[Day Three] Fic: (no such thing as a) Planned Happenstance by Yin
Title:
(no such thing as a) Planned Happenstance
Part of the Accident-verse
by yin_again
Special thanks to elfgirl and shrewreader for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
_________
Cast of Characters:
Sherman's March
Pete Sherman - you remember him from such fics as Accidents Happen and Shelter
Rick O'Malley - Pete's best friend; gay yenta
Nina - superbitch; Pete's boss
Dr. Ed Newton - Pete's psychiatrist (incidentally, also Geoffrey's)
SGA
Rodney McKay - the guy who turned Pete gay and then went to Antarctica and beyond
Slings & Arrows
Geoffrey Tennant - Creative Director of the New Burbage Shakespeare Festival (see below)
Ellen - Geoffrey's ex
Sloan - Ellen's boytoy
Kate - apprentice at the Festival
Jack, Claire - miscellaneous actors
The Rhinoceros - recurring character; bad influence
The Mustang - the car Rodney gave Pete (he's good in bed. Pete, not the Mustang)
Slings & Arrows: A Crash Course
Slings & Arrows is a Canadian TV show that chronicles the inner workings of the New Burbage Shakespeare Festival, a corporate-sponsored theatre. For the purposes of this story, we're really only using the first couple of eps, so there's not much you need to know. The creative Director of the Festival is Geoffrey Tennant.
THIS
is Geoffrey. (just look at his fuckin' neck. *want.to.lick.it.*)
Seven years ago, Geoffrey was an actor for the New Burbage theatre. He had a nervous breakdown during a staging ofHamlet, in which he was playing Hamlet. He lost his shit, leapt into Ophelia's grave, then exited stage right, screaming. Through a complicated conflagration of events, he is selected to lead the theater after its current Creative Director is run over by a truck. Geoffrey is kinda loony and very, very hot. He is played by Paul Gross (Frasier on Due South). Everything else you need to know will be found in the story.
_____
(no such thing as a) Planned Happenstance
It always started in bars for Pete. He’d met Rodney in a bar, and started a… thing. A week-long thing, which led to a few-day thing that led to another almost week-long thing, which took him to a place where there was no thing. He’d take the joke and say it was nothing, but it wasn’t; it hadn’t been. It had been something. Given time, it could have been the something of his life.
Pete really wanted to kick himself. He was pretty sure it was his own fault. Eight instead of seven. He still didn’t know what the fuck it meant, but eight instead of seven made Rodney leave, made him leave in a hurry. After that there was the DVD - the fucking DVD that scared the hell out of him. After that, after a few weeks of pretty much constant fear for Rodney’s safety, the man himself had shown up, scaring him even more. He’d looked older, and in some indefinable way, also younger. The six days they’d had together were a blur, really - it had been all about touch, not talk. And Pete was okay with that.
He missed Rodney, but he’d figured it out, sort of. Eight months after Rodney’s departure, Pete had the quietest nervous breakdown in the history of nervous breakdowns. He’d scheduled it, actually. A Tuesday in July, and it lasted exactly two weeks; because that’s how much vacation time Pete had left. It was a really civilized one, as such things went. No screaming or yelling, no public displays of lunacy. He’d kept it inside his apartment, but the number of broken dishes and smashed electronics was fairly high.
Rick showed up on the day before the breakdown was scheduled to end. Bad timing; Pete was sitting on the micro-suede sofa Rodney had once fucked him over, with his head in his hands. The broken…stuff was still kind of everywhere, and he was pretty sure the whole not-shaving thing had gotten a bit out of control.
“Why did you tell me you were going to the Vineyard?” Rick said, after letting himself in with his own key. “I was going to come over and make sure the place was…,” he looked around. “Habitable?”
Pete looked up. “Well, it looks okay to me.”
Rick picked his way through the debris to sit next to Pete on the couch. He patted Pete on the shoulder. “I’m guessing that this has something to do with Rodney.”
“Lack thereof, more like it,” Pete said, not lifting his head. “But that’s really not all of it. I’m a little diffident about the whole work thing, too.”
“Okay,” Rick said.
Pete looked up at him with aching eyes. “The concept of the planned nervous breakdown isn’t working out for me either.”
“I dunno,” Rick said, looking around. “Looks to me like you’ve done a pretty good job.” He patted Pete’s shoulder again. “You’re aware that our insurance pays for therapy, right?”
“How do you know?” Pete dropped his head again, scrubbing his hands over his face.
“Well,” Rick said, “pretty much everyone in the office is in therapy. I blame Nina.”
“Is Nina in therapy?”
“No.” Rick rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s just a carrier.”
So, Pete started therapy. His therapist told him to slow down at work, so Pete dropped to 60 hours a week. His therapist advised him to release his anger about the loss of Rodney. Pete decided that he didn’t want to buy a new TV just to smash it. His therapist advised him to get away from it all for a while. Pete cemented that notion by putting his desk chair through the glass wall of his office on an otherwise calm Thursday morning. It certainly livened up the day.
After that maneuver, Pete suddenly had options: he could go to the loony bin, or he could go to Canada. He mulled that one over for quite a while.
“My uncle has a place in Ontario, on Red Lake. No one’s there - he’ll let you stay for free and he’ll keep up the utilities and stuff. All you’d have to do is the general maintenance. Having someone up there lessens the chance of vandalism.” Rick sat next to Pete in the emergency room, holding a towel to the cut on Pete’s forearm, an unfortunate injury from flying glass. If he’d thrown the chair on a better trajectory, it wouldn’t have bounced back, taking the remainder of the window with it into Pete’s office. He was lucky that it hadn’t gotten him in the face.
For his part, Pete was slumped down in the squeaky plastic chair with his uninjured arm over his face. “If you agree to see a therapist in the nearest town twice a week, your parents won’t have you committed,” Rick said.
“How did this turn into my life?” Pete asked. “I used to be so normal.”
“Look, brother,” Rick said kindly. “You just need some time away from New York, away from the pressure. Maybe you’ll write the great American novel while you’re up there.”
Pete lowered his arm and gave Rick a look. “I’m supposed to write the great American novel in Western Ontario? Last I checked, that wasn’t even in America.”
“So? Call it the great North American novel.” Rick looked up; that nurse was waving them in. He helped Pete get up and led him through the swinging doors.
Within a few days, Pete agreed to go to Canada. It wasn’t a difficult decision, since the other option was a nice, private mental hospital upstate. He officially took a sabbatical from CBB and packed his warmest clothes.
Pete’s therapist was in a town called New Burbage. On Wednesdays, Pete had the latest appointment available - 6:30 p.m., which meant he could hit the bar by 7:30. He never had more than a couple of beers, but holding down a barstool in a moderately seedy joint where he knew absolutely no one was a singular pleasure.
He knew the place was called the Theatre Bar - it was across the street from an ornate theatre called the Swan, so it made sense. On his third Wednesday in town, he found his nice, quiet hole-in-the-wall full of crazy people. Fitting, he thought. Apparently, the crazy people were from the theatre. A brittle-looking lady told him they’d just closed a run of King Lear, so everyone was there for a celebratory drink. From the looks of most of them, the celebratory drink had turned into five or so.
Pete sat down on the closest stool to the end of the bar and ordered his usual, Maverick Supreme Lager, a nod to Rodney. Taking that first cold, bracing sip, he noticed in the bar mirror that the guy next to him was checking him out. Pete did a little surreptitious checking out of his own. The guy had longish dark wavy hair, green eyes, and was in need of a shave. Pete nodded to him in the mirror.
“Hey,” the guy said, turning toward Pete. “Geoffrey Tennant.” He held out his hand.
Pete shook it. “Pete Sherman,” he said.
It always started in bars.
___
Pete had his two beers. During the same period of time, Geoffrey had three double scotches. Conversation was minimal, but Pete learned that Geoffrey was the artistic director at the theatre across the street and that the actors and crew didn’t seem to like him very much. Geoffrey learned that Pete was from New York and was staying at Red Lake. After an hour, Pete paid his tab, said goodbye to Geoffrey and walked out to his car. Night had fallen, and he stopped to look up at the sky.
“Not so much light pollution up here.”
Pete didn’t jump, but it was a close thing. He turned to Geoffrey, who was standing about five feet away. “Yeah,” he said. “The stars are much brighter than in New York.”
“Do you miss it?” Geoffrey asked.
Pete continued to look up. “God, no. I was losing my mind there.”
“Actually losing your mind or metaphorically losing your mind?” Geoffrey merely sounded interested.
Pete finally looked away from the sky to look at Geoffrey. He was tall, and he was wearing a black tee shirt with a white oxford unbuttoned and untucked over it, and some sort of knee length black coat. Half his shirt collar was rucked up crazily over the coat collar, and he had his hands in his pockets. He was rocking back and forth on his heels a little.
“Actually losing my mind,” Pete said, shoving his own hands into the pockets of his barn jacket.
“Oh,” Geoffrey said. “Did you come up here to continue it or get over it?”
“Get over it,” Pete said. “It was detrimental to my dishes and electronics. It was either here or a nice hospital upstate with very high walls.”
“Oh,” Geoffrey said, his rocking speeding up slightly as he looked at Pete with faint curiosity. “I went to one of those in Toronto when I had my nervous breakdown.”
Pete didn’t say anything.
“I dunno why they call them nervous breakdowns,” Geoffrey said, his tone slightly perplexed. “I wasn’t nervous at all about it.”
Pete smiled at him. “Me neither. I was kind of enjoying it. Except for the part with the chair-throwing. Looking back, that was ill-advised.”
“I had mine onstage at the theatre,” Geoffrey said with something like nostalgia. “Right in the middle of Hamlet, I jumped into Ophelia's grave and then I ran screaming from the stage; they tell me it was something to see.”
“You had a nervous breakdown onstage and now you’re the creative director?” Pete looked hard at Geoffrey, like he could possibly be joking.
“It’s theatre, my friend.” Geoffrey turned a blinding smile on Pete. “These people have short memories. Besides, it was seven years ago - practically a lifetime.”
Pete didn’t really have anything to say to that, so he looked around the parking lot. “Are you driving?” he asked. “Because if you are, I’d like a ten-minute head start.”
“No,” Geoffrey said, jerking his head to one side. “I live down there. It’s better for everyone if I’m close to the theatre. Then they can come get me when I forget things. Like performances or…what do you call those things where a bunch of tightasses go in a room and it’s boring?”
“Meetings?” Pete had his best “humor the crazy person” voice on, which he found mildly ironic.
Geoffrey nodded. “Yeah, those. Do you want to come home with me?”
Pete laughed out loud. “I don’t put out on the first date.”
Geoffrey smiled at him, completely unabashed. “Okay,” he said. “Then maybe I’ll see you again sometime and we’ll wing it from there.” And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away down the street.
Pete got into his car and realized he was smiling for the first time in months.
__
On Monday morning, during his session with Dr. Newton, he mentioned the smiling/laughing thing. Newton gave his usual hmmmm noise, then said, “How did you feel about that?”
“Surprised.” Pete found himself kicking the leg of his chair like a bored six-year-old. “He propositioned me, too. I didn’t take him up on it.”
“Hmmm…how did you feel about that?” Newton asked, tilting his head a little to one side.
Pete shrugged. “I wanted to…a little. But he was drunk, and it seemed…”
Newton blinked at him.
“I want to say it seemed to be too soon, but that’s stupid - Rodney’s been gone almost a year.” Pete looked down at his hands, clasped in his lap. “I still miss him, though.”
Newton opened his mouth, and Pete thought he was finally going to say something interesting, but he said, “I think that’s all of our time.”
“See you Wednesday,” Pete said, sighing as he left.
__
Pete’s Monday ritual was to stop in at the gourmet coffee shop on the corner and sulk over a latte until he was ready to go back to the cabin in the woods and sulk there. The weather was pleasantly warm, so he sat at one of the outdoor tables. He thought about the session with Newton, and how utterly useless he found talking about his feelings to be. He looked up when someone sat down at his table.
“Pete,” Geoffrey Tennant said.
“Geoffrey.” Geoffrey was wearing dark glasses, but his clothing was much the same as Wednesday, except this time it was a tan tee shirt under a blue oxford. He was wearing the same black coat. His hair was messy in a charming way.
“Mind if I join you?” Geoffrey asked.
“Haven’t you joined me already?” Pete gestured toward Geoffrey.
“I guess so,” Geoffrey said. “Hold that thought.” He got up and went into the coffee shop, coming back with what looked like a very large espresso, then sliding gracefully into the chair again. “You just come from seeing Newton?” he asked, lifting his coffee to his lips.
Pete stared at him. “How did you know that?”
“Made sense - Newton’s office is over there.” He pointed in the direction of Newton’s office. “And you have that broody post-therapy look. Also, I have to go there in,” he looked at his watch, “thirty minutes, so I stop here for caffeine to bolster me from the soulful gazes and the ‘how do you feel about that’s.’”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were stalking me,” Pete said, taking a sip of his own drink.
Geoffrey took off his sunglasses, laying them on the table between them and grinned at Pete, green eyes sparkling. “I don’t have that kind of patience. Does this count as a second date?”
“You’re kind of persistent,” Pete said, smiling. “And, no - this is a happenstance.”
“Do I need to plan some more happenstances?” Geoffrey said, giving Pete the same broad smile he had outside the Theatre Bar.
“No such thing as a planned happenstance,” Pete said.
“Sure there is.” Geoffrey gestured with his empty cup. “You could be grocery shopping in that market over there tomorrow afternoon around 5:30 and I could just happen to be there, too - probably buying beer.”
Pete smiled at him. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just ask me out?”
Geoffrey wrinkled his brow and pursed his lips a little. “Do you think that would work?”
“I don’t know” Pete said slowly. “Why don’t you give it a shot?”
“Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow at 6:30?” Geoffrey tilted his head to one side, as if he wasn’t exactly sure how the whole thing was supposed to go.
“What happened to 5:30?” Pete kept his tone light and teasing.
Geoffrey smirked at him. “I have to buy beer at 5:30.”
Pete laughed. “Okay, 6:30 it is. Want to meet here?”
“Yes?” Geoffrey looked surprised, like he couldn’t believe it had worked.
Pete nodded. “And it only counts as our first date.”
“But…the bar…” Geoffrey spluttered.
Pete grinned. “That was a happenstance.”
__
Pete figured that Geoffrey would wear what seemed to be his uniform, so he put on jeans and a long-sleeved tee shirt before stepping out into the small one-car garage. As always, he ran a finger lightly across the hood of the Mustang. He still thought of it as Rodney’s car, even though he’d had it for almost two years; he still loved the growl of the engine and the way it handled, the smell of the leather seats.
It only took about twenty minutes to get to New Burbage, and he found a parking space two doors up from the coffee shop. Geoffrey was standing on the corner, and he walked up to meet Pete, closing in just as he stepped out of the car. Pete had been right about the uniform, though this time it was a light grey shirt and a charcoal oxford, black pants and the long jacket. Geoffrey’s collar was still fucked up in the exact same way, and Pete wondered if he did it on purpose.
“Nice car,” Geoffrey said, tilting his head to study the Mustang from another angle.
“It was a gift,” Pete said, smiling a private smile.
Geoffrey tilted his head to the other side and gave Pete a grin that could only appropriately described by the adjectives ‘hot’ and ‘dirty.’ “You must be fantastic in bed,” he said.
Pete grinned back at him, thankful that his brief foray into mental illness seemed to have dulled his propensity to blush. “So I’ve been told,” Pete said lightly. “Where are we going for dinner?”
“I was hoping for my place,” Geoffrey said, “but since you’re not that kind of girl, I was thinking Italian.”
“Walk or drive?”
“Tempting as your hot…car is, it’s just a block or two from here.” Geoffrey gestured toward the sidewalk.
Pete locked the Mustang’s doors and stepped up on the curb to follow Geoffrey, who dropped back so that they were walking side by side, arms brushing.
They didn’t talk much on the way to the restaurant, but it was a companionable silence. Once they arrived at their destination, Geoffrey seemed quietly amused at the less than warm welcome he received from the host as they were shown to their table.
“Does anyone in this town like you?” Pete asked, smiling across the table.
“Maybe. If they’ve just moved here. Or they’re sort of crazy.” Geoffrey laid his napkin across his lap and looked up. “Or both.”
__
“Shhhhhh,” Geoffrey said. “We’re not supposed to be here.” He pulled Pete into the backstage area of the theatre, flipping switches until a few lights came on, dimly illuminating the stage, which was empty except for a red velvet sofa and a stuffed rhinoceros head.
Geoffrey walked out onto the stage, spreading his arms in an expansive gesture and turning in a slow circle. “This, Pete-this is where the magic happens. This is where terrifying hacks become...Sir Lawrence Olivier for a brief moment. Where people without two brain cells to rub together become brilliant. The place where borderline schizophrenics leap into Ophelia’s grave and run screaming into the night. In short, a fool’s paradise.”
“Cool,” Pete said, walking over and sitting on the sofa. He propped his feet up on the rhinoceros’ horn.
Geoffrey walked over and sprawled out on the sofa, resting his head in Pete’s lap. “You are utterly unimpressed by all of this, aren’t you?”
Pete looked down at him. God, Geoffrey was gorgeous. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and Pete felt the urge to brush it back with his fingers. Geoffrey's eyes seemed very bright in the low light, his lips full and pink, and Pete suddenly wanted to kiss him.
He drew it out, not sure if he was teasing Geoffrey or himself. He stroked the errant curl back, finding that Geoffrey’s hair was silky and thick; he reached down and smoothed the pad of his thumb over Geoffrey’s bottom lip, smiling when it was gently caught between even, white teeth. Pete buried his hand in Geoffrey’s hair and pulled his thumb away, using it to trace a high cheekbone.
When Geoffrey’s eyes slipped closed, Pete leaned down and kissed him, just a slow brushing of lips. It had been so long since Pete’s last kiss, and that one had been deep and frantic, the last one before Rodney left for good. This one was sweet and slow, and Pete made a small sound when Geoffrey’s long, expressive hand cupped his face, his mouth opening just a little under Pete’s. The kiss deepened; they slowly teased and tasted each other, garlic and Chianti. Pete pulled away only because his neck was killing him.
Geoffrey’s hand fell away, and Pete let one of his own rest against Geoffrey’s throat, just under the studied carelessness of the sloppy collar, the other still twined into his hair. Geoffrey slowly opened his eyes and half-smiled, then turned his head to gently kiss the inside of Pete’s wrist.
“Nice to know you like me,” Geoffrey said quietly.
Pete smiled down at him. “Don’t let it go to your head. I don’t know you very well yet.”
Before they left the theatre, Geoffrey turned off all the lights. He walked them through the cluttered backstage area, holding on to Pete’s wrist. At the stage door, with the moonlight shining in from a small window, he gently pushed Pete against the wall, his hand sliding down, letting their fingers twine together, back to front. Pete leaned against the wall and smiled.
“Weird,” Geoffrey said quietly. Pete cocked an eyebrow at him, and Geoffrey smiled. “I didn’t manage to screw up this date.” When Pete grinned, he tilted his head. “Or did I?”
“Not yet,” Pete said. “But we probably have some time left, if you really want to try.”
Geoffrey lifted their hands up between them and dropped a soft kiss into Pete’s palm, and Pete gently untangled their fingers so that he could wrap his hand around the back of Geoffrey’s neck, under that soft hair, and pull him in. This time, the kiss was more eager - on both sides. Geoffrey put his hands on Pete’s hips, pressing him back into the wall, and Pete’s other hand came up to curl around his shoulder.
Geoffrey was a couple of inches taller, and Pete liked the slight looming, the tiny bit he had to tilt his head upward to meet Geoffrey’s mouth. Geoffrey’s kisses were unpredictable - sometimes fast and hard, other times deep and slick and slow - so Pete ceded control and followed the cues he was given.
When they finally broke apart, Pete could see the shine on Geoffrey’s lips in the moonlight, and he brought up a hand to glide his thumb across the lower one.
“Do you want to come back…,” Geoffrey started, but Pete moved his thumb to cross both his lips, shutting him up. “I almost screwed it up, didn’t I?” he said, smiling behind Pete’s thumb.
“You were getting close.” Pete gave him one more soft kiss. “Walk me to my car,” he said, smiling, “before you speak again.”
Geoffrey smiled and opened the door, leading Pete by the wrist, which he didn’t stop doing once they hit the street. He kept quiet, sneaking looks at Pete.
“You can actually talk, you know,” Pete said into the once-again companionable silence. Geoffrey simply shook his head. When they got to the Mustang, Geoffrey released his wrist and Pete unlocked the doors with the remote. He turned back to Geoffrey, half-smiling. “Thank you for the nice date,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” Geoffrey said, his voice low and sweet. “I don’t want to screw this up, Pete. Which is really weird for me; I usually can’t wait to do the wrong thing.”
“So we’ll do it again,” Pete said, “and see if we can both refrain from doing the wrong thing.”
__
Wednesday evening, the bar was back to being quiet and nearly empty, and the bartender handed Pete a folded note with his beer. Pete took his first sip of beer before unfolding it.
So, what do you do on the second date?
It was unsigned.
__
The cabin at Red Lake was actually too big to be called a cabin. Or a cottage. It was a house. It had four bedrooms a huge glass-walled living room and a professional-looking kitchen. A multi-level deck wrapped around the back and a trail the led down to a floating dock. The “basic maintenance” Pete was supposed to do mainly consisted of letting the maid in on Tuesday and the gardener in on Thursday.
He spent a lot of time sitting in an Adirondack chair on the deck drinking beer and watching the sunset. He never let himself get drunk, or even a little tipsy - he figured that Rick’s uncle probably liked his electronics intact.
Red Lake was a takeout-free zone, so Pete shopped in the little market in New Burbage and taught himself to cook using a laborious process involving a couple of basic cookbooks and trial and error. His mistakes were usually at least edible, and he actually mastered grilled cheese. A month or so after his arrival, he added mashed potatoes and a sautéed chicken dish that Betty Crocker swore was easy, but took a couple of tries to get right, and chocolate chip cookies, even though he ate half the dough raw.
The day he got the chicken right, he figured out what he was doing - learning to make “date food.” Before his date with Geoffrey, cooking had been an expedient method of not starving to death. After, whether he acknowledged it or not, it was starting to be about anticipation.
When he brought it up at therapy, Newton blinked at him, but Pete wasn’t sure if it was a reflex or an actual reaction.
The Monday after the note, Geoffrey didn’t show up at the coffee house. Pete drew his latte out to last for forty-five minutes, which was starting to feel a little too thirteen-year-old girl, but it didn’t stop him from going to the market and buying milk and sugar and chocolate chips. On a whim, he stopped by the bar and surprised the bartender (who was cutting up limes) by leaving a note of his own.
Meet me here tomorrow at 6:00 and find out.
He didn’t sign his either, but when he parked the Mustang in front of the bar on Tuesday evening, Geoffrey was waiting on the sidewalk, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, a small smile on his face. Pete leaned over and opened the passenger-side door in invitation, then sank back into his own seat. He felt a weight lift when Geoffrey got into the car and closed the door.
“Hey,” Geoffrey said.
Pete smiled at him. “Decided to take a chance?” he asked.
Geoffrey tilted his head and looked at Pete. “I really do want to know what you do on the second date.”
Pete pulled out of the parking space. Once he was through the traffic and onto the road that led to Red Lake, he sneaked a glance at Geoffrey, who was still looking at him quizzically. “I cook,” Pete said.
“What?” Geoffrey said.
Pete smirked at him, then returned his eyes to the road. “That’s what I do on the second date,” he said. “I cook.”
Geoffrey stayed silent for quite a while, head turned toward the window. “Do you cook and put out, or do you just cook?”
Pete laughed, then took his hand off the steering wheel long enough to lay it on Geoffrey’s thigh for a minute. “Depends on how dinner goes.”
By the time they reached the house, the sunset was just beginning. Pete walked Geoffrey through the house, stopping in the kitchen for two beers, then led him onto the deck. They stood at the edge and watched the sun set over the lake. Geoffrey put his beer down, placing both hands on the rail and leaning out toward the lake, his eyes going half-closed and a small smile curving his mouth.
When the sun was gone, Geoffrey turned around, looking at Pete in the dusky light. “Nice,” he said. “You come out here every night?”
Pete nodded. “Every night except Wednesday. It’s something of a tradition.” He didn’t want to say that it was one of his favorite memories of Rodney - the moment when all the bluster had given way to a closet romantic. After a while, it had become his own tradition; a time to remind himself that there were things in the world that were constants, even when he sometimes felt out of control.
Pete stood perfectly still as Geoffrey advanced on him with measured steps, and sat his beer on the rail before Geoffrey stopped just inside Pete’s personal space. Pete let Geoffrey get even closer, let him thread warm hands around his waist and lean in for a soft kiss. Pete brought his hands up to gently cup Geoffrey’s face and kissed back, feeling the light burn of Geoffrey’s stubble; silky curls against his fingertips.
Pete broke the kiss and stepped back, feeling Geoffrey’s hands slip slowly off his hips. Pete picked up his beer and gestured toward the house. “Come on,” he said. “Let me make you dinner.” Geoffrey followed.
Back in the kitchen, Pete took ingredients out of the refrigerator, and Geoffrey settled himself in the corner formed where two counters came together, not preventing Pete from getting by, but forcing him to pass closely. Each time Pete moved past him, Geoffrey reached out, sometimes brushing his fingers against Pete’s wrist, sometimes a fleeting touch to his hip or shoulder.
The little touches both aroused and amazed Pete. Their easy gentleness made his heart beat a little faster. He was also amazed by the subtlety of the actions - he’d had no idea that Geoffrey could do subtle. They didn’t talk much while Pete cooked, but Pete found that he didn’t mind. Where Rodney had been a running commentary, Geoffrey seemed to hold back, to make each word count.
“Tell me about the new show,” Pete said, putting a lid on the mashed potatoes to keep them hot, before pouring olive oil into a hot skillet.
“Hamlet,” Geoffrey said.
“Is that why you’re so quiet?” Pete asked. “Does it bug you to direct it?”
“No,” Geoffrey said. “I fired the first director, so I had no choice.”
Pete put the chicken in the skillet and nodded. “Why’d you fire him?” He jumped slightly when Geoffrey moved up behind him and slid arms around his waist, resting his chin on Pete’s shoulder.
“He was a pretentious ass,” Geoffrey said. “And he fenced like a girl.”
Pete turned his head, letting his lips brush against Geoffrey’s cheekbone before turning back to look at the chicken. “You theatre people are weird.”
“We are that.” Geoffrey spread one warm hand across Pete’s belly, the other resting against his belt buckle.
Pete leaned back against Geoffrey’s chest for a moment, before grabbing a bowl full of sliced peppers, putting them in the pan and covering them with the lid. He pushed back against Geoffrey’s chest again, forcing him back a half-step. Once he had room, he turned in Geoffrey’s arms and eased his hands up to Geoffrey’s shoulders, wrapping them around the curved muscle there.
“How am I doing on this second date thing?” Geoffrey’s breath ghosted across Pete’s lips, warm and a little beery.
“I have no complaints whatsoever,” Pete said, leaning forward to capture Geoffrey’s lips with his own. This kiss was a little deeper than the one out on the deck, but still softer than the ones in the dark, backstage - slow and languorous, a sweet exchange that promised so much more.
“Chicken,” Geoffrey said when he pulled up for air.
