[fic: "baby, i'm your man", rated ma, ds/dc]
Title: baby, i'm your man
Author: Sionnain
Fandom: due South/Durham County crossover
Pairing: Mike Sweeney/Ray Kowalski
Word Count: LET'S JUST NOT TALK ABOUT IT, MOVING ON.
Rating: MA
Warnings: There are several references to consensual rough sex and implied consensual S&m, though none appears in this fic.
Spoilers: None for either show
Prompt: Woolly Mittens
Summary: Ray knows exactly what to expect when he pisses Mike off--it's when Ray makes him laugh that's the problem.
AN: Set early in the What Else Would You Have Me Be 'verse, in which Mike Sweeney moves to Chicago after season 1 of Durham County. I wanted to write quick, hot kinky porn. THE UNIVERSE THINKS IT'S FUNNY WHEN I SAY STUFF LIKE THAT AND IS ALL "LOLNO :D?". But there's porn, as per the point of this exercise, I promise! Also there's a lovely fangirl out there named waltzforanight who beta'd this for me and she is made of this: :D!!!!! Title from Don't Fear the Reaper.
baby, i'm your man
"What the fuck is your problem?"
The thing about Mike Sweeney in a temper, thinks Ray, is that the guy doesn't really pay attention to his surroundings. Say he's going to grab you by the throat and slam you up against a wall, for example. Does he stop to realize that one, they're in an alley, or two, it's motherfucking snowing outside? No, no he does not. Mike Sweeney is the iceman, why the fuck would he notice the weather?
And sure, Ray pissed the guy off on purpose because this was what he wanted--well, okay, maybe the indoors-and-less-with-the-freezing version of this, the one where he was pinned to a bed instead of the brick wall behind The Empty Bottle. Because again, snowing, ice, freezing. Ray is not a big guy, he doesn't have a lot of extra padding to keep him warm, here.
"You asking just in general?" Ray asks, though that sounds better in his head because there's a lot less wheezing. "Or right now? 'Cause right now you are my problem, Jesus fuck, do you have metal in your goddamned hand because--"
For half a second, Ray swears he sees something like amusement on Mike's face before his expressions darkens and his eyes narrow, fingers tightening on Ray's neck and now wheezing is too pretty a word for the sounds Ray's making. So it's probably not amusement, because Ray is fairly sure he's never seen Mike laugh and actually mean it; not that dry brittle thing he does that makes Ray look around for a pale fucking horse, for fuck's sake.
"Oh, I know I'm your problem right now, Kowalski." Mike smiles at him and Ray starts hearing Blue Oyster Cult playing in his head, telling him not to fear the reaper because forty-thousand men and women meet him every day. Fuck them, those forty-thousand men and women obviously haven't met Mike Fucking Sweeney in a temper. "I just don't get why you go out of your way to make it that way."
"Isn't that--victim blaming?" Ray asks, and okay, that's probably a bitchy thing to say and not going to win him any points. Points Ray needs to accumulate so he can trade them in for breathing privileges, apparently.
Mike steps up closer, crowds in Ray's space, and that's nice because Mike is warm and Ray is fucking freezing. His jacket is still slung over the back of his seat at the bar, whereas Mike is wearing his, and Mike has on gloves--leather, probably, from how they feel pressing against Ray's windpipe--but Ray left his in the car. He always loses gloves if he doesn't do that, he's learned putting them in his jacket pocket means you will get outside and only have one and the other one will be under a bar table and covered in beer.
"You're really fucking easy to see through, you know that?" Mike loosens his grip by tilting his hand upwards and grabbing Ray under the chin, meaning Ray can breathe but not turn his head. Which is okay because he doesn't really want to look anywhere else, actually. Mike's winter-pale eyes are as cold as the snow falling around them, his breath is warm on Ray's face. He pushes closer aggressively with his body, and that's just fine with Ray because of the warm and also because Ray can feel Mike's dick pressing hard against his hip.
"And you're really fucking easy to piss off, yeah, yeah. I got that memo, the t-shirt from the gift shop is in my drawer at home. I even got a souvenir spoon on the wall. You want we should stand around here and talk about ourselves some more?" Ray tries for a smirk, but his lips are freezing so he can't really tell what his expression looks like. Honestly, he's just going for some version of annoying. Maybe Mike will smack him. Which will hurt more than usual because it's cold, or else Ray won't feel it so he'll have to goad Mike into doing something else, maybe backhanding him. It's been awhile since they've done that, Ray has fond memories of the first time and he'd like to revisit them if at all possible.
"A spoon?"
Okay, wait, what? Ray blinks at him, confused. That tone in a normal person is sometimes referred to as "humorous disbelief." But this is Mike. "What?"
"You got a spoon on the wall? What are you, my grandma?" And with that, Mike laughs. "Jesus, Kowalski. A spoon." He laughs harder. "You are so fucking cracked in the skull, you know that, don't you?"
There is nothing about this that Ray understands, except for the part where he can still feel Mike's hard-on pressing insistently against him. Even the hand grasping Ray's chin has relaxed. None of that really matters though, because Ray has seen Mike Sweeney lose it and go postal about a bazillion times (most of those times being because of Ray) but he's never seen him crack up laughing before. And God, what it does to him--Ray stares, he's entranced and he kind of hates himself for using that word but he is. Mike's eyes are warm and he's grinning, and he looks nothing like the scary motherfucker Ray's used to. The one Ray taunts into hurting him, fucking him every few days. He looks...huh.
He's hot.
Ray swallows hard, because this--okay, no, this is not happening. Ray likes the way Mike hurts him, Ray is very fond of Mike's cock, Ray likes the way Mike's voice sounds when he growls and the way his fingers feel leaving bruises on his skin. Ray does not think Mike is hot. Except right now he is, he just is, and he's also covered in snow and oh fuck, no, no, this cannot be happening, it can't.
I don't want to like you! Ray thinks frantically at him, but Mike--the stupid snow-covered bastard laughing his ass off and looking so goddamn hot--Mike doesn't hear Ray's terrified thought, because he keeps on with the laughing. Then Mike rubs a gloved hand over his head to brush off the snow and there's snowflakes in his eyelashes and no, you are not supposed to notice he even has eyelashes, Kowalski, what the fuck.
Ray, dressed only in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, shivers and feels a horrible sense of impending doom of the I'm going to end up liking you and that's bad because you hate me or you'll leave me variety, and first thing when he gets home? He's writing a letter to the Blue Oyster Cult because fuck the reaper, fuck Mike in a temper (which had been the motherfucking plan), what Ray fears is this right here; this warmth spreading in his chest that has nothing to do with pain and the part where he feels good that he just made Mike laugh.
"Stop it," Ray says desperately, reaching out and shoving Mike, hard. "Stop laughing! Stop looking--just stop. You need a hat, idiot, did you not realize that it's cold in Chicago? Your head has to be freezing, you don't got any hair."
Mike only gives a little ground when Ray shoves him, because he's heavy and solid and very hard to move. Ray knows this from the many, many times Mike has been on top of him and pinning him down. "Stop looking what? And I'm sorry, but I can't help it, you come up with the weirdest shit sometimes and I don't know where you get it. Also seriously, my grandmother had a spoon collection and she made me look at them all the time, it was so boring. Why the fuck does anyone want to collect utensils and put them on their wall, anyway?"
