noscope | RP OPEN POST )

It's no surprise to anyone that York can sleep anywhere; the couch, the floor, inside his own armor, it doesn't really matter. When his body decides it's time to shut down, he goes with the proverbial flow and lets it happen, regardless of whether he needs to be productive. ( Or just thinks he does. )

But when the night terrors start, North can't help but to start keeping an even closer eye on him than usual. The other man never fails to wake drenched in a cold sweat, soaked to the bone and shaking, winded as though he's just been running for his very life from something that had wanted nothing more than to sink its claws into him and render him limb from limb. And he .. well. To say he feels a bit helpless in finding himself able to help him would have been putting it mildly.

One night – it can't be past 0300, it really can't – the other man is shifting fitfully in his sleep, brows drawn tight and North wakes with a small jolt, already attuned to his nightly regime of twisting and turning about, getting himself wrapped up in the sheets and thus making it worse by feeling trapped. He rolls over, warm, soft hands gently framing either side of his face, tracing the line of his jaw and murmuring nonsense, just in an attempt to wake him.

"York –" He thinks better of it, tries again. "Taylor. Wake up for me, okay?"

The nights where he doesn't dream are the kindest. Dreams are supposed to be the mind's way of preparing a body for the worst, but he's already been through the worst he could possibly stand and then some, stretched past the point of endurance, pinned down, and punted further still due to the goddamn program and his inability to mind his own business.

If they were the same thing every time, every night, he'd get used to it. Phase them out like anything else. Ignore the background noise and focus on his objective- namely sleep. Sweet, sweet sleep.

Tonight wasn't a kind night, though. It was blood and bullets and no gravity again, cliffs and the void of space and every calculation of Delta's that spelled his death. It was bleeding out on that goddamn tower and spending decades old, useless, and alone. He jerks away from the hands no his face at first, body locking up out of habit, braced for an attack that won't come. "Hn- fuck."

A beat.

"...North?"

He doesn't know – doesn't know what goes on in that beautiful mind of his, doesn't know a damn thing about what's been put through a formerly coherent string of thought that mangles it beyond repair, turns his dreams into nightmares. ( He hasn't spoken about it, and he gets the feeling that he won't, either, until he has no choice but to open up about it. And he can only wait, really, because he knows better than to pry when, eventually, he'll be made the wiser. )

"Hey, you." His tone is soft, soothing – or at least, he hopes it is. He brings his hands away when York jerks back, not wanting to startle him further, one resting lightly against his chest and the other at his own side. North will never be invasive, but when it comes to someone he cares about, he can't help but to want to do every single thing in his power to help. To fix him.

He swallows around the presence of his heart in the back of his throat, a reaction of apprehension and almost-anxiety when the other man has nights like this. Tilting his head to the side, he tries for a small, tentative smile.

"Rough night?"

"Hey me." He parrots just to be a shit. Because it's expected, because it's a pattern he knows how to follow, something he can say and do to buy himself time until he can put the mangled pieces of his mind back together. It doesn't take as long as he used to now that he and North are...something. Look don't put a label on it, alright? They defy definition in all it's forms.

Always have, always will.

His breath comes easy and slow, a calming tactic he'd learned before everything went to hell. Reaching out to snag North's hand is easy. Rolling off into innuendo? Easier still. "Not yet. Wouldn't mind if you changed that for me."

He expects it. And he doesn't fault him for it. They wouldn't be as close as they are if he didn't have some measure of tolerance for the patented Bullshit of Agent York ( tm ).

Shifting comfortably next to him, North allows himself to relax a bit now that the other man seems a tiny bit more aware of himself; that hand stays on his chest, though, smoothing over the ridges of his ribs, a reassuring weight that belongs to him and him alone. Whatever they are, it doesn't need a label, because they simply are and there's nothing else to it.

Definitions constrain things. York is a man that could never be constrained, held down, immobilized. Too much energy, too much personality.

.. Case in point when he reaches for his hand, and he's automatically linking their fingers together, grinning. Of course. "Wouldn't you. I'm beginning to think I should work on wearing you out just so you'll sleep through the night more than you do." ( And it's true to form that he's been spending too much time around this ridiculous man if he's responding like that. )

See, things are good. Things are fine. He's cracking wise and angling for something better than too gentle hands on his face reminding him of how easy it is for a man to break.

How much he, himself, is broken.

He paints on a smile and slides forward, tangling his legs in Norths' rather than the sheets. Dips his head down to mouth at the heel of Norths' hand and nip at the skin over his wrist because that is infinity more interesting than whatever he'd been dreaming and whatever might be causing the nightmares.

It's not up for discussion. This, though? This is. "Is that a threat or a promise? Because I'm not really feeling threatened- but I am more than willing to be on my best behavior if it's a promise- well. Good behavior. Decent. ish. I'll put my clothes in the hamper instead of the floor?"

And if this is how you want to deal with things, it's what he'll give you. It could never be so easy to break you, whether you like to think of it that way or not – and do you know why?

He won't allow you to be broken. And should it ever come to pass that there's even a minor crack, a spidery thing all along the surface, he'll put you back together as many times as it takes until you think you're whole enough again.

There's a soft, low rumble in the back of his throat for the attention paid to his hand, and his fingers curl absently against the line of a sharp jaw as he leans in to purr his appreciation against the side of his neck. "You and good behavior don't belong in the same sentence, and you know it," he murmurs, dropping a kiss to the beat of his pulse and up to the shell of an ear. "Buuut .. maybe we could work something out."

