Take This Man

by Neil S. Plakcy

  The word is barely more than a breath, a quick exhalation of air that leaves Owen’s lungs like a punch. It still ought to be enough to provoke some sort of response from Luther, but the silence only lengthens. When Luther’s still quiet, even as he kicks off his loafers and pushes past Owen into the apartment, Owen’s hands start to sweat. But he’s here now. And he’s not going to run away from this. From Luther.

  “Sir—” But when Owen tries again, his voice is rough. It hurts to swallow, and there’s a dangerous heat building behind his eyes. “Luther!” Owen breathes, as he moves to follow Luther into the privacy of his living room. If it sounds like begging, Owen doesn’t care. Much. He has to believe that this is salvageable. That his presence hasn’t ruined whatever tenuous connection they’d managed to keep alive between Luther’s studies and Owen’s stint with the Royal Marines.

  “Look at me!” Owen growls. This time, he punctuates his words with a grab at the sleeve of Luther’s corduroy vest. The fabric feels strange—wrong, even—in his hands. For the first time in his life, Owen longs for the familiar discomfort of their MOPP suits. He needs something to ground him. Some sort of sensory data that he can lock on to, and catalog—that will once again mold Luther into any one of a thousand easy definitions: Sir, CO, Lieutenant Philadelphus. But when Owen tries to pull Luther in for a soft kiss—to apologize, in the only way he knows how to—Luther ducks.

  “Not now, Owen!” Luther barks, and his tone is the same one he used to shout down another CO the first time Luther refused to get them all killed: curt, polite, but with a dangerous edge lingering underneath. Maybe that had been the moment he’d won them over: by saving all their lives without even realizing he was doing it. But Owen’s nothing if not daring, and if Luther is what winds up killing him, not some bullet or stray shrapnel shard, so fucking be it.

  “Yes, now!” Owen tightens his grip on Luther’s sleeve, and twists the cloth hard between his fingers before adding, “Sir.”

  Luther’s face, as he turns to face him, is white with anger, but his voice is all pained surprise as he says “Owen. What—?”

  Owen doesn’t so much answer Luther as slam him up against the wall, hard enough to make Luther’s teeth rattle. Luther makes a noise, on impact—a soft grunt of surprise. Owen has just enough time to see Luther’s eyes go wide, and watch him struggle to draw a breath before he crushes his mouth to Luther’s and kisses him like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get. Owen feels Luther push against his chest. There’s something nearly frantic about the gesture.

  Owen wonders, briefly, if his shove knocked the wind out of Luther, and promptly realizes he doesn’t care. This gesture—message—whatever, is more important. Owen lets his tongue twine around Luther’s. He sucks on it until Luther shudders against him. Then Owen draws back just enough to nip savagely at Luther’s bottom lip. Luther groans, and Owen tastes blood before he moves to soothe the wounds with his lips and tongue. By the time he finally pulls away again, Luther won’t shut up.

  “Owen—Owen—” Luther pants. His hands claw for purchase in Owen’s too-short hair, and he squirms until one of Owen’s legs is sandwiched between both his thighs. “Owen!”

  “Sir,” Owen mutters back. His voice sounds oddly broken, but Luther doesn’t seem to notice. Not that that should surprise Owen, what with Luther pressed up against him, and already hard. Achingly so, Owen would guess, if the way Luther’s practically sobbing his name is any indication.

  This isn’t exactly how Owen envisioned his apology going. He’d pictured more talking, less fucking. Maybe a few angry condemnations on Luther’s part. For a second, Owen is tempted to slow things down, to get to the part where they talk, and yell, and ask questions. But then Luther cries, “Jesus fuck, Owen!” positively pleading now. So Owen just slips a soothing hand between Luther’s denim-clad thighs. He rocks his hand, and his palm slides hot and fast over Luther’s rock-hard cock.

  Owen means to say that he doesn’t belong in Luther’s world, that he’ll leave in the morning. Really, he does, but what comes out instead is a choked “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sir. So fucking sorry!” as he fumbles with Luther’s fly.

  “Fuck, Owen!” is all Luther says. Luther’s voice is thready, but there’s a dismissive quality to his words that Owen doesn’t understand.

  “Sir?” Owen asks, but Luther’s only answer is a quick, hard bite at Owen’s ear that sends tingles all the way down his spine.

