited by his skirt. Paul eyed the seat for a moment, and had a flash of future-memory; himself snuggled up behind Dick on the bike, empty highway, tight turns through russet leaves on a crisp fall morning. He'd cuddle closer and his helmet would knock Dick's with a gentle bonk. Instead, Dick gestured him towards the front of the bike. Oh. Dick snuggled against his back. Part of his brain said, 'yay!' He fervently hoped his colour would behave itself.
The satchel-strap went over his head so it lay diagonally across his back; the satchel itself he planned to settle on the seat in front of him. Paul eyed Dick, whose blue eyes glittered when Dick gave a Paul a head-tilt challenge. Paul snorted. He had way too many siblings to fall for a look like that. He was the eldest. He was the most mature. Even a double-dog-dare had no power over him. He hiked his skirt up slightly, holding it close to his legs, and braced one hand on the bike's seat, simultaneously boosting up and swinging one leg over the smooth seat and settled lightly, arranging his bag as out of the way as a satchel of art supplies could be on a motorbike.
"Ooh. Okay. Right, I'm impressed. Don't let Babs see you do that though, or she'll demand you show her the skirt thing."
Paul laughed. "I've been wearing them since primary school, I know all the tricks."
"I'll say," Dick said, and winked. Winked! Where the heck had this guy come from, why the heck had he only just arrived and why, why, Paul wondered, was this not his night off? Dick slung his leg over the bike and settled gently into place, reaching for the handlebars with care. He was warm, he wore aftershave that smelled slightly of cloves. "Is this okay?"
"Yeah, I'd've complained otherwise," Paul said. "Um. Were you planning on asking where I lived?"
"No," Dick teased. "I was going to carry you away."
Paul snorted, and the taut muscles in his back and shoulders unwound in a rush. He hadn't realized he'd been tense. "Not with lines like that, you aren't."
"Here, helmet," Dick said, handing it over Paul's shoulder, movement and rustling as he buckled his own into place. Paul had to remove his alligator clip to get the helmet on. He clipped it to the strap of his satchel and the glitter shimmered there, incongruous.
The bike snarled and thrummed. Dick flicked his wrist and the bike rumbled in response. "What's your opinion on speed limits?"
Paul was too busy laughing to answer. The trip home had never been so short, and when a shaft of stray sunlight struck the road it seemed as if the highway merged briefly with the sky.
--------------------
This was, without a doubt, the most awkward five minutes Paul had ever spent on his own front doorstep. This included the time he'd turned up soaking wet and covered in baby vomit, the time he'd been feverish and babbling nursery rhymes at the nice (and offensively cheerful) old gentlemen with the 7th Day Adventists, and the Incident with the door-to-door soap salesman. (The Incident had been memorable enough that Bethy had celebrated Bubble Day the following year. Paul had organized her music by year and artist's middle name in revenge.)
Every one of his siblings was lined off in the hall, eavesdropping. Every. Last. One. Dick, oddly enough, knew they were there; his head turned slightly, automatically, at every muffled or not-so-muffled giggle.
Paul's cheeks itched, he'd been smiling too long. He was giddy from the wind of the ride, a bit disoriented from the relentlessness of the earth's stability after the liquid speed of the bike. Dick's hair was a wild thatch, and it had responded to the pressure of the helmet by fluffing. Paul wanted to finger-comb it.
"So," Dick said, and bounced on his toes, eyes crinkling. Before he could say anything futher, the door opened and Tina swept out in a well-organized fluster, her glossy hair tied at the nape of her neck. She glanced at Dick and said hello, kissed Paul's cheek, then darted another quick look over her shoulder. Paul hated that instinctive caution, but he understood it. Later he would listen to her discreet urgings towards caution, he'd try to convince her that his gut knew what it was talking about. She'd tell him not to let butterflies make his decisions for him, and meanwhile Dick was offering her his hand and wishing her a good evening.
The tension around her eyes didn't ease. She caught Paul's gaze. "Shannon's got tracing to do for school tomorrow, Pauly, and she hasn't started yet, and Mitch just bathed the kitchen floor in lemonade--"
"I'll take care of it mom, you should get going--"
"You're a love, dear," Tina said, and gave Paul a quick hug on the way past, her heels tapping rapidly on the driveway.
