SG:A RPF: House Rules (JF/DH UST)
Title: House Rules
Rating: R
Fandom: SG:A
Characters/Pairings: JF/DH UST; DH/Jane; Cameos by everyone and their momma
Words: ~2,500
Beta/Handholding: minervacat and starkeymonster (All remaining mistakes are mine.)
Disclaimer: Well. Duh.
Summary: David's not sure how Torri managed it, but when he shows up at the pub that night, Joe's there, his jacket nowhere in sight, and a half-finished beer pressed against his palm.
*
The first time they go out, really go out, the pilot is a wrap, and the rumblings are good. David drinks enough to fell a small elephant. Torri ends up streaking the parking lot. Rachel giggles quite a bit and slumps to sleep in one of the Martins' lap.
Joe ends up going home early and calling his wife.
*
When the news comes down that, yes, yes, it's going to be a show, good job, all, they meet up beforehand, take gleeful pictures and discuss nothing and everything over lunch. Lunch turns into dinner, and dinner turns into tequila. David drinks enough to piss his almost-ex-wife off enough to dump his collection of Dr. Who bootleg VHS tapes (painstakingly catalogued in his own hand) into the neighbor's fishpond. Torri kisses everyone and ends up winning a speedboat in a well-advised poker hand. Rachel cries and does cartwheels in the rain that started up somewhere in between the beer and the tequila shots.
Joe doesn't show up at all.
*
There are more times, David reciting Shakespeare backward, Rachel showing Paul how to do a handstand, Torri teaching the bartender how to make Irish Car Bombs. There's that one time that David finally spills, tells Torri that he's met someone, that his ex-wife can go fuck herself; another time, Paul makes out with the waitress in the bathroom, earns himself a nice hickey for his troubles; and another time, when Rainbow tags along and gets all their drinks on the house, his smile a thousand miles wide. Jane starts showing up, too, clutching David's arm all night at first, but quickly absorbed into Torri and Rachel's klatch of bowed heads and giggles over the bartender's biceps.
If Joe does show up, it's for a perfunctory round of beer, his car service idling on the curb, and his jacket still on.
Torri thinks it's pretty lame, but David thinks that he's just got his priorities straight. Jane thinks he's just too serious, and Rachel thinks there's more to Joe than they know.
Joe has no fucking idea that he's the subject of so much discussion. If he did, he'd probably get a fucking complex about it, and sit each one of them down and explain: yes, he's kind of lame (but he is married and has kids); his priorities are his business (but he appreciates the understanding); he does know when to have fun (but, you know, work is serious stuff); and that no one can know all facets of anyone at anytime (but he thinks that mystery is the spice of life).
*
David's not sure how Torri managed it, but when he shows up at the pub that night, Joe's there, his jacket nowhere in sight, and a half-finished beer pressed against his palm. David leans down, smacks a kiss on Torri's cheek, one on Rachel's forehead when she looks up at him, her palms to the ceiling, fingers wriggling. Jane collapses into the booth, drapes herself -- coat and scarf and hat and all -- across Torri and Rachel, and makes some grand pronouncement about how much an asshole David is for making her wait. Torri and Rachel laugh, uproarious, extricate Jane from her damp outer clothes, passing them to David, still standing and looking at Joe like he's from another planet, fresh out the stargate. If stargates existed.
"Well, I'll be," David says, finally, his arms out, absently taking the wet wool and hanging it haphazardly on the peg near their booth. "Look what the cat dragged in."
Joe smiles, sheepish, his beer carving a wet arc on the table. "I know, I know." He looks up, finally, a grin starting at the corner of his mouth, curving up his cheek. "I can go, if you want-"
The girls explode in a cacophony of negatives. Jane's finally up and free of her winter wear and Torri pushes her toward the bar, Rachel already there.
"David, you sit next to him, make sure he can't leave. You're on guard duty." Torri pulls a face. "I'm warning you."
A beat, and David looks down at Joe, who looks up and lifts his glass. "I'd salute you, but you don't have a drink."
