Archive of Our Own ^beta

All standard disclaimers apply. Pet Fly Productions and UPN own the characters and the series. No copyright infringement intended. No money was made in writing or sharing this story - unless someone wants to pay me, then I'll talk to my lawyers about sharing.

This was originally written for the Senad list. A few people asked me to post it here, so here it tis.
Thanks to Lisa for helping me look over this story. It's not really beta'd. It's not that type of story.

This story is dedicated to Francesca (who doesn't know me from Adam) and Lisa, Duncan's Twin. Francesca, I admire your ability to turn a phrase and love how you continually push the envelope. Lisa, I love your story "Lucille." It was beautifully written. In an effort to pay homage to both these wonderful authors, I present this PWP which is sort of a cross between "Push and Pull" and "Lucille."
My apologies to Dr. Joyce Brothers, who I am sure is a very nice woman. I would be mortified if she ever saw this title, but what do you do when a 250 pound Hell's Angel reject muse follows you around the house and demands you write his story? Well, you fucking write it, that's what!!!
Bad language and rough sex ahead.
And to my friend who said I couldn't write a story that didn't demand a sequel, all I have to say is Nyah nyah <eg>
And shockingly enough, this is NOT an AU.

I notice him the moment he walks into the bar. It would have been pretty freaking impossible not to. The man just radiates intensity, and, at the moment, anger. But as he walks up to the bar, I can see that the rage is just a front. The pain in his eyes is almost too much to bear, although I doubt any of the idiots who hang out here would notice. But, I did two tours in 'Nam. I've been where's he's been. I've seen things. I know things other rational adults have never even dreamed of.

He was definitely a soldier at one point. Officer. No way the intelligence in those eyes ever did enlisted time.

He stalks toward the bar. That's right, stalks. Reminds me of one of those black panthers, all sleekness and muscles.

I hand him a cold draft. I see the astonishment in his eyes but also the thanks. I raise an eyebrow in acknowledgment but say nothing. If this man needs to talk, he'll talk. I'm not going to push him. Hell, I'm not that brave.

I watch him as his gaze recons the bar. He's a cop. I can feel it in my bones. Although he's not on duty. A man like him would never drink on watch. No. He's escaping, escaping something he's seen or done. And he's picked this bar because it's the seediest in town. Hey, I have no illusions. I don't cater to no fucking yuppies. I'm here for people like him. Warriors. Prostitutes. A haven for the lost. A place to get lost. A place to, maybe, connect, to seek help.

I notice his shirt for the first time. There's a partial bloody handprint around the buttons near his neck. As if someone had grabbed his shirt. A perp, I wonder?

I hand him another mug of beer and push some salty peanuts his way. Again, the silent thanks.

When he initially shoved his way through the door, I think he was spoiling for a fight, looking for a way to release the pain he's carrying within him. My giving him the beer stopped that though. I can feel a vague sense of embarrassment from him. Ashamed at himself for looking to bring another into his pain.

He reaches for the second beer. When the mug is halfway to his lips, he stops, closes his eyes and sways slightly. He doesn't look like he's drunk enough to puke yet, but I scout out the nearness of the barf bucket just to be on the safe side.

The door opens again and the man at the bar trembles. I doubt anyone but me notices. He forces himself to bring the mug to his lips and takes a long hard swallow.

I look up at the newcomer. Fucking college student. Long hair. Two earrings for Christ sakes. Dressed in flannel. He moves hesitantly toward the bar. He doesn't want to be here, there's no mistaking that fact. A pretty little thing like him could get himself in a world of hurt here. Good thing it's 3 o'clock in the afternoon. If he came around 9, he'd never reach the bar.

His eyes never leave the back of the soldier. Now this is an interesting twist. What could this soldier and this student possibly have in common? Talk about night and day. Wonder if the kid's a Vice cop? Naw, the eyes are too damn innocent.