When Paul looked at Dick, he was leaning on the wall. Posing. The toes of his boots were scratched and worn. He said, "Well hey,"
Paul couldn't entirely suppress the foolish smile that his face wanted to make. Dick straightened. He stood head and shoulders above Paul. He wore a single earring.
"Phone number?" Dick said hopefully. Paul beamed and tipped his head and rattled it off. Behind the door came a chorus of poorly muffled giggles.
"I'm going to skin the lot of you!" Paul said, and rattled the doorknob warningly. Pattering footsteps and a doppler effect of fading squeals. He adjusted his satchel, glanced at Dick. "Um. Hope you have a good night."
"Won't be as good as my afternoon, but I will. Good luck with that lot." Dick shifted his feet.
"Ahh, they're good kids," Paul said, frowning at Dick automatically.
Dick lifted both hands, fingers splayed. "Never said they weren't." He shifted his weight.
Inside, Mitch shouted something. Paul's head came around fast, and he gave Dick an apologetic grimace. "Thanks for the ride home," he said, already opening the door.
"Fun was all mine," Dick said, "and I am definitely going to call you."
Not only was there lemonade all over the kitchen floor, but someone had tracked it halfway down the hall. That someone turned out to be Anthony, who returned to the kitchen with the bath mat just as Paul got the mop out of the cupboard. "Whoa!" Paul said, "Lovey thankyou, go put the mat back in the bathroom okay? It's not for cleaning floors, you can help me mop up."
Anthony nodded and turned 'round. Paul wondered how long it would take for the inquisition to start.
"Paul! Ohmygod! Who was that!"
"Jo--" Paul started. Tiffany cut him off: "That bike was bitching!"
"Language!" Paul snapped, casting a glance around in case Shannon had toddled in when he wasn't looking. The mop squelched on the floor. Outside the bike rumbled, revved, and then the rumble faded.
-------------------
The older girls grilled Paul mercilessly, wanting to know all about Paul's 'hunky new hottie!' (A sigh from Tiff at that. "Jojo, that's redundant"; Bethy had chimed in with, "Actually, I'd say that was emphasis. Well-deserved emphasis" and Paul had blushed and asked them if they had homework and why weren't they doing it yet?)
But days passed and Dick didn't call, though Mitch learned to tie a noose-knot in his shoelace and Tiffany came home from rugby with a spectacular mottled bruise all along her left arm. Dick didn't call. Paul swore at himself for hoping, for thinking he'd even have the time, for not getting Dick's blasted phone number from him. That Sunday at church Father Tracey delivered a sermon on coveteousness and Paul clenched his teeth until the muscles along his jaw ached.
That weekend he'd been on his way to work and he'd seen a tall broad-shouldered figure with a shock of black hair. He'd hurried over, only to change direction quickly once he caught sight of the face. Not Dick. Damn. Damn.
---------------------
Paul's next confession was going to be a blush-inducing one for him, and would likely be worse for the priest. Or perhaps not, perhaps vagueness would be the better part of valour here. Bits of his mind that ought to have been devoted to other things had ceaselessly, ceaselessly, been offering Paul scenarious of things he didn't expect to have a go at until he was married, or at the very least thoroughly engaged. Other things he'd gladly love to enjoy long before that. Kisses in the rain, working his hands along Dick's broad warm back, under that ridiculously blue sweater. Embarrassingly enough, being lifted and twirled and hugged.
Tiff's rugby bruise had faded from ink to violet and green, Mitch had had a go at his own hair with their mother's sewing -kit scissors, and Paul had tucked his sketches of Dick into the very deepest folder of his filing cabinet. He still hadn't taken the green alligator clip off of his satchel strap.