“I’m not afraid of you,” Pete said a little breathlessly.
“On the stove,” Geoffrey said, using the hand on Pete’s waist to turn him back to the sizzling pan.
Pete was glad Geoffrey was behind him, because he was blushing like a schoolgirl as he moved the chicken off the heat and reached for plates from the cupboard. “Will you grab silverware?” he said. “Last drawer on the right.”
Geoffrey brushed a light kiss across the nape of Pete’s neck before turning away, and Pete tried to suppress the resultant shiver. He got the food onto the plates and carried them to the kitchen table, where Geoffrey was laying out napkins and forks and knives.
“We could have eaten in the dining room,” Pete said, sliding the plates onto the table. “But it’s huge and formal and it makes me nervous.”
Geoffrey looked up at that. “Nervous?”
Pete smiled. “I feel like I should have good manners or something in there. Creeps me out. Is beer okay?”
Geoffrey nodded and sat down. “This looks good,” he said, looking down at the plate. “I’m cooking impaired.”
Pete grinned. “This is the only thing I know how to make except for grilled cheese.” He cut into the chicken on his plate.
Geoffrey smirked at him. “So I guess we’ll have to go out for break-”
Pete stuck his bite of chicken into Geoffrey’s mouth.
The rest of dinner passed without incident, mainly because Geoffrey shut up a lot.
__
Pete washed and Geoffrey dried; Pete noticed that he did a crappy job at it, but he didn’t really care. It seemed weird to be dating a guy who wasn’t Rodney. Rodney had been his “training wheels,” as Rick had put it, so he wasn’t really sure what to do, especially since Geoffrey, while making suggestive remarks, seemed content to let Pete run the show. Pete wasn’t exactly sure about the etiquette, frankly. By the time he’d gotten up the nerve to instigate sex with Rodney, they were already comfortable with one another, so it was a safe environment.
Most difficult of all was the fact that Pete was really attracted to Geoffrey. For all that Geoffrey worried about screwing it up, Pete did, too. Every time he passed a wet dish off to Geoffrey and their fingers brushed, Pete felt little flares of heat up his arm. There was some weird mix of knowing and tentative going on with Geoffrey, and it made Pete feel…strange, but protective, in a way.
“What’s for dessert?” Geoffrey asked, drying the last plate. He handed the towel to Pete, who dried his hands on it and hung it up.
“Well, you have a choice,” Pete said, not looking at Geoffrey. “Chocolate chip cookies or making out on the couch.”
Geoffrey took Pete’s hand and tugged until Pete looked up. “Can’t I have both?” he asked plaintively.
For that, Pete had to kiss him, and things started to get a little heated, Geoffrey sliding his tongue easily into Pete’s mouth while tangling one hand in his hair, stroking the ridge of bone behind Pete’s ear with his thumb. Pete upped the stakes by moving one hand off Geoffrey’s waist and over a soft hip to put it lightly on his ass. That stupid knee-length coat (thankfully residing on the back of one of the kitchen chairs) and untucked shirt hid the fact that Geoffrey had a great ass, so Pete’s other hand joined in.
“Oh,” Geoffrey said, the word coming out as a moan against Pete’s lips. He pulled back. “Can I trade in my cookies for additional making out?”
Pete took his hands off Geoffrey’s ass long enough to pull him into the living room and push him down gently onto the big, soft couch. He climbed on next to him and took Geoffrey’s face in his hands. Pete punctuated a soft kiss with a slow roll of his hips, letting Geoffrey feel how hard he was. Pete felt Geoffrey’s cock against his own, just as hard. Geoffrey moaned, his hands coming around to Pete’s ass, which felt fantastic.
Pete shifted around to free one of his hands and slipped it under Geoffrey’s tee shirt, stroking against the hot skin of his abdomen, ruffling the soft hair there. The sound Geoffrey made into his mouth was half groan, half gasp, and Pete shoved his shirt up higher, touching smooth muscle and brushing the tips of his fingers over a nipple. He moved from Geoffrey’s mouth to his neck, kissing and gently biting.
“Oh, god,” Geoffrey said, his fingers tightening on Pete’s back. “If this is second date stuff, the third one’s going to kill me.”
Pete didn’t really have an answer for that, so he simply rolled his hips again, loving the feel of his cock sliding against Geoffrey’s through the layers of their clothes. He pushed and pulled, getting Geoffrey onto his back under him. Pete got one hand down onto the sofa for more leverage and shoved down against Geoffrey, setting up a slow rhythm. Geoffrey got his hands on Pete’s hips, thumbs pressing the hollows, fingers digging in.
But he wasn’t pushing up to rub against Pete; he was pushing Pete away, while trying to hold his body back. Pete finally understood and lifted his head, stopping the motion of his hips and propping himself on his hands to look down into Geoffrey’s flushed face.
“Are you okay?” Pete was breathing hard, but he resolutely kept his lower body still.
“You’re just…oh, god…you’re going to make me come in my pants,” Geoffrey panted, shuddering.
“Shhh,” Pete said, lifting himself completely away, getting his knees onto the couch. “It’s all right. I won’t.”
He waited until Geoffrey’s breathing evened out and Geoffrey’s eyes closed in relief, coming back from the edge.
“I’m sorry,” Geoffrey said, eyes still closed. “You…I’ve just never…”
“What?” Pete said, laughing just a little. “You’ve never come in your pants? Weren’t you ever a teenager?”
Geoffrey’s eyes opened, and Pete could see a little panic there. “I’ve just never done this before.”
“Whoa,” Pete said. “You mean this?” he punctuated his question by lowering himself into a short hip roll that made Geoffrey jerk. “Or this?” This time he gestured between the two of them.
“Both,” Geoffrey said, and the panic on his face ratcheted up another level.
Pete levered himself off Geoffrey’s body and pulled them both around to sit on the sofa side by side. He put his hand on Geoffrey’s knee, hoping that he’d understand that he wasn’t being rejected.
“You’ve never been with a guy,” Pete said flatly.
Geoffrey nodded, bringing one hand up to rub at his forehead. “Yeah.”
“Then all of the…bravado?” Pete formed the word carefully.
“Bluff,” Geoffrey said.
This time Pete brought a hand up to rub his forehead. “Oh, fuck,” he said. “I’m the training wheels.” He turned his head to the side to look Geoffrey in the face. “It’s okay,” he said. “I just would have gone a little…slower, you know? I don’t want to freak you out.”
“I’m not freaked out,” Geoffrey said. “I just didn’t want to make a rookie mistake.”
Pete squeezed Geoffrey’s knee. “So,” he said, moving his hand to Geoffrey’s back, rubbing softly. “You’re straight?” He had sudden thoughts of ‘reaping what you sowed’ and ‘hoist by your own petard,’ and he had a vision of Rodney and Rick, laughing themselves sick at him.
“I’m more…theoretically bisexual,” Geoffrey said.
“I think we’ve moved past theory,” Pete said, “and right into practice.”
“Wanna practice some more?” Geoffrey was getting his spark back, and Pete was glad of it. He didn’t want to give this up, and he could go slowly; he could take a page out of Rodney’s book. Then he remembered that the first time he and Rodney had sex was almost exactly like this, except they’d managed to get their pants mostly off, and that Rodney had kept them on their sides, so Pete hadn’t felt trapped.
He thought about Geoffrey and his actions for a second and realized that everything Geoffrey had done to or with him before had been things he’d do with women, which explained a lot. He shook his head and directed himself to the problem at hand.
“Yeah,” Pete said. “I do. Let’s just switch it up a little and put you on top; that way you can set the pace.” He leaned over and kissed Geoffrey gently, and then moved around to lie on his back. Geoffrey got himself arranged on top, and Pete could feel that both of them were hard again.
“Prop up on your hands,” Pete said, shoving his shirt up and out of the way, getting his jeans unfastened and pushing both them and his boxers down his hips, letting them bunch up half way down his thighs. When he raised his head, Geoffrey was staring down at his cock, and the look on his face made it twitch in reaction. He pushed the oxford off Geoffrey’s shoulders and helped him shrug out of it one arm at a time, then rucked his tee shirt up under his arms. He put his hands on Geoffrey’s belt, slowly sliding it through the loops and abandoning it to the floor. He opened Geoffrey’s black trousers and pushed them down. “Commando, huh?”
“Too lazy to do laundry,” Geoffrey admitted.
Pete wrapped his fingers around Geoffrey’s hips and eased him down, their cocks lining up. He felt the catch and slide and wished the lube wasn’t all the way in the bedroom. He licked his palm and pushed his hand between them, wrapping it around both of their cocks.
Geoffrey made some sort of questioning noise, even as he eagerly fucked into Pete’s hand.
“Don’t worry,” Pete reassured him. “We’ll do the other later, once we move into the bedroom and have some slick.”
That, and about four more strokes was all it took to make Geoffrey come, his cock jerking against Pete’s belly. The extra slipperiness let Pete get himself to the edge faster, and he came about a minute later. Geoffrey was still propped up on shaky arms.
“Come here,” Pete told him, quickly wiping his wet hand on his shirt before holding out his arms. “It’s okay.” He braced himself, and Geoffrey collapsed down onto his chest, burying his face in Pete’s neck. Pete rubbed Geoffrey’s back, calming him, letting his breathing slow. He got them over onto their sides and pulled off his tee shirt to mop up the mess on their stomachs.
“So,” Pete said, throwing the shirt to the floor and smoothing Geoffrey’s sweat-damp hair back. “How’s that theory coming?”
Geoffrey bit him gently on the collarbone, then lifted his head to smile at Pete. “Practice makes perfect, right?”
Pete smiled and rolled himself off the couch, easing his pants and boxers back into place. He helped Geoffrey up and did the same with his before pulling the hem of his tee shirt back down. Pete’s own shirt was a loss, wet with both of their come, so he carelessly pitched it toward the bathroom.
Geoffrey leaned down and snagged his oxford by the collar and handed it to Pete, who slipped it on without buttoning it. The white cotton framed his dark chest hair, and he could see by the blazing look he received that Geoffrey liked it.
Pete led Geoffrey into the kitchen and stopped to turn the oven on. He grabbed a cookie sheet, then opened the fridge and pulled out an already-prepared bowl of cookie dough. He went to the sink to wash his hands, unsurprised when Geoffrey moved up behind him, wrapped his arms around Pete’s waist and moved their hands together under the warm water and soap suds.
“Thanks,” Geoffrey said, kissing Pete between the shoulder blades.
Pete turned off the water and dried both their hands on a nearby dish towel. He took his time with Geoffrey’s hands, carefully drying between his fingers and rubbing the soft towel against his palms. “Thanks for what?” Pete asked.
Geoffrey buried his head against Pete’s back. “For not making me feel like an ass,” he said.
Pete sighed, shivering at the feel of Geoffrey’s hot breath puffing through the cotton of his borrowed shirt and against his skin. “God, Geoffrey; you think I was born knowing this stuff?”
“Who taught you?” Geoffrey turned slightly to rest his cheek against Pete.
“The only other guy I’ve ever been with.” Pete said it softly, almost reverently, and he spared a thought for Rodney, gone so long. He hoped Rodney was happy, that he’d found someone, wherever he was.
Geoffrey’s hands moved to Pete’s hips, and he laughed. “I owe that guy a fruit basket.”
“Just no citrus,” Pete said absently. “Besides, I wouldn’t know where to tell you to send it.” He pushed Geoffrey back slightly and slipped toward the counter, grabbing Geoffrey’s wrist to pull him over to the bowl of cookie dough and the sheet pan.
Pete pulled two spoons out of the cutlery drawer and showed Geoffrey how to drop the balls of dough onto the cookie sheet. Once the pan was in the oven, he stuck his finger into the dough and offered it to Geoffrey with a smile. Geoffrey sucked Pete’s finger into his mouth, using his tongue to chase down every bit of sweetness. It felt like the world’s softest blowjob, and Pete choked off a low groan.
“You like that, huh?” Geoffrey released Pete’s finger with a pop before asking his smiling question.
“If you’re very good,” Pete said, leaning forward to nip at Geoffrey’s neck, “I’ll show you why later.” Geoffrey started to shudder just as the oven timer went off.
Pete grabbed an oven mitt and pulled the pan out, setting it onto the stove top to cool, slapping Geoffrey’s hand away when he reached for a cookie. “They’re not ready yet. If you pick them up now, they’ll fall apart.”
Geoffrey pouted prettily until Pete took mercy and kissed him for the five minutes it took for the cookies to cool. He moved the cookies onto a plate, but slid the last one onto his hand, gingerly breaking it in half and pulling slowly enough to make the melted chocolate chips separate into gooey strings. Pete held half out to Geoffrey, who took a bite, his eyes going wide at the taste.
“This is Canada,” he said, after swallowing it. “Marry me.”
Pete laughed. “Once you have them with milk,” he said, “you’ll sell me your soul.”
Geoffrey hustled to the refrigerator, and Pete took the opportunity of the distraction to shove the rest of the cookie into his mouth and start spooning more dough onto the pan. By the time he’d gotten them into the oven, Geoffrey had poured two large glasses of milk and was waiting expectantly at the table.
Pete carried the plate of cooled cookies over and sat across from Geoffrey, tangling their feet together, watching as the first cookie was consumed, followed by a large sip of milk. “About that soul,” Geoffrey said, as soon as he could talk. “Cash or charge?”
Pete grinned and took his own cookie, dunking it into his glass of milk. “Maybe I’ll take it out in trade.”
Once the second batch of cookies was done, Pete put the bowl of dough back in the fridge. He walked back to the table and gently pulled Geoffrey to his feet. He kissed him, tasting chocolate. “What do you want, Geoffrey?” Pete said, letting his hands wander over Geoffrey’s warm back.
“I have no idea,” Geoffrey mumbled into Pete’s neck. “Is there a menu?”