Legs sufficiently tangled with York's, he rolls them both over until he's settled firmly between the other man's thighs, body curled above him as he takes the hand he's holding and presses it against the mattress above York's head. He still has one free if he decides to try to do a little touching of his own, but as it stands, North is already busying himself with etching a thumbnail against the rise of a hipbone.

"The hamper is definitely a start."

Broken is broken, in cracks or cloven segments fractured off the greater whole- He's pasted together now with bravado and bullheadedness. How he's kept himself whole this long he's not sure.

Being able to let North pick up the pieces is as much a relief as it is a frustration. Admitting he's broken, letting anyone see him that useless and weak and off center invites abandonment- from anyone save North. He's the only one that hadn't left because of some stupid shit York pulled or said or didn't do. That stability's reassuring.

The closeness of their bodies and familiar rumble against his neck? Enticing.

"Hey, I can be good." He'd pout if North could see it. But he can't, so he settles for going with the roll, free hand sliding up to curl in North's hair and give it a playful tug. He's held down without much leverage, but he can roll his hips up just so to make his point. "I remember you saying on more than one occasion how very good I've been for you, Ev."

Usually mid orgasm. Or post. Or pre. Somewhere in there. After awhile it didn't matter.

Evan doesn't believe in broken. At least, not beyond the point of being unable to be fixed – and when it concerns those closes to him, there's nothing saying he can't figuratively exhaust himself with wanting to keep them whole.

For a long, long while, York has been at the top of that list. He will never see the other man as useless or weak, and even if it were more than a blip on his radar he would not think of abandoning him. He's not the type, not the kind of man to even come close to thinking of something like that, because abandonment means a lack of care. Apathy in a sense that he can never understand, and that he never will.

"You can be good when you want something, sure." He's grinning against the line of his throat as he slips upward, catching the swell of the other man's bottom lip between his teeth and tugging, almost playfully. His fingers flex where they hold that hand against the bed, and with a slight bit of reluctance, he lets go – perhaps for his own selfishness, but he can never go too long without wanting those hands on him – and both of his own come to rest against those rocking hips to still them. You'll not be getting an advantage over him just yet.

"A reminder that you can be good never hurts, either, does it? I tell you just how good you are for me with the hopes of retaining some of that good behavior when you're not writhing under me and begging for me to let you come."

"I always want something." He quips, taking that point before North can make it for him. He'd sound a little more self satisfied and smug were it not for the lips on his neck, the teeth on his lip and shit he never should've taught North that trick. Dammit, Ev, you are not allowed to be better at this than he is. Get your own shtick. He retaliates by leaning up and licking at North's mouth, tongue tip trailing along familiar and sweet lips. "Usually I want you. usually."

Almost always, if the first few stirrings of interest below the waist are anything to go by. But then he is pinned, is all but caged in and held down by the one person he trusts to have him in this position. York waits patiently. ish. Sort of. Patient for him as North makes up his mind to let go of his hand, fingers wiggling idly. Freed his hands slide from crown to spine, down North's hair and shoulders to the curve of his ass.

North's got him by the hips, he's got North by the ass. He thinks he's got the better deal, and then North just keeps talking like it's nothing and that shouldn't make him shiver a little, make his legs tip apart to cradle him properly. "Trying to use sex to condition me like a pet is cheating, Babe."

".. That you do. Greedy little thing." You'll learn yet, York .. because he would have made that point if you hadn't taken it upon yourself to make it for him. And as far as teaching tricks goes, you should have known from the very start that this man right here is one hell of a quick study – and you have some interesting ways with things that he would have liked to know. ( And, given half the chance, he'll get every single little bit of information to hold against you that he can, because he doesn't doubt for a second you'd use it against him.

Oh, wait.

You already do. )

He grins against his mouth, sucking his lower lip into his mouth with a low, pleased hum. "Only usually?"

Not expecting an answer either way he goes about it, North slides his hands up from narrow, inviting hips to smooth over his sides, giving a slow roll of his own against the body beneath him, if only to elicit a reaction. Cheating .. he would never have said it like that, but York does have a point, and he has to reward that.

His tongue slides between parted lips even as those words leave York's mouth, and his voice is almost a purr. "Is it cheating if it works better than any other method I could put to use?"

"If I say I always want you it'll give you a big head. The only one allowed to have an ego in this bed is me, remember? You need to be the sensible one." That's what they were. The locksmith and the sniper, the egoist and the anchor. The fool and the straightman. He'd fuss and fight more if the attentions he earns weren't so goddamn pleasing.

Just another layer of reality over the mess in his head. Another reminder that this is what's real. Not the void. Not the hollow space in his mind where Delta used to be that's been plugged up with doubt.

This. North's hands and mouth and voice in his ear, holding him down so he doesn't fly apart. He groans in the back of his throat at that suck, leaning up and squeezing that lovely hanndfull he's grabbed. Tries to start up a circular grind, to kick start to the fun part. He likes the fun part.

Breath hitched in a gasp he nips at North's tongue when it's given, forehead pressed to his cheek. "Yes it is still cheating."

"I'm always going to be the sensible one whether you're involved, or not." It does work, whether either of them thinks on it or not – any which way you choose to put it, they seem to be two parts of a whole that have come together and fit together so seamlessly that nothing else can touch it.