------------------------
Paul kept waiting for his brain to get tired of Dick, but it hadn't yet. It threw things at him when he least expected them, so he'd be elbow-deep in soapsuds and then his knees would wobble when he got a visceral image of Dick covered in soap and streams of warm water, slick skin and the ridges of scar. Or he'd be on the bus, going to or from work, school, the supermarket, and he'd remember the thrum of the bike, the smell of the wind. His stomach had lurched when he'd walked by a smoker and smelled clove mixed in with the ashes. He'd be on the couch with three of the kidlets sprawled on him and wonder if Dick liked children, if he'd enjoy watching tv with Paul coiled up on his lap. Paul spent a cathartic half-hour ranting to Bethy about the romance-novel cliche'-ness of it all, and when she'd asked if he'd been having dreams, he'd growled and changed the subject.
He had indeed been having dreams, and he wasn't sure if being unable to remember much detail was a blessing or the reverse. He'd certainly taken to waking up earlier than usual, to leave himself time take care of the embarrassingly persistent erections the dreams left. It wasn't fair, he'd only drawn the guy and gotten a lift home!
It wasn't fair.
-------------------
Father Tracey had a tonsure that was the result of genetics, rather than a razor; he blinked frequently, whistled without realizing what he was doing, and had a deep fondness for buttermilk pancakes. He said that so much of life was beyond one's control that one ought to sieze what one could, and do good with it. And then he said that since your life wasn't entirely your responsibilty, perhaps a little leeway was in order when it came to things like guilt and blame. And he said, it's the same for everyone else, isn't it, dears? And don't forget the pot-luck next weekend.
-------------------
Tina was on the night shift, and had just left. Paul was packing the kidlets' lunches for the next day when a bike grumbled up the street, slowed, and...parked in the driveway.
Paul's heart did not speed up. It did not. Paul put the cheese back in the fridge and tilted his head, listening, and after a moment forced his shoulders to relax. He'd convinced himself that the bike was in the neighbor's driveway when a tentative knock came at the window; he started.
A big shadow loomed against the windowpane in the spill of yellow light from the kitchen. Paul opened the window and leaned out. "What the hell!"
Dick looked thinner, the angle of his cheekbones even more pronounced. His beautiful nose had been broken and set and was still bruised-looking. "I'm sorry, I've been away, I'm sorry, work got crazy, work got insane--"
"Your nose," Paul said. He leaned further out the window, the night air was cool and had a wild, grassy scent. "You look like you haven't slept."
Dick looked rattled. He glanced up when a car rumbled past. "I haven't, I came straight here-- couldn't remember your phone number." That last he admitted with a sheepish expression.
Paul wanted to hesitate, he wanted to make Dick work at earning his forgiveness, but Father Tracey had recently said something about-- something to do with grudges being like undercooked muffins, and had Dick's eyes always been so blue? Idiot, a tiny part of Paul's brain said. The rest was urging Paul to bring Dick in, fix him something to eat, maybe find a heat-pack for the tension in those big shoulders. And contact info, most definitely contact info. And find out if he liked movies and did he want to go to one tomorrow night, Paul's night off, and who cared what was showing? "Don't worry, don't do it again, do you like grilled cheese?" Paul said.
This was his second chance. He wasn't expecting a third. Dick stole in through the window, he reached for Paul's hand.
END
Fleef: Hey, canon!
Canon: Yeah?
Fleef: Bend over.
Canon: Crap, not another crack AU!
Hamster zen by Beaucephalus: 41qdddddddddd.
Study it well, for it is the path to serenity.
AU. Very definitely AU. At any rate, contains comic references and Paul drawing, neither of which is canon. So. :3
Beefcake Nightwing/Paul. Yes. That Nightwing. *cackles*
Wordcount: 4k
Paul had to get to the studio he had to get to the studio now he was late for his life-drawing class and oh my god who is that?
Tallish, lean and densely muscled, shag of black hair to the line of a clean-shaven and angled jaw. Scars, so many, faded white lines or ridged pink ones, all over his body. He lounged against a big dangerous-looking motorbike and the only way to make him nakeder would be to shave his head.
Paul slipped in through the door and gave the prof an apologetic grimace. Dr. Lou gave him a chiding nose-crinkle and waved to the only empty table-- the one closest to the model and his bike. Paul took his place in a jumble of paper and didn't have a hand free to smooth his skirt, which rutched up above his knees when he sat. He dropped his satchel, dug out a 2B and started on his sketch; he wasn't sure how late he was and didn't know when the model was going to move.
