Fic: Every Plan A Tiny Prayer
Title: Every Plan A Tiny Prayer
Rating: R-sh
Word Count: 2400ish
Summary: Established relationship, on-call room sex. Why? Because I've clearly been watching too much Grey's Anatomy, that's why. No more!
A/N: This is...this is odd in that it's almost vaguely cracky and then it isn't and then it is again. You know how we want to be able to set things far enough in the future/ in some kind of AU where everything could possible work out and a normal relationship could be sustained? Yep, this would be that. Thanks to lotus0kid and englishmuffin2 for the encouragement.
“And I’m going to need you to check in on the interns every few minutes, or they’re going to neglect ol’ Mr. Kaufman right back into his coma. Is that clear, Nurse Petrelli?”
“Yes sir,” he nods, and tries to keep from rolling his eyes.
“Good job, Nurse-“ Dr. Williams glances up from the chart in his hands and blinks a couple of times. “Petrelli?”
And Peter sighs, quietly, and looks around, and sure enough…
He does roll his eyes this time, as he ducks, concentrates, and straightens up.
“Yes sir?”
Suspicious eyes look him over for an uncomfortably long time, and thin lips slide into a frown.
“Where did you go?” he says, as if sure that the only honest answer would be “around the corner to steal narcotics.”
“I was picking up a-“ Peter struggles not to jump at the feeling of a hand on his ass, and smiles tightly. “Just picking up a pen.”
He waves it genially, and maintains his smile as the doctor grabs the pen out of his hand, as he feels someone else’s hand creep up the back of his neck and stroke lightly through his hair.
“Sure,” Dr. Williams gives him another once over, clicking at the red and black plastic as Peter struggles to think only about the counter he’s gripping, not the warmth pressing against his back, the wave of suggestions about just what the counter he’s gripping could be used for.
“Anything else, sir?” he says, without even the hint of breathlessness, and tries to keep from smirking. Which is easy, compared to trying to keep from reacting to the pressure of a hand on his hip.
“No, just…” the man shakes his head, clicks the pen one last time, and turns around. “Have a nice night.”
And Peter shuts his eyes, and breathes again, and feels the familiar, infuriating rumble of laughter ripple through him.
“What the hell, Claude?” he hisses, looking around for signs that anyone saw the new, probably-crazy nurse disappear into thin air, and not being terribly comforted by the fact that no one seems to have noticed anything. “What are you doing here?”
“Just comin’ by to see you, love,” murmured lightly against his neck, and followed by a sarcastic kiss. And god, only Claude could make that sarcastic.
“Shut up,” Peter groans, slipping out from the arms that are halfway through wrapping themselves around him, and stalks off down the hall. “Seriously. I’m working, and you just show up, and everyone already thinks I’m crazy…”
“…missed you oh so terribly. Thought my heart would just about burst, without-“
Peter groans again (is this really what he was going to get, every time he encouraged Claude to open up a little?), and pushes through the door to what he thinks is the bathroom.
“Without bein’ able to see you,“ Claude follows him, into what he hazily realizes isn’t a bathroom, as he’s finally able to get a good look at the figure he’d only caught the edges of before. He sighs.
“What happened?” he says, reaching up a hand to touch at the beginning of what’s going to turn into an awesome black eye.
“Dunno,” Claude grins, and doesn’t move away from his hand. “Woke up like this, think it might’ve been this bloke I’m sleepin’ with.”
“Oh, yeah?” he frowns, lets his fingers slip down Claude’s face, across his jaw, down the side of his neck.
“Moves around like you wouldn’t believe, flappin’ all over the place. I’m just lucky I didn’t have to get stitches over it.”
“Claude…” is all he has to say, and he frowns.
“Shape-shifter. Put up a bit of a fight, but we got it sorted.”
“Yeah, after he got you sorted,” he smiles, because there doesn’t look to be any other damage.
“You should’ve seen him,” Claude says, and Peter rolls his eyes. “Anyway, got off a bit early after that. And I thought…”
“You thought you’d come by and see if I could get off, a bit early?” Peter gives as disapproving a look as he can manage, arms crossed over his chest and everything.
Claude’s the one who groans this time, as if thoroughly offended.
“Oh, like you haven’t said worse,” Peter doesn’t bother holding back a smile. “That was it though, wasn’t it?”
“You sayin’ no?”
“I’m at work,” Peter waves emphatically at the room around him, and Claude just keeps smirking.