He can't be bothered to put too much thought into at the moment, though, whether it's arguing the other man's point or his own; he has him right where he wants him, and he's been sufficiently distracted from the terrors of his dreams and that's all North ever wants for him. To be that anchor, to be the one that centers him and keeps him right where he needs to be.

And of course, York is all ready and raring to get things started, ready to get to the fun part and North can only chuckle lightly in the back of his throat. Patience, of course, is a virtue that this man does not know the meaning of, but he doesn't think right this very second is going to be one of the times that he sees fit to remind him.

He pulls away, sliding down the body beneath him and pressing soft, teasing lines of kisses over his sternum, nipping at the edges of ribs as he goes. "Then I guess I'm a cheater .. and I should be sorry." Pausing at the dip of his navel, his tongue flicks over warm skin as he sucks a mark to life just to the side.

"The sky is blue, the grass is green, and Evan is a sensible bastard. Rules of the universe, Babe." At least rules of his universe. Things he can count on to always be real and true no matter if he's lost in some kind of hell of his mind's making or whatever he's left to muddle his way through. He's not alone. He's here, he's got North-

The mess in his head can wait. For, like, ever as far as he cares he's got a very warm and very interested man bearing down on him. He'll check back with his neuroses after this is over. If it's over.

Protip: It won't ever be over.

York tips his knees apart obligingly, not a lick of shame in him in the slightest. He wants, North is giving, so move. He doesn't think about anything but that mouth on his skin, those hands in his hair, returning the touches and kisses as best he can from his angle. It doesn't always work and that damn teasing bruise makes his hips twitch up hard. "So fucking sorry, Ev, better start apologizing before I think you don't like me much."

"See, now you're getting the hang of it." The general rules of the universe, of course, don't apply to this man – he makes his own, thinks about abiding by them every once in a while, doesn't make a habit out of it. If it were any other way it wouldn't be York, wouldn't be his York, and he can't very well say he'd be pleased with that.

He might be a little shit, but he's his little shit, and he'll take that over anything else anyday.

Evan rests, for a small moment, where he is. Hovering just above the band of boxers that are very much in the way, but to remove them in one fell swoop would be to deny himself the beauty of the other man squirming beneath him. Fingertips pluck lightly at fabric, he heel of his palm pressing against the hardening length of York's cock just to see what kind of reaction it gets him.

Blue eyes are bright, but in the darkness, it goes unseen. "Wouldn't want that, would I?" Another pause, and his tongue traces the line of that elastic band as his fingers curl into it with the promise of removal should he deign to think of it.

Even still, it's tugged down half an inch, maybe a bit more, and a kiss is pressed just beneath his navel. "I'm so." Tug. Kiss. "So." Tug. Lick. "So sorry."

North falls silent, drags the other man's boxers fully from his frame and drops them onto the floor, hands on either side smoothing up and down the insides of spread thighs, nails dragging as thumbs press into the creases where hip meets thigh and he peers upward expectantly. "Think you can find a way to forgive me?"

Any retort he might have had is lost in between one beat of his heart and the next. Talking through nuzzling and petting and bases one through three, that's easy enough. The one upside to his night terrors is how tense and hyper aware he is for hours afterward, the slightest sound or touch registering with ten times the intensity. Having that racketing through his veins while North has a hand on him, around him, is nothing sort of torment.

North wants squirming? Wants some kind of reaction? He gets it.

The breath punches out of York with a ow whoosh, wrapped around some vague, vulgar mumble along the likes of 'sonovabitch', low and curling and needy. He's a greedy bastard, he'll be the first to admit it, but North never tails to make him that greedy by showing just how much there is to have- on North's terms.

"Jesusfuck Evan-" His hips roll up against that tight, teasing grip, a helpless undulation, all clenching muscle and twitching skin. "Don't tease, jackass."

He hates being strung out and made to beg. Except for the part where he really doesn't hate it at all. That overwhelming wave of sensation after being stretched out in a thin thread from toe to tip and just waiting for the trigger. Like the catch of a tumbler in a lock, the slide of a bullet in the chamber.

"You. you aren't sorry at all you sick fucker oh jesuschristquitit-" And by quit he means fucking GET TO THE REAL ISSUE, his hands tangling in North's hair and tugging with great insistence lower, and thank fuck his boxers are gone and he's bare but he's still. Not. Sucking. Dammit.

"Quit dicking around and I'll think about it-"

"You do realize you're not convincing when you're a breath away from whimpering, right?"

Oh, Evan. Now who's being a little shit?

If he's perfectly honest with himself, he loves – loves – being able to have the other man like this. Spread out and wanting without much more than a few well-placed touches, kisses over warm skin that have that lean, lithe body spreading out beneath him in a way that makes him want to take his time with it. Draw everything out, get him begging, pleading downright obscenely for what he wants from him.

But he won't do it now. Later, maybe.

He laughs quietly against the cover of tanned skin, nipping at a hipbone and yet wasting no more time in getting to the point; his tongue sweeps languidly over the length of York's cock, salt and bittersweet at war with one another and yet blending beautifully in a taste that is uniquely York. He traces the ridge at the head, dips into the slit as his lips close around it, moans his appreciation as he slides down. Takes him in.

He won't respond, at least not right away. Not until he's taken his cock into his mouth as far as he can, hands steady on his hips to keep him from bucking upward. "A mouth like that is going to get you in trouble, sweetheart," he ultimately ends up breathing against the inside of a thigh, pausing just long enough to set his teeth against an unmarked patch of skin and bite down, hard.