Pete laughed softly, then put enough room between them to make Geoffrey look him in the eye. “Do you want to stay? Do you want me to take you home? Spontaneously changing your sexual orientation may take some getting used to.”
Geoffrey’s eyes searched Pete’s face. “Would you be mad if I said home? There’s a rehearsal tomorrow, and I…think I need some time.” His eyes widened. “Not...that I didn’t like it…”
Pete laid a finger against Geoffrey’s lips. “It’s fine, don’t panic. I get it. Let me get a clean shirt…”
He was surprised when Geoffrey moved back enough to pull the sides of the white shirt Pete was wearing together and to fasten the center button. “Keep this one,” he said. “You can give it back to me next time.”
Pete recognized it as a promise and quickly fastened the rest of the buttons. He led Geoffrey back to the living room for shoes, then grabbed a jacket for himself while Geoffrey put on his black coat.
Inside the garage, he ran his finger lightly over the hood of the Mustang, just like he always did, before getting in.
“You really like this car, don’t you?”
Pete smiled and closed his door. “I really do.”
They got on the road back to New Burbage before Pete started to feel that the silence was getting oppressive. He could almost hear the wheels turning in Geoffrey’s head. He reached over and took Geoffrey’s hand, squeezing it before placing it on his thigh, returning his own hand to the wheel. Geoffrey left it there with very little pressure, but Pete could feel his thumb running over the outside seam of his jeans.
“Tell me about the production,” Pete said.
Geoffrey’s fingers tightened, then released on his leg. “Well, my Hamlet is a movie star who can’t string two words together; my Gertrude is my ex and a flaming diva; my Ophelia is an idiot - I think it may be congenital - and the rest of the cast is various flavors of insane. To top things off, I’m the director. It’s pretty much a nightmare.”
Pete smiled. “You love it, don’t you?”
Geoffrey squeezed his leg again. “I do,” he said. “Most fun I’ve had in ages. It’s going to be the worst Hamlet in recorded history and I’m going to be backstage laughing like hell and kissing you.”
“It’s a date,” Pete said, smiling.
“But not the next one, right?” Geoffrey slid his hand a tiny bit up Pete’s thigh.
“Oh, no,” Pete said. “The next one is tomorrow night - 7:30 at the bar.”
“Excellent,” Geoffrey said. “The cast should have completely melted down by then, and I’ll be able to cement their hatred by being with the hottest guy there.”
They didn’t say much for the rest of the drive, but Pete could feel that the tension had eased. Geoffrey gave him directions to a small brick building about a quarter-mile from the theatre, and Pete eased the Mustang to a stop in front of it. Geoffrey’s hand was still on his leg.
“I want to kiss you,” Pete said, turning to Geoffrey in the dim light provided by a nearby streetlamp and the reflection of the headlights off the building.
Geoffrey took off his seatbelt and turned as far as he could toward Pete. “I want you to,” he said.
Pete unhooked his own seatbelt and turned, cupping Geoffrey’s jaw with his hand before leaning in and kissing him. Geoffrey’s hand mirrored the action, and Pete deepened the kiss, slicking his tongue against Geoffrey’s lips and sighing when they opened to him. It was a long kiss, and when they pulled back, they were both panting a little, still touching each others faces.
Geoffrey leaned his forehead against Pete’s. “What do you do on the third date?” he asked softly, his breath whispering over Pete’s lips.
Pete kissed Geoffrey again, a soft touch of lips. “Whatever you want,” he said. “Why don’t you try and think of some things when you’re in bed tonight?”
Geoffrey kissed him again, this time biting Pete’s lower lip. “You are incredibly evil,” he said. “I like that in a person.”
Pete pushed Geoffrey’s shoulder. “Go to bed, go to rehearsal, and meet me at the bar, okay?”
Geoffrey opened his door and blinked in the harsh interior light. “I will,” he said. Pete nodded, and watched as Geoffrey let himself into the building. He put his seatbelt back on and drove home, inordinately pleased with himself. Oh, yeah - the Killer still had it.
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Pete’s Wednesday session with Newton was really fun. He made a point of mentioning that he’d slept with Geoffrey exactly when Newton was sipping from his ubiquitous mug of coffee. He had to hide a grin when Newton choked and spluttered. He still didn’t get any reaction past “hmmmm” and “how do you feel about that?” but it was so worth it.
When he got to the bar, it was almost empty. He asked the bartender why.
“Rehearsal’s gone long I suppose,” the bartender said, polishing glasses. “The usual?”
Pete raised a hand. “Not just yet.” He thought about it, then decided that he wanted to see what all the fuss was about. “I’ll be back,” he told the bartender.
He walked over to the theatre and checked to see if the front door was unlocked. It was, so he let himself in. He followed the signs from the lobby to the theatre proper and eased the door open.
The same brittle-looking woman he’d seen at the bar the first time he’d met Geoffrey was storming across the stage, waving her script. A young man was sitting on the red sofa that had been there before with his head in his hands and a girl with red ringlets was dancing across the stage, flailing her arms in what should have been graceful movements but weren’t.
Pete could hear their voices, but not make out actual words. He slipped into the aisle seat in the back row and took it all in. Geoffrey walked onto the stage from the wings, stopping the lady with the script by grabbing her shoulders and looking down into her eyes as he spoke. Whatever he was saying must have worked, because she pushed away from Geoffrey and huffed back to the spot she’d come from. Next, Geoffrey pointed a finger at the dancing girl, which made her stop twirling and look at the floor.
Geoffrey turned to the guy on the sofa. He knelt down in front of him and Pete could hear the low rumble of Geoffrey’s voice, hypnotic and strong. After a few minutes, the kid on the sofa looked up. Geoffrey balanced himself with one hand and kept talking, and the kid’s head rose up higher and higher, until he was looking Geoffrey straight in the face and nodding.
Geoffrey said one last thing to the kid, then stood and clapped once before making shooing motions with his hands. Everyone moved off the stage and into the wings except Geoffrey, who raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the footlights, then walked to the front of the stage and slipped gracefully to the theatre floor.
As soon as Geoffrey got closer, Pete could see the grin on his face, which turned into a sweet smile when he got to Pete’s row.
“You were late,” Pete said, standing. “I thought I’d come get you.”
Geoffrey put a hand on Pete’s shoulder and leaned in to kiss him softly on the mouth. Then Geoffrey turned and ushered him toward the door. “Sorry I was late,” he said.
“You look like you need a drink,” Pete said, letting his hand slide down to hold Geoffrey’s wrist.
“Do they make an octuple Scotch?” Geoffrey sounded exhausted.
Pete led him to the bar and made a beeline for his usual stool. Geoffrey pulled himself onto the one next to Pete’s. The bartender slid a Maverick and a double Scotch in front of them. “Good man,” Geoffrey said.
Pete watched the motion of Geoffrey throat as he swallowed about half his drink. Pete took a long sip of his beer, then turned slightly on his stool. “Bad day at the office, dear?”
Geoffrey smirked at him. “Well, if someone hadn’t kept me up most of the night thinking, I probably would have slept better.”
Pete smirked back. “Did you think of anything good?”
Geoffrey shot back the rest of his drink, and shook his head when the bartender moved to get him another. “Drink up,” he said, looking at Pete.
Pete took one more long sip of his beer, then set it down and threw some funny-colored money down on the bar. He looked questioningly at Geoffrey, who nodded.
When they got outside, Geoffrey took hold of his wrist and started off toward his building. Pete followed, amused by Geoffrey’s eagerness. He kept his other hand in his jacket pocket feeling the soft shape of the tube of lubricant he’d put there just before leaving the house. He was pretty sure he knew what Geoffrey had been thinking about.
Geoffrey’s apartment was a lot like Geoffrey himself - it was sort of tidy, but sort of not. The living room held a well-worn plaid couch, a brown leather recliner and the rhinoceros head from the theatre. His kitchen looked pristine, as if it had never been cooked in - which was a very real possibility - and a counter held a phone and a huge stack of take-out menus, a half-bottle of Scotch and a single glass.
Pete didn’t get to notice much more, because Geoffrey was gently leading him to the bedroom, where an open closet held a row of solid-colored oxford shirts, and several pairs of shoes were kicked haphazardly on the floor. An armchair held a pile of clean laundry, and the wide bed was sort of made, with a comforter mostly pulled up and pillows thrown almost to the headboard.
Geoffrey started pushing Pete’s jacket down his arms. “That thing…last night…when you nearly made me come in my pants. I want that. Just without the pants.” He leaned in to kiss Pete’s neck, biting just a little. Pete groaned and managed to get his hand into his pocket before his arms were completely trapped by the coat.
He tossed the tube onto the bed. “We’ll need that,” he said letting Geoffrey strip his jacket down his arms and kicking off his shoes. “Slow down,” he said quietly. He ran a hand through Geoffrey hair onto the back of his neck. “Slow down.”
Geoffrey did - taking and releasing a deep breath. His mouth gentled against Pete’s throat and he pulled Pete’s tee shirt up just enough to rub over the hot skin of his back. Pete pushed Geoffrey’s jacket off and also slid today’s oxford - pale blue - down his arms. Once both were gone, Pete ran his own hand lightly up Geoffrey’s navy tee shirt.
“You feel so good,” Geoffrey murmured, moving one hand around the front to pet the dark hair just above the waistband of Pete’s jeans. Geoffrey’s nimble fingers undid the jeans’ button, but they hesitated when they got to the zipper. Pete placed his hand over Geoffrey’s, and they pulled the tab of the zipper down together.
When Geoffrey looked down, he made a noise that could have been a laugh. “Commando? You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
Pete nuzzled the side of his face. “Sure of you,” he said.
“I don’t know if I should be turned on or offended by that,” Geoffrey said.
Pete reached around and opened Geoffrey’s pants, looking down. “Like you have room to talk,” he said, taking in Geoffrey’s complete lack of underwear. Pete slid to his knees, taking Geoffrey’s pants with him. He pulled them down and off, one leg at a time, taking socks with him, and he wondered when Geoffrey had lost his shoes. He looked up to see Geoffrey staring down at him, dumbstruck.
Pete moved forward to gently bite Geoffrey’s hipbone before coming to his feet and stripping off his own pants. He herded Geoffrey back toward the bed and pushed him down flat. He slid onto the bed, and propped himself up on one elbow.
“How do you want to do this?” he asked. “How do you want me?” At his words, Pete could feel the shiver that ran through Geoffrey’s body.
“On top. I liked it when you pinned me down,” Geoffrey admitted, raising himself up enough to look at Pete.
Pete kissed him, searching for the lube with one hand. He found it, then pulled back from Geoffrey’s mouth so he could open the tube. He slicked his own cock, then reached for Geoffrey’s. “This is going to be cold at first, sorry,” he said, not actually all that sorry. The chill would keep Geoffrey’s arousal in check, and Pete wanted this to last. He wrapped his wet hand around Geoffrey’s cock and slicked it with a slow stroke. He caught Geoffrey’s hiss in his mouth.
Pete wiped his hand on the corner of the comforter, then rolled his body on top of Geoffrey’s, pressing their hips together. The slick slide felt so good, and the lube did warm up as Pete started to really move.
“Oh, god,” Geoffrey moaned, spreading his legs. “Oh, god.”
Pete dropped down even further, propping himself on his elbows rather than his palms, getting some leverage with his knees on the bed between Geoffrey’s legs. He rolled his hips, starting a slow rhythm that had Geoffrey pushing up, frustrated.
“Easy,” Pete said. “I’ve got you.” He kissed Geoffrey slowly, and felt warm fingers clutch at his shoulders before sliding down to hold his hips. Pete slowed even further for a minute, trying to tell if Geoffrey was pushing him away. He wasn’t; he was pulling him forward.
“Come on, come on.” Geoffrey muttered against Pete’s mouth, sounding like his teeth were clenched. “Move, damnit.”
“Like this?” Pete slowed down even further, his cock sliding down the whole length of Geoffrey’s before moving back up. Geoffrey groaned. “Or like this?” Pete asked, pushing fast and hard against Geoffrey’s whole body.
“Please, god - that,” Geoffrey moaned, “that.” He brought his knees up to bracket Pete’s hips and pushed his head back onto the pillow, his long throat exposed.
Pete kept his hips moving and dropped his mouth to Geoffrey’s neck, biting and sucking, not caring that he was probably leaving a mark. The pressure on his neck made Geoffrey’s hips stutter; and Pete felt him come, his whole body tensing and arching up. Without releasing Geoffrey’s throat, Pete rubbed his cock through the warm lube and warmer come between them, pushing his way to orgasm, gasping into Geoffrey’s neck and falling down onto his chest.
He finally eased up on Geoffrey’s neck, caught between sly smugness at the mark and a sort of “oops” reaction when he realized that the hickey would be clearly visible above the collars of both Geoffrey’s shirts.
“Sorry,” Pete said, leaning in to bite the bruise one more time. Geoffrey moaned and pushed into the bite. Pete slowly pulled back. “Um, unless you have a turtleneck,” he said, “pretty much everyone will know what we’ve been up to.”
Geoffrey brought a hand up to touch the hickey experimentally, smiling when he found the tender spot. “Who cares? Wouldn’t have pegged you for a biter, Sherman,” he said.
“You must bring out the animal in me,” Pete said.
Geoffrey pushed them over onto their sides, keeping their bodies tight together. He looked at Pete very seriously. “Do you think it has something to do with the rhinoceros?”
Continues in Part 2
Fandom(s): This story is a crossover between Sherman's March and Slings & Arrows. Its prequels included a crossover with Stargate Atlantis.
Pairing: Pete Sherman/Geoffrey Tennant, mentions of Pete Sherman/Rodney McKay
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Eight months after Rodney’s departure, Pete had the quietest nervous breakdown in the history of nervous breakdowns.
