Fic: The Man Who Never Smiled (2/5)
Greg jumps when the mobile on the table next to him buzzes, indicating a received text message. His heart continues to hammer as he reads the response to his invitation.
Come by around 8:00? - Kurt
That means he has an hour or so to kill. He spends the time calling Sergeant Donovan for a status update, checking his email messages, pacing the room, and ignoring the telly. At five minutes to eight, he grabs the bottle of Macallan, removes it from its box, and heads out.
Greg knocks on the door of room 718 promptly at 8:00. Kurt opens the door and welcomes him with a handshake, then guides him into the room with a firm hand on the middle of his back. The room is a carbon-copy of his own but for different mass-market paintings over the bed - a drab landscape instead of pheasants - and blue stripes on the upholstered chairs instead of green. There’s a bottle of water, a small bucket of ice, and two glass tumblers ready on the table between the chairs. Greg hands the bottle over to Kurt.
“Hope this’ll do,” he says.
Kurt nods and replies that it will do nicely. He pours out a measure of whiskey into each glass and hands one to Greg, who opts for a few cubes of ice, and they each take a seat on either side of the table.
“Skål,” Kurt toasts, raising his glass.
“Cheers, mate!” Greg replies, and they drink.
When he feels the first warm flush from the alcohol working its magic on him, Greg finally starts to relax. He’s just relieved to be there, away from the garishness and noise of the bar and the empty solitude of his hotel room. Kurt’s calm and easy manner puts him further at ease, and the knot of anxiety that had been tied around his guts for most of the afternoon begins to uncoil.
Their conversation takes a more meandering pace this evening, a gentle back and forth that finds its own way through the landscape of their lives. They compare the relative merits of blended versus single malt whiskey, both agreeing on the superiority of single malt (although Kurt prefers Glenmorangie). They share memories of holidays spent with family on the coast (a caravan park in Brighton for Greg, a picturesque bed and breakfast in Skagen for Kurt), and compare favorite eateries (the pizzeria on Hamngatan that makes a fantastic kebab pizza, the Thai place on Broadway with the killer red curry). They talk for hours, the diminishing amber level of the bottle between them slowly marking the passage of time.
As the evening wears on, a niggling thought begins to flutter around the edges of Greg’s mind. He had spent the better part of the day trying to get close to this man, and now here he is sitting right next to him and he should be content - target achieved. But it’s not enough. The two feet separating them might as well be two miles. As they talk, he finds himself leaning forward over the table, cradling his drink in front of him with both hands. He reaches out farther with each gesture he makes to emphasize a point, hoping to be met half-way across the expanse.
Kurt remains relaxed, leaning back in his chair on the other side of that impossible distance. There is a deep and languid undercurrent of melancholy flowing just beneath the man’s placid surface. Greg believes that, if he looks deeply enough, he could see the faces of every victim of murder, rape, and senseless violence from every case the man has ever worked reflected back. He’s seen it before - his old boss, Chief Inspector Scott, had been as much a cautionary tale as he’d been a mentor. The old sod had cared so deeply about the broken, dead and dying he had nothing left to spare for the whole and the living. His wife had left him, his children wouldn’t have anything to do with him, and he had finally died alone at the bottom of a gin and tonic.
“Still married, then?” Greg asks with a slight nod to Kurt’s left hand.
Kurt momentarily splays the fingers of his left hand to glance at the ring, then curls them around his glass again.
“Divorced, actually.” He raises the glass to his lips. “And you?” he asks, before taking a sip.
“Widower.”
“How long?”
“Eight years this past December.”
A brief silence follows, then, “You never thought…”
“…to take it off?” Each stumbles over the other with the same question. Greg smiles awkwardly at that, stares at the drink in his hands. He doesn’t want to be the first to answer it. Or even to answer it at all, really.
Kurt looks at him thoughtfully in silence for a few moments, then sets his glass down and reaches over the table to take hold of Greg’s left hand in both of his own. Kurt’s hands are rough and warm, and Greg’s breathing quickens at the touch. They remain like that for the space of a few heartbeats, though it feels far longer to Greg. Kurt starts fiddling with Greg’s wedding band, twisting it around a few times before slowly drawing it off.