A few quick sweeps of the wrist to get the clean lines of those shoulders, and what did this guy do for a living 'cause Paul hadn't seen thighs like that in-- ever. Quick glances while his hand moved-- the bike was all precise curves and gleaming metal, leashed power like some crouching great cat, black and glossy. The human body was beautiful and Paul was growing more adept at conveying that beauty, hinting at suspended motion and feeling with lines and and shade and shadow. There was something to be appreciated in everything, everything, but some days anatomy was easier to appreciate than others, and when Paul glanced up to sketch the model's face he was watching Paul sidelong with an expression of deep good humour.
Dr. Lou had some Celtic something playing and the sky-lighted many-windowed studio was full of light and a rich-voiced Gaelic choir, and the model's blue eyes were merry. "Heyyy," he said, as if he'd been waiting to catch Paul's eye. "Why aren't you on this thing? You're prettier than I am."
Paul blinked at him and hoped desperately that he wasn't starting to blush, which meant he probably was. The model winked at him; his face was free of scars but for a tiny notch of bare skin at the corner of one eyebrow, and Paul was distracted from worrying about how to keep his sketch from looking like Frankenstein when Dr. Lou called, "30 second warning!" and Paul had to speed up, scratching in the shadows at groin and belly and jaw, the aquiline nose and curved lower lip. Paul tugged at his skirt and fought the urge to fuss with his hair. Most of it was up in a glitter-green alligator clip, but he'd been hurrying to get here and straggles fell into his face, tickled his neck. He should pay more attention to his work.
"That's it for this one, Dick," Dr. Lou said. There was a rustling from the class as everyone shuffled great sheets of 20-lb acid-free drawing paper, sharpened pencils. Someone sneezed loudly.
"Dick," Paul said, raising one eyebrow. "You actually go by Dick?"
Dick grinned at him, open and unselfonscious and gleeful, like he had a great secret to tell Paul as soon as there was nobody around. He said, "I like it. Short and easy to yell, you know?"
"People yell your name often?" Paul said, before his brain caught up and realized what his mouth had just said. He suppressed a squeak. What the hell was that, his brain demanded. Dick blinked at him and cackled, grinned dazzlingly. He straightened up and rolled his shoulders, held one extended arm across his chest and pressed on the elbow with his free hand, stretching. He sat on the bike backwards, still grinning. Paul's blue t-shirt had a scoop to the neckline and when he checked the skin there was every bit as pink as he'd feared. Damn, Jasmine was sure to mock him first chance she got, she had a creepy sense for things like that. Paul was suddenly glad that this class was going to be cut way, way short by Dr. Lou's having to leave-- her kid was up for a prize of some sort.
"You just made me losing that bet a good thing," Dick said. A bet? Paul had wondered. Didn't see many naked bikers in figure-drawing classes. Dick was in three-quarter profile now, and Paul was a little in love with the line of his nose. "Babs is going to be laughing at me for weeks, but now I won't mind so much. What's your name?"
"Fleming. Uh. Paul Fleming." The blush was starting to hurt. Paul's hand had gotten tired of waiting for orders and had started without him. He glanced at his paper to find that the bike sketched in and a pair of disembodied legs was taking form. Dick didn't have any scars on his knees, odd considering the marks on the rest of him. An indented old scar curled around his left calf and ended on his shin. Paul glanced around to see if anyone had noticed his blushes; most everyone was busy drawing but Frank at the next table glanced over and gave him a covert thumbs-up. Paul wrinkled his nose at him, mocking, and went back to his work and if Dick wasn't a tight-jeans sort of guy he should be, because thighs like that ought permanently to be on display.
"So Paul," Dick said, and where had he learned to talk without moving his lips? "Wanna know what the bet was?"
"What?" Paul said obediently, focussed on the casual slouch of Dick's back, the musculature. He glanced up again and Dick was still watching him, an easy warmth on his face, and something tiny and shivery had begun to glow in Paul's ribcage, because if Dick's undertone was amiable, that look couldn't be anything but flirty.