ETA: If you've never seen Sherman's March, you can download a quick video primer: here. (right click and save, please)
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14 Valentines: Body Image
(no such thing as a) Planned Happenstance
Part of the Accident-verse
by yin_again
Special thanks to elfgirl and shrewreader for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
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Cast of Characters:
Sherman's March
Pete Sherman - you remember him from such fics as Accidents Happen and Shelter
Rick O'Malley - Pete's best friend; gay yenta
Nina - superbitch; Pete's boss
Dr. Ed Newton - Pete's psychiatrist (incidentally, also Geoffrey's)
SGA
Rodney McKay - the guy who turned Pete gay and then went to Antarctica and beyond
Slings & Arrows
Geoffrey Tennant - Creative Director of the New Burbage Shakespeare Festival (see below)
Ellen - Geoffrey's ex
Sloan - Ellen's boytoy
Kate - apprentice at the Festival
Jack, Claire - miscellaneous actors
The Rhinoceros - recurring character; bad influence
The Mustang - the car Rodney gave Pete (he's good in bed. Pete, not the Mustang)
Slings & Arrows: A Crash Course
Slings & Arrows is a Canadian TV show that chronicles the inner workings of the New Burbage Shakespeare Festival, a corporate-sponsored theatre. For the purposes of this story, we're really only using the first couple of eps, so there's not much you need to know. The creative Director of the Festival is Geoffrey Tennant.
THIS
is Geoffrey. (just look at his fuckin' neck. *want.to.lick.it.*)
Seven years ago, Geoffrey was an actor for the New Burbage theatre. He had a nervous breakdown during a staging ofHamlet, in which he was playing Hamlet. He lost his shit, leapt into Ophelia's grave, then exited stage right, screaming. Through a complicated conflagration of events, he is selected to lead the theater after its current Creative Director is run over by a truck. Geoffrey is kinda loony and very, very hot. He is played by Paul Gross (Frasier on Due South). Everything else you need to know will be found in the story.
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(no such thing as a) Planned Happenstance
It always started in bars for Pete. He’d met Rodney in a bar, and started a… thing. A week-long thing, which led to a few-day thing that led to another almost week-long thing, which took him to a place where there was no thing. He’d take the joke and say it was nothing, but it wasn’t; it hadn’t been. It had been something. Given time, it could have been the something of his life.
Pete really wanted to kick himself. He was pretty sure it was his own fault. Eight instead of seven. He still didn’t know what the fuck it meant, but eight instead of seven made Rodney leave, made him leave in a hurry. After that there was the DVD - the fucking DVD that scared the hell out of him. After that, after a few weeks of pretty much constant fear for Rodney’s safety, the man himself had shown up, scaring him even more. He’d looked older, and in some indefinable way, also younger. The six days they’d had together were a blur, really - it had been all about touch, not talk. And Pete was okay with that.
He missed Rodney, but he’d figured it out, sort of. Eight months after Rodney’s departure, Pete had the quietest nervous breakdown in the history of nervous breakdowns. He’d scheduled it, actually. A Tuesday in July, and it lasted exactly two weeks; because that’s how much vacation time Pete had left. It was a really civilized one, as such things went. No screaming or yelling, no public displays of lunacy. He’d kept it inside his apartment, but the number of broken dishes and smashed electronics was fairly high.
Rick showed up on the day before the breakdown was scheduled to end. Bad timing; Pete was sitting on the micro-suede sofa Rodney had once fucked him over, with his head in his hands. The broken…stuff was still kind of everywhere, and he was pretty sure the whole not-shaving thing had gotten a bit out of control.
“Why did you tell me you were going to the Vineyard?” Rick said, after letting himself in with his own key. “I was going to come over and make sure the place was…,” he looked around. “Habitable?”
Pete looked up. “Well, it looks okay to me.”
Rick picked his way through the debris to sit next to Pete on the couch. He patted Pete on the shoulder. “I’m guessing that this has something to do with Rodney.”
“Lack thereof, more like it,” Pete said, not lifting his head. “But that’s really not all of it. I’m a little diffident about the whole work thing, too.”
“Okay,” Rick said.
Pete looked up at him with aching eyes. “The concept of the planned nervous breakdown isn’t working out for me either.”
“I dunno,” Rick said, looking around. “Looks to me like you’ve done a pretty good job.” He patted Pete’s shoulder again. “You’re aware that our insurance pays for therapy, right?”
“How do you know?” Pete dropped his head again, scrubbing his hands over his face.
“Well,” Rick said, “pretty much everyone in the office is in therapy. I blame Nina.”
“Is Nina in therapy?”
“No.” Rick rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s just a carrier.”
So, Pete started therapy. His therapist told him to slow down at work, so Pete dropped to 60 hours a week. His therapist advised him to release his anger about the loss of Rodney. Pete decided that he didn’t want to buy a new TV just to smash it. His therapist advised him to get away from it all for a while. Pete cemented that notion by putting his desk chair through the glass wall of his office on an otherwise calm Thursday morning. It certainly livened up the day.
After that maneuver, Pete suddenly had options: he could go to the loony bin, or he could go to Canada. He mulled that one over for quite a while.
“My uncle has a place in Ontario, on Red Lake. No one’s there - he’ll let you stay for free and he’ll keep up the utilities and stuff. All you’d have to do is the general maintenance. Having someone up there lessens the chance of vandalism.” Rick sat next to Pete in the emergency room, holding a towel to the cut on Pete’s forearm, an unfortunate injury from flying glass. If he’d thrown the chair on a better trajectory, it wouldn’t have bounced back, taking the remainder of the window with it into Pete’s office. He was lucky that it hadn’t gotten him in the face.
For his part, Pete was slumped down in the squeaky plastic chair with his uninjured arm over his face. “If you agree to see a therapist in the nearest town twice a week, your parents won’t have you committed,” Rick said.
“How did this turn into my life?” Pete asked. “I used to be so normal.”
“Look, brother,” Rick said kindly. “You just need some time away from New York, away from the pressure. Maybe you’ll write the great American novel while you’re up there.”
Pete lowered his arm and gave Rick a look. “I’m supposed to write the great American novel in Western Ontario? Last I checked, that wasn’t even in America.”
“So? Call it the great North American novel.” Rick looked up; that nurse was waving them in. He helped Pete get up and led him through the swinging doors.
Within a few days, Pete agreed to go to Canada. It wasn’t a difficult decision, since the other option was a nice, private mental hospital upstate. He officially took a sabbatical from CBB and packed his warmest clothes.
Pete’s therapist was in a town called New Burbage. On Wednesdays, Pete had the latest appointment available - 6:30 p.m., which meant he could hit the bar by 7:30. He never had more than a couple of beers, but holding down a barstool in a moderately seedy joint where he knew absolutely no one was a singular pleasure.
He knew the place was called the Theatre Bar - it was across the street from an ornate theatre called the Swan, so it made sense. On his third Wednesday in town, he found his nice, quiet hole-in-the-wall full of crazy people. Fitting, he thought. Apparently, the crazy people were from the theatre. A brittle-looking lady told him they’d just closed a run of King Lear, so everyone was there for a celebratory drink. From the looks of most of them, the celebratory drink had turned into five or so.
Pete sat down on the closest stool to the end of the bar and ordered his usual, Maverick Supreme Lager, a nod to Rodney. Taking that first cold, bracing sip, he noticed in the bar mirror that the guy next to him was checking him out. Pete did a little surreptitious checking out of his own. The guy had longish dark wavy hair, green eyes, and was in need of a shave. Pete nodded to him in the mirror.
“Hey,” the guy said, turning toward Pete. “Geoffrey Tennant.” He held out his hand.
Pete shook it. “Pete Sherman,” he said.
It always started in bars.
___
Pete had his two beers. During the same period of time, Geoffrey had three double scotches. Conversation was minimal, but Pete learned that Geoffrey was the artistic director at the theatre across the street and that the actors and crew didn’t seem to like him very much. Geoffrey learned that Pete was from New York and was staying at Red Lake. After an hour, Pete paid his tab, said goodbye to Geoffrey and walked out to his car. Night had fallen, and he stopped to look up at the sky.
“Not so much light pollution up here.”
Pete didn’t jump, but it was a close thing. He turned to Geoffrey, who was standing about five feet away. “Yeah,” he said. “The stars are much brighter than in New York.”
“Do you miss it?” Geoffrey asked.
Pete continued to look up. “God, no. I was losing my mind there.”
“Actually losing your mind or metaphorically losing your mind?” Geoffrey merely sounded interested.
Pete finally looked away from the sky to look at Geoffrey. He was tall, and he was wearing a black tee shirt with a white oxford unbuttoned and untucked over it, and some sort of knee length black coat. Half his shirt collar was rucked up crazily over the coat collar, and he had his hands in his pockets. He was rocking back and forth on his heels a little.
“Actually losing my mind,” Pete said, shoving his own hands into the pockets of his barn jacket.
“Oh,” Geoffrey said. “Did you come up here to continue it or get over it?”
“Get over it,” Pete said. “It was detrimental to my dishes and electronics. It was either here or a nice hospital upstate with very high walls.”
“Oh,” Geoffrey said, his rocking speeding up slightly as he looked at Pete with faint curiosity. “I went to one of those in Toronto when I had my nervous breakdown.”
Pete didn’t say anything.
“I dunno why they call them nervous breakdowns,” Geoffrey said, his tone slightly perplexed. “I wasn’t nervous at all about it.”
Pete smiled at him. “Me neither. I was kind of enjoying it. Except for the part with the chair-throwing. Looking back, that was ill-advised.”
“I had mine onstage at the theatre,” Geoffrey said with something like nostalgia. “Right in the middle of Hamlet, I jumped into Ophelia's grave and then I ran screaming from the stage; they tell me it was something to see.”
“You had a nervous breakdown onstage and now you’re the creative director?” Pete looked hard at Geoffrey, like he could possibly be joking.
“It’s theatre, my friend.” Geoffrey turned a blinding smile on Pete. “These people have short memories. Besides, it was seven years ago - practically a lifetime.”
Pete didn’t really have anything to say to that, so he looked around the parking lot. “Are you driving?” he asked. “Because if you are, I’d like a ten-minute head start.”
“No,” Geoffrey said, jerking his head to one side. “I live down there. It’s better for everyone if I’m close to the theatre. Then they can come get me when I forget things. Like performances or…what do you call those things where a bunch of tightasses go in a room and it’s boring?”
“Meetings?” Pete had his best “humor the crazy person” voice on, which he found mildly ironic.
Geoffrey nodded. “Yeah, those. Do you want to come home with me?”
Pete laughed out loud. “I don’t put out on the first date.”
Geoffrey smiled at him, completely unabashed. “Okay,” he said. “Then maybe I’ll see you again sometime and we’ll wing it from there.” And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away down the street.
Pete got into his car and realized he was smiling for the first time in months.
__
On Monday morning, during his session with Dr. Newton, he mentioned the smiling/laughing thing. Newton gave his usual hmmmm noise, then said, “How did you feel about that?”
“Surprised.” Pete found himself kicking the leg of his chair like a bored six-year-old. “He propositioned me, too. I didn’t take him up on it.”
“Hmmm…how did you feel about that?” Newton asked, tilting his head a little to one side.
Pete shrugged. “I wanted to…a little. But he was drunk, and it seemed…”
Newton blinked at him.
“I want to say it seemed to be too soon, but that’s stupid - Rodney’s been gone almost a year.” Pete looked down at his hands, clasped in his lap. “I still miss him, though.”
Newton opened his mouth, and Pete thought he was finally going to say something interesting, but he said, “I think that’s all of our time.”
“See you Wednesday,” Pete said, sighing as he left.
__
Pete’s Monday ritual was to stop in at the gourmet coffee shop on the corner and sulk over a latte until he was ready to go back to the cabin in the woods and sulk there. The weather was pleasantly warm, so he sat at one of the outdoor tables. He thought about the session with Newton, and how utterly useless he found talking about his feelings to be. He looked up when someone sat down at his table.
“Pete,” Geoffrey Tennant said.
“Geoffrey.” Geoffrey was wearing dark glasses, but his clothing was much the same as Wednesday, except this time it was a tan tee shirt under a blue oxford. He was wearing the same black coat. His hair was messy in a charming way.
“Mind if I join you?” Geoffrey asked.
“Haven’t you joined me already?” Pete gestured toward Geoffrey.
“I guess so,” Geoffrey said. “Hold that thought.” He got up and went into the coffee shop, coming back with what looked like a very large espresso, then sliding gracefully into the chair again. “You just come from seeing Newton?” he asked, lifting his coffee to his lips.
Pete stared at him. “How did you know that?”
“Made sense - Newton’s office is over there.” He pointed in the direction of Newton’s office. “And you have that broody post-therapy look. Also, I have to go there in,” he looked at his watch, “thirty minutes, so I stop here for caffeine to bolster me from the soulful gazes and the ‘how do you feel about that’s.’”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were stalking me,” Pete said, taking a sip of his own drink.
Geoffrey took off his sunglasses, laying them on the table between them and grinned at Pete, green eyes sparkling. “I don’t have that kind of patience. Does this count as a second date?”
“You’re kind of persistent,” Pete said, smiling. “And, no - this is a happenstance.”
“Do I need to plan some more happenstances?” Geoffrey said, giving Pete the same broad smile he had outside the Theatre Bar.
“No such thing as a planned happenstance,” Pete said.
“Sure there is.” Geoffrey gestured with his empty cup. “You could be grocery shopping in that market over there tomorrow afternoon around 5:30 and I could just happen to be there, too - probably buying beer.”
Pete smiled at him. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just ask me out?”
Geoffrey wrinkled his brow and pursed his lips a little. “Do you think that would work?”
“I don’t know” Pete said slowly. “Why don’t you give it a shot?”
“Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow at 6:30?” Geoffrey tilted his head to one side, as if he wasn’t exactly sure how the whole thing was supposed to go.