“It’s the wrong finger,” he explains quietly. He reaches for Greg’s right hand. Greg gives it to him, and he slides the ring onto the third finger.
It is such an intimate gesture, such an intrusion into Greg’s past, that he feels he should perhaps object. But he doesn’t. He leaves the ring in its new place, fingering it lightly with the thumb of his right hand.
Kurt withdraws his hands and recedes into the distance once again. Greg tries to bridge the expanse with a joke.
“So,” he grins, “which is the right finger for divorce?”
Kurt laughs at that - not just a smile but an honest, rolling laugh. It brightens his whole face like a sudden sunburst in a storm, but passes just as quickly, and he melts back into the melancholy of a grey, autumn rain. They fall into a companionable silence, the only sound being the rattle of the heating and the occasional clink of ice against glass.
But Greg’s mind is uneasy now. It’s nearing the point in the evening - and the bottle - when he should either retain some dignity and call it a night, or stay, help drink the rest of the bottle, and pass out. While hardly professional, at least the latter would give him an excuse not to go back to his room alone. His body aches with a chill that has settled deep into the marrow of his bones, made all the colder now for having experienced that fleeting bit of warmth in Kurt’s touch. He doesn’t want to leave, and Kurt gives no indication that he is tiring of the company, or the Scotch. Greg’s tapping foot begins to telegraph his restlessness, so he excuses himself to use the toilet.
“Back in a mo.”
He takes a piss, washes his hands, looks at himself in the mirror, and asks himself just what the hell do you thinks you’re doing, mate? Of course, he knows what he’s after - what he’s been after since the night before - but only now does he let the thought finally bubble up to the surface of his consciousness. He really should just leave, but the need for warmth and connection that he’s denied for so long is overpowering. And, unless he is much mistaken, he feels that need radiating off of Kurt, too. I mean, what was that thing with the ring, anyway? Practically a written invitation.
Once Greg makes his decision he acts without hesitation. He enters and crosses the room, not stopping until he reaches Kurt’s chair. He stands between Kurt’s open legs, his knees just brushing the fabric of the chair. Kurt lifts his head and his body tenses; he seems to be holding his breath. Greg keeps his gaze steady, questioning, searching for a sign, a signal, a yes, please, do. Kurt’s face is impassive, and Greg’s resolve begins to waver - had he got it wrong? Then, finally, Kurt exhales. He parts his lips slightly, and gives an almost imperceptible nod.
Greg drops to his knees. He undoes Kurt’s belt with shaking hands, un-tucks his shirt, unzips and pulls his trousers and pants down to his thighs. There is no prelude - he takes Kurt’s length into his mouth, tonguing and sucking it gently. He continues for several long minutes, but Kurt remains stubbornly flaccid, and begins to shift uncomfortably in his chair.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think this is going to work,” Kurt says. “It’s the whiskey,” he adds as explanation, apology.
Greg stops, pulls away. Searching Kurt’s face, he sees only sadness, not anger or disgust. He’s not willing to just give up once he’s started this. Tenacious as a bulldog when he understands what he has to do, Sherlock had once said of him. Of course, it had been immediately preceded by the observation that he was absolutely devoid of reason. All reason certainly seems to have escaped him now, but he knows what he has to do - cross the divide, make contact.
Greg slowly unbuttons Kurt’s shirt, then slides Kurt’s trousers and pants down to his ankles, exposing as much skin as possible. Kurt offers no objection, and Greg begins running his hands over the pale skin of Kurt’s thighs, his hips, the curves of his belly. There is a vertical scar just over Kurt’s heart running the length of his chest - like a frost crack in an otherwise hale beech tree. Greg leans in and traces the line of the scar with his tongue, eliciting a sharp intake of breath, before nuzzling his face into the soft, greying hair of Kurt’s chest. He reaches between Kurt’s thighs and begins a rhythmic tug and pull - firm and slow and deliberate - until finally his efforts begin to pay off. He moves down, pushing Kurt’s legs farther apart, and takes Kurt’s finally full erection into his mouth.
