Fic: A Tree Grows in Albany
Title: A Tree Grows in Albany (bookverse)
Rating and word count: R, about 900 words
Summary: In canon, Donald and Timothy met under a tree in Washington Park.
A/N: The story was written for the
fan_flashworks challenge "Borrowed Title." I borrowed from "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn," a classic book if there ever was one. Beta by nyteflyer, of course.
It wasn’t that he looked out of place. He looked like every other guy cruising Washington Park late at night, including me - horny and maybe a little bit desperate.
He was different, though, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Well, yeah I could.
It was that towel thing.
He was leaning against a tree, folding and unfolding a small white towel. I watched him from a nearby stand of shrubbery, wondering what the towel was for. A giant handkerchief? A flag of surrender? The longer I watched him the more curious I got.
He didn’t approach anybody. I saw a couple of guys stroll past, looking his way, but he didn’t acknowledge them. What the hell was he looking for?
Then it hit me.
I was looking for him.
I sauntered over to his tree. He nodded at me and unfolded his towel.
“Smells like rain.” Sometimes I’m unbelievably witty.
He nodded. “There’s a sixty-percent chance.”
I pointed at his towel. “What’s with the towel?”
“It’s to keep moss from getting on my knees.”
I didn’t bother to hide my grin. “Moss?”
“Dry-cleaning gets expensive.” He inclined his head toward the bushes. “Shall we?”
I studied him. He reminded me of the actor Leslie Howard, lanky, elegant and self-assured. He had about an inch on my six feet and wore jeans with creases sharp enough to slice a steak. Even in the dim light I could see the color of eyes, a deep blue, like Lake Erie on a stormy day. His wavy blond hair was cut with precision, but I wagered he’d be going bald by the time we were fifty.
When “we” were fifty? Where the hell did the “we” come from? I shook the idea out of my head.
“After you.”
I followed him back to the bushes, glancing around to make sure some vice cop wasn’t hiding in the weeds. We weren’t having much trouble with the police lately, but it paid to be careful. The last thing I needed was to end up in handcuffs with Ned Bowman reading me my rights.
“So,” he said after a few seconds of mutual regard. “What do you like?”
“The Yankees’ chances this year.”
He smiled. “What’s a Yankee?”
He was all business, then. I stifled a strange sense of disappointment. For some reason I’d wanted to make him laugh.
“We can do anything you want.”
He kissed my cheek, letting his lips linger near my ear. “Anything?”
I shivered, unused to this kind of treatment from a five-minute stand. “Yeah.”
I felt his hand on my right hip. He squeezed it, then slid it around to cup my ass. I drew in a sharp breath and closed my eyes, going instantly hard. He pressed his mouth against my ear, nipping on the lobe, and if I hadn’t grabbed his arms I would have collapsed at his feet.
“What’s your name?” He licked my ear. “Your real name.”
“Don,” I said, forgetting the first rule of anonymous sex. “I’m Don.”
“I’m Timothy.”
He pulled me close to his chest, kissing my neck before sucking on it hard enough to leave a mark. I wrapped my arms around his waist and ground myself against the front of his jeans, thrilled to find him as hard as I was. He caught his breath at the contact, and that made me feel good, too.
Before I could attack his neck in return, he pulled away from me. I watched, incredulous, as he bent to spread the towel on the ground in front of my feet. I knew what he was going to do and ordinarily would have welcomed it, but the idea of this man on his knees, giving a blowjob to some fuckhead he just met inexplicably annoyed me, even if that fuckhead was me. Especially if it was me. Timothy deserved better than this.
Before I could say anything, he started unbuckling my belt. I grabbed his wrists.
“No.”
He froze. “No?”
“Not no. I mean, not here.” I squeezed his hands. “Somewhere else.”
“It’s getting late.” Timothy turned his wrist and glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. “it’s after eleven, and I have to be at work at seven. If you don’t want this, just say so. No hard feelings.” He smiled. “Well, semi-hard, anyway.”
The smile gave me hope. “Tomorrow. Can I see you tomorrow?”
Timothy glanced around. “Here?”
“My place. Your place. Anyplace but here.” I squeezed his hands again. “Okay?”
He cocked his head like an interested German shepherd. Interminable seconds passed.
“Okay.” He buckled my belt and gave my ass a pat. “Tomorrow we’ll go out for dinner and see what happens. Meet me at Jack’s Bar over on Lark at eight.”
“Anything you say.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
He straightened his jacket, smiled again, then turned and walked away. He didn’t sneak furtive glances to the left or the right, and I liked that. I watched him disappear into the gloom, and when I couldn’t see him anymore I looked at my own watch.
Almost twenty-one hours before I’d see him again.
It felt like a lifetime.
