Nip/Tuck Fics
I wrote these as a pair for the cherry!fics challenge, after struggling with them for a while. *crosses fingers* I hope they work.
100fandoms prompt #73 'silence' for both of these...
*
Cherry!fic for bluerosefairy, prompt: Nip/Tuck, Sean/Christian: shiver.
Afterwards, Sean leaves for home. Or, at least, Christian assumes that that is where he's heading; that he hasn't hopped out of Christian's bed and headed off to find Julia, leafing through phonebook after phonebook, ringing through every last acquaintance. Not that Christian would know if he was, of course. Not that Christian would stop him. Stopping him would mean - well.
Stopping.
Is there anything worse in the universe than time to think? Christian has made an art of avoiding deep thought, as if it could snare him and drag him under. It doesn't matter what the shrinks say - thinking about things is what gets you in trouble, and anyone who says different is lying. It's thinking too much that made Christian go to visit an ex-client of theirs, and hold a scalpel to a holy man's flesh. A holy man; hah! Doubtless his shrink would have something to say about that, too. Not that Christian would want to talk about that, or about Mr Troy, or about anything that matters.
"You do realise that the only person you ever talk about is your partner," one of them said, an endless stretch of leg and curly blonde hair falling across one shoulder. She smiled coquettishly, doubtless thinking that she was the first person to say this; that it hadn't already been said by three such women before her. "Do you think that's significant?"
"No," he tells her brusquely. "I don't."
It's true. He doesn't think about it, and tells himself that neither does Sean. It doesn't make sense otherwise - it, this thing they've been doing, not idle fantasies of LA life and cabana boys but the whole shebang, the Hollywood sign and their own practice again, and no Julia or Julia-hooker between, just their own bodies in the West Coast heat.
"We're not fucking if that's what you're asking," he says, the lie coming easily to him.
She nods, and her ankles slip-slide over each other as she crosses and uncrosses her legs, like Sharon Stone with botox up to her eyelids. "But you say that he - sleeps over?"
"Yes," he says, and smiles slightly. He's had his teeth whitened recently; he knows just how bright his smile is by how far his therapists legs fall open in blatant invitation. Ah, shrinks - the same the world over.
"Don't you think that's the slightest bit... strange?" She toys with a strand of hair, and smiles at him. She's not wearing any panties.
No, Christian wants to say. No, I don't think it's strange; I don't think about it at all, and if I did, that wouldn't be the strange part. The strange part is waking up and finding him gone. The strange part is not finding it strange, and lying to my therapist all the same. The strange part is sleeping in my own bed, with my own duvet, and the heating on, and it's 80 degrees outside, and still waking up the moment he leaves.
Why?
Because, he says, and the words stick in his throat. There's a cold place where he used to be.
He kisses the underside of her foot, sliding his hands up her stockinged legs. Her knees fall open, framing him as he licks the side of one creamy thigh.
Later, alone in his own bed, he shivers.
*
Cherry!fic for soulstar, prompt: Nip/Tuck, Sean/Christian: race.
Sean is accepting of all of the life choices his son could have made, and being gay was right up there until Kimber turned up on the scene. That had been… unexpected. He'd thought that maybe a complete turn-around was coming, that he'd find drag queens at his house again, or maybe skin-head neo-Nazis, or - or - anything, really, other than religious sects and having his child snatched out of his hands.
The thing is, he'd prepared himself. He'd been ready.
In LA, the nights are unbearably warm, especially with a body in his bed. Women sopped up the heat, he'd found - at least, Julia had - curling around him in sleep like a cool breeze in the nights. Men - he has no frame of reference for men. He knows what Julia has told him, laughingly calling him a portable heater, sticking her cold feet between his thighs at night. He'd always thought that it'd been a he-thing, but maybe not; maybe it had been a men-thing all along, and he'd just never known about it.
Christian must have awful circulation, he thought one morning, to need that many blankets, to sleep that close. He carefully wriggling free, pulling on his shorts and wandering outside. LA is similar to Miami in all the ways that it's different, synchronicity making his teeth ache. Sometimes he went for runs just after dawn; sometimes he headed straight home. Either way, each morning he'd be in for surgery at a reasonable hour, and Christian never made a fuss, so it must be all right.
He tells himself that Christian is not the type to put up with something that makes him unhappy, and the ridiculousness of that lie almost makes him nick an artery one day. That will teach him to think on things during surgery; there's no place for any thoughts but those of the scalpel - clean, swift lines; the instinctual knowledge of the surgeon.
"You're distracted today," Christian says over their third boob job of the day. "Anything on your mind?"
Sean does not look up. "Nope."
This is not the time to think about it, chasing after the thought as if it would offer some magic pill of enlightenment. Christian will keep, he thinks, guilty and pleased at knowing this to be true. I have plenty of time to figure things out; this isn't a race.