A barely-muffled snicker. "Bet was for who could cause the longest Awkward Ba--er, Awkward Bossly Silence. Babs won. She flashed him. He couldn't talk for several minutes, just raised his eyebrow as high as he could and humphed and wandered off. I tried to argue that the humph was talking, but--"
"Doesn't count," Paul said, in the absent tone he used when the nonverbal parts of his brain were in charge.
Dick let out a huff of breath. "Yeah. Tim said the same thing."
"Mmph," Paul said, wrist moving quickly. Then his brain caught up with the conversation and a burst of sudden laughter got stuck in his sinuses. He didn't look away from his paper, but his tone was incredulous. "What? Where do you work, anyway?"
"Security."
Paul's eyebrows rose sharply without asking his permission, and he couldn't seem to get them back down. Dick's cheeks twitched, fighting a smile. He said, returning to the previous topic. "It was worth it, though, to see the old guy flummoxed."
"Thirty second warning," Dr. Lou said. Paul got the little panic-thrill he did whenever he felt he was running out of time; he focussed on his paper, shifting his grip on the pencil until it was almost parallel to the paper and sketching in loose extravagant lines. Dick's forearms were blocky, his hands long and capable. Thirty seconds vanished. Dr. Lou came over, her low heels quiet on the tile. She touched Dick's shoulder and addressed the class. "Alright you charcoal-smeared miscreants, that's it for today. Sorry to cut the session short, but I'll see if Dick can be coaxed to return. And stop snickering back there, if you wouldn't mind awfully." This last was addressed to the blonde twins in the back row, who were famous for their twittering laughter and penchant for unexplained and prolonged gigglefits.
Paul put a few last streaks down and set about tidying things away. The room erupted into rustlings of paper and people standing, as if someone had startled a flock of cranes. Sounds of moving cloth, buttons and zips, as Dick dressed. Paul didn't look-- for someone who had no qualms about naked, half-dressed was not something that ought to be embarassing. Something, though, something about watching that transition was a bit too intimated. Without an invitation, at least.
A few people crowded round to talk to Dick-- everyone liked a classic face and a hard body, but artists seemed more susceptible than most. Glitter, unsurprisingly, was there first, flicking her immaculate dreadlocks. Her nosering was silver today, the pale metal gleaming against her dark skin. Frank eyed Dick wistfully for a moment, then waved at Paul and shoved at his glasses on his way to the door. "Bye," Paul said, whether to Dick (dressed now in faded jeans and a thin blue sweater, not that Paul had looked), or Frank, who was already out of sight. Paul stood and smoothed the back of his skirt, bundled everything into his satchel. He followed Dr. Lou out, waved at her and headed for the bus-stop. His satchel butted the backs of his legs rhythmically as he walked. The bus stop was clear on the other end of the campus.
There was a thin layer of cloudcover, very high, and the sky had a luminous quality, as if air had become aether, and the erratic wind carried the smell of distant rain, though Paul didn't expect any to fall until late. Paul paid only minimal attention to his feet (clad in fantastic white sandals that Tiffany, of all people, had found for him); he was busy watching the leaves twist in the wind, the earliest of the summer flowers. "Hey," someone called, and Paul felt something almost like a hiccough catch in his chest when he turned to see Dick trotting towards him, a handkerchief balled up in one hand. Dick wagged his eyebrows. "You dropped this."
Paul's eyebrows did the unauthorized forehead climb again. He didn't look at the handkerchief; he didn't carry one, though he always had kleenex. Kleenices? "That isn't mine."
Dick had a wide mouth, made for laughing. "I know. It's mine. I just wanted an excuse to follow you."
"Oh," Paul said, and automatically cursed the blush he knew was overwhelming his face. Why couldn't he be flirted at without blushing? Normal people did it all the time. Perhaps Frank was right about the tanning lotion. An orange tan might hide the blushes, if nothing else.
"The skirt looks good," Dick said, and brushed one thumb lightly against Paul's hipbone.
"My sister bought it for me," Paul said. Part of his brain immediately started scolding the part that had spoken without consulting the rest of the committee. Could he have been any more inane?