“Which is why you brought me to the, what do you call it, the-“
“The on-call room,” he sighs, brings a hand up to his forehead, because there’s no way he’s going to be able to prove it wasn’t intentional. “Just to talk, though.”
Claude nods, as if resigned. “Suppose I’ll just have to wait till you get home, then?”
“I guess you will,” he nods back, as Claude steps closer to him. “Just like I do, when you’re late. Or away. Or too tired.”
“I’m never too tired.”
“Of course not,” Peter grins up, as Claude mock-glares down.
“’s not me that lacks in…”
“Stamina?” he breathes, just under Claude’s lips.
“Self control,” and Claude’s hands are around his back, pulling him flush against the body he’s just about ready to melt against, and all he has to do is lean up.
And he does; and it’s the slow, lingering heat of always, lips and chests and hips moving together.
Until Claude pulls away, of course.
Grinning, of course.
“Right, then,” Claude gives him another brisk nod, and a peck on the cheek. “Was worth a shot.”
And doesn’t quite make it to the door before Peter pushes him up against it, maybe a little desperately, but he’s not about to let Claude comment on that.
Not that Claude seems about to, spinning him around before he can react.
Kissing him fully and deeply as he struggles to turn down the lights, to lock the door, to pull away enough to be able to speak.
“This is a really bad idea,” he mumbles once he can, Claude’s hands warm on the small of his back and breath uneven on his cheek.
“That stopping you?”
“Just got to be…” he chokes back a giggle, at the slip of long fingers under his shirt. “Got to be quick.”
“I can do quick. And don’t-“ Peter smiles under the palm pressed to his mouth before he can say anything, trying not to laugh at the stern look. “Don’t say anythin’ clever about that.”
“Okay, okay,” he mumbles, unbuckling Claude’s belt as the man undoes the drawstring of his scrubs and pushes them past his hips.
Steps out of them, and sighs into another quick kiss, his arms looping over Claude’s shoulders and his legs twining around Claude’s waist. And he squirms, desperate for friction, trying to catch Claude’s mouth with his own, trying to set a rhythm. Finally settles on letting his head fall back, gasping at the quick kisses darting down his neck and….
“Pete?” soft, under his ear and he turns his head.
“Yeah?”
“What’re we doin’?”
“What….what do you…” he takes as deep a breath as he can, and stares, incredulous. “What do mean what are we-“
“Room full of beds, Pete,” and Claude is looking at him as if he’s just about the most amusingly insane person he’s ever met, which Peter highly doubts is true.
“They’re for people to sleep in,” he says, logically, and squirms again, grinding against Claude’s erection. Grinning, pushing back against the door for leverage as he cants his hips slowly, encouraging. “Come on…”
“Easy for…” Claude lets out a labored breath and gives a tight smile, grabbing his hips and pining them to the door. “Easy for you to say, Pete, when someone else’s doin’ the heavy liftin’.”
“Claude…” he whines, as the man gives him a look that brooks no argument, and before he can say anything else, Claude’s pulling him away from the wall. Hands under his thighs and his own hold around the man’s neck keeping him up, and, “Yeah, this is so much easier on you…”
“Will be, once you stop talkin’,” and he’s tossed, not especially gently, onto the closest of the narrow (all the better to discourage this sort of thing, he figures) beds, and Claude grins down at him, completely ignoring his glare.
Because he is annoyed, even as Claude eases on top of him, and kisses him again, and then he can’t be, because there’s too much else to concentrate on.
The tongue sliding possessively into his mouth, the weight of the body pressing him into the mattress, and the hand pushing his shirt up and rubbing across his chest, and he’s having a lot of trouble so much as breathing, really.
Claude pulls away, just barely, and Peter tries not to moan.
“Shirts on, then?”
He gives Claude a look that he’s not entirely sure the man can see.
Claude laughs. He saw.
“You did say-“
“Not that quick,” and Claude laughs again, helps him out of his scrubs top, and seems genuinely surprised when Peter lunges at him, bare arms wrapping around his neck and pulling Claude’s mouth to his.
He leans up, following Claude’s lips as he arches away from Peter for a moment, quickly unbuttoning his shirt, and then falls back, as the man pulls it off and tosses it to the floor.
And then leans closer, hovers above Peter, and just looks at him, for a moment that weighs uneasily against him in Claude’s absence.