David waves him quiet, settles into the booth, and eyes the drinks before him, snagging Torri's half-finished whiskey sour. "She won't even notice it's gone," he says, raises the glass until it clinks against Joe's proffered bottle, grins at the bemused smile he gets in return.
*
David watches Torri weave in and out of the crowd, the music carrying her along, a clutch of drinks held fast in between her palms. She finally makes it to the table, the drinks clinking as she climbs her way into the booth and sits back, her knees tucked up against the edge of the table.
"Voila!" she beams, her eyes bright. "Drink up, David, you have catching up to do."
David finishes off his drink, slides the empty glass across the table and plucks a full one from the center. "How long have you been here?" he asks, hopes it sounds nonchalant, and knows from the angle of Joe's shoulders that it's not. Torri shrugs, waves her free hand (the other firmly planted on her drink) toward Joe.
Another shrug, but Joe takes the ball, runs with it. "Not long. About 30 minutes."
David wants to say, "must be a World Record," but he doesn't, settles for shrugging in response, blurts out something that sounds like, "Not too bad," but it doesn't matter, because Rachel and Jane are back, all grabby hands and cajoling smiles, the music in the pub suddenly loud and insistent.
*
Rachel pulls and Jane tugs, and they get David up and out of the booth, his drink hastily poured down his throat ("You can do it!" "Chug chug chug!"), his lips shiny-bright. Torri scrunches up in the corner of the booth, her hands tucked into her chest, shouts that they'll never take her alive. Joe claims that someone has to keep her company -- she is buying the drinks, after all.
Jane spins, David struts, and Rachel laughs, hands clasped to her mouth with mirth. She lets David dip her over a strong thigh, faux-grinds with Jane, her fingers tugging on David's shirt to keep her upright. He dances (if you can call it that), jives around them, the dance floor packed with like-minded individuals, all moving as a collective - the beat carrying them up and down, no matter their prowess or style.
They dance and dance, hands pressed against each other's sides, faces tipping into each other's necks. The crowd shifts, surges a bit, the song merging and forming into a beat that sounds like sex, feels like lust, and David tugs them off the floor, the lure of drinks and air and freedom from the clutch of bodies too strong.
*
Jane hovers at the foot of the table, her hips still carrying the beat of the dance floor, her thigh nudging David's arm with each ebb and flow. She pleads, cajoles, promises oral sex, breakfast in bed, did she mention oral sex? David just grins, tugs her between his legs as he settles into his seat and scoops up a drink that's not too empty. Her hands on his shoulders and she dips down, dances close, a glimpse of what's under her shirt on display through the neckline, she's sure, but he won't budge. ("I'm quite enjoying the view from here," he tells her, winks through her playful slap against his shoulder.)
Her eyes narrow and she bites her lip, and David sees what's coming, watches her lay her pretty, pretty hand (clean, neat nails, not too long, not too short, vibrant color against her pale skin, it was the first thing he noticed about her, wanted to slip them into his mouth and see how she tasted) on Joe's arm, smirks at her smile, at the dip of her chin, at the raised eyebrow Joe shoots his way.
"God, take her, please," he shouts over the music, waves them off, the ice in his drink clinking. "Give me a moment of peace, both of you crazy kids."
Joe flashes a brilliant white smile, the room flashing in and out with the rhythm of the music, and suddenly David's hot all over, the edges of his clothing pressing tequila-sharp against his skin.
*
Joe's shirt gleams under the blacklights, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, edges untucked and loose around his heavy belt, jeans riding low. David sees Joe topple against Jane as he fakes a smooth dance move, watches the rise and fall of Joe's chest as he laughs at her smile. She shakes her head, pulls him closer, her hands on his arms, tugging him into position, fitting her body up against his, the crowd pushing them together as much as the music. She stretches up, whispers something that makes Joe's eyebrows raise with amused shock, which makes them both look over at David, and it's all just too much, Jane's slight frame tucked up against Joe's front, the white of his shirt framing her dark hair. It's so much that David lets Torri tug him toward the bar, doesn't even look at the glass she presses in his hand, just swallows the liquid and breathes.