"Looks good," Dick said again. He bounced on his toes. "I can't find anything else to say, but I don't want to just grin at you like an idiot. There's a circus in town, you know."
Damn and drat. "Ahh, I can't. I've got to get home, I'm supposed to watch the kids-- mom's got to fill in for Kathleen at work."
"Aww," Dick said. "Ride home?"
Motorbike. Dick's bike, on a windy afternoon in early summer. "Absolutely!"
Dick flung his arms out in a grand, gallant gesture. "Sweet! Bike's still over by the studio."
Paul hefted his satchel onto the other shoulder and trailed along as Dick swept back up the path. The wind shoved at his hair and tugged strands of Paul's into his face, their shadows were two interlocking shapes on the path.
The bike was, to Paul's untrained eye, awesome. It was also slightly problematic, since the seat was higher than Paul's waist and Paul's manouverability was limited by his skirt. Paul eyed the seat for a moment, and had a flash of future-memory; himself snuggled up behind Dick on the bike, empty highway, tight turns through russet leaves on a crisp fall morning. He'd cuddle closer and his helmet would knock Dick's with a gentle bonk. Instead, Dick gestured him towards the front of the bike. Oh. Dick snuggled against his back. Part of his brain said, 'yay!' He fervently hoped his colour would behave itself.
The satchel-strap went over his head so it lay diagonally across his back; the satchel itself he planned to settle on the seat in front of him. Paul eyed Dick, whose blue eyes glittered when Dick gave a Paul a head-tilt challenge. Paul snorted. He had way too many siblings to fall for a look like that. He was the eldest. He was the most mature. Even a double-dog-dare had no power over him. He hiked his skirt up slightly, holding it close to his legs, and braced one hand on the bike's seat, simultaneously boosting up and swinging one leg over the smooth seat and settled lightly, arranging his bag as out of the way as a satchel of art supplies could be on a motorbike.
"Ooh. Okay. Right, I'm impressed. Don't let Babs see you do that though, or she'll demand you show her the skirt thing."
Paul laughed. "I've been wearing them since primary school, I know all the tricks."
"I'll say," Dick said, and winked. Winked! Where the heck had this guy come from, why the heck had he only just arrived and why, why, Paul wondered, was this not his night off? Dick slung his leg over the bike and settled gently into place, reaching for the handlebars with care. He was warm, he wore aftershave that smelled slightly of cloves. "Is this okay?"
"Yeah, I'd've complained otherwise," Paul said. "Um. Were you planning on asking where I lived?"
"No," Dick teased. "I was going to carry you away."
Paul snorted, and the taut muscles in his back and shoulders unwound in a rush. He hadn't realized he'd been tense. "Not with lines like that, you aren't."
"Here, helmet," Dick said, handing it over Paul's shoulder, movement and rustling as he buckled his own into place. Paul had to remove his alligator clip to get the helmet on. He clipped it to the strap of his satchel and the glitter shimmered there, incongruous.
The bike snarled and thrummed. Dick flicked his wrist and the bike rumbled in response. "What's your opinion on speed limits?"
Paul was too busy laughing to answer. The trip home had never been so short, and when a shaft of stray sunlight struck the road it seemed as if the highway merged briefly with the sky.
--------------------
This was, without a doubt, the most awkward five minutes Paul had ever spent on his own front doorstep. This included the time he'd turned up soaking wet and covered in baby vomit, the time he'd been feverish and babbling nursery rhymes at the nice (and offensively cheerful) old gentlemen with the 7th Day Adventists, and the Incident with the door-to-door soap salesman. (The Incident had been memorable enough that Bethy had celebrated Bubble Day the following year. Paul had organized her music by year and artist's middle name in revenge.)
Every one of his siblings was lined off in the hall, eavesdropping. Every. Last. One. Dick, oddly enough, knew they were there; his head turned slightly, automatically, at every muffled or not-so-muffled giggle.
Paul's cheeks itched, he'd been smiling too long. He was giddy from the wind of the ride, a bit disoriented from the relentlessness of the earth's stability after the liquid speed of the bike. Dick's hair was a wild thatch, and it had responded to the pressure of the helmet by fluffing. Paul wanted to finger-comb it.
