Numb3rs fic: "Let's Get It On" (Don/Coop, NC-17)
Title: Let's Get It On
Pairing: Don/Coop
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "Guy's gotta sleep sometime," Coop had said, and Don wanted to tell him it was the perfect time to catch up, but even in the dim light of the rest stop he could see that Coop was fading fast, both of them running on a few hours sleep and a shared pack of cigarettes.
Word Count: 1950
Spoilers: 1x13 "Man Hunt" (but only insofar as Coop exists)
Notes/Warnings: Written for emmademarais for numb3rs_newyear and originally posted here. Betaed by elysium1996 (gracias!) Title from "Let's Get It On" by Marvin Gaye. H/C, a little bit schmoopy. Pre-series. :-)
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, nor do I profit from their use here. This is only for fun.
Clay Morton is a real sonuvabitch.
He's been half a day ahead of them going on three days now, taunting them with the glow of his taillights in the distance and the witnesses left behind in every town pointing south, he went thattaway.
Don's too worked up to sleep, resentful that they even bothered stopping for the night. "Guy's gotta sleep sometime," Coop had said, and Don wanted to tell him it was the perfect time to catch up, but even in the dim light of the rest stop he could see that Coop was fading fast, both of them running on a few hours sleep and a shared pack of cigarettes.
He shifts, lying uncomfortably on the makeshift bed of his reclined seat, and turns onto his side to escape the seat belt digging into his tense muscles. The sound, or the rocking of the vehicle, wakes Coop up. He's always a light sleeper when they're on a case. He squints at Don through the shadows.
"What?" he half-mumbles, voice graveled with sleep and smoke. Don is silent for a minute, and Coop closes his eyes.
"I just... Maybe we should start up again?" Don whispers. There's a pause. He wonders if Coop is asleep again. "Maybe--"
"Jesus," Coop growls, louder than Don's expecting. "Go to fucking sleep, Eppes. You gonna catch a suspect while you're dying in a fiery crash after you fall asleep at the wheel? Jesus," he mutters again, like only God can properly commiserate with him over the pure idiocy that is Don Eppes.
Don huffs out an irritated breath and turns over again onto his back. "You gonna catch a suspect while he's in Mexico?" he shoots back. Coop groans.
"He won't make it to Mexico. We'll get him tomorrow. You'll see."
"If we left now, maybe, yeah, but I don't--What, what are you..." Don trails off, watching Coop's silhouette as he sits up in the driver's seat and turns to maneuver himself over the empty coffee cups in the cup holders. Suddenly Don feels himself being pressed into the seat under Coop's weight, laid out on top of him. Coop ducks his head next to Don's. "Hey," he murmurs. His breath is warm against Don's ear.
"I'm n--" Don starts, stiffening, and Coop grabs one of his wrists, bringing it over his head to lie on the headrest.
"Hey," he says again, sharper. His fingers tighten around Don's wrist. "You really need to shut up and let me sleep."
Coop's elbow presses into the side of Don's arm as he raises himself slightly to balance over him. His right hand snakes down Don's body, tracing lightly along his ribs down to his belly. One finger brushes a circle around his bellybutton, casual, distracting, while Coop closes his lips over Don's earlobe. His earring twists with the movement of Coop's tongue, and he gasps.
Coop's fingers push their way under the waistband of his jeans, crawling across the sensitive skin there before finally reaching his dick. Don's hips buck up under the touch. He grabs Coop's arm.
"I, uh. Do y--"
"What is it, Eppes?" Coop growls, low in his ear. "Did you want me to buy you dinner first? Play a little Marvin Gaye?" He wraps his hand around Don and strokes, and Don gives up.
"Fuck," he says. He lets his legs fall open, reaches around Coop's hand to unzip his pants completely and suddenly it's sex, Coop's mouth lazing up along his jaw to meet his lips in a coffeecigarettesgum kiss as Don closes his eyes.
It's not like the first time, adrenaline-fueled and frantic against a motel room wall, and it's not like the second time, secret and hushed and it doesn't count if we don't talk about it. It's slow and deep and almost familiar finally, the way Coop's mouth moves against his, the steady rhythm of his hand on Don's cock.