Despite Greg’s efforts and eagerness to please, Kurt shows little outward response - his hands grip the armrests of the chair and he is completely still but for the shallow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. I know I’m a bit out of practice at this, but come on, Greg thinks. Kurt’s giving him nothing to go on, nothing at all to indicate that what he’s doing is right. He withdraws again, considering his next move. He licks his lips, then brushes them against soft skin, inhaling its musky scent, and meets Kurt’s eyes.
“Tell me what to do.”
No, that’s not quite right.
“Show me,” he tries again. “Show me how you like it.”
Kurt hesitates, then reaches down and brushes his fingers lightly along Greg’s lips, jawline, and cheek, before threading them into his hair. He sets the pace, guiding Greg’s head with one hand, stroking himself with the other. Finally, his hips come undone and start a soft, rhythmic pulse. His breath quickens, and a soft moan hitches in the back of his throat. Greg smiles when he hears it, feeling a bit triumphant that he’s able to get even that much of a response.
There’s hardly any warning at all when Kurt comes, shooting a thick, hot stream all over Greg’s lips and chin. Before Greg can even wipe it away, Kurt lunges forward, all apologies.
“I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry.”
Greg leans back, startled. “What for?”
Kurt’s hand shakes as he reaches out and wipes Greg’s lips clean with his thumb. The panic in his eyes is painful to see, and Greg’s only thought is to soothe it. He catches Kurt by the wrist and slowly brings the soiled thumb to his mouth, sucking it clean. Kurt watches silently, then slides out of the chair onto the floor. He pulls Greg to him, and Greg folds into his embrace.
Kurt reaches under Greg’s shirt to stroke his back, finally giving him some of the contact he has been craving. He shudders and melts into the warmth of the other man’s body.
“Please,” Kurt’s lips brush the hair on Greg’s forehead as he whispers.
“Stay.”
****
Come by around 8:00? - Kurt
That means he has an hour or so to kill. He spends the time calling Sergeant Donovan for a status update, checking his email messages, pacing the room, and ignoring the telly. At five minutes to eight, he grabs the bottle of Macallan, removes it from its box, and heads out.
Greg knocks on the door of room 718 promptly at 8:00. Kurt opens the door and welcomes him with a handshake, then guides him into the room with a firm hand on the middle of his back. The room is a carbon-copy of his own but for different mass-market paintings over the bed - a drab landscape instead of pheasants - and blue stripes on the upholstered chairs instead of green. There’s a bottle of water, a small bucket of ice, and two glass tumblers ready on the table between the chairs. Greg hands the bottle over to Kurt.
“Hope this’ll do,” he says.
Kurt nods and replies that it will do nicely. He pours out a measure of whiskey into each glass and hands one to Greg, who opts for a few cubes of ice, and they each take a seat on either side of the table.
“Skål,” Kurt toasts, raising his glass.
“Cheers, mate!” Greg replies, and they drink.
When he feels the first warm flush from the alcohol working its magic on him, Greg finally starts to relax. He’s just relieved to be there, away from the garishness and noise of the bar and the empty solitude of his hotel room. Kurt’s calm and easy manner puts him further at ease, and the knot of anxiety that had been tied around his guts for most of the afternoon begins to uncoil.
Their conversation takes a more meandering pace this evening, a gentle back and forth that finds its own way through the landscape of their lives. They compare the relative merits of blended versus single malt whiskey, both agreeing on the superiority of single malt (although Kurt prefers Glenmorangie). They share memories of holidays spent with family on the coast (a caravan park in Brighton for Greg, a picturesque bed and breakfast in Skagen for Kurt), and compare favorite eateries (the pizzeria on Hamngatan that makes a fantastic kebab pizza, the Thai place on Broadway with the killer red curry). They talk for hours, the diminishing amber level of the bottle between them slowly marking the passage of time.