"So," Dick said, and bounced on his toes, eyes crinkling. Before he could say anything futher, the door opened and Tina swept out in a well-organized fluster, her glossy hair tied at the nape of her neck. She glanced at Dick and said hello, kissed Paul's cheek, then darted another quick look over her shoulder. Paul hated that instinctive caution, but he understood it. Later he would listen to her discreet urgings towards caution, he'd try to convince her that his gut knew what it was talking about. She'd tell him not to let butterflies make his decisions for him, and meanwhile Dick was offering her his hand and wishing her a good evening.
The tension around her eyes didn't ease. She caught Paul's gaze. "Shannon's got tracing to do for school tomorrow, Pauly, and she hasn't started yet, and Mitch just bathed the kitchen floor in lemonade--"
"I'll take care of it mom, you should get going--"
"You're a love, dear," Tina said, and gave Paul a quick hug on the way past, her heels tapping rapidly on the driveway.
When Paul looked at Dick, he was leaning on the wall. Posing. The toes of his boots were scratched and worn. He said, "Well hey,"
Paul couldn't entirely suppress the foolish smile that his face wanted to make. Dick straightened. He stood head and shoulders above Paul. He wore a single earring.
"Phone number?" Dick said hopefully. Paul beamed and tipped his head and rattled it off. Behind the door came a chorus of poorly muffled giggles.
"I'm going to skin the lot of you!" Paul said, and rattled the doorknob warningly. Pattering footsteps and a doppler effect of fading squeals. He adjusted his satchel, glanced at Dick. "Um. Hope you have a good night."
"Won't be as good as my afternoon, but I will. Good luck with that lot." Dick shifted his feet.
"Ahh, they're good kids," Paul said, frowning at Dick automatically.
Dick lifted both hands, fingers splayed. "Never said they weren't." He shifted his weight.
Inside, Mitch shouted something. Paul's head came around fast, and he gave Dick an apologetic grimace. "Thanks for the ride home," he said, already opening the door.
"Fun was all mine," Dick said, "and I am definitely going to call you."
Not only was there lemonade all over the kitchen floor, but someone had tracked it halfway down the hall. That someone turned out to be Anthony, who returned to the kitchen with the bath mat just as Paul got the mop out of the cupboard. "Whoa!" Paul said, "Lovey thankyou, go put the mat back in the bathroom okay? It's not for cleaning floors, you can help me mop up."
Anthony nodded and turned 'round. Paul wondered how long it would take for the inquisition to start.
"Paul! Ohmygod! Who was that!"
"Jo--" Paul started. Tiffany cut him off: "That bike was bitching!"
"Language!" Paul snapped, casting a glance around in case Shannon had toddled in when he wasn't looking. The mop squelched on the floor. Outside the bike rumbled, revved, and then the rumble faded.
-------------------
The older girls grilled Paul mercilessly, wanting to know all about Paul's 'hunky new hottie!' (A sigh from Tiff at that. "Jojo, that's redundant"; Bethy had chimed in with, "Actually, I'd say that was emphasis. Well-deserved emphasis" and Paul had blushed and asked them if they had homework and why weren't they doing it yet?)
But days passed and Dick didn't call, though Mitch learned to tie a noose-knot in his shoelace and Tiffany came home from rugby with a spectacular mottled bruise all along her left arm. Dick didn't call. Paul swore at himself for hoping, for thinking he'd even have the time, for not getting Dick's blasted phone number from him. That Sunday at church Father Tracey delivered a sermon on coveteousness and Paul clenched his teeth until the muscles along his jaw ached.
That weekend he'd been on his way to work and he'd seen a tall broad-shouldered figure with a shock of black hair. He'd hurried over, only to change direction quickly once he caught sight of the face. Not Dick. Damn. Damn.
