Silvadene
Disclaimer: If they were mine... but they aren't. (Sigh.)
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Matt/Becker
Warnings: slash, American spelling, no spoilers
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 777
Soundtrack: "Sweet Dream" (Greg Laswell)
Summary: Becker hurts. Matt comforts. Also, there is music.
Author's Notes: Written for the lovely fictionalcandie's birthday. <3. If you're curious about Matt's playlist, it's here.
Silvadene
Primeval - Matt/Becker
Becker should be used to it by now -- bullet wounds, broken bones, gashes from teeth and claws -- but somehow the pain manages to surprise him every time. Today it’s a second degree burn across the right side of his ribcage. He’s more than willing to take an occasional beating if it means his whole team makes it home safe at the end of the day, but it still stings like hell.
And Matt’s too bloody perceptive. He must have caught Becker gritting his teeth, or seen the careful way he pulled on his clean shirt in the locker room. Why else would he gently but insistently bundle the soldier into his truck and drive him back to his own sparsely decorated flat?
When they arrive, Matt directs him to the bedroom -- Becker’s suggestively raised eyebrow is met with a smirk of amused chastisement -- and leaves him there as he rummages around in a well-stocked first aid cupboard down the hall. He returns with gauze and tape and small blue jar of burn ointment, which he dumps in a small pile on the bed.
“Alright, Becker. Shirt off,” he commands quietly.
Becker would like to make a joke here, just to ease the sexual tension hanging thick in the air, but he’s distracted by pain, sharp and hot, when the cotton of his shirt drags over the burn on his side. Matt -- again, too bloody perceptive -- steps in to help him, and suddenly he’s very, very close.
Becker blames the shortness of breath on the pain. It’s the pain, of course, and not the subtle woodsy scent of Matt’s cologne.
Matt slides the shirt slowly up Becker’s chest and over his head, careful to avoid the angry red burn stretching over his ribcage. When he sees that the edges of the burn extend down past the edge of Becker’s jeans, he reaches for his belt. Before long, Becker’s standing there in nothing but his shorts.
This isn’t exactly how he pictures things when he imagines Matt undressing him. And if he’s being honest, it’s something he thinks about a lot. He remembers watching Matt walking into the ops room at the ARC for the first time last year, all intense eyes and gentle brogue and quiet confidence. He would deny it if anyone asked, but he had trusted the man instantly. Trusted him and wanted him.
And now here he is, standing almost naked in front of the man he’s been dreaming of for months, and all he can focus on is the raging inferno that seems to be engulfing the entire right side of his torso. It’s tragic, really.
“Shhh,” Matt soothes, noticing the twitching muscle in Becker’s jaw and the deepening crease between his eyebrows. “I know it hurts, pet, but we’ll make it better. I promise.”
Becker considers objecting to the casual term of endearment, but then Matt ghosts a fingertip down his bare arm and grabs his hand to lead him to the bed. Now that’s more like it, Becker thinks, almost managing a pained smile.
Matt sits back against the headboard, drags a pillow into his lap, and pats it as if calling a dog. Becker rolls his eyes rather dramatically, but settles his head down on the pillow nonetheless, trying not to feel like a five-year-old girl clinging to her mother as Matt slathers some sort of sparkly cream from the blue jar onto his burned skin. The cream has a cooling effect, and Becker feels some of the tension seep out of him.
With his free hand, Matt picks up a small remote from his bedside table and clicks it in the direction of the stereo where his MP3 player is docked. A series of wistful acoustic songs begins, as much a balm as the cream that Matt is still smoothing across Becker’s side. Becker’s eyelids start to feel heavy as Matt hums absently to the music.
When he knows the words, he sings along softly in a clear, lilting tenor. Becker’s favorite bit is a brief little wisp of a song he’s never heard before:
If I could write out my own dream
For the next time that I sleep,
You’d be the first one I would see,
And I the last one you would keep.
And the dream would go on and on,
While we’d sway
Against all things thrown our way.
And the morning would be so cruel
When it came,
With sunshine and warmth to blame
For announcing the end of my sweet dream.
Eyes closed, Becker imagines he feels Matt’s lips brush softly across his forehead just as he drifts off to sleep.