“What happened to 5:30?” Pete kept his tone light and teasing.
Geoffrey smirked at him. “I have to buy beer at 5:30.”
Pete laughed. “Okay, 6:30 it is. Want to meet here?”
“Yes?” Geoffrey looked surprised, like he couldn’t believe it had worked.
Pete nodded. “And it only counts as our first date.”
“But…the bar…” Geoffrey spluttered.
Pete grinned. “That was a happenstance.”
__
Pete figured that Geoffrey would wear what seemed to be his uniform, so he put on jeans and a long-sleeved tee shirt before stepping out into the small one-car garage. As always, he ran a finger lightly across the hood of the Mustang. He still thought of it as Rodney’s car, even though he’d had it for almost two years; he still loved the growl of the engine and the way it handled, the smell of the leather seats.
It only took about twenty minutes to get to New Burbage, and he found a parking space two doors up from the coffee shop. Geoffrey was standing on the corner, and he walked up to meet Pete, closing in just as he stepped out of the car. Pete had been right about the uniform, though this time it was a light grey shirt and a charcoal oxford, black pants and the long jacket. Geoffrey’s collar was still fucked up in the exact same way, and Pete wondered if he did it on purpose.
“Nice car,” Geoffrey said, tilting his head to study the Mustang from another angle.
“It was a gift,” Pete said, smiling a private smile.
Geoffrey tilted his head to the other side and gave Pete a grin that could only appropriately described by the adjectives ‘hot’ and ‘dirty.’ “You must be fantastic in bed,” he said.
Pete grinned back at him, thankful that his brief foray into mental illness seemed to have dulled his propensity to blush. “So I’ve been told,” Pete said lightly. “Where are we going for dinner?”
“I was hoping for my place,” Geoffrey said, “but since you’re not that kind of girl, I was thinking Italian.”
“Walk or drive?”
“Tempting as your hot…car is, it’s just a block or two from here.” Geoffrey gestured toward the sidewalk.
Pete locked the Mustang’s doors and stepped up on the curb to follow Geoffrey, who dropped back so that they were walking side by side, arms brushing.
They didn’t talk much on the way to the restaurant, but it was a companionable silence. Once they arrived at their destination, Geoffrey seemed quietly amused at the less than warm welcome he received from the host as they were shown to their table.
“Does anyone in this town like you?” Pete asked, smiling across the table.
“Maybe. If they’ve just moved here. Or they’re sort of crazy.” Geoffrey laid his napkin across his lap and looked up. “Or both.”
__
“Shhhhhh,” Geoffrey said. “We’re not supposed to be here.” He pulled Pete into the backstage area of the theatre, flipping switches until a few lights came on, dimly illuminating the stage, which was empty except for a red velvet sofa and a stuffed rhinoceros head.
Geoffrey walked out onto the stage, spreading his arms in an expansive gesture and turning in a slow circle. “This, Pete-this is where the magic happens. This is where terrifying hacks become...Sir Lawrence Olivier for a brief moment. Where people without two brain cells to rub together become brilliant. The place where borderline schizophrenics leap into Ophelia’s grave and run screaming into the night. In short, a fool’s paradise.”
“Cool,” Pete said, walking over and sitting on the sofa. He propped his feet up on the rhinoceros’ horn.
Geoffrey walked over and sprawled out on the sofa, resting his head in Pete’s lap. “You are utterly unimpressed by all of this, aren’t you?”
Pete looked down at him. God, Geoffrey was gorgeous. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and Pete felt the urge to brush it back with his fingers. Geoffrey's eyes seemed very bright in the low light, his lips full and pink, and Pete suddenly wanted to kiss him.
He drew it out, not sure if he was teasing Geoffrey or himself. He stroked the errant curl back, finding that Geoffrey’s hair was silky and thick; he reached down and smoothed the pad of his thumb over Geoffrey’s bottom lip, smiling when it was gently caught between even, white teeth. Pete buried his hand in Geoffrey’s hair and pulled his thumb away, using it to trace a high cheekbone.
When Geoffrey’s eyes slipped closed, Pete leaned down and kissed him, just a slow brushing of lips. It had been so long since Pete’s last kiss, and that one had been deep and frantic, the last one before Rodney left for good. This one was sweet and slow, and Pete made a small sound when Geoffrey’s long, expressive hand cupped his face, his mouth opening just a little under Pete’s. The kiss deepened; they slowly teased and tasted each other, garlic and Chianti. Pete pulled away only because his neck was killing him.
Geoffrey’s hand fell away, and Pete let one of his own rest against Geoffrey’s throat, just under the studied carelessness of the sloppy collar, the other still twined into his hair. Geoffrey slowly opened his eyes and half-smiled, then turned his head to gently kiss the inside of Pete’s wrist.
“Nice to know you like me,” Geoffrey said quietly.
Pete smiled down at him. “Don’t let it go to your head. I don’t know you very well yet.”
Before they left the theatre, Geoffrey turned off all the lights. He walked them through the cluttered backstage area, holding on to Pete’s wrist. At the stage door, with the moonlight shining in from a small window, he gently pushed Pete against the wall, his hand sliding down, letting their fingers twine together, back to front. Pete leaned against the wall and smiled.
“Weird,” Geoffrey said quietly. Pete cocked an eyebrow at him, and Geoffrey smiled. “I didn’t manage to screw up this date.” When Pete grinned, he tilted his head. “Or did I?”
“Not yet,” Pete said. “But we probably have some time left, if you really want to try.”
Geoffrey lifted their hands up between them and dropped a soft kiss into Pete’s palm, and Pete gently untangled their fingers so that he could wrap his hand around the back of Geoffrey’s neck, under that soft hair, and pull him in. This time, the kiss was more eager - on both sides. Geoffrey put his hands on Pete’s hips, pressing him back into the wall, and Pete’s other hand came up to curl around his shoulder.
Geoffrey was a couple of inches taller, and Pete liked the slight looming, the tiny bit he had to tilt his head upward to meet Geoffrey’s mouth. Geoffrey’s kisses were unpredictable - sometimes fast and hard, other times deep and slick and slow - so Pete ceded control and followed the cues he was given.
When they finally broke apart, Pete could see the shine on Geoffrey’s lips in the moonlight, and he brought up a hand to glide his thumb across the lower one.
“Do you want to come back…,” Geoffrey started, but Pete moved his thumb to cross both his lips, shutting him up. “I almost screwed it up, didn’t I?” he said, smiling behind Pete’s thumb.
“You were getting close.” Pete gave him one more soft kiss. “Walk me to my car,” he said, smiling, “before you speak again.”
Geoffrey smiled and opened the door, leading Pete by the wrist, which he didn’t stop doing once they hit the street. He kept quiet, sneaking looks at Pete.
“You can actually talk, you know,” Pete said into the once-again companionable silence. Geoffrey simply shook his head. When they got to the Mustang, Geoffrey released his wrist and Pete unlocked the doors with the remote. He turned back to Geoffrey, half-smiling. “Thank you for the nice date,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” Geoffrey said, his voice low and sweet. “I don’t want to screw this up, Pete. Which is really weird for me; I usually can’t wait to do the wrong thing.”
“So we’ll do it again,” Pete said, “and see if we can both refrain from doing the wrong thing.”
__
Wednesday evening, the bar was back to being quiet and nearly empty, and the bartender handed Pete a folded note with his beer. Pete took his first sip of beer before unfolding it.
So, what do you do on the second date?
It was unsigned.
__
The cabin at Red Lake was actually too big to be called a cabin. Or a cottage. It was a house. It had four bedrooms a huge glass-walled living room and a professional-looking kitchen. A multi-level deck wrapped around the back and a trail the led down to a floating dock. The “basic maintenance” Pete was supposed to do mainly consisted of letting the maid in on Tuesday and the gardener in on Thursday.
He spent a lot of time sitting in an Adirondack chair on the deck drinking beer and watching the sunset. He never let himself get drunk, or even a little tipsy - he figured that Rick’s uncle probably liked his electronics intact.
Red Lake was a takeout-free zone, so Pete shopped in the little market in New Burbage and taught himself to cook using a laborious process involving a couple of basic cookbooks and trial and error. His mistakes were usually at least edible, and he actually mastered grilled cheese. A month or so after his arrival, he added mashed potatoes and a sautéed chicken dish that Betty Crocker swore was easy, but took a couple of tries to get right, and chocolate chip cookies, even though he ate half the dough raw.
The day he got the chicken right, he figured out what he was doing - learning to make “date food.” Before his date with Geoffrey, cooking had been an expedient method of not starving to death. After, whether he acknowledged it or not, it was starting to be about anticipation.
When he brought it up at therapy, Newton blinked at him, but Pete wasn’t sure if it was a reflex or an actual reaction.
The Monday after the note, Geoffrey didn’t show up at the coffee house. Pete drew his latte out to last for forty-five minutes, which was starting to feel a little too thirteen-year-old girl, but it didn’t stop him from going to the market and buying milk and sugar and chocolate chips. On a whim, he stopped by the bar and surprised the bartender (who was cutting up limes) by leaving a note of his own.
Meet me here tomorrow at 6:00 and find out.
He didn’t sign his either, but when he parked the Mustang in front of the bar on Tuesday evening, Geoffrey was waiting on the sidewalk, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, a small smile on his face. Pete leaned over and opened the passenger-side door in invitation, then sank back into his own seat. He felt a weight lift when Geoffrey got into the car and closed the door.
“Hey,” Geoffrey said.
Pete smiled at him. “Decided to take a chance?” he asked.
Geoffrey tilted his head and looked at Pete. “I really do want to know what you do on the second date.”
Pete pulled out of the parking space. Once he was through the traffic and onto the road that led to Red Lake, he sneaked a glance at Geoffrey, who was still looking at him quizzically. “I cook,” Pete said.
“What?” Geoffrey said.
Pete smirked at him, then returned his eyes to the road. “That’s what I do on the second date,” he said. “I cook.”
Geoffrey stayed silent for quite a while, head turned toward the window. “Do you cook and put out, or do you just cook?”
Pete laughed, then took his hand off the steering wheel long enough to lay it on Geoffrey’s thigh for a minute. “Depends on how dinner goes.”
By the time they reached the house, the sunset was just beginning. Pete walked Geoffrey through the house, stopping in the kitchen for two beers, then led him onto the deck. They stood at the edge and watched the sun set over the lake. Geoffrey put his beer down, placing both hands on the rail and leaning out toward the lake, his eyes going half-closed and a small smile curving his mouth.
When the sun was gone, Geoffrey turned around, looking at Pete in the dusky light. “Nice,” he said. “You come out here every night?”
Pete nodded. “Every night except Wednesday. It’s something of a tradition.” He didn’t want to say that it was one of his favorite memories of Rodney - the moment when all the bluster had given way to a closet romantic. After a while, it had become his own tradition; a time to remind himself that there were things in the world that were constants, even when he sometimes felt out of control.
Pete stood perfectly still as Geoffrey advanced on him with measured steps, and sat his beer on the rail before Geoffrey stopped just inside Pete’s personal space. Pete let Geoffrey get even closer, let him thread warm hands around his waist and lean in for a soft kiss. Pete brought his hands up to gently cup Geoffrey’s face and kissed back, feeling the light burn of Geoffrey’s stubble; silky curls against his fingertips.
Pete broke the kiss and stepped back, feeling Geoffrey’s hands slip slowly off his hips. Pete picked up his beer and gestured toward the house. “Come on,” he said. “Let me make you dinner.” Geoffrey followed.
Back in the kitchen, Pete took ingredients out of the refrigerator, and Geoffrey settled himself in the corner formed where two counters came together, not preventing Pete from getting by, but forcing him to pass closely. Each time Pete moved past him, Geoffrey reached out, sometimes brushing his fingers against Pete’s wrist, sometimes a fleeting touch to his hip or shoulder.
The little touches both aroused and amazed Pete. Their easy gentleness made his heart beat a little faster. He was also amazed by the subtlety of the actions - he’d had no idea that Geoffrey could do subtle. They didn’t talk much while Pete cooked, but Pete found that he didn’t mind. Where Rodney had been a running commentary, Geoffrey seemed to hold back, to make each word count.
“Tell me about the new show,” Pete said, putting a lid on the mashed potatoes to keep them hot, before pouring olive oil into a hot skillet.
“Hamlet,” Geoffrey said.
“Is that why you’re so quiet?” Pete asked. “Does it bug you to direct it?”
“No,” Geoffrey said. “I fired the first director, so I had no choice.”
Pete put the chicken in the skillet and nodded. “Why’d you fire him?” He jumped slightly when Geoffrey moved up behind him and slid arms around his waist, resting his chin on Pete’s shoulder.
“He was a pretentious ass,” Geoffrey said. “And he fenced like a girl.”
Pete turned his head, letting his lips brush against Geoffrey’s cheekbone before turning back to look at the chicken. “You theatre people are weird.”
“We are that.” Geoffrey spread one warm hand across Pete’s belly, the other resting against his belt buckle.
Pete leaned back against Geoffrey’s chest for a moment, before grabbing a bowl full of sliced peppers, putting them in the pan and covering them with the lid. He pushed back against Geoffrey’s chest again, forcing him back a half-step. Once he had room, he turned in Geoffrey’s arms and eased his hands up to Geoffrey’s shoulders, wrapping them around the curved muscle there.
“How am I doing on this second date thing?” Geoffrey’s breath ghosted across Pete’s lips, warm and a little beery.
“I have no complaints whatsoever,” Pete said, leaning forward to capture Geoffrey’s lips with his own. This kiss was a little deeper than the one out on the deck, but still softer than the ones in the dark, backstage - slow and languorous, a sweet exchange that promised so much more.
“Chicken,” Geoffrey said when he pulled up for air.
“I’m not afraid of you,” Pete said a little breathlessly.