*
A different song, now, slower, the crowd spilling off the edges of the makeshift dance floor, tables and chairs pushed off to the side, discarded coats and empty glasses balanced precariously. Another drink, and this time it's cool, refreshing, and David looks down to see Torri smiling up at him, bemused, tugging back the bottle of water and taking a long pull. She presses the capped bottle into his palm, hip-checks him toward the dance floor, shouts something that sounds like, "I didn't know you like to watch, Hewlett!" and David tries to shout back, "You wish!" but it comes out liquor-soaked and nonsensical. Doesn't matter, because Torri's already dancing away, laughter shaking her shoulders.
David slides into the press of bodies, shouts hellos to the regulars, their friends and neighbors, the people who buy them drinks and drink the ones they buy, almost gets sidetracked a handful of times by the clutch of friendly hands. He spills out behind Jane, catches Joe's eye, presses a finger to his mouth and fits himself against Jane's back, the press of her ass on his hips, his lips on the exposed swell of her neck. She jumps, clutches at Joe and spins around, dissolves into giggles when she realizes "it's just me, geez.". He smiles into her kiss, presses the bottle of water into Joe's upturned hand sightlessly, the kiss turning messy and only slightly filthy as Jane leans into him, vodka-pliant and more than willing. He breaks the kiss, soothes her with a quick peck, looks up at Joe staring at them, him -- really, it's nothing, it's natural -- and he throws Flanigan a wink, dips down and kisses Jane again.
*
Joe goes home late that night, pressed into a cab by Torri, Rachel making him repeat his address once, twice, three times. He leans against the window, his cheek pressed up against the cool glass, startles awake when the cabbie clears his throat, shifts expectantly. Joe takes care of the tab, throws the poor guy an extra $10 for his troubles, and steals up the walkway, easing himself into the house through the garage, shoes kicked off at the door, everything as quiet as a mouse. Kids, wife, gone, on holiday to the City ("What city do you think I mean? The City!"), having fun, seeing friends, being familial. His wife had told him -- nay, ordered him -- to get out of the house while they were gone, said he couldn't be much of a leader if he didn't have a team. ("I just play one on TV," he had said, and she had groaned, threw a pillow at him and spilled one of the kid's juice all over the carpet.)
He's not sure if this is what she had in mind -- him, drunk on booze and dancing, a contact high of desire and lust tingling in his fingertips, alone. He misses her almost as much as when they first started dating, the separation of a week gutting and painful, phone calls never enough, even when she took to bringing him off with a few well placed words, the lilt of her voice hypnotic and reasonable, all at once.
He stumbles, but manages to make it into the bathroom, shucking his clothes off on the way. He tries for the hamper, probably misses, doesn't stop until he's naked and bleary-eyed. He pours himself into the shower, turns the water on high and cool, leaning his face into the spray, and prays that he can stay upright just a little bit longer.
The water makes him sigh, a deep-seated sound that starts from his belly and works its way up, makes him tilt forward, hands on the tiles as he steadies himself. His skin prickles, sweat and sin coursing off of him, soap in his hands and on his body by rote memory.
He's more than drunk, he has to be, because he's half-hard, a bar of soap dissolving in his one hand, and the other lined with suds, his body angled out of the spray, and even though his mind is screaming "sleep," his body is shouting, "awake!" He leans forward into his soap-slicked palm, curves his fingers around his cock, thinks of the smell of his wife's perfume, the taste of her skin, the hitch of her breath when it's yesyesyes. A twist of his wrist, and he gets distracted, thinks about the press of Jane's hips against his, the slide of her tongue against David's lips, the curve of David's neck, the way Jane melted when David put his hands on her waist, the backs of his fingers pressing against Joe's stomach, shifting.
His shoulder collides with the shower door, a jarring sound, a bass beat of noise in the quiet house and he finishes, quick and abrupt, wringing release out of his liquor-soaked body. Rinse, and he flips the water off, finds a towel, gets dry enough to sleep.
He hopes that he remembers to set his alarm to call his wife in the morning.
*
There are more times: Rachel writing their names backward on the paper placemats with her eyes closed; Torri losing the boat in an ill-advised dare; David going completely sober and taking a camera to document the event; Paul proclaiming his love for the Mamas and the Papas.