As the evening wears on, a niggling thought begins to flutter around the edges of Greg’s mind. He had spent the better part of the day trying to get close to this man, and now here he is sitting right next to him and he should be content - target achieved. But it’s not enough. The two feet separating them might as well be two miles. As they talk, he finds himself leaning forward over the table, cradling his drink in front of him with both hands. He reaches out farther with each gesture he makes to emphasize a point, hoping to be met half-way across the expanse.
Kurt remains relaxed, leaning back in his chair on the other side of that impossible distance. There is a deep and languid undercurrent of melancholy flowing just beneath the man’s placid surface. Greg believes that, if he looks deeply enough, he could see the faces of every victim of murder, rape, and senseless violence from every case the man has ever worked reflected back. He’s seen it before - his old boss, Chief Inspector Scott, had been as much a cautionary tale as he’d been a mentor. The old sod had cared so deeply about the broken, dead and dying he had nothing left to spare for the whole and the living. His wife had left him, his children wouldn’t have anything to do with him, and he had finally died alone at the bottom of a gin and tonic.
“Still married, then?” Greg asks with a slight nod to Kurt’s left hand.
Kurt momentarily splays the fingers of his left hand to glance at the ring, then curls them around his glass again.
“Divorced, actually.” He raises the glass to his lips. “And you?” he asks, before taking a sip.
“Widower.”
“How long?”
“Eight years this past December.”
A brief silence follows, then, “You never thought…”
“…to take it off?” Each stumbles over the other with the same question. Greg smiles awkwardly at that, stares at the drink in his hands. He doesn’t want to be the first to answer it. Or even to answer it at all, really.
Kurt looks at him thoughtfully in silence for a few moments, then sets his glass down and reaches over the table to take hold of Greg’s left hand in both of his own. Kurt’s hands are rough and warm, and Greg’s breathing quickens at the touch. They remain like that for the space of a few heartbeats, though it feels far longer to Greg. Kurt starts fiddling with Greg’s wedding band, twisting it around a few times before slowly drawing it off.
“It’s the wrong finger,” he explains quietly. He reaches for Greg’s right hand. Greg gives it to him, and he slides the ring onto the third finger.
It is such an intimate gesture, such an intrusion into Greg’s past, that he feels he should perhaps object. But he doesn’t. He leaves the ring in its new place, fingering it lightly with the thumb of his right hand.
Kurt withdraws his hands and recedes into the distance once again. Greg tries to bridge the expanse with a joke.
“So,” he grins, “which is the right finger for divorce?”
Kurt laughs at that - not just a smile but an honest, rolling laugh. It brightens his whole face like a sudden sunburst in a storm, but passes just as quickly, and he melts back into the melancholy of a grey, autumn rain. They fall into a companionable silence, the only sound being the rattle of the heating and the occasional clink of ice against glass.
But Greg’s mind is uneasy now. It’s nearing the point in the evening - and the bottle - when he should either retain some dignity and call it a night, or stay, help drink the rest of the bottle, and pass out. While hardly professional, at least the latter would give him an excuse not to go back to his room alone. His body aches with a chill that has settled deep into the marrow of his bones, made all the colder now for having experienced that fleeting bit of warmth in Kurt’s touch. He doesn’t want to leave, and Kurt gives no indication that he is tiring of the company, or the Scotch. Greg’s tapping foot begins to telegraph his restlessness, so he excuses himself to use the toilet.
“Back in a mo.”
He takes a piss, washes his hands, looks at himself in the mirror, and asks himself just what the hell do you thinks you’re doing, mate? Of course, he knows what he’s after - what he’s been after since the night before - but only now does he let the thought finally bubble up to the surface of his consciousness. He really should just leave, but the need for warmth and connection that he’s denied for so long is overpowering. And, unless he is much mistaken, he feels that need radiating off of Kurt, too. I mean, what was that thing with the ring, anyway? Practically a written invitation.