I glance at the soldier and realize he knows exactly who's standing behind him, but he does nothing to acknowledge the other man. Just takes another long swig of his beer.

Hurt passes over the kid's face. Shit. Probably every emotion the kid owns can be seen on his mug. He knows the soldier knows he's here. I watch him gird his loins, so to speak, as he takes another step forward, bellying up to the bar. He points to what the solider is having and raises one finger. I frown, wondering if he's even old enough to drink, but notice the lines on his face around the eyes. Yeah, he's over twenty-one.

He nods his thanks when I put the mug in front of him and takes a tentative sip but doesn't look at the man sitting beside him.

They sit there for several minutes, ignoring each other, simply drinking their beers. If I didn't know better, I'd say they didn't even know each other, just two Joes sitting at the same bar, but I do ... know better, that is.

"Jim," the younger one finally says, barely above a whisper.

The soldier, Jim, stiffens. "Not one fucking word, Sandburg. Not one." He takes another long draught and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "In fact, go home." All the anger he walked into this place with is suddenly back in full force.

"No," Sandburg says quietly, closing his eyes as if he knows what's about to happen.

"No?" The word is spoken with such coldness I wonder if anyone else is thinking about grabbing a coat. Bright blue eyes turned slowly on the younger man and for a moment I have a wild urge to jump in between them to protect the kid. But I don't. The kid came when he wasn't welcomed. Some lessons have to be learned the hard way. I can only make sure that physically he doesn't get too badly hurt.

"No." The word is said so softly, I read his lips more than hear it being spoken. "You need me."

Suddenly the soldier is a flurry of movement as he yanks the boy from his chair and propels him against the wall five feet behind them, slamming him against the wall so hard that several pictures threaten to fall. "Let's get one thing straight, Sandburg. I do not need you."

The kid's nostrils flare like he's run a marathon. His hands open and close helplessly over the soldier's shoulders. His eyes are wide with fear and yet he grinds out, "Yes, you do."

I shake my head. Suicide. The kid doesn't have an ounce of sense or a grain of self-preservation. I glance behind the bar and note that my baseball bat is fairly close at hand. If need be, I'll break this up.

I watch Jim's hands tighten in Sandburg's shoulders. The kid's in pain. There's no doubt about that, but he never utters a peep. Strong kid. Got to admire his spunk.

"You do need me, Jim. You do." His voice is soft, almost breaking in despair.

Jim's grinds his teeth so hard I'm sure they're going to shatter and fall out of his mouth. I've never seen anyone clench their jaw that tight in my entire life. He looks once over his left shoulder then shoves the kid toward the back rooms. The next room over is a pool room - currently unoccupied. I switch on the close circuit television beneath the bar and pull out an earphone.

You see, the clown who owned the place before me had the misfortune of having someone whacked in one of the back rooms. Heard tell, this use to be a fairly respectable place back then. But after the kill, the crowd he was hoping to attract just disappeared. He had put in a fairly complex monitoring system, trying to assure his clients they would be safe, but they didn't believe him.

I figure I better keep an eye on this situation. I doubt the solider will kill the kid, but I sure as hell don't need licensing breathing down my neck if something goes wrong.

Jim shoves Sandburg to the right as they enter the room. The kid flies against a pool table. He tries to stand up but Jim is suddenly behind him, his body plastered to the back of the kid's, his hand clenching over the kid's wrists, holding him down.

"You just don't ever listen, do you?" Jim growls. "You keep pushing and pushing. Why can't you just leave me alone?"

Boosting the sound a bit, I can hear the kid panting, hard. Even though they seemed to have been friends, they've crossed some sort of invisible barrier. I can tell the kid has always believed that Jim would never hurt him. Now, suddenly, he's not so sure.

"Because ... because ... you c-can't k-keep repressing these emotions. They'll k-kill you if you do." The kid tries to test his friend's hold on him, but is unable to move.

"And what emotions would those be?" Jim asks silkily, grinding his hips forward.

The confident voice wavers, "J-j-jim?"

"For an observer, you can be pretty dense, you know that, Sandburg?" Jim chuckles, although it's a harsh chuckle, one that makes my skin crawl. He pushes his body up slightly and runs his fingers through the kid's curly hair.

With a strength I didn't think he was capable of, Sandburg pushes himself off the table and spins to face his friend. His face is livid with rage. "You think you can scare me, Ellison? You think you can put the moves on me and I'll go running back home with my tail between my legs. Well think again, Detective." I could hear the kid shouting from the bar without the headphones. "You think you're man enough to take me. Bring it on."

"You think I won't?" Ellison growls, stepping closer to the younger man, clearly trying to intimidate him.

"You can't force something that's freely given."

The soldier takes another step forward. "Oh no?"

"No," Sandburg says quietly, launching himself forward, grabbing both sides of the detective's face and kissing him -- almost brutally.

Ellison tries to push the kid off, but Sandburg jumps and wraps both legs around the bigger man's waist. The detective automatically supports the kid's weight by cupping both hands over the tightly clad ass. The detective hungrily eats the mouth before his, but I notice that the kid is controlling the kiss, tempering it, calming it down.

And for a moment, Ellison allows it. Going with it. Relaxing.

"Let's go home," Sandburg says, leaning back and looking tenderly into the face between his hands.

Jim's back stiffens as if realizing he has just been manipulated. Growling, he tightens his hold on Sandburg and strides through the back door to the conference room, as I like to call it. Street kingpins are always looking for a quiet meeting place. I let them use the back room as long as they come up front for their own beers. I ain't got any friggin waitresses. Plus, with the surveillance equipment, I pretty much know what's going on in the neighborhood. Handy device. Helps me decide who to trust and who not to, who's going to get whacked and where to stay away from. I switch camera views.

Ellison moves into the conference room and locks the door behind him, then leans forward and lays the kid on the table, trapping both wrists under one hand. He kisses the younger man again and again. The tenderness is gone. This is hunger. This is want. This is need.

I see the kid bite Ellison's lower lip. Not hard. Not like he's fighting to free himself, but like he's daring the cop to do his worst. Like I said, brave kid.

Ellison bites his way down the kid's neck. Sandburg lifts his throat, presenting it to the older man who accepts the offering. He releases the kid's hands in order to scramble over Sandburg's chest. The kid's whole torso is moving as if he can't get enough oxygen. His legs are still wrapped around Ellison's waist.

Ellison growls. "You want this, don't you?"

"Yes, Jim. Want you." The kid pants and moans. Christ, I think, adjusting myself.

Ellison's hands grip the kid's hair, even as his mouth attacks the nubs now exposed by the opened shirt. Sandburg arches off the table, his arms behind him attempting to support his weight. "God, Jim. God." The kid is chanting. Then I see the flash of gold. A nipple ring. I bet he's sensitive. Hell, he has to be. Watching him undulate on the table underneath the bigger man is the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen in my entire life.

Must be for Jim, too, because suddenly his hands are scrambling for the kid's pants. In one fell swoop, he has Sandburg's pants and boxers below his knees. Without a word, he swallows the kid to the root.

Sandburg's mouth opens like he's screaming, but nothing comes out. His head whips back and forth, his hair flying, and still no sound. He tries to thrust his hips upward, but Jim has them effective pinned to the table. The mewing almost does me in and I press my hips against the bar to stop my body from embarrassing me.

"Jim," he finally shouts.

Jim does something which makes the kid collapse back against the table even as he releases. Jim's hands catch the liquid and he quickly rolls the kid onto his stomach.

"Please, no," Sandburg whispers, trying to scramble upward. "Jim, I've never ... I ... God, please ... don't."

But Ellison just releases himself from his pants. "Then you shouldn't play with fire."

I start to reach for my baseball bat, but notice that Ellison isn't preparing the kid's ass. Instead, he's wiping his hands between the kid's thighs, right under his balls. He kicks the kid's legs together, then thrusts himself between Sandburg's legs.

Sandburg shudders as Jim shoves forward. Jim stops as he comes to rest against the kid's back. "You ready to ride, Blair?" While the question is harsh in nature, the use of the kid's first name is practically an endearment. The kid nods, although it's obvious he's scared. He's got to be wondering if he can truly trust his partner. Like I said, brave kid.

Ellison uses one hand to push the long locks from Sandburg's neck. As his teeth sink into the juncture at the neck and shoulders, both hands go to the kid's hips. He pulls back then slams forward again - hard.

"Yes!" the kid gasps.

"Like that, do you?" Jim taunts.

"Yes!"

Jim slams back in to the kid over and over again. I can see muscles rippling in his arms as he braces himself on the table on either side of his younger partner. Sandburg is thrusting back just as hard as Ellison is slamming forward.

"Come for me, Blair," Jim growls. "C'mon. C'mon."

"Almost," the kid responds. "Al - al - almost."

"Say the words. Say what I want to hear."

"I'm yours, Jim. Yours for eternity."

"No one else," Jim slams home brutally. "There. Will. NEVER. Be. Anyone. Else."

Blair wails, his second release upon him. "No one. Ever. But you."

Jim slams forward again, his body spasming even as the body beneath his collapses onto the table.

They lay there for several minutes before Jim finally moves. Standing, he looks almost... vulnerable. He pulls a napkin from the dispenser on the table and gently cleans the smaller body, then drops to his knees and raises the kid's pants and shorts.

The kid eventually pushes himself off the table and takes over the task. Jim clears his throat even as he arranges himself back into his own pants.

Sandburg turns around slowly, his face almost shy, although his eyes harden as he looks into the older man's face. "You can't force what's freely given, Jim."

The older man sways forward, his breath catching in a sob. The kid immediately gathers Ellison into his arms, holding him, supporting him, protecting him from whatever emotional demons haunt him. "You're never going to lose me, Jim. I'm never leaving you."

"You can't promise that." Jim's voice breaks.

"I can. I just did. I know you have the whole BP thing going, man. But I'm telling you, I'm never leaving you."

"You promise?" Jim demands in a whisper, his arms tightly hugging the younger man to him.

"Of course, I do, love."

Ellison's voice echoes harshly around the room. "Love?"

"Isn't that what this is about, Jim?"

The cop nods, squeezing the kid until he squeaks. He loosens his hold, but not much.

"I love you, Blair."

"I know you do, Jim."

"I can't ever lose you."

Blair smacks the older man in the middle of his chest. "You haven't been listening, man. Ain't ever gonna happen."

Jim steps back a bit, rubbing his chest, smiling like he just won the friggin lottery. "Feisty, little shit, aren't you?"

Blair just grins impishly, then walks around the older man and opens the door. "Come on. Let's go home and do this right."

"What do you mean 'right'? Are you implying we did it wrong?" Jim seems to be pulling himself back together.

"I mean, I foreseeing us needing a lot of practice to ... fine-tune our technique."

Jim's smile is brilliant. "Yeah, I can see that."

"Come on. Let's get out of here."

"Blair!" Jim calls out as the younger man steps through the doorway.

"Yeah, man?"

"I do need you."

Blair laughs. "Well, duh. What have I been saying?" He grins wickedly over his shoulder.

I turn off the set and pull the ear plug from my ear. They start to walk through the bar, but Jim detours and sets fifty bucks on the bar.

"James," Sandburg calls impatiently from the doorway.

Jim smiles at me, lifts an eyebrow in a 'what can I do' expression, then turns and jogs to close the distance between him and his lover.

Tough kid. Gotta respect a man who can go one-on-one with a man of Ellison's caliber. I pocket the therapy money. I told you this was a place to find help, to connect. Yep, that's me all right. Fucking Dr. Joyce Brothers.

End FDJB by Dolimir: [email protected]

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