Just In the Nick of Time [RPF] (PG-13)
Title: Just In the Nick of Time (Timestamps 2/3) [RPF]
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1279
Spoilers: Can’t spoil something that doesn’t exist.
Summary: The immediate aftermath of ”2:15”.
”I want. To make. You scream.”
Oh, sweet Jesus fuck, he did not just say that.
Of course he didn’t. Just like I didn’t really say any of that. I’m sleeping. That’s it. I’m totally asleep right now, and when I wake up, the only thing I’ll have to do to clean up this insanity is change my sheets. Maybe.
Probably.
Wait.
Shit.
Okay, make that definitely.
“So…” dream-Darren’s voice murmurs from my phone “I suppose this means we’re good, right?”
”I suppose this means we’re good?!?!?” What kind of question is that to ask right now? Are all straight boys this clueless? Wait, I’m sleeping. That’s right. Of course he’s clueless. Even asleep, I can’t get a cute guy to make sense. Figures.
I toss my head back on to my pillow and spot my old stopwatch on the nightstand. I used it all throughout my days on the debate team, and even though I don’t have much need for it these days, I’ve come to think of it as something of a good luck charm. I fumble with the buttons a bit and speak without thinking.
“We’re only good if you’re at my door in the next fifteen minutes.”
My eyebrows shoot practically to my hairline when I realize that yeah, I really did say that, and something about having the stopwatch in my hand makes it all feel a little more real than I’m willing to admit this might actually be. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it all when Darren’s voice almost growls from the phone. “Make it twenty, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Seventeen,” I say casually, picking up the stopwatch and hitting START. “Clock starts now.” I end the call and toss my Blackberry across the room. It hits the wall with a thud, and I’m only vaguely concerned about the possibility of having wrecked another phone in a twenty-four hour period (because they really don’t do very well in the garbage disposal, just in case you weren’t aware), but not enough to bother picking it up. Any damage has already been done, and its position on the floor seems vaguely appropriate considering the damage that last call probably did.
And yeah, some level of damage probably has been done, because I just got a lovely call of concern from a considerate co-worker and my response was to ask him which finger I should stick up my ass. Thinking about it without a hormone fog, I’m kind of surprised I was even able to fit my finger up there, considering how far I had my head shoved up it.
I groan and rub my hand against my face before I realize I should probably finish that shower.
Yeah.
Draping the stopwatch around my neck and giving thanks for its waterproof nature, I make my way back to my shower and marvel at the fact that I’ve still got hot water. I left it running when I went for the phone, but you’d never know by the way it scalds as I step in. Every inch of my skin turns pink in an instant, and it takes a couple of minutes of hopping from foot to foot before I manage to twist the dials back to a more reasonable temperature.
I lean against the tile wall, the water sliding off my back, and ask myself just what possessed me to act like that. Darren’s not stupid. Of course he could tell I was keeping something from him. He, like the good guy he is, calls to try and make things better and what do I do? I tell him I need to jerk off. Smooth move, Chris. Real smooth. This isn’t why you’re single, or anything.
In between the bouts of self-flagellation, I try not to think about the things he said. How he got hard when I kissed him. How he sounded right before he said he came. The desperate tone in his voice when he talked about licking my knees and fondling my back. (That was it, right? I was so far gone at that point that he could have been talking about clear-cutting the rainforests and I probably would have thought it sounded hot.)
He was just trying to make me feel better. He was just being a pal. The Good Buddy Darren Doll - pull his string and he’ll have phone sex with you. Because that’s just the kind of guy he is, right?
Okay, I’m not making any sense anymore. Not even to myself. Right. Okay.
I look down at the timer against my chest.
5:26
Great, only eleven minutes and thirty four-thirty two seconds until I have irrevocable proof of my utter lunacy. Because it wouldn’t be clear enough if I weren’t keeping track, of course.