Joe shows up more often than not, buys a round, lets a round be bought for him. Sometimes he sits at the bar with Martin, talks shop; other times he lets Torri talk him into shot after shot of something vicious and green. Sometimes he sits shoulder to shoulder with David, lets his chin fall forward as he leans in to whisper-speak over the music, rests against the smooth cotton of David's tee shirt, the rough wool of his sweater - depends on the season. No one notices the press and release of Joe's hand on the edge of the table, his knees knocking against the heavy wood, David concentrating very hard on breathing, on focusing his eyes on the pooled water circling his glass, concentrating on the words that Joe is saying, watching the curve of Jane's back as she dances with Paul. He feels the thrum of the music in his bones, and he and Joe bump shoulders, conversation stuttering to a halt, lips curved into a smile around "another beer, yeah?"
It's those nights David ends up going home early, his fingers under the hem of Jane's skirt in the cab on the way, the imprint of Joe's hand on his neck ("Hey, buddy! C'm'here!") fading.
Joe goes home late, falls into bed and kisses his wife awake, smirks at her delighted protests as he slips under the covers, touches and tastes her skin, focuses on the line of her body under his fingers, not on the slope of David's smile in his memory.
FIN
Dedication: For starkeymonster's birthday! Happy birthday, baby! Thank you for being so saucy, and convincing me that, yes, Dee Hew would also be pretty saucy himself.
Takes Top Off For: minervacat. Just. Yeah. Thank you, baby, and, well, *takes top off*! I do blame you for my latest menthol cigarette phase, though.
Notes: Erm, okay, so personal fanon - Hew got divorced sometime during the first season, if the dates are right online; and I just can't make Flan cheat in my head. I just can't. He's too precious and familial. So, um, UST. Lots of too long pauses between words and touching when touching isn't necessary and drunken leaning. Yes. Get in.
"Follow me baby / I got the vibe and you know we be keeping it live." - Sean Paul
"Wait! I don't mean no harm / I can see you with my t-shirt on." - Timbaland
Rating: R
Fandom: SG:A
Characters/Pairings: JF/DH UST; DH/Jane; Cameos by everyone and their momma
Words: ~2,500
Beta/Handholding: minervacat and starkeymonster (All remaining mistakes are mine.)
Disclaimer: Well. Duh.
Summary: David's not sure how Torri managed it, but when he shows up at the pub that night, Joe's there, his jacket nowhere in sight, and a half-finished beer pressed against his palm.
*
The first time they go out, really go out, the pilot is a wrap, and the rumblings are good. David drinks enough to fell a small elephant. Torri ends up streaking the parking lot. Rachel giggles quite a bit and slumps to sleep in one of the Martins' lap.
Joe ends up going home early and calling his wife.
*
When the news comes down that, yes, yes, it's going to be a show, good job, all, they meet up beforehand, take gleeful pictures and discuss nothing and everything over lunch. Lunch turns into dinner, and dinner turns into tequila. David drinks enough to piss his almost-ex-wife off enough to dump his collection of Dr. Who bootleg VHS tapes (painstakingly catalogued in his own hand) into the neighbor's fishpond. Torri kisses everyone and ends up winning a speedboat in a well-advised poker hand. Rachel cries and does cartwheels in the rain that started up somewhere in between the beer and the tequila shots.
Joe doesn't show up at all.
*
There are more times, David reciting Shakespeare backward, Rachel showing Paul how to do a handstand, Torri teaching the bartender how to make Irish Car Bombs. There's that one time that David finally spills, tells Torri that he's met someone, that his ex-wife can go fuck herself; another time, Paul makes out with the waitress in the bathroom, earns himself a nice hickey for his troubles; and another time, when Rainbow tags along and gets all their drinks on the house, his smile a thousand miles wide. Jane starts showing up, too, clutching David's arm all night at first, but quickly absorbed into Torri and Rachel's klatch of bowed heads and giggles over the bartender's biceps.
If Joe does show up, it's for a perfunctory round of beer, his car service idling on the curb, and his jacket still on.