"Stop," Ray whines, tugging at his hair, because that image is too much; little Mike Sweeney (who has no hair in this imagining, even as a kid, which is...not right for so many reasons), his facial expression firmly set on "polite disinterest", a grandma (who also looks like Mike, and is therefore also bald, which is also not right) explaining spoons on a wall to him from whatever places in Canada she got them from. Niagra Falls, maybe, or larger cities like Toronto and Vancouver.
"I must have shoved you against the wall too hard," Mike tells him, and he's giving Ray a weird look which is better than laughing, sure, but he's still with the being-hot, and it's not fair. "Or else your brain is freezing--can't imagine that'd take a long time, given how little of one you've got. And, hey, you shouldn't be telling me about hats, Kowalski, you don't even have a pair of gloves. Or a coat. So shut the fuck up."
Well, that last bit is familiar territory, but Ray's still navigating without a fucking road map here, and the GPS is cheerfully telling him to go right on ahead to fall for someone who will leave you for Canada-ville and that is really not his favorite place to visit. "I got gloves in the car," Ray mutters, kicking the heel of his boot back against the brick wall. This is not going like it should. Also he's freezing. And it's snowing, which sucks because he's not yet gotten the GTO winterized. And Mike Sweeney is hot. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Even that word is taunting him, because it's not what they're doing. Ray is about to say something, God, anything to get this back where it's supposed to be. He's running through his tried-and-true list of things that make Mike angry, blowing on his fingers to keep them warm while he thinks, and he's kind of settled on something insulting about the Leafs or maybe Mustangs or general Canada sucks type stuff, when Mike does something that makes Ray stop thinking and instead make dumb gasping sounds like a frightened carp.
He reaches out and takes Ray's hands in his, rubbing Ray's chilled skin with his leather-clad fingers. "Your gloves are in your car. Of course they are. You don't have any fucking sense, why did I think otherwise? Do you know it's cold in Chicago?"
Despite the fact the look Ray is giving him right now has to be some cross between mystified and utterly horrorified, Mike raises Ray's hands to his mouth and then blows on them, which makes Ray do the scared fish impression again because the sensation is shivery-good and gets him even harder than he already is. Then Mike stares straight at him and sucks two of Ray's fingers in his mouth, every swipe of his tongue going directly to Ray's dick. Ray opens his mouth to say stop again, but that would be dumb because he doesn't mean that. Also he's kind of fucking Mike's mouth with his fingers now, pushing in and out, and he doesn't want to stop that either. So instead he breathes out, "Yeah," though he's not sure if he's saying yeah I know it's cold in Chicago or yeah, let me fuck your mouth with my fingers, suck them, let me suck you, please, want you, want you now.
Ray has said all of these things before, but never without bruises or a sore jaw or a black eye to get him to do it. He's always thought that was what he needed in order to make the words come out, but apparently not. That's just the black-and-blue icing on the world's most fucked up cake.
Mike's eyes are hot and he bites Ray's fingers, bites them hard, but his eyes are still warm and he still looks amused. He's got a nice mouth, Ray notices, and he likes the way the corner of Mike's eyes go up the slightest bit when he smiles.
There it is, the cake Ray doesn't want, fresh out of the oven and apparently fucking delicious even without the icing.
"But I want the icing," Ray tells him seriously, breathing shot all to hell. "I want the icing more than the cake." He yanks his hand away, has a somewhat gratifying second to appreciate Mike's utterly confused look at Ray's non-sequitor, and then grabs Mike by the collar of his jacket and yanks him in close, kissing him hotly so he doesn't ask what the hell Ray is saying.
I want to like how you hurt me, how you fuck me, but I don't want to like you.
Mike opens up immediately, kisses him back just as aggressive and rough as usual. There's no anger but there's still heat, and Ray's forgotten about spoons and cakes and freaking out, he just wants this, wants Mike, now. He hooks a hand around Mike's neck to get closer, and Mike hisses and sucks Ray's lip between his teeth and bites. "Your fucking fingers are freezing," he mutters against Ray's mouth, and fuck it all to hell and back, but Ray can feel the son-of-a-bitch smiling when he says it.
"Gloves. In. The. Car," Ray reminds him, and then he wriggles one hand inside Mike's coat, slides beneath his suit jacket and his dress shirt and presses low against Mike's stomach. Mike reacts immediately; he hisses and twists, gives a breathless curse and tries to grab Ray's wrists. Ray attempts Kowalski-Limb-Keep-Away for a minute, but Mike shoves his leg between Ray's and presses his thigh hard against Ray's cock. Ray groans, momentarily distracted by how fucking good that feels. When he stops with the moaning and the pushing his hips forward like some kind of slut, he realizes Mike has him pinned to the wall again, with Ray's hands above his head and crossed at the wrists.
Mike smirks at him, obviously pleased with himself and still every inch an asshole even if he's not pissed off anymore. "Try that again, motherfucker. Go on." His fingers tighten on Ray's wrists, pressing the bones together, the leather slick and warm. Ray tugs his hands hard and Mike tightens his forcefully, not letting go. Ray does it again, pulls harder, and this time Mike growls and slams Ray's wrists back against the wall for good measure.
Ray is panting for it in seconds. Mike presses his forehead against Ray's, breathing hard, and Ray can feel Mike rubbing up against his hip even through all the clothing separating them. "You want to fight me some more?" he asks, and he keeps shoving his weight forward and slamming Ray against the wall and doing it so goddamned perfect Ray can't think straight. Because it hurts enough to feel good, and his thigh is still pressed against Ray's dick, but nothing is going to need to be bandaged up when they're done.
They're kissing again, messy and hot, and at some point Mike lets go of Ray's wrists so he can reach down and shove his own jacket out of the way. He grabs Ray under his thigh, yanking Ray's leg up and getting Ray where he wants him, so Mike can get some friction, too. Ray kind of feels like a girl with that leg-grabbing move, but fuck it, he's already gotten a little stupid noticing snowflakes in Mike's eyelashes so what's a little leg-grab here and there?
Besides, it feels fucking amazing.
Ray reaches down and unbuttons Mike's coat, enough so that he can slip his hands underneath the heavy wool easier. He gets them beneath Mike's suit jacket again, but he doesn't put them on bare skin, not this time. Ray slides his hands up Mike's back, feels the muscles shift beneath the soft fabric of his dress shirt as Mike reacts to his touch. "Always," Ray says. "I always want to fight you."
"You're not fighting me right now, Kowalski," Mike tells him, and fuck the bastard sounds so smug. Ray digs his fingers in hard into muscle, pulls Mike closer, satisfied when he hears Mike's choked gasp and feels his body shudder a little. "You're such a slut for me, you'd let me fuck you right here in an alley."