Because he can’t see Claude’s eyes; too dark in there, even with the hint of florescent lights from the hallway peaking through closed blinds, and something…something feels off, something in the stillness that he’s about to ask about before Claude just shakes his head and presses his lips to Peter’s.
Hands frantic and body tense, rhythm quicker than usual and he’s too lost in the heat and the ache to think about it much, too lost to even take anything but quick, shallow breaths.
His legs around Claude’s waist again, and with every thrust, the shift and slide of the man’s back, the twitch of muscles between his thighs, he’s further and further away from coherence and focus and anything except for the feel and sound and smell of Claude, of the two of them together.
Hands tangled in warm sheets before they’re not, before fingers are curling tight around the cool metallic bars of the simple bed frame, giving him something to push off of.
He rocks up to meet each thrust, hips bucking and shifting beyond his control, back arching and his erection against Claude’s stomach, all for the harder faster deeper he’s long past verbalizing.
His head falls against the mattress as palms slid down his back, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Holding him up, pulling him closer; pushing into him, deep, deeper than Peter thinks he’s ever been or ever could be.
And Claude finally, finally comes, forehead pressed to Peter’s chest, lips still against his skin.
Peter sighs, and smiles, and moves to wrap his arms around him for a moment, to stroke at damp hair and warm skin.
He’s still hard between them but he can wait, he’s willing to, doesn’t mind, except that Claude’s pulling away from him and sliding down a bed that’s much to short for him in he first place.
Quick, wet kisses down his stomach and firm hands pinning his hips to the mattress and it’s almost too much, and then Claude takes him in, and then it is.
“So,” he says, carefully, fingers lingering on Claude’s shoulder and forehead pressed against his neck. “What was all that about?”
“What was all what about?” the man says lightly, and runs a hand down his back.
Peter pulls away, palm against Claude’s chest and expression as serious as he can manage, with the residual glow of orgasm and the feeling of Claude’s arm slung possessively around his waist to contend with.
“You know what,” he murmurs, eyes flickering towards the dulled shine of blue that’s about all he can see, and frowns. “You looking at me like…like you weren’t even sure I was really here, and then…the coming at me like…like it was the last time you’d ever be able to. What happened?”
“Nothing you need concern yourself about,” warning tones and Claude’s body, still tangled with his own, goes tense in a way he hasn’t felt for months.
“Claude,” he starts, before he’s being pushed back, gently, but firmly, against the mattress.
“Shouldn’t you be gettin’ back to work?” is the only thing he says, though, and Peter sighs.
Grabs his shirt off the floor and winces as he stands up to search for his pants. Flips on the light, because otherwise it’ll be impossible, and cringes at the sudden flood of brightness.
And Claude watches him, silent, as he dresses, the ache of fading bruises slightly disappointing but not as much as the return of that guarded, apprising look of Claude’s that he’s gotten a little too used to not seeing.
“Okay, so, I’ll see you later,” he mumbles at the floor, adjusting his name tag and giving Claude one, last, questioning look. “You can get out okay, right?”
“Pete-“
“Okay. Yeah. See you at home, and-“
“He looked like you,” he hears behind him, and turns around. Claude, buttoning up his shirt and seemingly talking to the floor as well, lets out a not terribly amused laugh. “Don’t know how he knew that’d…that’d do it, don’t know how he even knew what you looked like, but…”
“But you got him.”
“’s not about what I did, Pete, it’s…” Claude looks up at him, exasperated, and he chances a smile, small and simple, irrefutable. Claude stares at him for a moment before smiling back. “Yeah, we got him.”
“So it didn’t work,” he’s compelled to point out, walking back towards him, as Claude rolls his eyes and nods grudgingly. “And you’ve really got nothing to worry about at all.”
“Wouldn’t go so far as nothing,” Claude grumbles, obviously ready to start up about nosey, annoying empaths that couldn’t mind their own bloody business, before Peter stops in front of him and leans down.
“Just stay here, okay?” he murmurs, foreheads pressed together, hands framing Claude’s face. “My shift’s over in a couple of hours. We can get dinner or something.”
“Or somethin’?” Claude leers up at him, hands finding their place on his hips, and Peter holds back a laugh.
Drops a kiss to Claude’s mouth, and pulls away before it becomes impossible to do so. “Dinner first, okay?”
“Work first, you idiot,” Claude grins, his hold on Peter’s hips as steady as ever, and then, almost as an afterthought, almost automatically, reaches up to straighten his nametag. “Then we’ll see.”