Torri thinks it's pretty lame, but David thinks that he's just got his priorities straight. Jane thinks he's just too serious, and Rachel thinks there's more to Joe than they know.
Joe has no fucking idea that he's the subject of so much discussion. If he did, he'd probably get a fucking complex about it, and sit each one of them down and explain: yes, he's kind of lame (but he is married and has kids); his priorities are his business (but he appreciates the understanding); he does know when to have fun (but, you know, work is serious stuff); and that no one can know all facets of anyone at anytime (but he thinks that mystery is the spice of life).
*
David's not sure how Torri managed it, but when he shows up at the pub that night, Joe's there, his jacket nowhere in sight, and a half-finished beer pressed against his palm. David leans down, smacks a kiss on Torri's cheek, one on Rachel's forehead when she looks up at him, her palms to the ceiling, fingers wriggling. Jane collapses into the booth, drapes herself -- coat and scarf and hat and all -- across Torri and Rachel, and makes some grand pronouncement about how much an asshole David is for making her wait. Torri and Rachel laugh, uproarious, extricate Jane from her damp outer clothes, passing them to David, still standing and looking at Joe like he's from another planet, fresh out the stargate. If stargates existed.
"Well, I'll be," David says, finally, his arms out, absently taking the wet wool and hanging it haphazardly on the peg near their booth. "Look what the cat dragged in."
Joe smiles, sheepish, his beer carving a wet arc on the table. "I know, I know." He looks up, finally, a grin starting at the corner of his mouth, curving up his cheek. "I can go, if you want-"
The girls explode in a cacophony of negatives. Jane's finally up and free of her winter wear and Torri pushes her toward the bar, Rachel already there.
"David, you sit next to him, make sure he can't leave. You're on guard duty." Torri pulls a face. "I'm warning you."
A beat, and David looks down at Joe, who looks up and lifts his glass. "I'd salute you, but you don't have a drink."
David waves him quiet, settles into the booth, and eyes the drinks before him, snagging Torri's half-finished whiskey sour. "She won't even notice it's gone," he says, raises the glass until it clinks against Joe's proffered bottle, grins at the bemused smile he gets in return.
*
David watches Torri weave in and out of the crowd, the music carrying her along, a clutch of drinks held fast in between her palms. She finally makes it to the table, the drinks clinking as she climbs her way into the booth and sits back, her knees tucked up against the edge of the table.
"Voila!" she beams, her eyes bright. "Drink up, David, you have catching up to do."
David finishes off his drink, slides the empty glass across the table and plucks a full one from the center. "How long have you been here?" he asks, hopes it sounds nonchalant, and knows from the angle of Joe's shoulders that it's not. Torri shrugs, waves her free hand (the other firmly planted on her drink) toward Joe.
Another shrug, but Joe takes the ball, runs with it. "Not long. About 30 minutes."
David wants to say, "must be a World Record," but he doesn't, settles for shrugging in response, blurts out something that sounds like, "Not too bad," but it doesn't matter, because Rachel and Jane are back, all grabby hands and cajoling smiles, the music in the pub suddenly loud and insistent.
*
Rachel pulls and Jane tugs, and they get David up and out of the booth, his drink hastily poured down his throat ("You can do it!" "Chug chug chug!"), his lips shiny-bright. Torri scrunches up in the corner of the booth, her hands tucked into her chest, shouts that they'll never take her alive. Joe claims that someone has to keep her company -- she is buying the drinks, after all.
Jane spins, David struts, and Rachel laughs, hands clasped to her mouth with mirth. She lets David dip her over a strong thigh, faux-grinds with Jane, her fingers tugging on David's shirt to keep her upright. He dances (if you can call it that), jives around them, the dance floor packed with like-minded individuals, all moving as a collective - the beat carrying them up and down, no matter their prowess or style.
They dance and dance, hands pressed against each other's sides, faces tipping into each other's necks. The crowd shifts, surges a bit, the song merging and forming into a beat that sounds like sex, feels like lust, and David tugs them off the floor, the lure of drinks and air and freedom from the clutch of bodies too strong.
