a teaser, in progress

Hadn't shared actual writing in a while, missing the conversations about it! So...from a bonus Character Bleed story in progress...the shower sex hurt/comfort story, in face...here's a piece of the Colby POV, after the incident in question...

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Colby waited two entire days before asking what was on Jason’s mind. He’d’ve asked sooner, but he still felt a bit shaky. Better—far better, vastly so, mountains of better—but regaining balance.

 

The shuddery aftermath of a near-miss car-crash. The easing of a bruise, purple to yellow-brown. The knitting of bone back together, to borrow Jason’s metaphor.

 

He was all right, he thought. Or he would be. He got out flour, oats, cranberries, sesame seeds; he found yeast and milk and butter, and a bowl or two. Sunshine striped the pale granite of the countertops, gold against grey, next to his hands.

 

Jason hadn’t been subtle. No sex—nothing even vaguely along those lines—these last two days, though there’d been lots of cuddling, and attentive kisses. Glancing at Colby, glancing at the shower. Looking up something on his phone, and then casually putting on a home-renovation show while they’d been washing dishes. It’d just sounded interesting, he’d said casually. Simply that. For now.

 

Colby thought it was probably a good idea. He was a bit surprised he himself hadn’t thought of it—he’d bought new furniture, after all, after everything—but somehow anything as drastic as remodeling the flat honestly hadn’t occurred to him.

 

Of course, at the time, he’d been about to leave for the start of filming, and he hadn’t wanted to think about Liam ever again, and he hadn’t been letting himself feel much. Not letting anything crack open, behind the enthusiastic and upbeat public persona. No matter how cold his hands felt.

 

Jason wanted him to never have cold hands. Jason wanted him to reach out, so that those large strong hands could enfold his. So that Jason could keep him warm.

 

He touched the sunlight on the countertop, thinking of warmth. He loved rain, but this was nice as well: clean brightness under his fingertips, lying there as if happy to be appreciated.

 

He gave his countertop a tiny pat, because he would like that, if he were a cuddly bit of sun-striped granite; and he smiled a little and set about conjuring up cranberry-oat bread, with sesame and flaxseed.

 

Jason came in from the small balcony while Colby’s hands were buried in shaggy dough, and said, “Sorry, that took longer than I thought. Susan had a whole list of late-night shows she wants to see me on, for interviews. Can I help?”

 

“Just grab that bowl, would you? Light oil—perfect, thank you. Of course you’ll be marvelous doing press. You always are.”

 

Jason set down the oil. Blinked at him, a large perplexed foothill in worn jeans and a dark red Henley. “You’ve seen me do press before?”

 

“Er…I might’ve watched some things. Promoting new John Kill installments, and such.” The dough had obligingly become a nice smooth ball; he tucked it into its bowl-bed. “About two hours, for that, I think….you’re always so gracious. Praising your directors, co-stars, crew. Playing along with spy trivia questions or little how-well-do-you-know-your-castmates games. You’re such a good sport about it. I always liked that.”

 

Jason carried on gazing at him, and finally said, “I mean…you have to have fun with it, right? Even if it’s not, like…I mean, in Saint Nick Steel I ran around wearing a Santa hat that made me into a reincarnated spirit of Christmas that rescued kids. By punching bad guys. Or shooting them. Or something.”

 

“It’s certainly original.”

 

“Terrible. You mean terrible. But, like…people still worked on it. Our cast, our crew…we made something, y’know? So of course I’m going to be a good sport about the press circus. For them, and for me, because it’s not like it wasn’t fun. So, yeah, I’ll say so.”

 

“And there’s always an audience for those sorts of stories, which, as it happens, includes me.” Colby looked around for plastic wrap to cover the bowl; Jason held it out. “I like fantasy, and I like you running around in extremely tight shirts while protecting people.” Their eyes met, across dough and sunshine.

 

“Two hours,” Jason said, a question, an invitation, a joy.

 

“Plenty of time for you to kiss me in our kitchen?”

 

Jason laughed, stepped in closer—carefully, not throwing looming weight around—and slid a big hand to the back of Colby’s head, fingers threading through his hair. Their lips met, lightly at first. Jason tasted like mint and sunlight, having been outside; his tongue teased Colby’s mouth, coaxing and gentle, not a demand.

 

Colby tried to get even closer. Pressed up against Jason, hands roaming the broad expanse of Jason’s back, such muscle and strength and kindness. The feeling of Jason’s body against his, exquisitely male and powerful and aroused.

 

He wanted Jason to kiss him more, harder, deeper. He wanted to be Jason’s, to know that he was: beyond any question, belonging to and cherished by the man loved. He wanted to feel Jason everywhere; he attempted to beckon Jason further, a hopeful shy question of tongue and parted lips and shifting hips.

 

Jason smiled—Colby felt it—but drew back, though he kept both big arms around Colby, holding fast. “Just checking, that’s what you wanted, right? You know I’m fine with whatever you say’s okay.”

 

Colby felt his own eyebrows go up. “Was I not being clear enough about you and fantasies and our kitchen?”

 

“You asked me to kiss you.” Jason hugged him more tightly. “If that’s where we’re at, today, that’s perfect.”

 

“Oh.” He recalibrated his reactions for a second. Not him not being clear enough; not his fault. Jason being careful. Because Jason was that, at heart: built of care. “Thank you. But in fact I was hoping you might ravish me on the kitchen table? Or a chair. Or these countertops. They’re in favor of ravishing. Which sounds a lot like radishes, so of course they’d be in favor, we’re in a kitchen, that somehow seems appropriate. Or inappropriate, as it were. But not being inappropriate with radishes, please.”

 

Jason burst out laughing, though it was a gentle thunderclap, softened by emotion. “God, I love you. And the radishes.”

 

“Please,” Colby said, and traced a heart over Jason’s back, behind a shoulder blade. “I want you. Here, in sunshine.”