Ray thinks about doing it, fighting, hip-checking Mike and twisting himself into impossible shapes to escape Mike's hold. Kneeing the fucker in the balls, maybe, and telling him to take his you're a slut for me hot sex-talk somewhere else. But Ray doesn't do that, even though he could, even though he should. Instead he moves one hand from Mike's back down his stomach (and maybe, okay, maybe for the first time Ray admits he's got a thing--maybe even a Thing--for Mike's stomach, with the muscles and the way they move when Ray touches and rubs or licks) and starts playing with Mike's belt. Not undoing it, that's too obvious. Just playing, rubbing over the leather and the cool metal of the buckle, pulling tauntingly at the leather strap like he's going to start taking it off any...second...now.
It's so much fun, Ray starts not-undoing Mike's belt with both hands instead of just one.
"I don't know if you could fuck me here," Ray says, curling his fingers in Mike's belt and using it to yank him closer. "But you could suck me off."
"Ha, ha." Mike is obviously only allowing this belt-torment-torture-tease thing because of the way they're rocking against each other. "If anyone is getting on their knees in this alley, Kowalski, it's not going to be me."
Ray leans up and mouths at Mike's neck, tastes snow and cold and something spicy. "No one's gonna have to suck anything--mmm, fuck, s'good--in about two minutes, here, Sweeney." He nips sharp at Mike's neck, feels Mike working his hand under his shirt, pulling it up just past the waistband of his jeans. Ray shivers hard; the combination of cold air glancing across his stomach and the warm leather is dizzying.
"You're wrong about that," Mike says, quiet and low, and suddenly there's a hand in his hair, pulling him away with a sharp tug. Before Ray can say anything, Mike shoves two fingers in his mouth, then three. Leather slides slickly across Ray's tongue as Mike's fingers go far enough to make Ray choke a little. "It's so fucking hot when you choke for me," Mike is saying, fucking Ray's mouth with three fingers, holding him still with his other hand anchored tight in Ray's hair. "My fingers, my cock, fuck--suck, harder, come on, Kowalski, you've sucked me off before, I know you're good at it--yeah, like that--fuck--you're really fucking good at that, you know that?"
Ray is making some kind of noise that might not yet be classified as a known sound, and he's sucking Mike's fingers just like he sucks Mike's cock, using his teeth and his tongue just like he does on skin instead of warm wet leather. They're staring at each other, and Mike's panting and Ray can barely breathe around Mike's fingers but he tries to smirk anyway because why the hell not. They must look ridiculous, with the back-and-forth thing they're doing against a wall behind a bar, the snow flurrying madly like they're in some x-rated Christmas movie. Here Cums Santa Claus, or something equally as horrible and intentionally misspelled.
Mike is watching him all glittery-eyed and gasping, and he looks just as fucked up as Ray imagines he looks, so good to know it's not just him going crazy, here. But then Mike says, "Come on, Kowalski, show me how much you fucking want it, how you'll get off right here for me, right fucking now," and Ray thinks about pointing out that Mike is going to come too and probably pretty soon if the stuttering, frantic jerks of his hips are any indication, but Ray can't say that because he's too busy doing exactly what Mike told him to.
Ray's head goes back and hits the wall, ow, and he comes and bites hard at Mike's fingers while he does it because it's too much, it feels too good. His fingers are still tangled up in Mike's belt, holding him close while he grinds against Mike's leg until it's over, he's spent and finished and done. If it weren't so fucking cold and outside, Ray'd take a nice nap, that's how worn out he is. But Ray's aware that Mike is still moving against him, and okay, Ray should be a nice guy here and do something to help him get off, that's only fair, right?
It's just really hard, though, because Ray's legs are rubbery and he feels all loopy and dumb. He flops back against the wall, breathing hard, and in about two minutes he's going to realize how he's very sticky and uncomfortable. But right now he just grins, eyes half-closed as he watches Mike. "Come on, Mike," he drawls, breathless and happy, fuck. "Show me how much you want me. Get off for me, right here, right fucking now." Ray's intonation is too cheerful to sound anything like Mike did when he said that, but whatever, it's the thought that counts.
Ray grabs on tight to Mike's belt and pulls him closer, pushes up hard with his leg and grins wider at how that makes Mike groan and shove even harder against him. Ray winks at Mike and says brightly, "You're such a slut for me, Sweeney," and Mike chokes out something that is halfway between a laugh and a moan, bucks his hips hard and then surges up against Ray, all warm wool and hard muscles and snow-covered hot. He surprises Ray by burying his face in Ray's neck when he comes, one hand braced on the wall and the other splayed over Ray's stomach. It's possessive and almost sweet and Ray can feel Mike's body shaking through the whole thing. Ray kisses Mike's shoulder lightly and hopes to God Mike doesn't notice or at least will be a guy about it and not say anything.
When it's over, they stand there for a little while until Ray realizes he is maybe actually freezing, because Mike is still draped over him like a Canadian cop blanket but Ray only has a long-sleeved shirt between him and the Chicago winter that, yes, he does know is very cold. Also now he is very aware of how sticky he is, and he's still a little disturbed by the non-angry alley-sex they just had. Mostly what's getting him is the non-angry part.
At least, that's what Ray is considering freaking out about when Mike pulls back, gives Ray this really relaxed, dazed look and then smiles. And then, then, the bastard reaches up and brushes his hand over Ray's head. "You've got snow in your hair," he says, and Ray has never heard Mike Sweeney's voice sound like that, ever, not after all the freaky sex they've been having since the second day they'd met.
Ray can't think of a damn thing to say that isn't what the hell does this mean, so instead he just says, "I guess we both need a hat," and reaches up to rub his bare hand over Mike's head. Which is cold, and also prickly. "Does the cold air make your hair grow really fast? Stella always told me that it did that to her legs after she shaved them in the winter."
The look Mike gives him for that would almost be comical, if Ray wasn't too busy wondering if he'd just gone insane, certifiably so, what the fuck is his problem? Mike doesn't say anything, though, he just looks at the ground and mutters, "Don't ever do that again," like he's chastising the snow instead of Ray.
"Don't ever do what again? Get you off in an alley?" Ray hops up and down, rubs his hands over his arms. He vaguely remembers he has to go get his jacket if he wants to leave because his keys are still in it. Fuck, if someone stole the GTO while he was having hot, rough-but-not-angry sex with his partner in an alley...
At least the lead-up would be a lot better than a voodoo curse.
"No. What you just--with the--" Mike raises his hand and pantomimes rubbing his own head, then scowls when Ray doubles over with laughter. "Yeah, laugh it up, you don't even have a coat on," Mike mutters, but then he gives Ray a smile that would be best described as sheepish, which is another look Ray is not sure he's ever seen on Mike's face before and he doesn't want to see it ever again. Not because it's hot, but because it's kind of cu--
No, no, no. Snowflakes in the eyelashes are one thing. No. Ray's not thinking that word about Mike Sweeney, ever, no.
"We should get out of here," Mike says, looking around as if he just now realized where they were. "Where the fuck is your jacket, idiot?"
There. That's way more typical Mike than Mr. I'm Laughing And You Have Snow In Your Hair, and Ray is a little relieved, he's not going to lie. "In the bar. I didn't have time to grab it before you hauled me out of there to jump me in the alley."
"I hauled you out of there to knock your fucking teeth in," Mike corrects him, shrugging out of his coat.