Coop's lips trail down his neck and Don works his hand up next to his, reaching to unbutton Coop's jeans. He shoves his hand inside, forcing the zipper down, and touches him, drawing out a groan that vibrates against his throat. Coop grinds down hard against him and their fingers tangle for a moment, pressed together. Then Coop pushes Don's hand away, grabbing both their cocks and stroking. Don clutches Coop's hip, pulling him down flush against his body, twin gasps let out at the heated contact, and Coop pushes Don's hand above his head, both wrists trapped together there, while he thrusts against him.
Don flexes his wrists, but Coop's grip is tight and he can't move his arms. The car is filled with the sounds of sex, half bitten back moans and gasps, and the creaking of the seat rocking with their movement. Don's close, can tell Coop is too by his fast, panting breaths. Coop shifts, moving to mouth along his bicep where his sleeve has ridden up, sucking hard at the skin before he bites down, stiffening. Don feels the pain at the same time Coop's come splashes across his stomach, and it sends him over, pleasure rushing through him while Coop licks away the bite and relaxes, collapsing on top of him.
"Jesus," Don mutters, and Coop laughs softly against his throat. "Exactly," he says.
**
Seven AM is still dark and painfully cold even through layered shirts and wool knit caps. They get breakfast at a drive-thru and Don watches his breath steam out in the air when he rolls down his window to take the food. They take a minute to eat in the parking lot, and then Don pulls out of the driveway, flipping on his signal and waiting for a break in the early morning commute traffic before navigating his way to the freeway onramp.
He glances over at Coop while he grabs his coffee from the cup holder. Coop catches his gaze and grins over the rim of his own coffee cup. "You feelin' lucky?" he asks, winking. Don laughs.
"Hell yeah," he says, and steps on the gas.
**
Morton must've slipped up and overslept, because they catch up with him that day, and he's only gotten as far as Texas. He ditches his stolen car halfway through the ensuing chase and runs into an alley too narrow for their SUV to follow. Coop jumps out, gun in hand, and yells at Don to drive around and meet up with them on the next block before disappearing after the suspect himself.
Don speeds around the corner, siren blaring, and grabs his radio to communicate their location to the local PD providing back-up. He knows what to do here, knows exactly how to catch the motherfucker. It's two against one, after all, and he and Coop are a good team, so a quick turn of the wheel to the right and...
He can't see them.
On his right is the other end of the alleyway, and there's nowhere else for them to go once they reach the street he's on. He should be able to see them.
Unless they're still in the alley.
He hears sirens in the distance, getting steadily closer, and the shrill whine of his own playing over them, and suddenly, drowning it all out for a split second, the crack of a gunshot. Shit.
"Shots fired!" he shouts into his radio, and he jumps out of the truck to race over to the alley. He's nearly knocked over by Morton running out, but he can see cop cars rounding the corner so he doesn't chase him, instead moving a few steps inside the alley, looking around. His lungs burn from the cold in the air.
"Billy?" he calls. He spots a movement from behind a dumpster a few yards away.
"Goddamnit, Eppes! Go shoot the motherfucker!"
"The cops are here, man, they'll grab him. Are you okay?" he asks, rushing over. "Did he--Fuck." He stares down at Coop, at the thick blood dripping from the hole torn in his shoulder, staining his shirt dark red and plastering the fabric to his skin, and he forgets to breathe. Fuckshitfuckgoddamn.
**
The hospital is cold and permeated with the chemical sweet smell of cleaning solution. It makes Don feel sick. Coop passed out in the ambulance and somebody said he was going into shock, so now he's been rolled into the ICU and Don has been left in the waiting room, trying not to think about how clammy Coop's skin was, pale in contrast with the blood covering his clothes.