"Maybe I should stop .." Another bite to the opposite side, and he sucks at the skin between his teeth until a bright, beautiful bruise is raised, deeply possessive.

He should have known the first goddamn night this would be a shit idea. The worst goddamn idea ever. No idea he comes up with while half outside his mind on booze, adrenaline, or terror ever comes to anything good. It'll be fun for a short while, yeah, but usually it ends in tears or blood. Both tend to be his. Every little trick and tease he might have laid out, everything he'd picked up knocking around clubs as a younger man before the project changed everything didn't do a damn thing other than encourage North- or teach him something new.

It's the teaching bit that has him regretting clinging to him after a particularly harsh night terror and kissing him at the moment. That had been a poorly planned move. Not something he would've done if he had D to tell him that it'd turn out like this. Not that it would've stopped him and not that he regrets this at all, but it's hard to remember how good everything is when Evan is being a jackass and not. Fucking. Touching him.

"I do not whimper!" He curls his fingers tight in Evan's hair, mussing up the fine blond strands as his nails catch and drag. A little retaliation for all the teasing. He's been good, come on, he hasn't pissed you off once today, play nice. He's playing nice, come on.

Tylor opens his mouth to say something else that was probably unkind when he gets that first brush of contact, all he can say then is "ohfuckme-"

Later, maybe. If he's lucky. Right now his world narrows down to Evan's lazy tongue and the obscene grip of his mouth, the too tight grip on his hips that keep him from rocking up and has him whining, hands sliding greedy for contact along Evan's hair and neck and shoulders. He'd sit up to touch further if he didn't know it'd just get him shoved back down again. Then.

Then the fucking biting.

"Dammit Ev!" He flinches, he always flinches, twitching away even as his thighs splay apart, begging for more as the pain fades into something far sweeter. "Oh fuck you if you stop I swear to god I'm gonna go out, naked, and find someone else to finish what you started-"

It's funny, the things you pick up along the way. Especially from a man that has boasted, before, on knowing every single little trick to get what he wants – and North has always fancied himself a quick study, a man with a sharp mind and, with the right intent, the open opportunity to lay waste to every single ounce of willpower, of self-control York has ever been thought to have.

The moment that had brought them together initially is emblazoned in his mind with the kind of crystal clarity that etches out every detail flawlessly. A harsh night doesn't even begin to cover the way the man had come out of a night terror that had left his entire body trembling with it, and Evan had pulled him close, wrapped his arms around him as tightly as he thought he could get away with. Coming away from that with a man that would just as readily shake himself apart for him, given the chance, as anything else is not something he'd been expecting, but you won't hear him complaining about it. Won't hear him saying a damn thing to the contrary, because he's convinced he'd gotten the better part of the deal.

"Yes, you do." It's murmured against his skin, low and warm and inviting as he licks a careful line over the length of York's cock, taking his time with it just as surely as he would anything else. ( He can't be rushed, can't be hurried. Won't be, in any case. )

Lightly, he pushes up into the pressure of the hands at the back of his neck, running over his shoulders as though it might give the other man something to hold onto – scrambling for purchase, desperate and whining, and this, he thinks, is his favorite Taylor. The one that can't bullshit his way out of or into something he wants, the one that can only beg and plead and moan as he is made to wait, voice breaking around the words slipping from the back of his throat as roughened whispers.

His thighs spread further apart, and Evan can only growl his approval. "And no, you won't. You're not getting out of his bed until I'm ready to let you, and let me assure you that I won't be for quite a while."

His mouth closes over the head of the other man's cock, and he sucks, taking him in until he nudges the back of his throat and he stops, traces the vein along the shaft with the tip of his tongue as he recedes.

"Do not, do not, do fucking not you fucking asshole-" cut off with a choke because he is not going to whimper for Evan when he's being this much of a possessive asshole. If he weren't smiling so much and clinging so hard to North's shoulders someone might think he's actually upset. Well. He is, just a little, because Evan is cheating. He's not supposed to be able to do this to him, no one is, what the hell happened to his control?

Gone forever, gone for good wherever Evan is concerned, probably because he's missed him. The transmissions he'd sent while out and about weren't the same as kicking back in the mess or sleepless nights spent sharing coffee. Sure as hell wasn't the same as clubbing and drinking and getting into trouble with him- he'd missed North like he misses his left eye.

This is probably why Evan tries do goddamn hard to drive him crazy- in the space between one breath and the next it's so easy for him to remember everything that went wrong, remember all the blood and pain and living alone. Remember dying, knowing he'd failed in his objective and that North would never get that fucking stupid joke he had thought up just for the sniper. Dying was bad enough. Leaving someone alone that seemed to need him was beyond anything he would have been able to bear.

Not whimpering, not sobbing but just. Rolling up into that mouth and back against his hands, head tipped forward and eyes squeezed shut to force those images back and away and just enjoy this as much as he can. Because he has this. That mouth on his skin, around his cock, that voice in his ear demanding his attention.

Ignore the wetness beading on his lashes as he cracks a laugh that shutters into a moan. "Will. Will so. If you don't fucking oh dear god Ev please-"

He can't answer him like this. Can't think to want to, not when he has every single bit of this man where he wants him, where he needs him. It's so easy, he thinks in some offhanded way, to bring forth every little reaction he could possibly want. York has always been liberal in that respect, yielding to every little touch, every flick of a tongue or press of fingertips against heated skin, every little taste he takes for himself to make this man just a little bit more his without even so much as leaving a bruise behind.