“On the stove,” Geoffrey said, using the hand on Pete’s waist to turn him back to the sizzling pan.
Pete was glad Geoffrey was behind him, because he was blushing like a schoolgirl as he moved the chicken off the heat and reached for plates from the cupboard. “Will you grab silverware?” he said. “Last drawer on the right.”
Geoffrey brushed a light kiss across the nape of Pete’s neck before turning away, and Pete tried to suppress the resultant shiver. He got the food onto the plates and carried them to the kitchen table, where Geoffrey was laying out napkins and forks and knives.
“We could have eaten in the dining room,” Pete said, sliding the plates onto the table. “But it’s huge and formal and it makes me nervous.”
Geoffrey looked up at that. “Nervous?”
Pete smiled. “I feel like I should have good manners or something in there. Creeps me out. Is beer okay?”
Geoffrey nodded and sat down. “This looks good,” he said, looking down at the plate. “I’m cooking impaired.”
Pete grinned. “This is the only thing I know how to make except for grilled cheese.” He cut into the chicken on his plate.
Geoffrey smirked at him. “So I guess we’ll have to go out for break-”
Pete stuck his bite of chicken into Geoffrey’s mouth.
The rest of dinner passed without incident, mainly because Geoffrey shut up a lot.
__
Pete washed and Geoffrey dried; Pete noticed that he did a crappy job at it, but he didn’t really care. It seemed weird to be dating a guy who wasn’t Rodney. Rodney had been his “training wheels,” as Rick had put it, so he wasn’t really sure what to do, especially since Geoffrey, while making suggestive remarks, seemed content to let Pete run the show. Pete wasn’t exactly sure about the etiquette, frankly. By the time he’d gotten up the nerve to instigate sex with Rodney, they were already comfortable with one another, so it was a safe environment.
Most difficult of all was the fact that Pete was really attracted to Geoffrey. For all that Geoffrey worried about screwing it up, Pete did, too. Every time he passed a wet dish off to Geoffrey and their fingers brushed, Pete felt little flares of heat up his arm. There was some weird mix of knowing and tentative going on with Geoffrey, and it made Pete feel…strange, but protective, in a way.
“What’s for dessert?” Geoffrey asked, drying the last plate. He handed the towel to Pete, who dried his hands on it and hung it up.
“Well, you have a choice,” Pete said, not looking at Geoffrey. “Chocolate chip cookies or making out on the couch.”
Geoffrey took Pete’s hand and tugged until Pete looked up. “Can’t I have both?” he asked plaintively.
For that, Pete had to kiss him, and things started to get a little heated, Geoffrey sliding his tongue easily into Pete’s mouth while tangling one hand in his hair, stroking the ridge of bone behind Pete’s ear with his thumb. Pete upped the stakes by moving one hand off Geoffrey’s waist and over a soft hip to put it lightly on his ass. That stupid knee-length coat (thankfully residing on the back of one of the kitchen chairs) and untucked shirt hid the fact that Geoffrey had a great ass, so Pete’s other hand joined in.
“Oh,” Geoffrey said, the word coming out as a moan against Pete’s lips. He pulled back. “Can I trade in my cookies for additional making out?”
Pete took his hands off Geoffrey’s ass long enough to pull him into the living room and push him down gently onto the big, soft couch. He climbed on next to him and took Geoffrey’s face in his hands. Pete punctuated a soft kiss with a slow roll of his hips, letting Geoffrey feel how hard he was. Pete felt Geoffrey’s cock against his own, just as hard. Geoffrey moaned, his hands coming around to Pete’s ass, which felt fantastic.
Pete shifted around to free one of his hands and slipped it under Geoffrey’s tee shirt, stroking against the hot skin of his abdomen, ruffling the soft hair there. The sound Geoffrey made into his mouth was half groan, half gasp, and Pete shoved his shirt up higher, touching smooth muscle and brushing the tips of his fingers over a nipple. He moved from Geoffrey’s mouth to his neck, kissing and gently biting.
“Oh, god,” Geoffrey said, his fingers tightening on Pete’s back. “If this is second date stuff, the third one’s going to kill me.”
Pete didn’t really have an answer for that, so he simply rolled his hips again, loving the feel of his cock sliding against Geoffrey’s through the layers of their clothes. He pushed and pulled, getting Geoffrey onto his back under him. Pete got one hand down onto the sofa for more leverage and shoved down against Geoffrey, setting up a slow rhythm. Geoffrey got his hands on Pete’s hips, thumbs pressing the hollows, fingers digging in.
But he wasn’t pushing up to rub against Pete; he was pushing Pete away, while trying to hold his body back. Pete finally understood and lifted his head, stopping the motion of his hips and propping himself on his hands to look down into Geoffrey’s flushed face.
“Are you okay?” Pete was breathing hard, but he resolutely kept his lower body still.
“You’re just…oh, god…you’re going to make me come in my pants,” Geoffrey panted, shuddering.
“Shhh,” Pete said, lifting himself completely away, getting his knees onto the couch. “It’s all right. I won’t.”
He waited until Geoffrey’s breathing evened out and Geoffrey’s eyes closed in relief, coming back from the edge.
“I’m sorry,” Geoffrey said, eyes still closed. “You…I’ve just never…”
“What?” Pete said, laughing just a little. “You’ve never come in your pants? Weren’t you ever a teenager?”
Geoffrey’s eyes opened, and Pete could see a little panic there. “I’ve just never done this before.”
“Whoa,” Pete said. “You mean this?” he punctuated his question by lowering himself into a short hip roll that made Geoffrey jerk. “Or this?” This time he gestured between the two of them.
“Both,” Geoffrey said, and the panic on his face ratcheted up another level.
Pete levered himself off Geoffrey’s body and pulled them both around to sit on the sofa side by side. He put his hand on Geoffrey’s knee, hoping that he’d understand that he wasn’t being rejected.
“You’ve never been with a guy,” Pete said flatly.
Geoffrey nodded, bringing one hand up to rub at his forehead. “Yeah.”
“Then all of the…bravado?” Pete formed the word carefully.
“Bluff,” Geoffrey said.
This time Pete brought a hand up to rub his forehead. “Oh, fuck,” he said. “I’m the training wheels.” He turned his head to the side to look Geoffrey in the face. “It’s okay,” he said. “I just would have gone a little…slower, you know? I don’t want to freak you out.”
“I’m not freaked out,” Geoffrey said. “I just didn’t want to make a rookie mistake.”
Pete squeezed Geoffrey’s knee. “So,” he said, moving his hand to Geoffrey’s back, rubbing softly. “You’re straight?” He had sudden thoughts of ‘reaping what you sowed’ and ‘hoist by your own petard,’ and he had a vision of Rodney and Rick, laughing themselves sick at him.
“I’m more…theoretically bisexual,” Geoffrey said.
“I think we’ve moved past theory,” Pete said, “and right into practice.”
“Wanna practice some more?” Geoffrey was getting his spark back, and Pete was glad of it. He didn’t want to give this up, and he could go slowly; he could take a page out of Rodney’s book. Then he remembered that the first time he and Rodney had sex was almost exactly like this, except they’d managed to get their pants mostly off, and that Rodney had kept them on their sides, so Pete hadn’t felt trapped.
He thought about Geoffrey and his actions for a second and realized that everything Geoffrey had done to or with him before had been things he’d do with women, which explained a lot. He shook his head and directed himself to the problem at hand.
“Yeah,” Pete said. “I do. Let’s just switch it up a little and put you on top; that way you can set the pace.” He leaned over and kissed Geoffrey gently, and then moved around to lie on his back. Geoffrey got himself arranged on top, and Pete could feel that both of them were hard again.
“Prop up on your hands,” Pete said, shoving his shirt up and out of the way, getting his jeans unfastened and pushing both them and his boxers down his hips, letting them bunch up half way down his thighs. When he raised his head, Geoffrey was staring down at his cock, and the look on his face made it twitch in reaction. He pushed the oxford off Geoffrey’s shoulders and helped him shrug out of it one arm at a time, then rucked his tee shirt up under his arms. He put his hands on Geoffrey’s belt, slowly sliding it through the loops and abandoning it to the floor. He opened Geoffrey’s black trousers and pushed them down. “Commando, huh?”
“Too lazy to do laundry,” Geoffrey admitted.
Pete wrapped his fingers around Geoffrey’s hips and eased him down, their cocks lining up. He felt the catch and slide and wished the lube wasn’t all the way in the bedroom. He licked his palm and pushed his hand between them, wrapping it around both of their cocks.
Geoffrey made some sort of questioning noise, even as he eagerly fucked into Pete’s hand.
“Don’t worry,” Pete reassured him. “We’ll do the other later, once we move into the bedroom and have some slick.”
That, and about four more strokes was all it took to make Geoffrey come, his cock jerking against Pete’s belly. The extra slipperiness let Pete get himself to the edge faster, and he came about a minute later. Geoffrey was still propped up on shaky arms.
“Come here,” Pete told him, quickly wiping his wet hand on his shirt before holding out his arms. “It’s okay.” He braced himself, and Geoffrey collapsed down onto his chest, burying his face in Pete’s neck. Pete rubbed Geoffrey’s back, calming him, letting his breathing slow. He got them over onto their sides and pulled off his tee shirt to mop up the mess on their stomachs.
“So,” Pete said, throwing the shirt to the floor and smoothing Geoffrey’s sweat-damp hair back. “How’s that theory coming?”
Geoffrey bit him gently on the collarbone, then lifted his head to smile at Pete. “Practice makes perfect, right?”
Pete smiled and rolled himself off the couch, easing his pants and boxers back into place. He helped Geoffrey up and did the same with his before pulling the hem of his tee shirt back down. Pete’s own shirt was a loss, wet with both of their come, so he carelessly pitched it toward the bathroom.
Geoffrey leaned down and snagged his oxford by the collar and handed it to Pete, who slipped it on without buttoning it. The white cotton framed his dark chest hair, and he could see by the blazing look he received that Geoffrey liked it.
Pete led Geoffrey into the kitchen and stopped to turn the oven on. He grabbed a cookie sheet, then opened the fridge and pulled out an already-prepared bowl of cookie dough. He went to the sink to wash his hands, unsurprised when Geoffrey moved up behind him, wrapped his arms around Pete’s waist and moved their hands together under the warm water and soap suds.
“Thanks,” Geoffrey said, kissing Pete between the shoulder blades.
Pete turned off the water and dried both their hands on a nearby dish towel. He took his time with Geoffrey’s hands, carefully drying between his fingers and rubbing the soft towel against his palms. “Thanks for what?” Pete asked.
Geoffrey buried his head against Pete’s back. “For not making me feel like an ass,” he said.
Pete sighed, shivering at the feel of Geoffrey’s hot breath puffing through the cotton of his borrowed shirt and against his skin. “God, Geoffrey; you think I was born knowing this stuff?”
“Who taught you?” Geoffrey turned slightly to rest his cheek against Pete.
“The only other guy I’ve ever been with.” Pete said it softly, almost reverently, and he spared a thought for Rodney, gone so long. He hoped Rodney was happy, that he’d found someone, wherever he was.
Geoffrey’s hands moved to Pete’s hips, and he laughed. “I owe that guy a fruit basket.”
“Just no citrus,” Pete said absently. “Besides, I wouldn’t know where to tell you to send it.” He pushed Geoffrey back slightly and slipped toward the counter, grabbing Geoffrey’s wrist to pull him over to the bowl of cookie dough and the sheet pan.
Pete pulled two spoons out of the cutlery drawer and showed Geoffrey how to drop the balls of dough onto the cookie sheet. Once the pan was in the oven, he stuck his finger into the dough and offered it to Geoffrey with a smile. Geoffrey sucked Pete’s finger into his mouth, using his tongue to chase down every bit of sweetness. It felt like the world’s softest blowjob, and Pete choked off a low groan.
“You like that, huh?” Geoffrey released Pete’s finger with a pop before asking his smiling question.
“If you’re very good,” Pete said, leaning forward to nip at Geoffrey’s neck, “I’ll show you why later.” Geoffrey started to shudder just as the oven timer went off.
Pete grabbed an oven mitt and pulled the pan out, setting it onto the stove top to cool, slapping Geoffrey’s hand away when he reached for a cookie. “They’re not ready yet. If you pick them up now, they’ll fall apart.”
Geoffrey pouted prettily until Pete took mercy and kissed him for the five minutes it took for the cookies to cool. He moved the cookies onto a plate, but slid the last one onto his hand, gingerly breaking it in half and pulling slowly enough to make the melted chocolate chips separate into gooey strings. Pete held half out to Geoffrey, who took a bite, his eyes going wide at the taste.
“This is Canada,” he said, after swallowing it. “Marry me.”
Pete laughed. “Once you have them with milk,” he said, “you’ll sell me your soul.”
Geoffrey hustled to the refrigerator, and Pete took the opportunity of the distraction to shove the rest of the cookie into his mouth and start spooning more dough onto the pan. By the time he’d gotten them into the oven, Geoffrey had poured two large glasses of milk and was waiting expectantly at the table.
Pete carried the plate of cooled cookies over and sat across from Geoffrey, tangling their feet together, watching as the first cookie was consumed, followed by a large sip of milk. “About that soul,” Geoffrey said, as soon as he could talk. “Cash or charge?”
Pete grinned and took his own cookie, dunking it into his glass of milk. “Maybe I’ll take it out in trade.”
Once the second batch of cookies was done, Pete put the bowl of dough back in the fridge. He walked back to the table and gently pulled Geoffrey to his feet. He kissed him, tasting chocolate. “What do you want, Geoffrey?” Pete said, letting his hands wander over Geoffrey’s warm back.
“I have no idea,” Geoffrey mumbled into Pete’s neck. “Is there a menu?”