*Crossposted from Dreamwidth*
Rating and word count: R, about 900 words
Summary: In canon, Donald and Timothy met under a tree in Washington Park.
A/N: The story was written for the
fan_flashworks challenge "Borrowed Title." I borrowed from "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn," a classic book if there ever was one. Beta by nyteflyer, of course.
It wasn’t that he looked out of place. He looked like every other guy cruising Washington Park late at night, including me - horny and maybe a little bit desperate.
He was different, though, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Well, yeah I could.
It was that towel thing.
He was leaning against a tree, folding and unfolding a small white towel. I watched him from a nearby stand of shrubbery, wondering what the towel was for. A giant handkerchief? A flag of surrender? The longer I watched him the more curious I got.
He didn’t approach anybody. I saw a couple of guys stroll past, looking his way, but he didn’t acknowledge them. What the hell was he looking for?
Then it hit me.
I was looking for him.
I sauntered over to his tree. He nodded at me and unfolded his towel.
“Smells like rain.” Sometimes I’m unbelievably witty.
He nodded. “There’s a sixty-percent chance.”
I pointed at his towel. “What’s with the towel?”
“It’s to keep moss from getting on my knees.”
I didn’t bother to hide my grin. “Moss?”
“Dry-cleaning gets expensive.” He inclined his head toward the bushes. “Shall we?”
I studied him. He reminded me of the actor Leslie Howard, lanky, elegant and self-assured. He had about an inch on my six feet and wore jeans with creases sharp enough to slice a steak. Even in the dim light I could see the color of eyes, a deep blue, like Lake Erie on a stormy day. His wavy blond hair was cut with precision, but I wagered he’d be going bald by the time we were fifty.
When “we” were fifty? Where the hell did the “we” come from? I shook the idea out of my head.
“After you.”
I followed him back to the bushes, glancing around to make sure some vice cop wasn’t hiding in the weeds. We weren’t having much trouble with the police lately, but it paid to be careful. The last thing I needed was to end up in handcuffs with Ned Bowman reading me my rights.
“So,” he said after a few seconds of mutual regard. “What do you like?”
“The Yankees’ chances this year.”
He smiled. “What’s a Yankee?”
He was all business, then. I stifled a strange sense of disappointment. For some reason I’d wanted to make him laugh.
“We can do anything you want.”
He kissed my cheek, letting his lips linger near my ear. “Anything?”
I shivered, unused to this kind of treatment from a five-minute stand. “Yeah.”
I felt his hand on my right hip. He squeezed it, then slid it around to cup my ass. I drew in a sharp breath and closed my eyes, going instantly hard. He pressed his mouth against my ear, nipping on the lobe, and if I hadn’t grabbed his arms I would have collapsed at his feet.
“What’s your name?” He licked my ear. “Your real name.”
“Don,” I said, forgetting the first rule of anonymous sex. “I’m Don.”
“I’m Timothy.”
He pulled me close to his chest, kissing my neck before sucking on it hard enough to leave a mark. I wrapped my arms around his waist and ground myself against the front of his jeans, thrilled to find him as hard as I was. He caught his breath at the contact, and that made me feel good, too.
Before I could attack his neck in return, he pulled away from me. I watched, incredulous, as he bent to spread the towel on the ground in front of my feet. I knew what he was going to do and ordinarily would have welcomed it, but the idea of this man on his knees, giving a blowjob to some fuckhead he just met inexplicably annoyed me, even if that fuckhead was me. Especially if it was me. Timothy deserved better than this.
Before I could say anything, he started unbuckling my belt. I grabbed his wrists.
“No.”
He froze. “No?”
“Not no. I mean, not here.” I squeezed his hands. “Somewhere else.”
“It’s getting late.” Timothy turned his wrist and glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. “it’s after eleven, and I have to be at work at seven. If you don’t want this, just say so. No hard feelings.” He smiled. “Well, semi-hard, anyway.”
The smile gave me hope. “Tomorrow. Can I see you tomorrow?”
Timothy glanced around. “Here?”
“My place. Your place. Anyplace but here.” I squeezed his hands again. “Okay?”
He cocked his head like an interested German shepherd. Interminable seconds passed.
“Okay.” He buckled my belt and gave my ass a pat. “Tomorrow we’ll go out for dinner and see what happens. Meet me at Jack’s Bar over on Lark at eight.”
“Anything you say.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
He straightened his jacket, smiled again, then turned and walked away. He didn’t sneak furtive glances to the left or the right, and I liked that. I watched him disappear into the gloom, and when I couldn’t see him anymore I looked at my own watch.
Almost twenty-one hours before I’d see him again.
It felt like a lifetime.
*Crossposted from Dreamwidth*