---------------------
Paul's next confession was going to be a blush-inducing one for him, and would likely be worse for the priest. Or perhaps not, perhaps vagueness would be the better part of valour here. Bits of his mind that ought to have been devoted to other things had ceaselessly, ceaselessly, been offering Paul scenarious of things he didn't expect to have a go at until he was married, or at the very least thoroughly engaged. Other things he'd gladly love to enjoy long before that. Kisses in the rain, working his hands along Dick's broad warm back, under that ridiculously blue sweater. Embarrassingly enough, being lifted and twirled and hugged.
Tiff's rugby bruise had faded from ink to violet and green, Mitch had had a go at his own hair with their mother's sewing -kit scissors, and Paul had tucked his sketches of Dick into the very deepest folder of his filing cabinet. He still hadn't taken the green alligator clip off of his satchel strap.
------------------------
Paul kept waiting for his brain to get tired of Dick, but it hadn't yet. It threw things at him when he least expected them, so he'd be elbow-deep in soapsuds and then his knees would wobble when he got a visceral image of Dick covered in soap and streams of warm water, slick skin and the ridges of scar. Or he'd be on the bus, going to or from work, school, the supermarket, and he'd remember the thrum of the bike, the smell of the wind. His stomach had lurched when he'd walked by a smoker and smelled clove mixed in with the ashes. He'd be on the couch with three of the kidlets sprawled on him and wonder if Dick liked children, if he'd enjoy watching tv with Paul coiled up on his lap. Paul spent a cathartic half-hour ranting to Bethy about the romance-novel cliche'-ness of it all, and when she'd asked if he'd been having dreams, he'd growled and changed the subject.
He had indeed been having dreams, and he wasn't sure if being unable to remember much detail was a blessing or the reverse. He'd certainly taken to waking up earlier than usual, to leave himself time take care of the embarrassingly persistent erections the dreams left. It wasn't fair, he'd only drawn the guy and gotten a lift home!
It wasn't fair.
-------------------
Father Tracey had a tonsure that was the result of genetics, rather than a razor; he blinked frequently, whistled without realizing what he was doing, and had a deep fondness for buttermilk pancakes. He said that so much of life was beyond one's control that one ought to sieze what one could, and do good with it. And then he said that since your life wasn't entirely your responsibilty, perhaps a little leeway was in order when it came to things like guilt and blame. And he said, it's the same for everyone else, isn't it, dears? And don't forget the pot-luck next weekend.
-------------------
Tina was on the night shift, and had just left. Paul was packing the kidlets' lunches for the next day when a bike grumbled up the street, slowed, and...parked in the driveway.
Paul's heart did not speed up. It did not. Paul put the cheese back in the fridge and tilted his head, listening, and after a moment forced his shoulders to relax. He'd convinced himself that the bike was in the neighbor's driveway when a tentative knock came at the window; he started.
A big shadow loomed against the windowpane in the spill of yellow light from the kitchen. Paul opened the window and leaned out. "What the hell!"
Dick looked thinner, the angle of his cheekbones even more pronounced. His beautiful nose had been broken and set and was still bruised-looking. "I'm sorry, I've been away, I'm sorry, work got crazy, work got insane--"
"Your nose," Paul said. He leaned further out the window, the night air was cool and had a wild, grassy scent. "You look like you haven't slept."
Dick looked rattled. He glanced up when a car rumbled past. "I haven't, I came straight here-- couldn't remember your phone number." That last he admitted with a sheepish expression.
Paul wanted to hesitate, he wanted to make Dick work at earning his forgiveness, but Father Tracey had recently said something about-- something to do with grudges being like undercooked muffins, and had Dick's eyes always been so blue? Idiot, a tiny part of Paul's brain said. The rest was urging Paul to bring Dick in, fix him something to eat, maybe find a heat-pack for the tension in those big shoulders. And contact info, most definitely contact info. And find out if he liked movies and did he want to go to one tomorrow night, Paul's night off, and who cared what was showing? "Don't worry, don't do it again, do you like grilled cheese?" Paul said.
This was his second chance. He wasn't expecting a third. Dick stole in through the window, he reached for Paul's hand.
END
Fleef: Hey, canon!
Canon: Yeah?
Fleef: Bend over.
Canon: Crap, not another crack AU!
Hamster zen by Beaucephalus: 41qdddddddddd.
Study it well, for it is the path to serenity.