"So, like I said. To jump me in the alley." Ray is watching Mike warily. He has a bad feeling about where this coat-taking-off is going.
"Kowalski, the next time you want me to rough you up and fuck you? Can you do my goddamn blood pressure a favor and just ask?" Mike walks up to him, his coat draped over his arms. "I've got kids, asshole, I'd like to see them both graduate college without having a rage-induced heart attack."
Ray gives an unexpected, short laugh at that. "Yeah, okay." He stops laughing when Mike holds out his coat, takes a step back and throws his hands up in the air. "What the fuck are you doing? Are we going steady? Sorry but I gave my class ring to my ex-wife when we were in high school, so--"
"Kowalski, if you saw what you looked like right now? You would be saying thank you for sparing my dignity instead of being a bitch," Mike informs him archly. His mouth quirks up and he lowers his gaze pointedly.
Ray looks down, sees his jeans and...yeah, okay, he looks like he either has problems holding his beer or like he just came in his jeans like a teenager. Which he did. But Ray points at Mike, ignoring that his arm is shaking from the cold so he looks like a demented ghost of Christmas Yet To Come Who Already Came, and says, "Newsflash, Sweeney. You got the same problem."
Mike just shrugs, unconcerned."Dark suit pants. See how dressing like a grown-up earns you privileges? And you're freezing, even your stupid hair is shivering. I'm Canadian, so I have more tolerance than you do for the cold. Also I outweigh you by fifty pounds, so--"
"Fifty? I think that's pushing it, Sweeney, maybe twenty--"
"In your dreams, Kowalski. Besides, my keys aren't in the bar. Yours are." Mike throws the coat at him. "Go."
Ray catches the coat, and he hates himself just slightly as he shrugs into it but fuck, it really is warm. Ray puts his cold hands into the jacket pockets, but he doesn't feel any keys. "Where are your keys, anyway? I feel like I would've noticed if they'd been in your pants pocket." The collar of the coat is still turned up from where Ray grabbed it earlier, and Ray can't help but notice that it smells like--
Someone please shoot me.
"I didn't drive. I hate that fucking Prius, every time I drive it a little piece of my soul dies. You can give me a ride home. Would you hurry up? It's cold out here." Mike shoves his hands in his suit pockets, and hops up and down once, looking about twenty-two. This is in contrast to his usual, grim reapers are eternal everyday appearance. "To-fucking-day, Kowalski," he orders, staring at Ray a little strangely.
Ray has the sudden wild thought of maybe he thinks I look cute in his coat immediately followed by maybe I got enough cash in my wallet to drink myself to death on house vodka. Then he turns around and marches into the bar, Mike's too-big wool coat swirling around him in a way that sort of makes Ray feel like Batman. He finds his jacket still on the chair he'd been sitting in before Mike showed up--someone picked it up off the floor, that was nice of them. Ray pays his bar tab, which is two dollars for one domestic beer that he didn't finish, and then goes back outside. He shrugs out of Mike's coat and hands it back without a word, gratefully slipping on his own well-worn leather one.
Mike puts his back on, the collar still up and huh, he actually pulls that off, kind of like Bruce--
Fuck, if Ray is going to start thinking about Mike as Batman then he really is doomed.
"What?" Mike asks him, suspicious, because Ray is staring at him over the hood of the GTO and not saying anything, nor is he making any move to open the door. "You lose the keys?"
"You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight, Sweeney?" Ray asks nonsensically, unlocking the car. Once inside, Ray immediately starts the engine and cranks the heater up before reaching over to unlock Mike's door, because he really wants to go back to the part where Ray thinks Mike is an asshole who has no redeeming qualities and definitely isn't Batman and is not at all cute.
Mike gets in the car, and Ray wants his gloves but he's afraid he's going to do something dumb like, who knows, lean over and kiss Mike or something when he goes to open the glove compartment. Because he kind of wants to, and that's just...that's just dumb and asking for trouble.
"Can you get my gloves out of there?" Ray asks, pretending to be busy and nodding towards the glove compartment. He's idly pushing some buttons and twisting dials, like driving the GTO is akin to flying a Russian MIG or piloting some sort of spacecraft.
"Yeah? Gloves in the glove compartment, eh? That's the most sense you've ever made, Kowalski," Mike says, but not meanly, and he opens the glove compartment and then bursts out laughing.
"What? Fuck you, what's so funny?" Ray grouses, annoyed, and also sneakily trying to turn off the hazard lights he'd accidentally turned on during his button-pushing frenzy.
Mike holds up Ray's gloves with a look of unholy glee. "Woolly mittens? Really? Mittens? Do you have some kittens in the back? Are you going to show me a few of your favorite things?"
"I just got done doing that in the alley," Ray says testily, reaching to grab his gloves. Mike moves his hand at the last second and starts making Ray's glove dance. Ray hates him so much right now, there aren't words. (There are words. They are I am in fucking trouble.) "Guy in stuffy dress shirts with a dumb tie that matches?"
"My dress shirt is blue. The tie is dark blue. Try again, but that wasn't bad."
"Snowflakes that stay on your nose and eyelash--" Oh, fuck this. "Give me my fucking gloves."
"Mittens, Kowalski, these are mittens. The things I was wearing when I fucked your mouth in the alley, earlier? Those are gloves." Mike puts a mitten on--his hand is bigger than Ray's, it barely fits--and holds it up to look at it. "How do you do anything with these on? They're fucking ridiculous, I see why you keep them in the car."
"I can drive with them, and..." Ray waves a hand--a cold hand that would like to be in a mitten, thank you--and scowls. Really he only has the mittens because he's lost every other pair of functional gloves, but these he can at least wear in the car and not use the heater too much because that's not good for classic cars, or so he's read. "I keep them in here so they don't fall out of my pockets." Yeah, that sounds so much better.
"Yeah? Really? I thought it was so you don't get laughed at. Or get beaten up by elementary school kids. You need some big kid gloves, Kowalski. Maybe I'll get you some for your birthday. Ooh, will you make sure your mom invites me to the party? I bet you're going to have a Batman cake." Mike gives him a small, evil grin, and Ray does not know what to do with this person who is not angry and broody, but is instead sarcastic and actually kind of witty and hot and maybe even cute.
Ray is so screwed, and not in the way he'd planned on being at his point in the evening. He tries to ignore the pod creature from another planet who has replaced his surly partner and not-exactly-friend with benefits, but it's hard because he's very, very aware of Mike next to him in the car. They're supposed to hate each other. Ray is supposed to get beaten up and get off on it. Mike is supposed to beat him up and get off on it. They are supposed to be miserable together, not banter and talk about cool things like Batman and cake, and even cooler things like Batman-shaped cakes. What does this mean that they're doing all of these things?
Maybe it means I can have my Batman cake and eat it, too.
Ray narrowly avoids banging his head against the steering wheel and decides maybe it would be best to just stop thinking for a little while. He reaches down and turns up the radio, and they're both quiet as they listen to Springsteen sing about Nebrasksa while Ray drives too fast and runs all the lights. There's no point in pretending he's taking Mike back to that shithole hotel of his, because he isn't and they both know it.
There are probably a lot of things they should probably stop pretending, but Ray's done with thinking for the night. Maybe it's time to just sit back and enjoy the ride.