*
100fandoms prompt #73 'silence' for both of these...
*
Cherry!fic for bluerosefairy, prompt: Nip/Tuck, Sean/Christian: shiver.
Afterwards, Sean leaves for home. Or, at least, Christian assumes that that is where he's heading; that he hasn't hopped out of Christian's bed and headed off to find Julia, leafing through phonebook after phonebook, ringing through every last acquaintance. Not that Christian would know if he was, of course. Not that Christian would stop him. Stopping him would mean - well.
Stopping.
Is there anything worse in the universe than time to think? Christian has made an art of avoiding deep thought, as if it could snare him and drag him under. It doesn't matter what the shrinks say - thinking about things is what gets you in trouble, and anyone who says different is lying. It's thinking too much that made Christian go to visit an ex-client of theirs, and hold a scalpel to a holy man's flesh. A holy man; hah! Doubtless his shrink would have something to say about that, too. Not that Christian would want to talk about that, or about Mr Troy, or about anything that matters.
"You do realise that the only person you ever talk about is your partner," one of them said, an endless stretch of leg and curly blonde hair falling across one shoulder. She smiled coquettishly, doubtless thinking that she was the first person to say this; that it hadn't already been said by three such women before her. "Do you think that's significant?"
"No," he tells her brusquely. "I don't."
It's true. He doesn't think about it, and tells himself that neither does Sean. It doesn't make sense otherwise - it, this thing they've been doing, not idle fantasies of LA life and cabana boys but the whole shebang, the Hollywood sign and their own practice again, and no Julia or Julia-hooker between, just their own bodies in the West Coast heat.
"We're not fucking if that's what you're asking," he says, the lie coming easily to him.
She nods, and her ankles slip-slide over each other as she crosses and uncrosses her legs, like Sharon Stone with botox up to her eyelids. "But you say that he - sleeps over?"
"Yes," he says, and smiles slightly. He's had his teeth whitened recently; he knows just how bright his smile is by how far his therapists legs fall open in blatant invitation. Ah, shrinks - the same the world over.
"Don't you think that's the slightest bit... strange?" She toys with a strand of hair, and smiles at him. She's not wearing any panties.
No, Christian wants to say. No, I don't think it's strange; I don't think about it at all, and if I did, that wouldn't be the strange part. The strange part is waking up and finding him gone. The strange part is not finding it strange, and lying to my therapist all the same. The strange part is sleeping in my own bed, with my own duvet, and the heating on, and it's 80 degrees outside, and still waking up the moment he leaves.
Why?
Because, he says, and the words stick in his throat. There's a cold place where he used to be.
He kisses the underside of her foot, sliding his hands up her stockinged legs. Her knees fall open, framing him as he licks the side of one creamy thigh.
Later, alone in his own bed, he shivers.
*
Cherry!fic for soulstar, prompt: Nip/Tuck, Sean/Christian: race.
Sean is accepting of all of the life choices his son could have made, and being gay was right up there until Kimber turned up on the scene. That had been… unexpected. He'd thought that maybe a complete turn-around was coming, that he'd find drag queens at his house again, or maybe skin-head neo-Nazis, or - or - anything, really, other than religious sects and having his child snatched out of his hands.
The thing is, he'd prepared himself. He'd been ready.
In LA, the nights are unbearably warm, especially with a body in his bed. Women sopped up the heat, he'd found - at least, Julia had - curling around him in sleep like a cool breeze in the nights. Men - he has no frame of reference for men. He knows what Julia has told him, laughingly calling him a portable heater, sticking her cold feet between his thighs at night. He'd always thought that it'd been a he-thing, but maybe not; maybe it had been a men-thing all along, and he'd just never known about it.
Christian must have awful circulation, he thought one morning, to need that many blankets, to sleep that close. He carefully wriggling free, pulling on his shorts and wandering outside. LA is similar to Miami in all the ways that it's different, synchronicity making his teeth ache. Sometimes he went for runs just after dawn; sometimes he headed straight home. Either way, each morning he'd be in for surgery at a reasonable hour, and Christian never made a fuss, so it must be all right.
He tells himself that Christian is not the type to put up with something that makes him unhappy, and the ridiculousness of that lie almost makes him nick an artery one day. That will teach him to think on things during surgery; there's no place for any thoughts but those of the scalpel - clean, swift lines; the instinctual knowledge of the surgeon.
"You're distracted today," Christian says over their third boob job of the day. "Anything on your mind?"
Sean does not look up. "Nope."
This is not the time to think about it, chasing after the thought as if it would offer some magic pill of enlightenment. Christian will keep, he thinks, guilty and pleased at knowing this to be true. I have plenty of time to figure things out; this isn't a race.
*