Though. There will always be time for those. Time and again he'll claim this body to the depths he chooses, marked and owned and just short of never being able to belong to himself again.

The thought swirling around in that fractured mind – the loss, the I missed you paired with the memories he can't just put on a shelf, can't shove away just so they'll hurt a little less even though he's gotten what he'd missed so much, they're lost on him. The nightmares, the sleepless nights spent soothing a man he can never see his life without now that he's made a place for himself in it, he's aware of those. But the thoughts behind them, the absence, none of it's been explained away, and Evan has to wait. He won't ask – he'll never pry that deeply – because Taylor has to come to him on his own time. On his own terms.

One hand slides up, over the planes of the other man's chest to curl lightly around the side of his throat. A small comfort, a silent shhh, be still passed through the motion as fingertips trace over the line of his jaw. As they catch some of the wetness that has spilled from his lashes and stains his cheeks, and he only takes him deeper. Relaxes his throat and swallows around him, slow, sweet. Yielding.

He'd never thought himself particularly easy before. Well. He wasn't exactly always playing hard to get either but he'd never been so high strung and eager for a firm, dickish hand to force him into place and let him ride out sensations at their leisure. Normally he's all about the give and take, the tricks of clever fingers and tongues and that's why he strayed on the side of women the past few years. They liked his mouth, liked his hands, didn't ask too many questions and were slightly less likely to put him in a position he didn't want to be in.

Even when he'd been with guys it'd been more about the quick rough and tumble than the manhandling and the utter possessive dominance that Evan preferred. They didn't sleep together so much as he was totally owned and frankly? It was kind of a relief. He didn't have to joke, didn't have to tease, didn't have to be quick or clever or even terribly kind.

He just had to be.

Just say or do whatever Evan wanted him to do and in return he got comfort, contact, fucking awesome orgasms and something more he really doesn't wanna put a name to. For a little while it fills up that fragmented bit of him that came with Delta being ripped away. He feels more like the man he'd been before Project Freelancer. Before North, before Carolina, before any of them. Just a little punk ass kid with too much hope and not enough ambition.

He shudders through the next pass, turning his head to kiss Evan's palm as his hips roll up, as all that teasing melts into something gentle and he can just sigh through it. With his eyes shut tight he can pretend they both work. With his heart beating so hard he can pretend he never died. With Evan so large and holding him down, holding him together, he can pretend he's not broken. Things he'll never say that he murmurs soundlessly into Evan's palm like something secret and precious because they are. All his gratitude. All his affection.

There are things he's never let himself be before; this level of possessive, this manner of I have you just as surely as you have me, and there's a reason for that. He's never trusted that side of himself, as much as he's come to realize that it's more prevalent than anything close to it. He can no more hide it than he can deny the kind of man he is, and for every sweet smile and soft touch there is an underlying firm hand, the set to his mouth that boasts I will not yield and it's only with Taylor that he can even come close to trusting himself that way.

He gives so much, so much of himself to the man before him, begging what he can in return, and Evan will always be the one to give it back to him. Every single bit of him, belonging more to him than he's ever belonged to himself. ( Though, he hasn't quite come to that realization quite yet … and if he's ever been the one to put the other man in his place, the place he wants to be in, it's a self-conscious realization. One that hasn't quite made its way to the surface. )

All Taylor has to do for him is be. Exist. And he'll give every bit of himself to him a thousand times over just to make him feel needed. Wanted. Cherished and loved where he is.

All I am belongs to you, just as you are mine in turn. How fucking true that is.

His hips roll upward, and he takes every bit of it, eyes sliding shut against the sensation of his cock thrusting deep. His throat flexes in another swallow, and he moans around the length of York's cock, slick and sweet and wanting every bit of what he's being given. ( Or, taking, as it may very well be. What he wants from this man, he will most certainly get. ) Everything that he wants to pretend he isn't – broken, weary, fractured and pulled apart, Evan gives him. He makes him whole, fixes those cracks and spiderweb fractures with the whispers of words he doesn't think he has any right to say aloud, with every pass of his lips and tongue, promises and prayers alike pressed into his skin and leaving their mark.

I love you is a thing he wants to say, I have you a thing he needs to convey – just so the other man knows just where he is, where he has to go whenever he feels the world crumbling beneath his feet.

The pad of his thumb traces over a full bottom lip, conveyance of his own that he understands. That he always has.

Evan's kind tonight despite all of his bitching and for that Taylor is grateful. Normally when he pushes or speaks out or trips over some kind of verbal insubordination he's strung out on sensation for hours before they get to this point. Maybe it was the nightmare. Maybe they're closer to actually putting words to what they are. Maybe it was how he was clinging and as desperate as he's ever been for some confirmation that this is real. It's not Detla in his ear, it's not the suit holding his skin in place while it patches him up, it's not his tools in his hand or the HUD covering his blind spot.

It's not the private war they'd been thrust into by a madman or breaking into storefronts for petty cash and food after- not screwing around on military bases beforehand. Whatever this is- it's after. It's direction. Stability. Purpose. Order.

Orders had only ever led him into pain up until they got him killed. Evan's orders always ended well. Evan never expected the impossible from him, never condemned him for not making it on the first go, never made him feel less of a man for not being good enough. He never made Taylor feel anything but worthwhile. Be it direction in bed or in the field he can and will always trust this man to guide him safely. Through the cracks of his own mind and the madness of this place, the firm hand on his hip and on his jaw helps him find his way home day after day and that's something he can't ever thank him enough for. Doesn't have the words for it, doesn't have the frame of reference for it- so he just. Acts out. Clings.