Author: Sionnain
Fandom: due South/Durham County crossover
Pairing: Mike Sweeney/Ray Kowalski
Word Count: LET'S JUST NOT TALK ABOUT IT, MOVING ON.
Rating: MA
Warnings: There are several references to consensual rough sex and implied consensual S&m, though none appears in this fic.
Spoilers: None for either show
Prompt: Woolly Mittens
Summary: Ray knows exactly what to expect when he pisses Mike off--it's when Ray makes him laugh that's the problem.
AN: Set early in the What Else Would You Have Me Be 'verse, in which Mike Sweeney moves to Chicago after season 1 of Durham County. I wanted to write quick, hot kinky porn. THE UNIVERSE THINKS IT'S FUNNY WHEN I SAY STUFF LIKE THAT AND IS ALL "LOLNO :D?". But there's porn, as per the point of this exercise, I promise! Also there's a lovely fangirl out there named waltzforanight who beta'd this for me and she is made of this: :D!!!!! Title from Don't Fear the Reaper.
baby, i'm your man
"What the fuck is your problem?"
The thing about Mike Sweeney in a temper, thinks Ray, is that the guy doesn't really pay attention to his surroundings. Say he's going to grab you by the throat and slam you up against a wall, for example. Does he stop to realize that one, they're in an alley, or two, it's motherfucking snowing outside? No, no he does not. Mike Sweeney is the iceman, why the fuck would he notice the weather?
And sure, Ray pissed the guy off on purpose because this was what he wanted--well, okay, maybe the indoors-and-less-with-the-freezing version of this, the one where he was pinned to a bed instead of the brick wall behind The Empty Bottle. Because again, snowing, ice, freezing. Ray is not a big guy, he doesn't have a lot of extra padding to keep him warm, here.
"You asking just in general?" Ray asks, though that sounds better in his head because there's a lot less wheezing. "Or right now? 'Cause right now you are my problem, Jesus fuck, do you have metal in your goddamned hand because--"
For half a second, Ray swears he sees something like amusement on Mike's face before his expressions darkens and his eyes narrow, fingers tightening on Ray's neck and now wheezing is too pretty a word for the sounds Ray's making. So it's probably not amusement, because Ray is fairly sure he's never seen Mike laugh and actually mean it; not that dry brittle thing he does that makes Ray look around for a pale fucking horse, for fuck's sake.
"Oh, I know I'm your problem right now, Kowalski." Mike smiles at him and Ray starts hearing Blue Oyster Cult playing in his head, telling him not to fear the reaper because forty-thousand men and women meet him every day. Fuck them, those forty-thousand men and women obviously haven't met Mike Fucking Sweeney in a temper. "I just don't get why you go out of your way to make it that way."
"Isn't that--victim blaming?" Ray asks, and okay, that's probably a bitchy thing to say and not going to win him any points. Points Ray needs to accumulate so he can trade them in for breathing privileges, apparently.
Mike steps up closer, crowds in Ray's space, and that's nice because Mike is warm and Ray is fucking freezing. His jacket is still slung over the back of his seat at the bar, whereas Mike is wearing his, and Mike has on gloves--leather, probably, from how they feel pressing against Ray's windpipe--but Ray left his in the car. He always loses gloves if he doesn't do that, he's learned putting them in his jacket pocket means you will get outside and only have one and the other one will be under a bar table and covered in beer.
"You're really fucking easy to see through, you know that?" Mike loosens his grip by tilting his hand upwards and grabbing Ray under the chin, meaning Ray can breathe but not turn his head. Which is okay because he doesn't really want to look anywhere else, actually. Mike's winter-pale eyes are as cold as the snow falling around them, his breath is warm on Ray's face. He pushes closer aggressively with his body, and that's just fine with Ray because of the warm and also because Ray can feel Mike's dick pressing hard against his hip.
"And you're really fucking easy to piss off, yeah, yeah. I got that memo, the t-shirt from the gift shop is in my drawer at home. I even got a souvenir spoon on the wall. You want we should stand around here and talk about ourselves some more?" Ray tries for a smirk, but his lips are freezing so he can't really tell what his expression looks like. Honestly, he's just going for some version of annoying. Maybe Mike will smack him. Which will hurt more than usual because it's cold, or else Ray won't feel it so he'll have to goad Mike into doing something else, maybe backhanding him. It's been awhile since they've done that, Ray has fond memories of the first time and he'd like to revisit them if at all possible.
"A spoon?"
Okay, wait, what? Ray blinks at him, confused. That tone in a normal person is sometimes referred to as "humorous disbelief." But this is Mike. "What?"
"You got a spoon on the wall? What are you, my grandma?" And with that, Mike laughs. "Jesus, Kowalski. A spoon." He laughs harder. "You are so fucking cracked in the skull, you know that, don't you?"
There is nothing about this that Ray understands, except for the part where he can still feel Mike's hard-on pressing insistently against him. Even the hand grasping Ray's chin has relaxed. None of that really matters though, because Ray has seen Mike Sweeney lose it and go postal about a bazillion times (most of those times being because of Ray) but he's never seen him crack up laughing before. And God, what it does to him--Ray stares, he's entranced and he kind of hates himself for using that word but he is. Mike's eyes are warm and he's grinning, and he looks nothing like the scary motherfucker Ray's used to. The one Ray taunts into hurting him, fucking him every few days. He looks...huh.
He's hot.
Ray swallows hard, because this--okay, no, this is not happening. Ray likes the way Mike hurts him, Ray is very fond of Mike's cock, Ray likes the way Mike's voice sounds when he growls and the way his fingers feel leaving bruises on his skin. Ray does not think Mike is hot. Except right now he is, he just is, and he's also covered in snow and oh fuck, no, no, this cannot be happening, it can't.
I don't want to like you! Ray thinks frantically at him, but Mike--the stupid snow-covered bastard laughing his ass off and looking so goddamn hot--Mike doesn't hear Ray's terrified thought, because he keeps on with the laughing. Then Mike rubs a gloved hand over his head to brush off the snow and there's snowflakes in his eyelashes and no, you are not supposed to notice he even has eyelashes, Kowalski, what the fuck.
Ray, dressed only in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, shivers and feels a horrible sense of impending doom of the I'm going to end up liking you and that's bad because you hate me or you'll leave me variety, and first thing when he gets home? He's writing a letter to the Blue Oyster Cult because fuck the reaper, fuck Mike in a temper (which had been the motherfucking plan), what Ray fears is this right here; this warmth spreading in his chest that has nothing to do with pain and the part where he feels good that he just made Mike laugh.
"Stop it," Ray says desperately, reaching out and shoving Mike, hard. "Stop laughing! Stop looking--just stop. You need a hat, idiot, did you not realize that it's cold in Chicago? Your head has to be freezing, you don't got any hair."
Mike only gives a little ground when Ray shoves him, because he's heavy and solid and very hard to move. Ray knows this from the many, many times Mike has been on top of him and pinning him down. "Stop looking what? And I'm sorry, but I can't help it, you come up with the weirdest shit sometimes and I don't know where you get it. Also seriously, my grandmother had a spoon collection and she made me look at them all the time, it was so boring. Why the fuck does anyone want to collect utensils and put them on their wall, anyway?"