I finish my shower and towel off, wrapping the towel around my waist before settling in front of the mirror for the usual routine. Once I’m shaved and my teeth have been dealt with, I check the time again.
8:19
Why am I doing this, again?
Oh, that’s right. I’m doing this because I’m a complete and total idiot. That’s why. How foolish of me to forget.
Focus, Chris. Think of something. Anything, to take your mind off of this.
Music. That’s a good one.
I head for the living room and plug my iPod into the dock on the windowsill.
Oh, ha-ha. Even my iPod can sense my humiliation, because its choice for a random song? ”Moments in the Woods”, from ”Into the Woods”.
Yeah, because ”what was that?” wasn’t already the primary thought running through my head. Great.
Fine. I’m not really much of a drinker, but Ashley left some sangria in my fridge the other night, and I’m thinking it might not be a bad idea to have a glass. Or two. Or three. Or twelve. However many it takes to keep me from singing along with my iPod while dancing around my living room in a towel, because really? I don’t think it gets much gayer than nearly naked Sondheim sing-a-longs.
Sondheim segues into Lady Gaga segues into the Scissor Sisters, and any progress I was making on that whole “don’t think about Darren” thing is pretty much eradicated when I remember that this song is my answer tone, and it’s the last thing he heard before I verbally molested him. Lovely.
I’m just getting up from the couch to throw on some clothes so I can get the hell out of here for a while when I hear it.
knock
knock
knock
No…it can’t…
My left hand rises to my throat and then trails down one side of the rough nylon cord around my neck. My right hand unlocks the door and turns the knob.
He’s standing there, but barely. Both of his hands are braced against the doorframe, and he’s breathing so hard, I think he might pass out. His forehead is slick with sweat, and his hair’s fallen into his face. He takes a few deep breaths before raising his eyes from the floor to my face.
“Did I get here in time?”
I take a breath of my own and do my best to channel Kurt Hummel’s unflappable nature. My left hand rises and I smirk as I take in the numbers on the display.
“Sixteen minutes, forty-three seconds. Just in the nick of time.”
Marketing MBA
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1279
Spoilers: Can’t spoil something that doesn’t exist.
Summary: The immediate aftermath of ”2:15”.
”I want. To make. You scream.”
Oh, sweet Jesus fuck, he did not just say that.
Of course he didn’t. Just like I didn’t really say any of that. I’m sleeping. That’s it. I’m totally asleep right now, and when I wake up, the only thing I’ll have to do to clean up this insanity is change my sheets. Maybe.
Probably.
Wait.
Shit.
Okay, make that definitely.
“So…” dream-Darren’s voice murmurs from my phone “I suppose this means we’re good, right?”
”I suppose this means we’re good?!?!?” What kind of question is that to ask right now? Are all straight boys this clueless? Wait, I’m sleeping. That’s right. Of course he’s clueless. Even asleep, I can’t get a cute guy to make sense. Figures.
I toss my head back on to my pillow and spot my old stopwatch on the nightstand. I used it all throughout my days on the debate team, and even though I don’t have much need for it these days, I’ve come to think of it as something of a good luck charm. I fumble with the buttons a bit and speak without thinking.
“We’re only good if you’re at my door in the next fifteen minutes.”
My eyebrows shoot practically to my hairline when I realize that yeah, I really did say that, and something about having the stopwatch in my hand makes it all feel a little more real than I’m willing to admit this might actually be. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it all when Darren’s voice almost growls from the phone. “Make it twenty, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Seventeen,” I say casually, picking up the stopwatch and hitting START. “Clock starts now.” I end the call and toss my Blackberry across the room. It hits the wall with a thud, and I’m only vaguely concerned about the possibility of having wrecked another phone in a twenty-four hour period (because they really don’t do very well in the garbage disposal, just in case you weren’t aware), but not enough to bother picking it up. Any damage has already been done, and its position on the floor seems vaguely appropriate considering the damage that last call probably did.