They kept asking him questions he couldn't answer--how far away was he from the assailant? What type of gun was used?--and some he could--Any allergies, bleeding disorders? Surgical history?--but he could barely focus, sitting next to Coop and trying to stay out of the way of the EMTs while they worked. Now he has nothing to focus on, lost in a sea of ugly upholstered chairs. There are a few other people in the room, looking upset and lost, like him, and some of them seem tired, like maybe they've been here for a few days already. None of them look eager for a conversation.
Don finds a snack machine and buys a package of cheap vanilla cookies that taste vaguely like plastic. He sits and eats them for awhile, bouncing his leg and staring at nothing. He could use a smoke, but he doesn't want to leave the building before he knows Coop's condition, so he waits, drumming his fingers along the arms of the chair and feeling guilty about being such a goddamn crappy partner. He's not sure what he'll do if Coop dies.
A woman sits down a few seats away from him and sets her baby down on the floor to crawl around. She and Don watch the kid shuffle over to another chair and attempt to pull himself up to a stand. He fails, falling on his butt almost immediately, and sits there for a moment looking mournfully up at the chair from beneath his mop of dark curls before he tries again.
Don's not as sure as he used to be that the job is worth the risk.
A middle-aged woman finally approaches him, introducing herself as the doctor in charge of Coop's case. "Agent Cooper suffered a significant amount of blood loss," she tells him. "We had to give him a transfusion. And of course we performed surgery on his arm because of the gunshot wound."
He stares at her, waiting.
"He'll be out of it for awhile, but assuming there are no complications from the surgery, he should be okay," she says. "We'll be moving him out of the ICU in a little while. You can see him then."
"Thank you," he says, letting himself smile at her. "Thanks so much."
She nods, smiles, and walks back the way she came, and he sits to wait some more.
It's a couple hours before they tell Don that Coop's been moved to a room on the third floor. He skips the elevator and runs up through the stairwell, burning off the giddy wave of energy that came with he'll be okay. When he reaches the room, Coop's asleep, still pale but looking better, shoulder heavily bandaged and an IV stuck into his arm. Don drags a chair over from its spot in the corner and sits down next to the bed, watching Coop like he could disappear if Don looked away. Like he could die if Don wasn't there.
Don takes Coop's hand in his, running his thumb lightly over the back of it, and keeps guard.
Pairing: Don/Coop
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "Guy's gotta sleep sometime," Coop had said, and Don wanted to tell him it was the perfect time to catch up, but even in the dim light of the rest stop he could see that Coop was fading fast, both of them running on a few hours sleep and a shared pack of cigarettes.
Word Count: 1950
Spoilers: 1x13 "Man Hunt" (but only insofar as Coop exists)
Notes/Warnings: Written for emmademarais for numb3rs_newyear and originally posted here. Betaed by elysium1996 (gracias!) Title from "Let's Get It On" by Marvin Gaye. H/C, a little bit schmoopy. Pre-series. :-)
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, nor do I profit from their use here. This is only for fun.
Clay Morton is a real sonuvabitch.
He's been half a day ahead of them going on three days now, taunting them with the glow of his taillights in the distance and the witnesses left behind in every town pointing south, he went thattaway.
Don's too worked up to sleep, resentful that they even bothered stopping for the night. "Guy's gotta sleep sometime," Coop had said, and Don wanted to tell him it was the perfect time to catch up, but even in the dim light of the rest stop he could see that Coop was fading fast, both of them running on a few hours sleep and a shared pack of cigarettes.
He shifts, lying uncomfortably on the makeshift bed of his reclined seat, and turns onto his side to escape the seat belt digging into his tense muscles. The sound, or the rocking of the vehicle, wakes Coop up. He's always a light sleeper when they're on a case. He squints at Don through the shadows.
"What?" he half-mumbles, voice graveled with sleep and smoke. Don is silent for a minute, and Coop closes his eyes.
"I just... Maybe we should start up again?" Don whispers. There's a pause. He wonders if Coop is asleep again. "Maybe--"
"Jesus," Coop growls, louder than Don's expecting. "Go to fucking sleep, Eppes. You gonna catch a suspect while you're dying in a fiery crash after you fall asleep at the wheel? Jesus," he mutters again, like only God can properly commiserate with him over the pure idiocy that is Don Eppes.