  “Bed,” Luther orders. Owen would ask which way, but Luther disentangles his legs from where they’re wrapped around Owen’s waist, and slides down the slope of Owen’s thigh until his stocking feet brush the floor.

  “Bed,” Luther commands again, a wicked grin ghosting across his lips as he hooks his hands in Owen’s shirt and pushes him toward the hall. Owen catches a flash of tinsel from the corner of his eye as Luther manhandles him down the narrow corridor. Owen wonders how he missed the enormous bulk of the Christmas tree in Luther’s living room the first time around. He can only conclude that Luther’s presence fucks with his situational awareness. Owen opens his mouth to tell Luther this, and wonder aloud about the kind of person Luther would bother to decorate a tree for, but Luther kisses him quiet. Kisses him until Owen’s giddy with it, and he lands (with a soft oof of surprise) on Luther’s mattress.

  Owen hadn’t even noticed turning the corner into Luther’s bedroom, and he thinks about that as the bed dips beside him with Luther’s weight. Then, Luther’s hands are trembling over the zipper of Owen’s jeans, and Owen pretty much loses track of conscious thought for a while.

  When Owen comes to, Luther’s on his hands and knees below him. Owen’s buried deep inside Luther, and splayed across him, so that his chest is pressed flush against Luther’s back. Owen presses his cheek against the sweat-streaked hollow between Luther’s shoulder blades and breathes, shallowly, in and out. Luther gasps below him. Luther’s quieter than any of Owen’s other lovers ever were. It used to worry Owen, before he’d come to understand that Luther would always be subdued about his feelings, even in bed. Luther doesn’t talk, or scream. A quick moan here, or a muffled curse there, is about as vocal as he’ll ever get. Owen’s learned not to expect Luther to tell him what he likes and doesn’t like.

  Owen figures it out in other ways. He knows Luther’s in ecstasy when this one muscle in his lower back twitches, just so, beneath Owen’s hands. He can trace Luther’s pleasure along the hard, bunched line of muscle down his forearm. When Luther fists the covers, twisting the sheets between his fingers until his knuckles go white, it means he’s happy.

  Owen cups Luther’s fist with his own large hand, so he can trace the peaks and valleys of Luther’s knuckles. Luther shudders and opens his fist just enough for Owen to slide his hand in. When Owen does, Luther sighs. He twists his grip until his slippery fingers slide between Owen’s.

  The steady panting of their combined breath is loud in Owen’s ears as he stares at the sight of their hands, locked together, against the bright white of the sheets. On another night, a different night, Owen would worry about how unavoidably gay that image is, but since he’s pretty sure that this is the last time he’ll ever get to do this, it seems okay. Owen clutches Luther’s hand tight in his, and thrusts in time to the tempo of Luther’s breath, driving Luther—driving them both—ever closer to the edge. Owen loses himself in the rhythm, in the steady back-and forth of their bodies, and does his best not to think about the morning.

  Owen wakes at sunrise, just as the first streaks of light stain the slate-gray sky outside a faint, rose-quartz pink. Luther’s still asleep, wrapped up in the blankets like the Christmas—Hanukkah—present that he isn’t, and Owen knows it’s time to leave. He has to go before Luther wakes up and tries to stop him. If Luther wakes up, and Owen’s still here, he’ll feel compelled to do the right, polite thing and talk Owen out of it, even though Owen’s presence is the last thing Luther wants in his life. Luther proved that much last night.

  It takes Owen only
a few minutes to dress. He’s big, and broad, and burly. He doesn’t need a lot of time to look good. His freckled face, coal-black hair and gunmetal gray eyes do the job credibly. Owen doesn’t even reach for a change of clothes this morning, just slips on the same black jeans, wife-beater (the better to show off his beefcake arms, all tatted up), and motorcycle jacket he’d worn the night before. His bag is by the door, fully packed.

  Owen stands to leave, pausing only to think back to the disaster of the party the night before. He’d insisted Luther go, had tried to tell him he’d book himself a hotel room and be gone in the morning. Owen recalls the way Luther had fought with him about it, made a scene in front of his friends and finally (after Owen had refused to let him back out of his prearranged plans) dragged Owen to the party with him. The hours there had been awkward and strained. Luther had been tense and irritable the entire time, and refused to socialize with anyone. He’d spent the evening in a secluded corner with Owen, glowering, white-faced and silent, as he’d resolutely ignored the profusion of both presents and alcohol that swirled around them.