Once Greg makes his decision he acts without hesitation. He enters and crosses the room, not stopping until he reaches Kurt’s chair. He stands between Kurt’s open legs, his knees just brushing the fabric of the chair. Kurt lifts his head and his body tenses; he seems to be holding his breath. Greg keeps his gaze steady, questioning, searching for a sign, a signal, a yes, please, do. Kurt’s face is impassive, and Greg’s resolve begins to waver - had he got it wrong? Then, finally, Kurt exhales. He parts his lips slightly, and gives an almost imperceptible nod.
Greg drops to his knees. He undoes Kurt’s belt with shaking hands, un-tucks his shirt, unzips and pulls his trousers and pants down to his thighs. There is no prelude - he takes Kurt’s length into his mouth, tonguing and sucking it gently. He continues for several long minutes, but Kurt remains stubbornly flaccid, and begins to shift uncomfortably in his chair.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think this is going to work,” Kurt says. “It’s the whiskey,” he adds as explanation, apology.
Greg stops, pulls away. Searching Kurt’s face, he sees only sadness, not anger or disgust. He’s not willing to just give up once he’s started this. Tenacious as a bulldog when he understands what he has to do, Sherlock had once said of him. Of course, it had been immediately preceded by the observation that he was absolutely devoid of reason. All reason certainly seems to have escaped him now, but he knows what he has to do - cross the divide, make contact.
Greg slowly unbuttons Kurt’s shirt, then slides Kurt’s trousers and pants down to his ankles, exposing as much skin as possible. Kurt offers no objection, and Greg begins running his hands over the pale skin of Kurt’s thighs, his hips, the curves of his belly. There is a vertical scar just over Kurt’s heart running the length of his chest - like a frost crack in an otherwise hale beech tree. Greg leans in and traces the line of the scar with his tongue, eliciting a sharp intake of breath, before nuzzling his face into the soft, greying hair of Kurt’s chest. He reaches between Kurt’s thighs and begins a rhythmic tug and pull - firm and slow and deliberate - until finally his efforts begin to pay off. He moves down, pushing Kurt’s legs farther apart, and takes Kurt’s finally full erection into his mouth.
Despite Greg’s efforts and eagerness to please, Kurt shows little outward response - his hands grip the armrests of the chair and he is completely still but for the shallow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. I know I’m a bit out of practice at this, but come on, Greg thinks. Kurt’s giving him nothing to go on, nothing at all to indicate that what he’s doing is right. He withdraws again, considering his next move. He licks his lips, then brushes them against soft skin, inhaling its musky scent, and meets Kurt’s eyes.
“Tell me what to do.”
No, that’s not quite right.
“Show me,” he tries again. “Show me how you like it.”
Kurt hesitates, then reaches down and brushes his fingers lightly along Greg’s lips, jawline, and cheek, before threading them into his hair. He sets the pace, guiding Greg’s head with one hand, stroking himself with the other. Finally, his hips come undone and start a soft, rhythmic pulse. His breath quickens, and a soft moan hitches in the back of his throat. Greg smiles when he hears it, feeling a bit triumphant that he’s able to get even that much of a response.
There’s hardly any warning at all when Kurt comes, shooting a thick, hot stream all over Greg’s lips and chin. Before Greg can even wipe it away, Kurt lunges forward, all apologies.
“I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry.”
Greg leans back, startled. “What for?”
Kurt’s hand shakes as he reaches out and wipes Greg’s lips clean with his thumb. The panic in his eyes is painful to see, and Greg’s only thought is to soothe it. He catches Kurt by the wrist and slowly brings the soiled thumb to his mouth, sucking it clean. Kurt watches silently, then slides out of the chair onto the floor. He pulls Greg to him, and Greg folds into his embrace.
Kurt reaches under Greg’s shirt to stroke his back, finally giving him some of the contact he has been craving. He shudders and melts into the warmth of the other man’s body.
“Please,” Kurt’s lips brush the hair on Greg’s forehead as he whispers.
“Stay.”
****