*
Rating: R-sh
Word Count: 2400ish
Summary: Established relationship, on-call room sex. Why? Because I've clearly been watching too much Grey's Anatomy, that's why. No more!
A/N: This is...this is odd in that it's almost vaguely cracky and then it isn't and then it is again. You know how we want to be able to set things far enough in the future/ in some kind of AU where everything could possible work out and a normal relationship could be sustained? Yep, this would be that. Thanks to lotus0kid and englishmuffin2 for the encouragement.
“And I’m going to need you to check in on the interns every few minutes, or they’re going to neglect ol’ Mr. Kaufman right back into his coma. Is that clear, Nurse Petrelli?”
“Yes sir,” he nods, and tries to keep from rolling his eyes.
“Good job, Nurse-“ Dr. Williams glances up from the chart in his hands and blinks a couple of times. “Petrelli?”
And Peter sighs, quietly, and looks around, and sure enough…
He does roll his eyes this time, as he ducks, concentrates, and straightens up.
“Yes sir?”
Suspicious eyes look him over for an uncomfortably long time, and thin lips slide into a frown.
“Where did you go?” he says, as if sure that the only honest answer would be “around the corner to steal narcotics.”
“I was picking up a-“ Peter struggles not to jump at the feeling of a hand on his ass, and smiles tightly. “Just picking up a pen.”
He waves it genially, and maintains his smile as the doctor grabs the pen out of his hand, as he feels someone else’s hand creep up the back of his neck and stroke lightly through his hair.
“Sure,” Dr. Williams gives him another once over, clicking at the red and black plastic as Peter struggles to think only about the counter he’s gripping, not the warmth pressing against his back, the wave of suggestions about just what the counter he’s gripping could be used for.
“Anything else, sir?” he says, without even the hint of breathlessness, and tries to keep from smirking. Which is easy, compared to trying to keep from reacting to the pressure of a hand on his hip.
“No, just…” the man shakes his head, clicks the pen one last time, and turns around. “Have a nice night.”
And Peter shuts his eyes, and breathes again, and feels the familiar, infuriating rumble of laughter ripple through him.
“What the hell, Claude?” he hisses, looking around for signs that anyone saw the new, probably-crazy nurse disappear into thin air, and not being terribly comforted by the fact that no one seems to have noticed anything. “What are you doing here?”
“Just comin’ by to see you, love,” murmured lightly against his neck, and followed by a sarcastic kiss. And god, only Claude could make that sarcastic.
“Shut up,” Peter groans, slipping out from the arms that are halfway through wrapping themselves around him, and stalks off down the hall. “Seriously. I’m working, and you just show up, and everyone already thinks I’m crazy…”
“…missed you oh so terribly. Thought my heart would just about burst, without-“
Peter groans again (is this really what he was going to get, every time he encouraged Claude to open up a little?), and pushes through the door to what he thinks is the bathroom.
“Without bein’ able to see you,“ Claude follows him, into what he hazily realizes isn’t a bathroom, as he’s finally able to get a good look at the figure he’d only caught the edges of before. He sighs.
“What happened?” he says, reaching up a hand to touch at the beginning of what’s going to turn into an awesome black eye.
“Dunno,” Claude grins, and doesn’t move away from his hand. “Woke up like this, think it might’ve been this bloke I’m sleepin’ with.”
“Oh, yeah?” he frowns, lets his fingers slip down Claude’s face, across his jaw, down the side of his neck.
“Moves around like you wouldn’t believe, flappin’ all over the place. I’m just lucky I didn’t have to get stitches over it.”
“Claude…” is all he has to say, and he frowns.
“Shape-shifter. Put up a bit of a fight, but we got it sorted.”
“Yeah, after he got you sorted,” he smiles, because there doesn’t look to be any other damage.
“You should’ve seen him,” Claude says, and Peter rolls his eyes. “Anyway, got off a bit early after that. And I thought…”
“You thought you’d come by and see if I could get off, a bit early?” Peter gives as disapproving a look as he can manage, arms crossed over his chest and everything.
Claude’s the one who groans this time, as if thoroughly offended.
“Oh, like you haven’t said worse,” Peter doesn’t bother holding back a smile. “That was it though, wasn’t it?”
“You sayin’ no?”
“I’m at work,” Peter waves emphatically at the room around him, and Claude just keeps smirking.