  Owen tiptoes through the living room as quietly as he can in size-twelve combat boots and tries to summon up a righteous surge of anger at the memories. He’s surprised, instead, by how much he really wants to stay. Luther still feels like home to Owen, even after he’s clearly moved on to other people and a better life.

  Owen’s so distracted by his thoughts that he almost doesn’t see the flickering glow of candlelight, until it’s too late. He only just catches the quick flash of it, from the corner of his eye. Owen turns, right hand firmly clutching the shoulder strap of his duffel bag, and stares at the menorah sitting in Luther’s living room window. Owen looks at it for a long moment, wondering what it means, before he shakes his head sharply, slings his duffel bag over one shoulder and turns to open Luther’s front door.

  “Owen?”

  Owen doesn’t mean to freeze at the sound of Luther’s voice. Doesn’t mean to stand there, rooted to the floor, as the syllables of his name spill like drops of molten silver from Luther’s tongue. Owen tells his feet to move. He screams the order silently within the private walls of his own, thick skull, but they won’t budge. Owen swallows. He can’t seem to run, so Owen does the only thing he can: he closes his eyes and counts out every jarring, frantic beat of his heart against his ribs.

  “Owen—” When Luther finally breaks the silence, Owen allows himself a moment to drink in the perfection of the sound. His name, on Luther’s lips, is a thing of beauty, and Owen wonders how he never noticed it before. “Owen,” Luther says again, like it’s the only word he knows. Luther sounds sleepy, sated and almost drunk. The barest prickle of curiosity colors his words like the slight tingle of spiced rum.

  “Sir,” Owen answers. His mouth is dry. Turning to face Luther feels like work, but Owen does it anyway, and gasps—audibly—at the sight before him. Luther’s stark naked where he stands in the middle of his living room, shrouded by the soft glow of the early morning sun. Tongues of crimson fire lick his skin. The color brings out the russet in Luther’s hair, and stains his cheeks a faint, dusty pink. Luther looks—he looks arresting. Angelic. For a second, time stands still.

  Then doubt flickers across Luther’s face and he steps forward, out of the sunlight. The spell is broken, the aura gone, and Owen is plunged back into the icy grip of his own fear as he waits for Luther to figure out what’s going on.

  “Owen—what?”

  Luther steps a shade closer to Owen, hesitating over the movement, like he’s not sure whether it’s allowed. Owen watches something like fear flit across Luther’s face. It’s with shock that Owen realizes Luther’s—uncertain, in a way he never was in Iraq. Owen feels thrown. He’s not sure how to handle this and he knows he’s not trained for it. Owen is the one who’s supposed to have the answers.

  Owen’s never seen Luther look so lost before, and part of him aches to course correct, to soothe away the worry he sees etching lines on to Luther’s face. “What are you doing?” Luther asks. He says the words slowly, like he hasn’t fully processed what he’s seen, or maybe he hasn’t woken up.

  His eyes skitter across Owen’s fully clothed form and land on the duffel bag clutched tight in Owen’s hands. “You’re—you’re leaving?” Luther is all bewildered accusation even as he steps clear into Owen’s space, pressing up against him until their noses nearly touch. And something about the combination of that tone and gesture cuts Owen to the quick in a way that no strangled shout, or barked order, ever could. Fleetingly, Owen wonders what he looks like. Wonders what emotions are playing out across his face as Luther presses a gentle palm against Owen’s cheek. Luther’s fingers are rough, lightly calloused from typing, and Owen leans into the touch although he doesn’t mean to.

  “Sir—” he says, just as Luther chokes “Don’t.” Owen licks his lips, waiting for the tirade that he knows is coming, but Luther’s eyes widen a little and he waits for Owen to speak.

  “Please—” It isn’t what Owen means to say at all. Owen’s not sure why he feels the need to apologize for anything. He’s doing this for Luther’s benefit, after all. This is—this is what Luther wants.

  “Please what, Owen?” Luther’s voice is like a touch, featherlight against Owen’s lips. And Owen tries to answer Luther, but he finds he doesn’t quite know how. He winds up stammering, blinded by the ice-blue brilliance of Luther’s eyes, and the sudden graze of Luther’s thumb against his bottom lip. “I—I—I—” Too late, Owen realizes he’s trembling. He wants to look away, but Luther won’t let him.