"Stop," Ray whines, tugging at his hair, because that image is too much; little Mike Sweeney (who has no hair in this imagining, even as a kid, which is...not right for so many reasons), his facial expression firmly set on "polite disinterest", a grandma (who also looks like Mike, and is therefore also bald, which is also not right) explaining spoons on a wall to him from whatever places in Canada she got them from. Niagra Falls, maybe, or larger cities like Toronto and Vancouver.
"I must have shoved you against the wall too hard," Mike tells him, and he's giving Ray a weird look which is better than laughing, sure, but he's still with the being-hot, and it's not fair. "Or else your brain is freezing--can't imagine that'd take a long time, given how little of one you've got. And, hey, you shouldn't be telling me about hats, Kowalski, you don't even have a pair of gloves. Or a coat. So shut the fuck up."
Well, that last bit is familiar territory, but Ray's still navigating without a fucking road map here, and the GPS is cheerfully telling him to go right on ahead to fall for someone who will leave you for Canada-ville and that is really not his favorite place to visit. "I got gloves in the car," Ray mutters, kicking the heel of his boot back against the brick wall. This is not going like it should. Also he's freezing. And it's snowing, which sucks because he's not yet gotten the GTO winterized. And Mike Sweeney is hot. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Even that word is taunting him, because it's not what they're doing. Ray is about to say something, God, anything to get this back where it's supposed to be. He's running through his tried-and-true list of things that make Mike angry, blowing on his fingers to keep them warm while he thinks, and he's kind of settled on something insulting about the Leafs or maybe Mustangs or general Canada sucks type stuff, when Mike does something that makes Ray stop thinking and instead make dumb gasping sounds like a frightened carp.
He reaches out and takes Ray's hands in his, rubbing Ray's chilled skin with his leather-clad fingers. "Your gloves are in your car. Of course they are. You don't have any fucking sense, why did I think otherwise? Do you know it's cold in Chicago?"
Despite the fact the look Ray is giving him right now has to be some cross between mystified and utterly horrorified, Mike raises Ray's hands to his mouth and then blows on them, which makes Ray do the scared fish impression again because the sensation is shivery-good and gets him even harder than he already is. Then Mike stares straight at him and sucks two of Ray's fingers in his mouth, every swipe of his tongue going directly to Ray's dick. Ray opens his mouth to say stop again, but that would be dumb because he doesn't mean that. Also he's kind of fucking Mike's mouth with his fingers now, pushing in and out, and he doesn't want to stop that either. So instead he breathes out, "Yeah," though he's not sure if he's saying yeah I know it's cold in Chicago or yeah, let me fuck your mouth with my fingers, suck them, let me suck you, please, want you, want you now.
Ray has said all of these things before, but never without bruises or a sore jaw or a black eye to get him to do it. He's always thought that was what he needed in order to make the words come out, but apparently not. That's just the black-and-blue icing on the world's most fucked up cake.
Mike's eyes are hot and he bites Ray's fingers, bites them hard, but his eyes are still warm and he still looks amused. He's got a nice mouth, Ray notices, and he likes the way the corner of Mike's eyes go up the slightest bit when he smiles.
There it is, the cake Ray doesn't want, fresh out of the oven and apparently fucking delicious even without the icing.
"But I want the icing," Ray tells him seriously, breathing shot all to hell. "I want the icing more than the cake." He yanks his hand away, has a somewhat gratifying second to appreciate Mike's utterly confused look at Ray's non-sequitor, and then grabs Mike by the collar of his jacket and yanks him in close, kissing him hotly so he doesn't ask what the hell Ray is saying.
I want to like how you hurt me, how you fuck me, but I don't want to like you.
Mike opens up immediately, kisses him back just as aggressive and rough as usual. There's no anger but there's still heat, and Ray's forgotten about spoons and cakes and freaking out, he just wants this, wants Mike, now. He hooks a hand around Mike's neck to get closer, and Mike hisses and sucks Ray's lip between his teeth and bites. "Your fucking fingers are freezing," he mutters against Ray's mouth, and fuck it all to hell and back, but Ray can feel the son-of-a-bitch smiling when he says it.
"Gloves. In. The. Car," Ray reminds him, and then he wriggles one hand inside Mike's coat, slides beneath his suit jacket and his dress shirt and presses low against Mike's stomach. Mike reacts immediately; he hisses and twists, gives a breathless curse and tries to grab Ray's wrists. Ray attempts Kowalski-Limb-Keep-Away for a minute, but Mike shoves his leg between Ray's and presses his thigh hard against Ray's cock. Ray groans, momentarily distracted by how fucking good that feels. When he stops with the moaning and the pushing his hips forward like some kind of slut, he realizes Mike has him pinned to the wall again, with Ray's hands above his head and crossed at the wrists.
Mike smirks at him, obviously pleased with himself and still every inch an asshole even if he's not pissed off anymore. "Try that again, motherfucker. Go on." His fingers tighten on Ray's wrists, pressing the bones together, the leather slick and warm. Ray tugs his hands hard and Mike tightens his forcefully, not letting go. Ray does it again, pulls harder, and this time Mike growls and slams Ray's wrists back against the wall for good measure.
Ray is panting for it in seconds. Mike presses his forehead against Ray's, breathing hard, and Ray can feel Mike rubbing up against his hip even through all the clothing separating them. "You want to fight me some more?" he asks, and he keeps shoving his weight forward and slamming Ray against the wall and doing it so goddamned perfect Ray can't think straight. Because it hurts enough to feel good, and his thigh is still pressed against Ray's dick, but nothing is going to need to be bandaged up when they're done.
They're kissing again, messy and hot, and at some point Mike lets go of Ray's wrists so he can reach down and shove his own jacket out of the way. He grabs Ray under his thigh, yanking Ray's leg up and getting Ray where he wants him, so Mike can get some friction, too. Ray kind of feels like a girl with that leg-grabbing move, but fuck it, he's already gotten a little stupid noticing snowflakes in Mike's eyelashes so what's a little leg-grab here and there?
Besides, it feels fucking amazing.
Ray reaches down and unbuttons Mike's coat, enough so that he can slip his hands underneath the heavy wool easier. He gets them beneath Mike's suit jacket again, but he doesn't put them on bare skin, not this time. Ray slides his hands up Mike's back, feels the muscles shift beneath the soft fabric of his dress shirt as Mike reacts to his touch. "Always," Ray says. "I always want to fight you."
"You're not fighting me right now, Kowalski," Mike tells him, and fuck the bastard sounds so smug. Ray digs his fingers in hard into muscle, pulls Mike closer, satisfied when he hears Mike's choked gasp and feels his body shudder a little. "You're such a slut for me, you'd let me fuck you right here in an alley."