“Which is why you brought me to the, what do you call it, the-“
“The on-call room,” he sighs, brings a hand up to his forehead, because there’s no way he’s going to be able to prove it wasn’t intentional. “Just to talk, though.”
Claude nods, as if resigned. “Suppose I’ll just have to wait till you get home, then?”
“I guess you will,” he nods back, as Claude steps closer to him. “Just like I do, when you’re late. Or away. Or too tired.”
“I’m never too tired.”
“Of course not,” Peter grins up, as Claude mock-glares down.
“’s not me that lacks in…”
“Stamina?” he breathes, just under Claude’s lips.
“Self control,” and Claude’s hands are around his back, pulling him flush against the body he’s just about ready to melt against, and all he has to do is lean up.
And he does; and it’s the slow, lingering heat of always, lips and chests and hips moving together.
Until Claude pulls away, of course.
Grinning, of course.
“Right, then,” Claude gives him another brisk nod, and a peck on the cheek. “Was worth a shot.”
And doesn’t quite make it to the door before Peter pushes him up against it, maybe a little desperately, but he’s not about to let Claude comment on that.
Not that Claude seems about to, spinning him around before he can react.
Kissing him fully and deeply as he struggles to turn down the lights, to lock the door, to pull away enough to be able to speak.
“This is a really bad idea,” he mumbles once he can, Claude’s hands warm on the small of his back and breath uneven on his cheek.
“That stopping you?”
“Just got to be…” he chokes back a giggle, at the slip of long fingers under his shirt. “Got to be quick.”
“I can do quick. And don’t-“ Peter smiles under the palm pressed to his mouth before he can say anything, trying not to laugh at the stern look. “Don’t say anythin’ clever about that.”
“Okay, okay,” he mumbles, unbuckling Claude’s belt as the man undoes the drawstring of his scrubs and pushes them past his hips.
Steps out of them, and sighs into another quick kiss, his arms looping over Claude’s shoulders and his legs twining around Claude’s waist. And he squirms, desperate for friction, trying to catch Claude’s mouth with his own, trying to set a rhythm. Finally settles on letting his head fall back, gasping at the quick kisses darting down his neck and….
“Pete?” soft, under his ear and he turns his head.
“Yeah?”
“What’re we doin’?”
“What….what do you…” he takes as deep a breath as he can, and stares, incredulous. “What do mean what are we-“
“Room full of beds, Pete,” and Claude is looking at him as if he’s just about the most amusingly insane person he’s ever met, which Peter highly doubts is true.
“They’re for people to sleep in,” he says, logically, and squirms again, grinding against Claude’s erection. Grinning, pushing back against the door for leverage as he cants his hips slowly, encouraging. “Come on…”
“Easy for…” Claude lets out a labored breath and gives a tight smile, grabbing his hips and pining them to the door. “Easy for you to say, Pete, when someone else’s doin’ the heavy liftin’.”
“Claude…” he whines, as the man gives him a look that brooks no argument, and before he can say anything else, Claude’s pulling him away from the wall. Hands under his thighs and his own hold around the man’s neck keeping him up, and, “Yeah, this is so much easier on you…”
“Will be, once you stop talkin’,” and he’s tossed, not especially gently, onto the closest of the narrow (all the better to discourage this sort of thing, he figures) beds, and Claude grins down at him, completely ignoring his glare.
Because he is annoyed, even as Claude eases on top of him, and kisses him again, and then he can’t be, because there’s too much else to concentrate on.
The tongue sliding possessively into his mouth, the weight of the body pressing him into the mattress, and the hand pushing his shirt up and rubbing across his chest, and he’s having a lot of trouble so much as breathing, really.
Claude pulls away, just barely, and Peter tries not to moan.
“Shirts on, then?”
He gives Claude a look that he’s not entirely sure the man can see.
Claude laughs. He saw.
“You did say-“
“Not that quick,” and Claude laughs again, helps him out of his scrubs top, and seems genuinely surprised when Peter lunges at him, bare arms wrapping around his neck and pulling Claude’s mouth to his.
He leans up, following Claude’s lips as he arches away from Peter for a moment, quickly unbuttoning his shirt, and then falls back, as the man pulls it off and tosses it to the floor.
And then leans closer, hovers above Peter, and just looks at him, for a moment that weighs uneasily against him in Claude’s absence.
Because he can’t see Claude’s eyes; too dark in there, even with the hint of florescent lights from the hallway peaking through closed blinds, and something…something feels off, something in the stillness that he’s about to ask about before Claude just shakes his head and presses his lips to Peter’s.
Hands frantic and body tense, rhythm quicker than usual and he’s too lost in the heat and the ache to think about it much, too lost to even take anything but quick, shallow breaths.
His legs around Claude’s waist again, and with every thrust, the shift and slide of the man’s back, the twitch of muscles between his thighs, he’s further and further away from coherence and focus and anything except for the feel and sound and smell of Claude, of the two of them together.
Hands tangled in warm sheets before they’re not, before fingers are curling tight around the cool metallic bars of the simple bed frame, giving him something to push off of.
He rocks up to meet each thrust, hips bucking and shifting beyond his control, back arching and his erection against Claude’s stomach, all for the harder faster deeper he’s long past verbalizing.
His head falls against the mattress as palms slid down his back, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Holding him up, pulling him closer; pushing into him, deep, deeper than Peter thinks he’s ever been or ever could be.
And Claude finally, finally comes, forehead pressed to Peter’s chest, lips still against his skin.
Peter sighs, and smiles, and moves to wrap his arms around him for a moment, to stroke at damp hair and warm skin.
He’s still hard between them but he can wait, he’s willing to, doesn’t mind, except that Claude’s pulling away from him and sliding down a bed that’s much to short for him in he first place.
Quick, wet kisses down his stomach and firm hands pinning his hips to the mattress and it’s almost too much, and then Claude takes him in, and then it is.
“So,” he says, carefully, fingers lingering on Claude’s shoulder and forehead pressed against his neck. “What was all that about?”
“What was all what about?” the man says lightly, and runs a hand down his back.
Peter pulls away, palm against Claude’s chest and expression as serious as he can manage, with the residual glow of orgasm and the feeling of Claude’s arm slung possessively around his waist to contend with.
“You know what,” he murmurs, eyes flickering towards the dulled shine of blue that’s about all he can see, and frowns. “You looking at me like…like you weren’t even sure I was really here, and then…the coming at me like…like it was the last time you’d ever be able to. What happened?”
“Nothing you need concern yourself about,” warning tones and Claude’s body, still tangled with his own, goes tense in a way he hasn’t felt for months.
“Claude,” he starts, before he’s being pushed back, gently, but firmly, against the mattress.
“Shouldn’t you be gettin’ back to work?” is the only thing he says, though, and Peter sighs.
Grabs his shirt off the floor and winces as he stands up to search for his pants. Flips on the light, because otherwise it’ll be impossible, and cringes at the sudden flood of brightness.
And Claude watches him, silent, as he dresses, the ache of fading bruises slightly disappointing but not as much as the return of that guarded, apprising look of Claude’s that he’s gotten a little too used to not seeing.
“Okay, so, I’ll see you later,” he mumbles at the floor, adjusting his name tag and giving Claude one, last, questioning look. “You can get out okay, right?”
“Pete-“
“Okay. Yeah. See you at home, and-“
“He looked like you,” he hears behind him, and turns around. Claude, buttoning up his shirt and seemingly talking to the floor as well, lets out a not terribly amused laugh. “Don’t know how he knew that’d…that’d do it, don’t know how he even knew what you looked like, but…”
“But you got him.”
“’s not about what I did, Pete, it’s…” Claude looks up at him, exasperated, and he chances a smile, small and simple, irrefutable. Claude stares at him for a moment before smiling back. “Yeah, we got him.”
“So it didn’t work,” he’s compelled to point out, walking back towards him, as Claude rolls his eyes and nods grudgingly. “And you’ve really got nothing to worry about at all.”
“Wouldn’t go so far as nothing,” Claude grumbles, obviously ready to start up about nosey, annoying empaths that couldn’t mind their own bloody business, before Peter stops in front of him and leans down.
“Just stay here, okay?” he murmurs, foreheads pressed together, hands framing Claude’s face. “My shift’s over in a couple of hours. We can get dinner or something.”
“Or somethin’?” Claude leers up at him, hands finding their place on his hips, and Peter holds back a laugh.
Drops a kiss to Claude’s mouth, and pulls away before it becomes impossible to do so. “Dinner first, okay?”
“Work first, you idiot,” Claude grins, his hold on Peter’s hips as steady as ever, and then, almost as an afterthought, almost automatically, reaches up to straighten his nametag. “Then we’ll see.”
*