  Luther’s fingers lightly stroke Owen’s temple as he crowds even closer. Owen has the wild thought that they made love just last night, but this moment feels more intimate than fucking ever could, and then Luther’s kissing him. Luther kisses Owen’s tremor away, and only pulls away once Owen’s wrested back his trademark calm.

  “Talk to me,” Luther pleads, before adding, “Stay!” Owen flinches at the sound of Luther’s voice—raw, and little used. Under any other circumstances, Owen would consider it his duty to soothe away that tone, in whatever way he could, but he can’t, now. Not when he’s the one who put it there in the first place. Owen makes himself step back, and thinks that that one, small action—stepping away, from Luther, might be the single hardest thing he’s ever had to do. When Owen speaks, though, his voice is steady.

  “I don’t belong in your world, sir,” Owen says, and something dangerous flares in Luther’s eyes, at that.

  “You do if I want you to,” Luther says, with a stubborn tilt to his jaw.

  Owen snorts, harsh and grating.

  “Yeah,” he answers. “Right.” It’s possibly the most disrespectful tone Owen’s ever used on Luther, and Luther looks lost again, but this time, the expression angers Owen more than it moves him.

  “Want me?” Owen asks, and it’s him that crowds into Luther’s space this time. The movement is defiant and unapologetically threatening. Luther looks startled. “You didn’t want me last night, sir.”

  “Of course I wanted you!” Luther says, and he looks like Owen struck him, but Owen doesn’t care. Not now.

  “You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Owen spits, and he might almost feel bad about it if it weren’t for the fact that nobody can move him the way Luther Philadelphus can. Nobody else can make Owen feel this—vulnerable, this exposed. Owen realizes that he’s let his guard down around Luther, in a way that he hasn’t around anybody since his ex. He knows, from all those months of fighting with him, how important the next few seconds are. How critical it is to hang on to the upper hand while he still has it.

  “What was that at the party, sir?” Owen asks, and he can’t help but enjoy it, just a little, when Luther flinches at the emphasis on his rank. “I told you that you could go. And then what do you up and do, but drag me along, and act like your night is about as much fun as pulling teeth? I mean, what the hell, sir? You barely talked—barely looked at me, the entire time. You did
n’t—you didn’t introduce me to your grad-school friends. Fuck, you didn’t say so much as a single word to anyone. So don’t stand here and tell me that you want me. That I belong in your world. Not after you made it abundantly clear last night how much I don’t!”

  “Jesus Christ, Owen!” Luther shouts back. Luther’s gone nearly white with rage, or something else. He’s naked and gorgeous and everything that Owen wants and won’t ever be allowed to have. “That wasn’t about you!” Owen makes a sound at that, and finally whirls around, his hand on the door he should have escaped through ages ago. Luther’s talking rapidly behind him. Owen doesn’t want to listen, but he does.

  “You never gave me a chance not to go, Owen! Did you ever think about that? You show up on my doorstep, and then assume that I—that I—” Luther sounds winded, like he’s grasping at straws. “I see those people every week, Owen! Why the fuck would I want to go their party when I could spend time with you?”

  Luther lapses into silence. He slumps near the door frame, and Owen realizes with a jolt that Luther does want him, but he’s also not going to stop Owen from leaving. Not if that’s what Owen wants.

  “You—but—you were pissed that I was there!” Owen finishes, lamely.

  “Owen—” Luther says. He sounds like Owen’s words hurt him, and Owen feels something twist in his gut at the expression on Luther’s face. It’s open, and honest, and almost as vulnerable as Owen feels. “I’ll never be pissed off because you’re here.” Luther’s voice is so low that Owen can barely hear him.

  Then Luther steps forward until both his palms are pressed against Owen’s chest. “I didn’t want to go to that party.” Luther speaks slowly, carefully, like he’s terrified Owen might misinterpret his words somehow. Owen’s not entirely sure Luther’s wrong about that. “Not after I saw you.” Luther swallows, and looks away. “I—Jesus, Owen, I hoped you’d come. Dreamed—” Luther makes a face. “Why else would I put a menorah in the windowsill, Owen?”