*
Jane hovers at the foot of the table, her hips still carrying the beat of the dance floor, her thigh nudging David's arm with each ebb and flow. She pleads, cajoles, promises oral sex, breakfast in bed, did she mention oral sex? David just grins, tugs her between his legs as he settles into his seat and scoops up a drink that's not too empty. Her hands on his shoulders and she dips down, dances close, a glimpse of what's under her shirt on display through the neckline, she's sure, but he won't budge. ("I'm quite enjoying the view from here," he tells her, winks through her playful slap against his shoulder.)
Her eyes narrow and she bites her lip, and David sees what's coming, watches her lay her pretty, pretty hand (clean, neat nails, not too long, not too short, vibrant color against her pale skin, it was the first thing he noticed about her, wanted to slip them into his mouth and see how she tasted) on Joe's arm, smirks at her smile, at the dip of her chin, at the raised eyebrow Joe shoots his way.
"God, take her, please," he shouts over the music, waves them off, the ice in his drink clinking. "Give me a moment of peace, both of you crazy kids."
Joe flashes a brilliant white smile, the room flashing in and out with the rhythm of the music, and suddenly David's hot all over, the edges of his clothing pressing tequila-sharp against his skin.
*
Joe's shirt gleams under the blacklights, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, edges untucked and loose around his heavy belt, jeans riding low. David sees Joe topple against Jane as he fakes a smooth dance move, watches the rise and fall of Joe's chest as he laughs at her smile. She shakes her head, pulls him closer, her hands on his arms, tugging him into position, fitting her body up against his, the crowd pushing them together as much as the music. She stretches up, whispers something that makes Joe's eyebrows raise with amused shock, which makes them both look over at David, and it's all just too much, Jane's slight frame tucked up against Joe's front, the white of his shirt framing her dark hair. It's so much that David lets Torri tug him toward the bar, doesn't even look at the glass she presses in his hand, just swallows the liquid and breathes.
*
A different song, now, slower, the crowd spilling off the edges of the makeshift dance floor, tables and chairs pushed off to the side, discarded coats and empty glasses balanced precariously. Another drink, and this time it's cool, refreshing, and David looks down to see Torri smiling up at him, bemused, tugging back the bottle of water and taking a long pull. She presses the capped bottle into his palm, hip-checks him toward the dance floor, shouts something that sounds like, "I didn't know you like to watch, Hewlett!" and David tries to shout back, "You wish!" but it comes out liquor-soaked and nonsensical. Doesn't matter, because Torri's already dancing away, laughter shaking her shoulders.
David slides into the press of bodies, shouts hellos to the regulars, their friends and neighbors, the people who buy them drinks and drink the ones they buy, almost gets sidetracked a handful of times by the clutch of friendly hands. He spills out behind Jane, catches Joe's eye, presses a finger to his mouth and fits himself against Jane's back, the press of her ass on his hips, his lips on the exposed swell of her neck. She jumps, clutches at Joe and spins around, dissolves into giggles when she realizes "it's just me, geez.". He smiles into her kiss, presses the bottle of water into Joe's upturned hand sightlessly, the kiss turning messy and only slightly filthy as Jane leans into him, vodka-pliant and more than willing. He breaks the kiss, soothes her with a quick peck, looks up at Joe staring at them, him -- really, it's nothing, it's natural -- and he throws Flanigan a wink, dips down and kisses Jane again.
*
Joe goes home late that night, pressed into a cab by Torri, Rachel making him repeat his address once, twice, three times. He leans against the window, his cheek pressed up against the cool glass, startles awake when the cabbie clears his throat, shifts expectantly. Joe takes care of the tab, throws the poor guy an extra $10 for his troubles, and steals up the walkway, easing himself into the house through the garage, shoes kicked off at the door, everything as quiet as a mouse. Kids, wife, gone, on holiday to the City ("What city do you think I mean? The City!"), having fun, seeing friends, being familial. His wife had told him -- nay, ordered him -- to get out of the house while they were gone, said he couldn't be much of a leader if he didn't have a team. ("I just play one on TV," he had said, and she had groaned, threw a pillow at him and spilled one of the kid's juice all over the carpet.)