Pete laughed softly, then put enough room between them to make Geoffrey look him in the eye. “Do you want to stay? Do you want me to take you home? Spontaneously changing your sexual orientation may take some getting used to.”
Geoffrey’s eyes searched Pete’s face. “Would you be mad if I said home? There’s a rehearsal tomorrow, and I…think I need some time.” His eyes widened. “Not...that I didn’t like it…”
Pete laid a finger against Geoffrey’s lips. “It’s fine, don’t panic. I get it. Let me get a clean shirt…”
He was surprised when Geoffrey moved back enough to pull the sides of the white shirt Pete was wearing together and to fasten the center button. “Keep this one,” he said. “You can give it back to me next time.”
Pete recognized it as a promise and quickly fastened the rest of the buttons. He led Geoffrey back to the living room for shoes, then grabbed a jacket for himself while Geoffrey put on his black coat.
Inside the garage, he ran his finger lightly over the hood of the Mustang, just like he always did, before getting in.
“You really like this car, don’t you?”
Pete smiled and closed his door. “I really do.”
They got on the road back to New Burbage before Pete started to feel that the silence was getting oppressive. He could almost hear the wheels turning in Geoffrey’s head. He reached over and took Geoffrey’s hand, squeezing it before placing it on his thigh, returning his own hand to the wheel. Geoffrey left it there with very little pressure, but Pete could feel his thumb running over the outside seam of his jeans.
“Tell me about the production,” Pete said.
Geoffrey’s fingers tightened, then released on his leg. “Well, my Hamlet is a movie star who can’t string two words together; my Gertrude is my ex and a flaming diva; my Ophelia is an idiot - I think it may be congenital - and the rest of the cast is various flavors of insane. To top things off, I’m the director. It’s pretty much a nightmare.”
Pete smiled. “You love it, don’t you?”
Geoffrey squeezed his leg again. “I do,” he said. “Most fun I’ve had in ages. It’s going to be the worst Hamlet in recorded history and I’m going to be backstage laughing like hell and kissing you.”
“It’s a date,” Pete said, smiling.
“But not the next one, right?” Geoffrey slid his hand a tiny bit up Pete’s thigh.
“Oh, no,” Pete said. “The next one is tomorrow night - 7:30 at the bar.”
“Excellent,” Geoffrey said. “The cast should have completely melted down by then, and I’ll be able to cement their hatred by being with the hottest guy there.”
They didn’t say much for the rest of the drive, but Pete could feel that the tension had eased. Geoffrey gave him directions to a small brick building about a quarter-mile from the theatre, and Pete eased the Mustang to a stop in front of it. Geoffrey’s hand was still on his leg.
“I want to kiss you,” Pete said, turning to Geoffrey in the dim light provided by a nearby streetlamp and the reflection of the headlights off the building.
Geoffrey took off his seatbelt and turned as far as he could toward Pete. “I want you to,” he said.
Pete unhooked his own seatbelt and turned, cupping Geoffrey’s jaw with his hand before leaning in and kissing him. Geoffrey’s hand mirrored the action, and Pete deepened the kiss, slicking his tongue against Geoffrey’s lips and sighing when they opened to him. It was a long kiss, and when they pulled back, they were both panting a little, still touching each others faces.
Geoffrey leaned his forehead against Pete’s. “What do you do on the third date?” he asked softly, his breath whispering over Pete’s lips.
Pete kissed Geoffrey again, a soft touch of lips. “Whatever you want,” he said. “Why don’t you try and think of some things when you’re in bed tonight?”
Geoffrey kissed him again, this time biting Pete’s lower lip. “You are incredibly evil,” he said. “I like that in a person.”
Pete pushed Geoffrey’s shoulder. “Go to bed, go to rehearsal, and meet me at the bar, okay?”
Geoffrey opened his door and blinked in the harsh interior light. “I will,” he said. Pete nodded, and watched as Geoffrey let himself into the building. He put his seatbelt back on and drove home, inordinately pleased with himself. Oh, yeah - the Killer still had it.
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Pete’s Wednesday session with Newton was really fun. He made a point of mentioning that he’d slept with Geoffrey exactly when Newton was sipping from his ubiquitous mug of coffee. He had to hide a grin when Newton choked and spluttered. He still didn’t get any reaction past “hmmmm” and “how do you feel about that?” but it was so worth it.
When he got to the bar, it was almost empty. He asked the bartender why.
“Rehearsal’s gone long I suppose,” the bartender said, polishing glasses. “The usual?”
Pete raised a hand. “Not just yet.” He thought about it, then decided that he wanted to see what all the fuss was about. “I’ll be back,” he told the bartender.
He walked over to the theatre and checked to see if the front door was unlocked. It was, so he let himself in. He followed the signs from the lobby to the theatre proper and eased the door open.
The same brittle-looking woman he’d seen at the bar the first time he’d met Geoffrey was storming across the stage, waving her script. A young man was sitting on the red sofa that had been there before with his head in his hands and a girl with red ringlets was dancing across the stage, flailing her arms in what should have been graceful movements but weren’t.
Pete could hear their voices, but not make out actual words. He slipped into the aisle seat in the back row and took it all in. Geoffrey walked onto the stage from the wings, stopping the lady with the script by grabbing her shoulders and looking down into her eyes as he spoke. Whatever he was saying must have worked, because she pushed away from Geoffrey and huffed back to the spot she’d come from. Next, Geoffrey pointed a finger at the dancing girl, which made her stop twirling and look at the floor.
Geoffrey turned to the guy on the sofa. He knelt down in front of him and Pete could hear the low rumble of Geoffrey’s voice, hypnotic and strong. After a few minutes, the kid on the sofa looked up. Geoffrey balanced himself with one hand and kept talking, and the kid’s head rose up higher and higher, until he was looking Geoffrey straight in the face and nodding.
Geoffrey said one last thing to the kid, then stood and clapped once before making shooing motions with his hands. Everyone moved off the stage and into the wings except Geoffrey, who raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the footlights, then walked to the front of the stage and slipped gracefully to the theatre floor.
As soon as Geoffrey got closer, Pete could see the grin on his face, which turned into a sweet smile when he got to Pete’s row.
“You were late,” Pete said, standing. “I thought I’d come get you.”
Geoffrey put a hand on Pete’s shoulder and leaned in to kiss him softly on the mouth. Then Geoffrey turned and ushered him toward the door. “Sorry I was late,” he said.
“You look like you need a drink,” Pete said, letting his hand slide down to hold Geoffrey’s wrist.
“Do they make an octuple Scotch?” Geoffrey sounded exhausted.
Pete led him to the bar and made a beeline for his usual stool. Geoffrey pulled himself onto the one next to Pete’s. The bartender slid a Maverick and a double Scotch in front of them. “Good man,” Geoffrey said.
Pete watched the motion of Geoffrey throat as he swallowed about half his drink. Pete took a long sip of his beer, then turned slightly on his stool. “Bad day at the office, dear?”
Geoffrey smirked at him. “Well, if someone hadn’t kept me up most of the night thinking, I probably would have slept better.”
Pete smirked back. “Did you think of anything good?”
Geoffrey shot back the rest of his drink, and shook his head when the bartender moved to get him another. “Drink up,” he said, looking at Pete.
Pete took one more long sip of his beer, then set it down and threw some funny-colored money down on the bar. He looked questioningly at Geoffrey, who nodded.
When they got outside, Geoffrey took hold of his wrist and started off toward his building. Pete followed, amused by Geoffrey’s eagerness. He kept his other hand in his jacket pocket feeling the soft shape of the tube of lubricant he’d put there just before leaving the house. He was pretty sure he knew what Geoffrey had been thinking about.
Geoffrey’s apartment was a lot like Geoffrey himself - it was sort of tidy, but sort of not. The living room held a well-worn plaid couch, a brown leather recliner and the rhinoceros head from the theatre. His kitchen looked pristine, as if it had never been cooked in - which was a very real possibility - and a counter held a phone and a huge stack of take-out menus, a half-bottle of Scotch and a single glass.
Pete didn’t get to notice much more, because Geoffrey was gently leading him to the bedroom, where an open closet held a row of solid-colored oxford shirts, and several pairs of shoes were kicked haphazardly on the floor. An armchair held a pile of clean laundry, and the wide bed was sort of made, with a comforter mostly pulled up and pillows thrown almost to the headboard.
Geoffrey started pushing Pete’s jacket down his arms. “That thing…last night…when you nearly made me come in my pants. I want that. Just without the pants.” He leaned in to kiss Pete’s neck, biting just a little. Pete groaned and managed to get his hand into his pocket before his arms were completely trapped by the coat.
He tossed the tube onto the bed. “We’ll need that,” he said letting Geoffrey strip his jacket down his arms and kicking off his shoes. “Slow down,” he said quietly. He ran a hand through Geoffrey hair onto the back of his neck. “Slow down.”
Geoffrey did - taking and releasing a deep breath. His mouth gentled against Pete’s throat and he pulled Pete’s tee shirt up just enough to rub over the hot skin of his back. Pete pushed Geoffrey’s jacket off and also slid today’s oxford - pale blue - down his arms. Once both were gone, Pete ran his own hand lightly up Geoffrey’s navy tee shirt.
“You feel so good,” Geoffrey murmured, moving one hand around the front to pet the dark hair just above the waistband of Pete’s jeans. Geoffrey’s nimble fingers undid the jeans’ button, but they hesitated when they got to the zipper. Pete placed his hand over Geoffrey’s, and they pulled the tab of the zipper down together.
When Geoffrey looked down, he made a noise that could have been a laugh. “Commando? You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
Pete nuzzled the side of his face. “Sure of you,” he said.
“I don’t know if I should be turned on or offended by that,” Geoffrey said.
Pete reached around and opened Geoffrey’s pants, looking down. “Like you have room to talk,” he said, taking in Geoffrey’s complete lack of underwear. Pete slid to his knees, taking Geoffrey’s pants with him. He pulled them down and off, one leg at a time, taking socks with him, and he wondered when Geoffrey had lost his shoes. He looked up to see Geoffrey staring down at him, dumbstruck.
Pete moved forward to gently bite Geoffrey’s hipbone before coming to his feet and stripping off his own pants. He herded Geoffrey back toward the bed and pushed him down flat. He slid onto the bed, and propped himself up on one elbow.
“How do you want to do this?” he asked. “How do you want me?” At his words, Pete could feel the shiver that ran through Geoffrey’s body.
“On top. I liked it when you pinned me down,” Geoffrey admitted, raising himself up enough to look at Pete.
Pete kissed him, searching for the lube with one hand. He found it, then pulled back from Geoffrey’s mouth so he could open the tube. He slicked his own cock, then reached for Geoffrey’s. “This is going to be cold at first, sorry,” he said, not actually all that sorry. The chill would keep Geoffrey’s arousal in check, and Pete wanted this to last. He wrapped his wet hand around Geoffrey’s cock and slicked it with a slow stroke. He caught Geoffrey’s hiss in his mouth.
Pete wiped his hand on the corner of the comforter, then rolled his body on top of Geoffrey’s, pressing their hips together. The slick slide felt so good, and the lube did warm up as Pete started to really move.
“Oh, god,” Geoffrey moaned, spreading his legs. “Oh, god.”
Pete dropped down even further, propping himself on his elbows rather than his palms, getting some leverage with his knees on the bed between Geoffrey’s legs. He rolled his hips, starting a slow rhythm that had Geoffrey pushing up, frustrated.
“Easy,” Pete said. “I’ve got you.” He kissed Geoffrey slowly, and felt warm fingers clutch at his shoulders before sliding down to hold his hips. Pete slowed even further for a minute, trying to tell if Geoffrey was pushing him away. He wasn’t; he was pulling him forward.
“Come on, come on.” Geoffrey muttered against Pete’s mouth, sounding like his teeth were clenched. “Move, damnit.”
“Like this?” Pete slowed down even further, his cock sliding down the whole length of Geoffrey’s before moving back up. Geoffrey groaned. “Or like this?” Pete asked, pushing fast and hard against Geoffrey’s whole body.
“Please, god - that,” Geoffrey moaned, “that.” He brought his knees up to bracket Pete’s hips and pushed his head back onto the pillow, his long throat exposed.
Pete kept his hips moving and dropped his mouth to Geoffrey’s neck, biting and sucking, not caring that he was probably leaving a mark. The pressure on his neck made Geoffrey’s hips stutter; and Pete felt him come, his whole body tensing and arching up. Without releasing Geoffrey’s throat, Pete rubbed his cock through the warm lube and warmer come between them, pushing his way to orgasm, gasping into Geoffrey’s neck and falling down onto his chest.
He finally eased up on Geoffrey’s neck, caught between sly smugness at the mark and a sort of “oops” reaction when he realized that the hickey would be clearly visible above the collars of both Geoffrey’s shirts.
“Sorry,” Pete said, leaning in to bite the bruise one more time. Geoffrey moaned and pushed into the bite. Pete slowly pulled back. “Um, unless you have a turtleneck,” he said, “pretty much everyone will know what we’ve been up to.”
Geoffrey brought a hand up to touch the hickey experimentally, smiling when he found the tender spot. “Who cares? Wouldn’t have pegged you for a biter, Sherman,” he said.
“You must bring out the animal in me,” Pete said.
Geoffrey pushed them over onto their sides, keeping their bodies tight together. He looked at Pete very seriously. “Do you think it has something to do with the rhinoceros?”
Continues in Part 2
Fandom(s): This story is a crossover between Sherman's March and Slings & Arrows. Its prequels included a crossover with Stargate Atlantis.
Pairing: Pete Sherman/Geoffrey Tennant, mentions of Pete Sherman/Rodney McKay
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Eight months after Rodney’s departure, Pete had the quietest nervous breakdown in the history of nervous breakdowns.
ETA: If you've never seen Sherman's March, you can download a quick video primer: here. (right click and save, please)
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14 Valentines: Body Image