Ray thinks about doing it, fighting, hip-checking Mike and twisting himself into impossible shapes to escape Mike's hold. Kneeing the fucker in the balls, maybe, and telling him to take his you're a slut for me hot sex-talk somewhere else. But Ray doesn't do that, even though he could, even though he should. Instead he moves one hand from Mike's back down his stomach (and maybe, okay, maybe for the first time Ray admits he's got a thing--maybe even a Thing--for Mike's stomach, with the muscles and the way they move when Ray touches and rubs or licks) and starts playing with Mike's belt. Not undoing it, that's too obvious. Just playing, rubbing over the leather and the cool metal of the buckle, pulling tauntingly at the leather strap like he's going to start taking it off any...second...now.
It's so much fun, Ray starts not-undoing Mike's belt with both hands instead of just one.
"I don't know if you could fuck me here," Ray says, curling his fingers in Mike's belt and using it to yank him closer. "But you could suck me off."
"Ha, ha." Mike is obviously only allowing this belt-torment-torture-tease thing because of the way they're rocking against each other. "If anyone is getting on their knees in this alley, Kowalski, it's not going to be me."
Ray leans up and mouths at Mike's neck, tastes snow and cold and something spicy. "No one's gonna have to suck anything--mmm, fuck, s'good--in about two minutes, here, Sweeney." He nips sharp at Mike's neck, feels Mike working his hand under his shirt, pulling it up just past the waistband of his jeans. Ray shivers hard; the combination of cold air glancing across his stomach and the warm leather is dizzying.
"You're wrong about that," Mike says, quiet and low, and suddenly there's a hand in his hair, pulling him away with a sharp tug. Before Ray can say anything, Mike shoves two fingers in his mouth, then three. Leather slides slickly across Ray's tongue as Mike's fingers go far enough to make Ray choke a little. "It's so fucking hot when you choke for me," Mike is saying, fucking Ray's mouth with three fingers, holding him still with his other hand anchored tight in Ray's hair. "My fingers, my cock, fuck--suck, harder, come on, Kowalski, you've sucked me off before, I know you're good at it--yeah, like that--fuck--you're really fucking good at that, you know that?"
Ray is making some kind of noise that might not yet be classified as a known sound, and he's sucking Mike's fingers just like he sucks Mike's cock, using his teeth and his tongue just like he does on skin instead of warm wet leather. They're staring at each other, and Mike's panting and Ray can barely breathe around Mike's fingers but he tries to smirk anyway because why the hell not. They must look ridiculous, with the back-and-forth thing they're doing against a wall behind a bar, the snow flurrying madly like they're in some x-rated Christmas movie. Here Cums Santa Claus, or something equally as horrible and intentionally misspelled.
Mike is watching him all glittery-eyed and gasping, and he looks just as fucked up as Ray imagines he looks, so good to know it's not just him going crazy, here. But then Mike says, "Come on, Kowalski, show me how much you fucking want it, how you'll get off right here for me, right fucking now," and Ray thinks about pointing out that Mike is going to come too and probably pretty soon if the stuttering, frantic jerks of his hips are any indication, but Ray can't say that because he's too busy doing exactly what Mike told him to.
Ray's head goes back and hits the wall, ow, and he comes and bites hard at Mike's fingers while he does it because it's too much, it feels too good. His fingers are still tangled up in Mike's belt, holding him close while he grinds against Mike's leg until it's over, he's spent and finished and done. If it weren't so fucking cold and outside, Ray'd take a nice nap, that's how worn out he is. But Ray's aware that Mike is still moving against him, and okay, Ray should be a nice guy here and do something to help him get off, that's only fair, right?
It's just really hard, though, because Ray's legs are rubbery and he feels all loopy and dumb. He flops back against the wall, breathing hard, and in about two minutes he's going to realize how he's very sticky and uncomfortable. But right now he just grins, eyes half-closed as he watches Mike. "Come on, Mike," he drawls, breathless and happy, fuck. "Show me how much you want me. Get off for me, right here, right fucking now." Ray's intonation is too cheerful to sound anything like Mike did when he said that, but whatever, it's the thought that counts.
Ray grabs on tight to Mike's belt and pulls him closer, pushes up hard with his leg and grins wider at how that makes Mike groan and shove even harder against him. Ray winks at Mike and says brightly, "You're such a slut for me, Sweeney," and Mike chokes out something that is halfway between a laugh and a moan, bucks his hips hard and then surges up against Ray, all warm wool and hard muscles and snow-covered hot. He surprises Ray by burying his face in Ray's neck when he comes, one hand braced on the wall and the other splayed over Ray's stomach. It's possessive and almost sweet and Ray can feel Mike's body shaking through the whole thing. Ray kisses Mike's shoulder lightly and hopes to God Mike doesn't notice or at least will be a guy about it and not say anything.
When it's over, they stand there for a little while until Ray realizes he is maybe actually freezing, because Mike is still draped over him like a Canadian cop blanket but Ray only has a long-sleeved shirt between him and the Chicago winter that, yes, he does know is very cold. Also now he is very aware of how sticky he is, and he's still a little disturbed by the non-angry alley-sex they just had. Mostly what's getting him is the non-angry part.
At least, that's what Ray is considering freaking out about when Mike pulls back, gives Ray this really relaxed, dazed look and then smiles. And then, then, the bastard reaches up and brushes his hand over Ray's head. "You've got snow in your hair," he says, and Ray has never heard Mike Sweeney's voice sound like that, ever, not after all the freaky sex they've been having since the second day they'd met.
Ray can't think of a damn thing to say that isn't what the hell does this mean, so instead he just says, "I guess we both need a hat," and reaches up to rub his bare hand over Mike's head. Which is cold, and also prickly. "Does the cold air make your hair grow really fast? Stella always told me that it did that to her legs after she shaved them in the winter."
The look Mike gives him for that would almost be comical, if Ray wasn't too busy wondering if he'd just gone insane, certifiably so, what the fuck is his problem? Mike doesn't say anything, though, he just looks at the ground and mutters, "Don't ever do that again," like he's chastising the snow instead of Ray.
"Don't ever do what again? Get you off in an alley?" Ray hops up and down, rubs his hands over his arms. He vaguely remembers he has to go get his jacket if he wants to leave because his keys are still in it. Fuck, if someone stole the GTO while he was having hot, rough-but-not-angry sex with his partner in an alley...
At least the lead-up would be a lot better than a voodoo curse.
"No. What you just--with the--" Mike raises his hand and pantomimes rubbing his own head, then scowls when Ray doubles over with laughter. "Yeah, laugh it up, you don't even have a coat on," Mike mutters, but then he gives Ray a smile that would be best described as sheepish, which is another look Ray is not sure he's ever seen on Mike's face before and he doesn't want to see it ever again. Not because it's hot, but because it's kind of cu--
No, no, no. Snowflakes in the eyelashes are one thing. No. Ray's not thinking that word about Mike Sweeney, ever, no.
"We should get out of here," Mike says, looking around as if he just now realized where they were. "Where the fuck is your jacket, idiot?"
There. That's way more typical Mike than Mr. I'm Laughing And You Have Snow In Your Hair, and Ray is a little relieved, he's not going to lie. "In the bar. I didn't have time to grab it before you hauled me out of there to jump me in the alley."
"I hauled you out of there to knock your fucking teeth in," Mike corrects him, shrugging out of his coat.
"So, like I said. To jump me in the alley." Ray is watching Mike warily. He has a bad feeling about where this coat-taking-off is going.