And yeah, some level of damage probably has been done, because I just got a lovely call of concern from a considerate co-worker and my response was to ask him which finger I should stick up my ass. Thinking about it without a hormone fog, I’m kind of surprised I was even able to fit my finger up there, considering how far I had my head shoved up it.
I groan and rub my hand against my face before I realize I should probably finish that shower.
Yeah.
Draping the stopwatch around my neck and giving thanks for its waterproof nature, I make my way back to my shower and marvel at the fact that I’ve still got hot water. I left it running when I went for the phone, but you’d never know by the way it scalds as I step in. Every inch of my skin turns pink in an instant, and it takes a couple of minutes of hopping from foot to foot before I manage to twist the dials back to a more reasonable temperature.
I lean against the tile wall, the water sliding off my back, and ask myself just what possessed me to act like that. Darren’s not stupid. Of course he could tell I was keeping something from him. He, like the good guy he is, calls to try and make things better and what do I do? I tell him I need to jerk off. Smooth move, Chris. Real smooth. This isn’t why you’re single, or anything.
In between the bouts of self-flagellation, I try not to think about the things he said. How he got hard when I kissed him. How he sounded right before he said he came. The desperate tone in his voice when he talked about licking my knees and fondling my back. (That was it, right? I was so far gone at that point that he could have been talking about clear-cutting the rainforests and I probably would have thought it sounded hot.)
He was just trying to make me feel better. He was just being a pal. The Good Buddy Darren Doll - pull his string and he’ll have phone sex with you. Because that’s just the kind of guy he is, right?
Okay, I’m not making any sense anymore. Not even to myself. Right. Okay.
I look down at the timer against my chest.
5:26
Great, only eleven minutes and thirty four-thirty two seconds until I have irrevocable proof of my utter lunacy. Because it wouldn’t be clear enough if I weren’t keeping track, of course.
I finish my shower and towel off, wrapping the towel around my waist before settling in front of the mirror for the usual routine. Once I’m shaved and my teeth have been dealt with, I check the time again.
8:19
Why am I doing this, again?
Oh, that’s right. I’m doing this because I’m a complete and total idiot. That’s why. How foolish of me to forget.
Focus, Chris. Think of something. Anything, to take your mind off of this.
Music. That’s a good one.
I head for the living room and plug my iPod into the dock on the windowsill.
Oh, ha-ha. Even my iPod can sense my humiliation, because its choice for a random song? ”Moments in the Woods”, from ”Into the Woods”.
Yeah, because ”what was that?” wasn’t already the primary thought running through my head. Great.
Fine. I’m not really much of a drinker, but Ashley left some sangria in my fridge the other night, and I’m thinking it might not be a bad idea to have a glass. Or two. Or three. Or twelve. However many it takes to keep me from singing along with my iPod while dancing around my living room in a towel, because really? I don’t think it gets much gayer than nearly naked Sondheim sing-a-longs.
Sondheim segues into Lady Gaga segues into the Scissor Sisters, and any progress I was making on that whole “don’t think about Darren” thing is pretty much eradicated when I remember that this song is my answer tone, and it’s the last thing he heard before I verbally molested him. Lovely.
I’m just getting up from the couch to throw on some clothes so I can get the hell out of here for a while when I hear it.
knock
knock
knock
No…it can’t…
My left hand rises to my throat and then trails down one side of the rough nylon cord around my neck. My right hand unlocks the door and turns the knob.
He’s standing there, but barely. Both of his hands are braced against the doorframe, and he’s breathing so hard, I think he might pass out. His forehead is slick with sweat, and his hair’s fallen into his face. He takes a few deep breaths before raising his eyes from the floor to my face.
“Did I get here in time?”
I take a breath of my own and do my best to channel Kurt Hummel’s unflappable nature. My left hand rises and I smirk as I take in the numbers on the display.
“Sixteen minutes, forty-three seconds. Just in the nick of time.”
Marketing MBA