He's not sure if this is what she had in mind -- him, drunk on booze and dancing, a contact high of desire and lust tingling in his fingertips, alone. He misses her almost as much as when they first started dating, the separation of a week gutting and painful, phone calls never enough, even when she took to bringing him off with a few well placed words, the lilt of her voice hypnotic and reasonable, all at once.
He stumbles, but manages to make it into the bathroom, shucking his clothes off on the way. He tries for the hamper, probably misses, doesn't stop until he's naked and bleary-eyed. He pours himself into the shower, turns the water on high and cool, leaning his face into the spray, and prays that he can stay upright just a little bit longer.
The water makes him sigh, a deep-seated sound that starts from his belly and works its way up, makes him tilt forward, hands on the tiles as he steadies himself. His skin prickles, sweat and sin coursing off of him, soap in his hands and on his body by rote memory.
He's more than drunk, he has to be, because he's half-hard, a bar of soap dissolving in his one hand, and the other lined with suds, his body angled out of the spray, and even though his mind is screaming "sleep," his body is shouting, "awake!" He leans forward into his soap-slicked palm, curves his fingers around his cock, thinks of the smell of his wife's perfume, the taste of her skin, the hitch of her breath when it's yesyesyes. A twist of his wrist, and he gets distracted, thinks about the press of Jane's hips against his, the slide of her tongue against David's lips, the curve of David's neck, the way Jane melted when David put his hands on her waist, the backs of his fingers pressing against Joe's stomach, shifting.
His shoulder collides with the shower door, a jarring sound, a bass beat of noise in the quiet house and he finishes, quick and abrupt, wringing release out of his liquor-soaked body. Rinse, and he flips the water off, finds a towel, gets dry enough to sleep.
He hopes that he remembers to set his alarm to call his wife in the morning.
*
There are more times: Rachel writing their names backward on the paper placemats with her eyes closed; Torri losing the boat in an ill-advised dare; David going completely sober and taking a camera to document the event; Paul proclaiming his love for the Mamas and the Papas.
Joe shows up more often than not, buys a round, lets a round be bought for him. Sometimes he sits at the bar with Martin, talks shop; other times he lets Torri talk him into shot after shot of something vicious and green. Sometimes he sits shoulder to shoulder with David, lets his chin fall forward as he leans in to whisper-speak over the music, rests against the smooth cotton of David's tee shirt, the rough wool of his sweater - depends on the season. No one notices the press and release of Joe's hand on the edge of the table, his knees knocking against the heavy wood, David concentrating very hard on breathing, on focusing his eyes on the pooled water circling his glass, concentrating on the words that Joe is saying, watching the curve of Jane's back as she dances with Paul. He feels the thrum of the music in his bones, and he and Joe bump shoulders, conversation stuttering to a halt, lips curved into a smile around "another beer, yeah?"
It's those nights David ends up going home early, his fingers under the hem of Jane's skirt in the cab on the way, the imprint of Joe's hand on his neck ("Hey, buddy! C'm'here!") fading.
Joe goes home late, falls into bed and kisses his wife awake, smirks at her delighted protests as he slips under the covers, touches and tastes her skin, focuses on the line of her body under his fingers, not on the slope of David's smile in his memory.
FIN
Dedication: For starkeymonster's birthday! Happy birthday, baby! Thank you for being so saucy, and convincing me that, yes, Dee Hew would also be pretty saucy himself.
Takes Top Off For: minervacat. Just. Yeah. Thank you, baby, and, well, *takes top off*! I do blame you for my latest menthol cigarette phase, though.
Notes: Erm, okay, so personal fanon - Hew got divorced sometime during the first season, if the dates are right online; and I just can't make Flan cheat in my head. I just can't. He's too precious and familial. So, um, UST. Lots of too long pauses between words and touching when touching isn't necessary and drunken leaning. Yes. Get in.
"Follow me baby / I got the vibe and you know we be keeping it live." - Sean Paul
"Wait! I don't mean no harm / I can see you with my t-shirt on." - Timbaland