Sobs and pants into Evan's palm as he grinds up as much as he can and he knows- Evan knows and gets it he's always gotten it, they've always been on the same wavelength and he needs more than this right now. The first audible thing from him since Evan swallowed him whole and it's low and broken.

"Please." Please more. Please come up. A tense hand slides through Evan's hair and tugs him up, legs spread wide because he needs- more. Needs to be held down and claimed in the way only Evan can offer him. Needs to be told how to move and how to breathe and what to think right now just so the world will make a little more sense. "Please- sir."

Their strange little shorthand that'll tell Evan what he needs without him having to try too hard.

Evan's always doing things to make life easy on him.

[ guys' night out.

or .. an approximation thereof. he's lost sight of the motivation behind this whole thing since it started, and all he knows now is he's in a club. nursing his second gin and tonic while the others are either making idle conversation with pretty girls, debating on whether or not to actually drink alcohol ( because it's got to be against some article of project protocol, someone who shall remain nameless has already assured them out loud ) or, if your designation is york, you're out on the dance floor making a complete and utter fool of yourself.

north is watching him from his little corner table, drink in hand and hanging halfway between the table and his mouth as he takes in the sight before him, and really, this man has no shame at all, does he?

chuckling low under his breath, he's beginning to wonder just how many drinks york has had, and then comes to the conclusion that it doesn't matter because the boy would do this stone-cold sober, wouldn't he? of course he would.

you have no idea how much secondhand embarrassment he's getting from you right now, sir. ]

[Shame? Embarrassmanent? These are things for other people. York is kick'n it old school, dancing without giving any fucks whatsoever because it's fun. It's really goddamn fun to just let loose and be active in a way that doesn't involve the suits or the project or missions. No training, no tests, no objectives.

Just he and his buds and a club full of gorgeous women and handsome men. He's had a turn around with a few girls already- even a pretty red haired girl that reminded him of a certain Freelancer, before swinging his way back over to the bar.

Every other step has a little shimmy, a little grind, a shake of the hips that should be obscene but is too goddamn energetic to be anything but entertaining. He finds a stool and slips up next to North, beaming.]

Come on, man, you're missing out on the whole point of this by sticking to the bar.

[ no. of course you wouldn't be feeling any of that. it would make too much sense to realize that your every action makes you the spectacle of everyone in the place, but – nope – you don't mind that, do you? you'll never pass down the opportunity to be the center of attention, to let yourself go and have a real time of it.

not that he can blame him. he can't blame him at all. they work too hard, sleep too little to be denied something like this, and even If north thinks he's being a little ridiculous about it, he can't overlook the fact that the man looks genuinely happy.

his eyes are briefly drawn to the shimmy of those hips as the other man approaches, ends up looking away with a small huff of a laugh as he finishes what's left of his drink and york slides up next to him. ]

I've never been much of a dancer. I'd just end up embarrassing myself. [ a knowing little smile, and he's ordering another round for them both with a lick of his lips. ] I think you're having enough fun for all of us, anyway.

[Attention? Fuck yes. He loves attention when he's not working. Infiltration specialists need to be quiet and quick and subtle and, ideally, unseen. That's work. He's not working right now and is reveling in having pretty girls smile and his friends from the project having as much of a good time as he is.

Even if North is being a stick in the mud. God, man, you aren't that old. Loosen up a little.]

So? [He nudges North with his elbow, settling into his chair in a haphazard splay of long legs and bulky arms.] That's the point. You go out and make an idiot of yourself and some sweet lady thinks, hey, maybe I can teach that sucker to dance.

Boom, instant chemistry.

[He drums his hands on the table once, grinning too much for his chiding to really mean anything.]

Damn right. This was the best idea I've had this week!

[ yep. that's his little attention whore. good grief, what is he going to do with you? you spend a good ninety percent of your time trying to get by without being noticed, and you have to make up for it in your off-time?

that .. actually makes a fair bit of sense. damn.

and excuse you, he is not a stick in the mud. he's simply biding his time until the rest of you are ready to see yourselves out and he's ultimately made the designated driver because wash can't hold his liquor with one drink and ends up dancing with a chair.

he nudges him back with a shake of his head. ] Have you gotten your weekly proclamation of you're ridiculous, yet? Because you are.

[ and he adores you.

for reasons beyond his comprehension. ]

Not yet, thanks for filling me in on that. I had absolutely no idea- without the regular reminders? I might even forget.

[He cracks out a low laugh, nudging North back yet again. You have started the poke war, sir, after telling him he's ridiculous. It is now on.

Remember, you brought this on yourself.]

What you need to do- thanks. [A wink and a grin to the bartender- a dude, but a handsome dude that isn't staring too much at his bad eye - and he slings back the drink set in front of him without checking what it is. It's a North drink. North drinks are smooth and easy and don't burn too bad. Much like the man.] is finish that drink and come out with me on the floor. I'll help you find a nice partner for the next song. If you stay here any longer Wash is gonna try to dance with your stool while you're still on it.

Only because you have the memory of a goldfish. [ a beat. ] But of course, I'm always happy to remind you when the need arises.