Don huffs out an irritated breath and turns over again onto his back. "You gonna catch a suspect while he's in Mexico?" he shoots back. Coop groans.
"He won't make it to Mexico. We'll get him tomorrow. You'll see."
"If we left now, maybe, yeah, but I don't--What, what are you..." Don trails off, watching Coop's silhouette as he sits up in the driver's seat and turns to maneuver himself over the empty coffee cups in the cup holders. Suddenly Don feels himself being pressed into the seat under Coop's weight, laid out on top of him. Coop ducks his head next to Don's. "Hey," he murmurs. His breath is warm against Don's ear.
"I'm n--" Don starts, stiffening, and Coop grabs one of his wrists, bringing it over his head to lie on the headrest.
"Hey," he says again, sharper. His fingers tighten around Don's wrist. "You really need to shut up and let me sleep."
Coop's elbow presses into the side of Don's arm as he raises himself slightly to balance over him. His right hand snakes down Don's body, tracing lightly along his ribs down to his belly. One finger brushes a circle around his bellybutton, casual, distracting, while Coop closes his lips over Don's earlobe. His earring twists with the movement of Coop's tongue, and he gasps.
Coop's fingers push their way under the waistband of his jeans, crawling across the sensitive skin there before finally reaching his dick. Don's hips buck up under the touch. He grabs Coop's arm.
"I, uh. Do y--"
"What is it, Eppes?" Coop growls, low in his ear. "Did you want me to buy you dinner first? Play a little Marvin Gaye?" He wraps his hand around Don and strokes, and Don gives up.
"Fuck," he says. He lets his legs fall open, reaches around Coop's hand to unzip his pants completely and suddenly it's sex, Coop's mouth lazing up along his jaw to meet his lips in a coffeecigarettesgum kiss as Don closes his eyes.
It's not like the first time, adrenaline-fueled and frantic against a motel room wall, and it's not like the second time, secret and hushed and it doesn't count if we don't talk about it. It's slow and deep and almost familiar finally, the way Coop's mouth moves against his, the steady rhythm of his hand on Don's cock.
Coop's lips trail down his neck and Don works his hand up next to his, reaching to unbutton Coop's jeans. He shoves his hand inside, forcing the zipper down, and touches him, drawing out a groan that vibrates against his throat. Coop grinds down hard against him and their fingers tangle for a moment, pressed together. Then Coop pushes Don's hand away, grabbing both their cocks and stroking. Don clutches Coop's hip, pulling him down flush against his body, twin gasps let out at the heated contact, and Coop pushes Don's hand above his head, both wrists trapped together there, while he thrusts against him.
Don flexes his wrists, but Coop's grip is tight and he can't move his arms. The car is filled with the sounds of sex, half bitten back moans and gasps, and the creaking of the seat rocking with their movement. Don's close, can tell Coop is too by his fast, panting breaths. Coop shifts, moving to mouth along his bicep where his sleeve has ridden up, sucking hard at the skin before he bites down, stiffening. Don feels the pain at the same time Coop's come splashes across his stomach, and it sends him over, pleasure rushing through him while Coop licks away the bite and relaxes, collapsing on top of him.
"Jesus," Don mutters, and Coop laughs softly against his throat. "Exactly," he says.
**
Seven AM is still dark and painfully cold even through layered shirts and wool knit caps. They get breakfast at a drive-thru and Don watches his breath steam out in the air when he rolls down his window to take the food. They take a minute to eat in the parking lot, and then Don pulls out of the driveway, flipping on his signal and waiting for a break in the early morning commute traffic before navigating his way to the freeway onramp.
He glances over at Coop while he grabs his coffee from the cup holder. Coop catches his gaze and grins over the rim of his own coffee cup. "You feelin' lucky?" he asks, winking. Don laughs.
"Hell yeah," he says, and steps on the gas.
**
Morton must've slipped up and overslept, because they catch up with him that day, and he's only gotten as far as Texas. He ditches his stolen car halfway through the ensuing chase and runs into an alley too narrow for their SUV to follow. Coop jumps out, gun in hand, and yells at Don to drive around and meet up with them on the next block before disappearing after the suspect himself.
Don speeds around the corner, siren blaring, and grabs his radio to communicate their location to the local PD providing back-up. He knows what to do here, knows exactly how to catch the motherfucker. It's two against one, after all, and he and Coop are a good team, so a quick turn of the wheel to the right and...
He can't see them.
On his right is the other end of the alleyway, and there's nowhere else for them to go once they reach the street he's on. He should be able to see them.
Unless they're still in the alley.
He hears sirens in the distance, getting steadily closer, and the shrill whine of his own playing over them, and suddenly, drowning it all out for a split second, the crack of a gunshot. Shit.
"Shots fired!" he shouts into his radio, and he jumps out of the truck to race over to the alley. He's nearly knocked over by Morton running out, but he can see cop cars rounding the corner so he doesn't chase him, instead moving a few steps inside the alley, looking around. His lungs burn from the cold in the air.
"Billy?" he calls. He spots a movement from behind a dumpster a few yards away.
"Goddamnit, Eppes! Go shoot the motherfucker!"
"The cops are here, man, they'll grab him. Are you okay?" he asks, rushing over. "Did he--Fuck." He stares down at Coop, at the thick blood dripping from the hole torn in his shoulder, staining his shirt dark red and plastering the fabric to his skin, and he forgets to breathe. Fuckshitfuckgoddamn.
**
The hospital is cold and permeated with the chemical sweet smell of cleaning solution. It makes Don feel sick. Coop passed out in the ambulance and somebody said he was going into shock, so now he's been rolled into the ICU and Don has been left in the waiting room, trying not to think about how clammy Coop's skin was, pale in contrast with the blood covering his clothes.
They kept asking him questions he couldn't answer--how far away was he from the assailant? What type of gun was used?--and some he could--Any allergies, bleeding disorders? Surgical history?--but he could barely focus, sitting next to Coop and trying to stay out of the way of the EMTs while they worked. Now he has nothing to focus on, lost in a sea of ugly upholstered chairs. There are a few other people in the room, looking upset and lost, like him, and some of them seem tired, like maybe they've been here for a few days already. None of them look eager for a conversation.
Don finds a snack machine and buys a package of cheap vanilla cookies that taste vaguely like plastic. He sits and eats them for awhile, bouncing his leg and staring at nothing. He could use a smoke, but he doesn't want to leave the building before he knows Coop's condition, so he waits, drumming his fingers along the arms of the chair and feeling guilty about being such a goddamn crappy partner. He's not sure what he'll do if Coop dies.
A woman sits down a few seats away from him and sets her baby down on the floor to crawl around. She and Don watch the kid shuffle over to another chair and attempt to pull himself up to a stand. He fails, falling on his butt almost immediately, and sits there for a moment looking mournfully up at the chair from beneath his mop of dark curls before he tries again.
Don's not as sure as he used to be that the job is worth the risk.
A middle-aged woman finally approaches him, introducing herself as the doctor in charge of Coop's case. "Agent Cooper suffered a significant amount of blood loss," she tells him. "We had to give him a transfusion. And of course we performed surgery on his arm because of the gunshot wound."
He stares at her, waiting.
"He'll be out of it for awhile, but assuming there are no complications from the surgery, he should be okay," she says. "We'll be moving him out of the ICU in a little while. You can see him then."
"Thank you," he says, letting himself smile at her. "Thanks so much."
She nods, smiles, and walks back the way she came, and he sits to wait some more.
It's a couple hours before they tell Don that Coop's been moved to a room on the third floor. He skips the elevator and runs up through the stairwell, burning off the giddy wave of energy that came with he'll be okay. When he reaches the room, Coop's asleep, still pale but looking better, shoulder heavily bandaged and an IV stuck into his arm. Don drags a chair over from its spot in the corner and sits down next to the bed, watching Coop like he could disappear if Don looked away. Like he could die if Don wasn't there.
Don takes Coop's hand in his, running his thumb lightly over the back of it, and keeps guard.