"Kowalski, the next time you want me to rough you up and fuck you? Can you do my goddamn blood pressure a favor and just ask?" Mike walks up to him, his coat draped over his arms. "I've got kids, asshole, I'd like to see them both graduate college without having a rage-induced heart attack."
Ray gives an unexpected, short laugh at that. "Yeah, okay." He stops laughing when Mike holds out his coat, takes a step back and throws his hands up in the air. "What the fuck are you doing? Are we going steady? Sorry but I gave my class ring to my ex-wife when we were in high school, so--"
"Kowalski, if you saw what you looked like right now? You would be saying thank you for sparing my dignity instead of being a bitch," Mike informs him archly. His mouth quirks up and he lowers his gaze pointedly.
Ray looks down, sees his jeans and...yeah, okay, he looks like he either has problems holding his beer or like he just came in his jeans like a teenager. Which he did. But Ray points at Mike, ignoring that his arm is shaking from the cold so he looks like a demented ghost of Christmas Yet To Come Who Already Came, and says, "Newsflash, Sweeney. You got the same problem."
Mike just shrugs, unconcerned."Dark suit pants. See how dressing like a grown-up earns you privileges? And you're freezing, even your stupid hair is shivering. I'm Canadian, so I have more tolerance than you do for the cold. Also I outweigh you by fifty pounds, so--"
"Fifty? I think that's pushing it, Sweeney, maybe twenty--"
"In your dreams, Kowalski. Besides, my keys aren't in the bar. Yours are." Mike throws the coat at him. "Go."
Ray catches the coat, and he hates himself just slightly as he shrugs into it but fuck, it really is warm. Ray puts his cold hands into the jacket pockets, but he doesn't feel any keys. "Where are your keys, anyway? I feel like I would've noticed if they'd been in your pants pocket." The collar of the coat is still turned up from where Ray grabbed it earlier, and Ray can't help but notice that it smells like--
Someone please shoot me.
"I didn't drive. I hate that fucking Prius, every time I drive it a little piece of my soul dies. You can give me a ride home. Would you hurry up? It's cold out here." Mike shoves his hands in his suit pockets, and hops up and down once, looking about twenty-two. This is in contrast to his usual, grim reapers are eternal everyday appearance. "To-fucking-day, Kowalski," he orders, staring at Ray a little strangely.
Ray has the sudden wild thought of maybe he thinks I look cute in his coat immediately followed by maybe I got enough cash in my wallet to drink myself to death on house vodka. Then he turns around and marches into the bar, Mike's too-big wool coat swirling around him in a way that sort of makes Ray feel like Batman. He finds his jacket still on the chair he'd been sitting in before Mike showed up--someone picked it up off the floor, that was nice of them. Ray pays his bar tab, which is two dollars for one domestic beer that he didn't finish, and then goes back outside. He shrugs out of Mike's coat and hands it back without a word, gratefully slipping on his own well-worn leather one.
Mike puts his back on, the collar still up and huh, he actually pulls that off, kind of like Bruce--
Fuck, if Ray is going to start thinking about Mike as Batman then he really is doomed.
"What?" Mike asks him, suspicious, because Ray is staring at him over the hood of the GTO and not saying anything, nor is he making any move to open the door. "You lose the keys?"
"You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight, Sweeney?" Ray asks nonsensically, unlocking the car. Once inside, Ray immediately starts the engine and cranks the heater up before reaching over to unlock Mike's door, because he really wants to go back to the part where Ray thinks Mike is an asshole who has no redeeming qualities and definitely isn't Batman and is not at all cute.
Mike gets in the car, and Ray wants his gloves but he's afraid he's going to do something dumb like, who knows, lean over and kiss Mike or something when he goes to open the glove compartment. Because he kind of wants to, and that's just...that's just dumb and asking for trouble.
"Can you get my gloves out of there?" Ray asks, pretending to be busy and nodding towards the glove compartment. He's idly pushing some buttons and twisting dials, like driving the GTO is akin to flying a Russian MIG or piloting some sort of spacecraft.
"Yeah? Gloves in the glove compartment, eh? That's the most sense you've ever made, Kowalski," Mike says, but not meanly, and he opens the glove compartment and then bursts out laughing.
"What? Fuck you, what's so funny?" Ray grouses, annoyed, and also sneakily trying to turn off the hazard lights he'd accidentally turned on during his button-pushing frenzy.
Mike holds up Ray's gloves with a look of unholy glee. "Woolly mittens? Really? Mittens? Do you have some kittens in the back? Are you going to show me a few of your favorite things?"
"I just got done doing that in the alley," Ray says testily, reaching to grab his gloves. Mike moves his hand at the last second and starts making Ray's glove dance. Ray hates him so much right now, there aren't words. (There are words. They are I am in fucking trouble.) "Guy in stuffy dress shirts with a dumb tie that matches?"
"My dress shirt is blue. The tie is dark blue. Try again, but that wasn't bad."
"Snowflakes that stay on your nose and eyelash--" Oh, fuck this. "Give me my fucking gloves."
"Mittens, Kowalski, these are mittens. The things I was wearing when I fucked your mouth in the alley, earlier? Those are gloves." Mike puts a mitten on--his hand is bigger than Ray's, it barely fits--and holds it up to look at it. "How do you do anything with these on? They're fucking ridiculous, I see why you keep them in the car."
"I can drive with them, and..." Ray waves a hand--a cold hand that would like to be in a mitten, thank you--and scowls. Really he only has the mittens because he's lost every other pair of functional gloves, but these he can at least wear in the car and not use the heater too much because that's not good for classic cars, or so he's read. "I keep them in here so they don't fall out of my pockets." Yeah, that sounds so much better.
"Yeah? Really? I thought it was so you don't get laughed at. Or get beaten up by elementary school kids. You need some big kid gloves, Kowalski. Maybe I'll get you some for your birthday. Ooh, will you make sure your mom invites me to the party? I bet you're going to have a Batman cake." Mike gives him a small, evil grin, and Ray does not know what to do with this person who is not angry and broody, but is instead sarcastic and actually kind of witty and hot and maybe even cute.
Ray is so screwed, and not in the way he'd planned on being at his point in the evening. He tries to ignore the pod creature from another planet who has replaced his surly partner and not-exactly-friend with benefits, but it's hard because he's very, very aware of Mike next to him in the car. They're supposed to hate each other. Ray is supposed to get beaten up and get off on it. Mike is supposed to beat him up and get off on it. They are supposed to be miserable together, not banter and talk about cool things like Batman and cake, and even cooler things like Batman-shaped cakes. What does this mean that they're doing all of these things?
Maybe it means I can have my Batman cake and eat it, too.
Ray narrowly avoids banging his head against the steering wheel and decides maybe it would be best to just stop thinking for a little while. He reaches down and turns up the radio, and they're both quiet as they listen to Springsteen sing about Nebrasksa while Ray drives too fast and runs all the lights. There's no point in pretending he's taking Mike back to that shithole hotel of his, because he isn't and they both know it.
There are probably a lot of things they should probably stop pretending, but Ray's done with thinking for the night. Maybe it's time to just sit back and enjoy the ride.