[ yes. he knows how to mess with you right back, sir – even if he doesn't do it very often. he can't make a habit out of it, because what would happen if he ended up taking the spotlight away from you?

you'd pout, that's what. and there's only so much of that he can handle for a lifetime.

cue an elbow nudging your ribs, you little shit. it's on.

york winks at the bartender and north simply nods in thanks, letting his glass rest on the bartop and turning the whole of his attention to the other man once again. and .. of course he's already cooking up a scheme to get him out on the floor. ]

Okay, let me stop you right there. [ this is, of course, said in his best don't you even think about taking that thought any further voice. ] I'll come out there with you, but I'll be damned if I'm trusting you with finding me someone to dance with. Sometimes I question your taste in partners.

[ eyebrow raiiiiise. ]

[He sees your elbow nudge and raises you a knee bumped up against your thigh and a shoulder check. This is not a war you will win. Especially since he's riding high on three, count 'em, three phone numbers, a promise of five more dances, two shots of something fruity and glowing, and a good beer at the beginning of the night.

Nothing North can do can bring him down. Not even when he starts being a jackass right back- because when North sasses back? York has won. Really. This is winning.

He's dragged North down to his level. That's what winning is all about, man.]

Wha- why? [This is the face of innocence. Really. Utter innocence.] Come on, Susan was a lovely lady and Gary only tried to grope you twice! I think that counts as an enjoyable evening at the club.

[ he won't even try to bring you down from this – for the moment, he's simply giving you a measure of the shit you dish out to him, and it's all good-natured. ( it always will be, with him. it could never be anything else. ) that knee gets bumped back, but he leaves it at that as he finally takes a sip of his new drink, finally beginning to feel the effects of the gin, nice and tingly and warming all over.

he hmms, licks his lips and pushes a hand back through blond hair, blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he looks down at york and his mouth pulls to the side in the ghost of his own little smirk.

you're so full of shit your eyes should be turning brown. ] Three times, but who's counting? I'm not complaining, but it really is amusing to see the look on your face when you're trying to pout your way out of something.

[You know what would be great now? Shots. York taps the bar and motions to a tray of those glowing purply fruity fizzy ones he'd had earlier and the Bartender obliges easily enough, setting one down in front of York and one in front of North.

Drink up, be merry, for tomorrow we die, etc etc and all that bullshit.

Fuck it and drink because tonight is good and they're alive.]

I do not pout, Ev. I gaze meaningfully and soullfuly.

[Knee bump plus ankle hook, and York is poking at North's shot, nudging it closer and closer to his hands with a cheeky little grin all his own. He could stand to hear more of those Hmms, could stand to see north smiling and acting his goddamn age for once.]

[ shots are probably the last thing you're going to want to incorporate into this little .. whatever in the world it's trying to be, york, but you're a grown man and he can't very well tell you not to. shaking his head, he eyes the glass put down in front of him with a faint bit of skepticism, and paired with the ankle hook that he counters with what would equate a hip-bump were he not still settled squarely on his stool, he's beginning to feel like he's finally loosening up for the evening. ]

You do, Tay. And you know it, so stop bullshitting.

[ he finally knocks that shot back and follows it with another sip of gin, a small whew! finding its way up from the back of his throat as .. wow, what the hell was even in that shot?

north blinks dazedly, peers over at york as an alcohol-born flush begins to creep across the rise of his cheeks. ]

What the hell did you just give me?

[ york what have you done. ]

Do noooot.

[Soft and singsong around the shot he takes, coming up with a soft sign of satisfaction. Whatever the hell is in these babies, it's strong. It's good. He cracks out another bright string of laughter, good eye warm and dewy with amusement- North looks like he just got slapped in the face by a fish and that's just a beautiful kind of gobsmacked, innit?]

I can say- with complete honesty and utter sincerity, [One hand to his chest, one hand held up like he's swearing an oath.] That I have no fucking idea. Not a one. But aren't they great?

Do toooo.

[ oh.

no.

no really york what was in that shot.

it's good, the warmth of it carving a path down his throat as he swallows around it, already feeling a bit lightheaded in the sense that he's had one too many and doesn't know what to do with himself. he's tingly from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, and he feels good, but it still doesn't excuse the fact that if he isn't careful, he may end up acting a fool.

like. you know. wash.

he shakes his head. ] Of course you don't. You'd prob'ly drink rubbing alcohol if you didn't know what it was, and tasted good. [ no, he is not slurring, and no, he is not

drunk

but maybe he is. ]

.. Want another?

[Wait who's turn is it on the poke war? North's turn? No wait it's his, shit, he forgot. York adjusts by tangling his other foot in North's, pulling himself and his stool closer by dint of determination, well waxed tile, and North just weighing more than he does by a stupid amount. Damn dude being tall and built and tall.

North is clearly onto something here. Clearly. Another sounds good. York raps his knuckles on the table, leaning into and against North while he waits for the next set of shots. ]

I would do no such thing. I've got some class, Ev. Only the finest pine scented ethanol cleaner for me.

[A beat, a wink, and a sigh as another set of shots are set before them.]

To surviving!

[ does it really matter whose turn it was? it .. wait. it does. because york had been at a clear advantage given the whole ankle-hook thing and he'd barely managed not to topple right off of his stool, himself – but now he's scooting in closer, using north himself as an anchor, and there's some sort of joke to be made there that he's missing entirely .. but he's just going to chalk it up to his brain being delightfully muddled.

york leaning against him as he orders their next shots has him leaning a bit on the other man, himself. close enough that he can smell his soap, aftershave, all the junk he puts in his hair to make it do that ridiculous little flip in the front. and he inhales slightly, bumping his chin against his shoulder. ]

I'll remember, a bottle of Pine-Sol for your birthday.

[ oh and here are their shots, and he's all but rolling his eyes at that wink as it goes down. ]

.. To getting out of here without a couple-hundred-dollar tab –

That's right motherfucker, pine sol is classy.

[And so is he, all but snuggling into Norths' side and all. He could do worse than snuggling up to North anyway, everyone seems to take their turn with the older freelancer as days get longer and missions get more tense. York doesn't question it. He just takes hte invitation as it's given, nuzzling into whatever skin he finds while waiting for the next glowing shot.

He raps the bar again. What the hell will one more set hurt? He's got North joking, blushing, and all warm and sexy next to him. Why not keep the good time rolling?]

Don't worry. i told the bartender it was all on Reggie's tab. As long as we bail before he does, w're good.

.. You're drunk.

[ an arm slides around the other man's back and holds him right where he is, uncaring as to what everyone else in the place might think of seeing them all but hanging on each other at this point. north very well could care less – he feels great, like a load has been lifted from his shoulders and he's able to enjoy himself with a night out with his friends, and given that he's got one adorable infiltration specialist all but curled up against him, things really could be worse.

and not that he isn't normally physically affectionate, but the way he has that arm curled around york right now is beyond what it otherwise would be – just shy of possessive in the way his hand rests at a hip, his own body turned toward the other man's as though he were the only human being in the place and deserved every single ounce of his attention.

he clears his throat – one more, just one more – and he's finished, though his eyes seem to brighten the slightest bit at that little bit of information, and he's pausing even as his third ( and final ) shot is set down in front of him. ]

And you're a genius. Doesn't surprise me that you'd pull the tab off on someone else, but .. still. Here's to a job well done, Agent York.

[ aaand down the hatch it goes, still burning as sweetly as the first. ]

I am drunk.

[He responds with a grin, wide and bright and easy as anything. Life is good right now, man. He's intoxicated and in the company of friends. Hell, it's safe enough for him to be drunk and that? That is what has him so goddamn happy. That for right now they can have this. That and North's got an arm around him and apparently he's a snuggly drunk which is something he hadn't known in the slightest. Another point is that, hey, North is DRUNK.

This never happens.

Drunk York instantly sets about sorting out how to make this the most mindblowing night possible for North because, hell, those always start when you're drunk. What the fuck is step two again? He snorts out a laugh and leans into the taller man. later. He can figure out step two later. Right now he just slams back that last glowing shot and flips it over, sliding the shotglass around the surface of the bar.]

Hey, I always have a plan B. And a plan C. If Reggie leaves before we do, we can pawn it off on Wash. That kid doesn't ever spend any of his pay, he's good for it.

[Oh. Wait. Wash. THAT is step two. It's not supposed to happen tonight, though, but the equipment is all set up above the dance floor and he's drunkenly leaning, peering at the switches set at the nozzles that'd spray down fragrant, soap free foam on the dance floor.]

I bet I could make that shot.

Just .. making sure you were aware of it. [ evan what.

you're drunk, too.

that grin has one of his own coming, though; broad and genuine, it spreads across the line of his mouth like wildfire, an all-encompassing thing that he couldn't have helped even if he'd bothered with it in the first place. it's a nice little secret that yes, north dakota is a cuddly, affectionate drunk – a fact which no one else in the project would have even known if he hadn't opted to come out with the boys tonight. but as long as york isn't shoving him away, isn't telling him to get ahold of himself and sober up or what-have-you, there's no real harm in it, right?

of course not.

he's chuckling, going along with the flow of conversation as easily as he's ever done anything in his life, and once he sees the other man eying those nozzles, a switch flips in the back of his mind that has since been – and forever shall be – attuned to the notion of his friend doing something immeasurably ridiculous.

north licks his lips, a single eyebrow slightly raised. ]

Don't you even.

I am so damn aware, you don't even know!

[Enough that he's laughing, he's leaning, even a little more than he probably has to in order to line up the shot and start patting himself down for some kind of projectiles. He's got backup by way of North and the others, even if Reggie is off trying to pick girls up by way of mustache rides and Maine is busy bench pressing a goddamn pool table with people sitting on it and Wash is...surprisingly sober, off in a corner, chatting with someone sweet looking.

Well good on him.

York lets his head fall back against North's shoulder as he finally finds a rubber band, perfect for pitching long distance distractions, and he takes a pit of an olive. Should be more than enough.]

If I make it, you have to dance with me.

[ he's made a terrible mistake. he's had entirely too much to drink and things are about to take a horrible turn for the unimaginable and dear sweet jesus in heaven above let him get out of this alive.

and so maybe he's been hanging around the other man a little too much if he's taking to that level of dramatics, but he's also very drunk and that level of dramatics makes sense to him right now.

… wait. wash is talking to someone? well. maybe the night isn't a total loss, after all.

york's head is on his shoulder and north himself is following the proposed line of trajectory for that olive pit, and he's weighing the outcome. well … a dance wouldn't be so bad, would it?

he hums thoughtfully. ]

And what if you don't?

Doesn't matter, I'm gonna make the shot.

[Because how could he not? It's simple enough of one from here. All he has to do is lean, adjust, let North take the bulk of his weight as he pulls the pit back and gauges the distance, the force he'll need.

Still.

Under his breath he murmurs just before he lets the pit fly.]

If I miss I gotta kiss you.

[And then it's airborne.]

RP OPEN POST )

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject