by G. D. Cox
What kind of revolting shit is that to associate with Cole? If Cole ever finds out he thought about such vile crap in regards to Cole, the guy will probably murder him. Cole isn't gay. Look at the guy, he's the very embodiment of masculinity and heterosexuality! And he's got the reputation to prove it too!
And what about your looks and reputation? What do they say about you?
Clyde has to settle for clenching his hands into fists on his lap instead of pressing them to his temples, while Fabry speaks to Cole and wraps up the meeting. He doesn't know whether to find this new voice that sounds just like himself more or less annoying than the one that sounds like Pop. At least the latter is familiar to him. At least it doesn't ask him questions he can't (doesn't want to) answer.
He leaves Fabry's office first with Cole behind him. As they head to the elevators at the end of the hallway, they walk side by side, and there's an odd feeling in Clyde's chest while they do. It's not a bad feeling, but he can't quite consider it a good feeling either. It ... makes him antsy. Makes his belly clench, his chest somehow feel like it's being compressed into a ball and yet expanding outward like an accelerating explosion of light and heat. It's something ... alien, something new. Something startling, like it has strings attached, like it has consequences, like it's inescapable. Something he's never felt before today, before meeting Cole -
"Meatloaf," Cole blurts out to himself while glancing down at his watch, while they wait for an elevator. It's so out of the blue that Clyde gapes at Cole, at the anticipatory gleam in Cole's big, blue eyes. His own eyes crinkle when he realizes what Cole said. Well, shit, Perez and Stewart were telling the truth about Cole being the biggest fan of Betty's meatloaf ever. (And who can blame the guy? Heaven in meat form, man.)
"Ground beef meatloaf? Is that what the mess is serving today?"
"It's Wednesday. Betty did say that they're serving meatloaf on Wednesdays now instead of Mondays," Cole replies and whoa, it is really something else to see Cole smile, even if it's just an upward quirk of those dark pink lips that are ... just right.
Fuck.
Fuck, he's saying things to Cole but he doesn't know what and he doesn't care as long as Cole keeps looking at him and smiling like that. Fuck, he's smiling back at Cole and he doesn't even remember thinking about doing it and what they're talking about and what the hell is wrong with him? The last thing he wants is for Cole to think that he's gay when he isn't, not at all. He may have just met Cole, but he can tell Cole is good people. He knows he'd feel the same even if he never heard a thing about the guy before today. He ... likes Cole. Likes and respects Cole like he does Chowdhury, Stewart, Perez and all the other great folks he's come to know and befriend in the GATF. That's it. End of.
He's calmer within once they step into the elevator, although their eyes meet again before he glances away and stares forward at the elevator doors. (Damn, Cole's eyes are striking this close up.) He can do this. He can make this handler-asset relationship work between them. Maybe Gyeong was right, maybe the fifth time is the charm for him.
It's the only explanation he's got, really, for how right it feels to stand at Cole's side like this, like he's meant to be there.
X.
"YOUR HEART STOPPED twice on the flight back from Croenia," Clyde whispers to Cole, nuzzling his bruised, stubbly cheek under the nasal cannula, embracing him as tenderly as can be on the tilted hospital bed so that his numerous contusions and bandaged wounds aren't jostled (but he doesn't care about that, as long as Clyde will stay so near to him like this). "And every time, I think I died with you."
XI.
IT'S AMY WHO GREETS them at the entrance of Dees' Steakhouse tonight, with a sincere smile and a cheery, "Mr. Cole! Mr. Barnett! Lovely to see you both again."
"Hello, Amy," Cole replies, his lips quirking up in an amiable manner.
"Tell us you still got mutton chop tonight," Clyde says while standing beside him.
It's been almost four years since he and Clyde became lovers, and he still feels a delicious shiver run through him when Clyde openly grasps his hand and intertwines their fingers in public. He gives Clyde's fingers an affectionate squeeze.
Amy smiles at them again, her round face rosy and her brown eyes gleaming as she leads them into the steakhouse.
"Oh, yes! We reserved one for you. And the lobster salad too."
Dees' Steakhouse is one of their favorite haunts in the city, a large, swanky and yet softly lit location with an atmospheric art deco interior. Its dark wood walls cluttered with antique collectibles and framed photographs, big brass chandeliers and plush leather chairs were what drew Cole to the place first. For Clyde, it was the humongous painting of a majestic white tiger regally posed on its belly and front legs hanging on the wall adjacent to the main entrance.
It looks just like you, Cole had joked the very first time they had dinner here, partaking in the superb food that's turned them into regulars of the joint. Its beautiful eyes, especially.
You know you just called me a giant pussy, right, Clyde had said, and his large, wide-set, blue eyes that really do look like a lethal big cat's were crinkled and twinkling.
A giant, sexy pussy who can kill with one swipe of his magnificent claws, he'd replied, deadpan, and Clyde had rolled his eyes and cackled and playfully kicked his shin under the table.
Tonight, however, they won't be sitting in the public area of the steakhouse. They've booked a private room for their dinner date at Clyde's behest.
I don't wanna share you with the world, just for one night, Clyde had said to him five nights ago, scratching his scalp above his right ear, the two of them bundled together in their fleece blanket on their bed. Okay?
Of course it's okay. Of course it is.
Amy guides them to a small, intimately lit room near the back of the steakhouse. They saunter past other patrons who are waiting for their meals or already enjoying them, and the whole time, Clyde holds his hand and walks in front of him. Only a blind person can miss the sight of their fastened hands.
It's after they're seated side by side on the upholstered, button-tufted, ivory booth bench and Amy's taken down their orders - the steakhouse's fabulous mutton chop, lobster salad with avocado, thick-cut smoked bacon and pan-seared Dover sole with lemon-butter sauce - that Cole lets himself bask in the vision that is his lover in a gray, v-neck sweater and a lavender shirt, both rolled up to the elbows, and stonewash jeans and leather boots. It's an ensemble that Clyde wears only for formal dates, which is rather unfortunate because it does terrible, terrible things to a certain part of Cole's anatomy.
Naturally, said lover knows all too well what those terrible things are, and joyfully makes those terrible things happen to him on a daily basis even without the sweater-shirt combo.
"You are so easy," Clyde says with a rascally grin, reaching out to brush the back of callused fingers along his cheek. "If I knew a sweater and shirt could get you going like this, I woulda worn them at HQ ages ago."
"Don't you dare," Cole growls, which just makes his puckish lover snicker.
The gray, v-neck sweater Clyde is wearing tonight was given to Clyde along with a fitted, white Oxford shirt two years ago as a birthday gift by Ma and Pa. (Technically, it was Ma who picked them since Pa, by his own admission, has next to zero fashion sense and thanks god every day for his wife and her impeccable tastes in clothes.) On the night of receiving the gift, in the guest bedroom of the family home after everyone had retired, Clyde had confessed to him that he'd felt weird wearing such a combo of clothing.
It's too ... classy for me, I guess, Clyde had mumbled, holding the sweater and shirt to his bare torso anyway.
Clyde had then confessed that until he was twenty-two-years-old and living with his then girlfriend Melissa, he'd never been given a gift. By anyone. And Clyde had no idea at all how to deal with a genuine gift bequeathed out of love by his boyfriend's parents when he'd never received any from his own. The enormity of Clyde's nonchalant comments had struck Cole mut
e for a minute.
Then he'd encouraged Clyde to try the sweater and shirt on. When Clyde did, he'd been struck mute again, by how handsome Clyde appeared in the ensemble with the sleeves rolled up and the shirt collar stiff and smart. The shadows in Clyde's eyes had then ebbed, ousted by the realization of Cole's plain lust of him in the getup.
Clyde, looking him in the eye, unzipped his jeans and let them slither to the floor. Clyde wasn't wearing any underwear. Clyde stepped backwards and lithely fell back onto the bed on his hands. Slid up the bed and bent one leg up as he spread those sturdy thighs, staring at him all the while from beneath thick, long lashes.
Then Clyde licked those perfect, kiss-swollen lips. Wrapped a hand around that delectable cock hardening fast on Clyde's belly, over the softness of the sweater. Pumped it from root to its head blooming with pre-come. Moaned his name with that raspy, sensual voice, beckoning him to the bed, to sate himself in that hot, tight, perfect place between Clyde's long, lean legs.
And the next morning, they were both rather relieved that neither Ma or Pa questioned why the sweater and shirt were already washed and hanging to dry on the line outside.
"You look really good tonight," Cole murmurs now, his upper body turned towards Clyde, his left thigh pressing against Clyde's right thigh. He strokes one hand down the left side of Clyde's face. Down his chest, over his heart.
He sees the simmering heat in Clyde's heavy-lidded eyes as Clyde gazes back at him. He knows Clyde is recalling the same passionate night, recalling how he'd leapt onto a laughing Clyde on the bed, flattening Clyde with his burning, yearning body, imprinting ardent kisses and nibbles all over Clyde's exquisite, flushed face and arched neck. How he'd soon transformed Clyde's laughter into smothered moans and whines when he bent Clyde almost double with Clyde's legs over his shoulders and thrust vigorously into his partner's quivering, receptive body over and over, their foreheads pressed together, gasping into each other's mouths and clutching at each other until Clyde convulsed around him hilt deep and cried out and came all over the sweater in long, pearly spurts.
"Ya know how crazy I get seeing you in suits, babe," Clyde murmurs back, running his right hand up the lapel of Cole's maroon blazer. "But I love it just as much when you lose the tie."
True, Clyde enjoys seeing him in a plain t-shirt and jeans as much as a dress shirt and trousers. It's why he's matched a plain white t-shirt, bootcut jeans and brown, leather shoes with his blazer. He's prepared to bust out the black, browline glasses later, knowing how much they affect Clyde like Clyde in a sweater and shirt affects him.
Clyde's right hand cups his cheek. He shuts his eyes to revel in the sensation of Clyde's lips pressing to his in a long, raw kiss. He cradles the back of Clyde's neck with his right hand and draws Clyde nearer to him. Clyde goes to him immediately, looping those muscular, shapely arms around his shoulders without breaking their kiss that's fast becoming fiery, their mouths opening wide, their tongues gliding sensuously against each other. Ah, he can certainly feel the benefits of a private room now, when Clyde slides one thigh over his to get closer to him and surges that athletic torso against his, when he tugs up the hems of Clyde's sweater and shirt and slips one hand under them to caress the enticing bow of Clyde's lower back, then lower, lower -
The serrated stab of pain in his chest is all the more unpleasant for how unexpected and unwelcome it is.
"Phelan?"
Cole peels open his eyes, his lower lip sucked in, his breath snagged in his throat. Clyde has shifted back onto the bench, looking at him with concerned eyes. Clyde's right arm is still around his shoulders and supporting him. Clyde's left hand is pressed over his right hand on his chest, over the healing wound there. It's just a bandaged, livid scar now, a vestige of the horrific injury it was mere months ago.
"Sorry," Cole says when he can, a muscle in his lower jaw twitching before he can stop it. "I forgot."
Clyde gently rubs at his chest and gives him a consoling smile. The concern is still there in Clyde's eyes as Clyde says, "Hey. Props to me for being that good a kisser, huh?"
Cole lets out a low snort, but his lips also quirk up in a smile that's pure agreement.
There's a knock on the door of their private room. A few seconds later, Amy enters with the lobster salad and thick-cut smoked bacon. She sees their hands still on Cole's chest. She glances at his face, and whatever it is she sees there is enough to make her look concerned as well and ask, "Are you okay, Mr. Cole? You look a little pale."
He smiles cordially at her as she sets down the dishes on the clothed table and replies, "I'm fine, Amy. I was just in an ... accident recently."
By accident, he meant 'a kukri shoved through his chest and out his back', but that isn't something to tell a sweet, young lady working on a very busy night in a popular steakhouse.
"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that. I hope you're feeling better now."
"I am, thank you."
Clyde also thanks her before she leaves. Once they're alone, Clyde kisses him again, and it feels like comfort. It feels like coming home. He feels Clyde's hand on his chest, still rubbing it in a soothing way that dispels any smidgen of pain left. Bertillon had told him that Clyde gripping him tight in his arms, stopping him from thrashing about with the kukri impaling him had made the difference between him bleeding to death in that alley and living long enough for the GATF medics on-scene to get to him and guarantee he stays that way. The same arms around him now had saved him.
"Thank you," Cole whispers against Clyde's lips.
Clyde draws back just enough for them to be able to see each other's faces. Clyde scrutinizes his face with eyes that seem to glisten in the warm, dim lighting of the room.
"You're worth it," Clyde rasps. "You are always worth it."
His lips curved in an unmistakable smile, Cole gazes back at the man he fell in love with from the moment they saw each other, and prays for once to gods he doesn't believe in that Clyde will always be here at his side.
Amy returns with the rest of their dishes and iced water. Soon, they're savoring the scrumptious food. Clyde no longer gobbles down everything at record speed (although it was a habit that took almost a year after they met to break). Clyde slices the mutton chop as well as the fish, smacking Cole's hands away every time he tries to get his own utensils and do it for himself. He gets what Clyde is doing, why Clyde is doing it and no, he has no objections whatsoever to Clyde feeding him and demonstrating affection this way.
A scrape too close with death has its way of making a man see his existence and its path in a new light. Of making a man reach decisions that will alter that path beyond anything he'd dared to imagine just a couple of years ago.
"Barnett-Cole," Cole says, after another mouthful of tasty, lemon butter-smeared fish spooned into his mouth by Clyde.
"Wha?"
Clyde's brows are furrowed in that endearing way when Clyde is puzzled and yet curious.
Cole clears his throat, then says with an impassive face, "Barnett-Cole. What do you think of it? Nice ring?"
He's asking if the combined surname sounds good to Clyde, but it just as easily applies to the two thousand-dollar, court-shaped, luxurious platinum rings he came across in a jewelery store near Midtown East. They're inside a burgundy velvet box, tucked in the very back of the lowest drawer of their ornate dressing table. Clyde doesn't know about them. Not yet.
Cole sees the very instant that it dawns on Clyde what Cole is asking of him, of them. Clyde's elastic, vivacious face turns that delightful shade of red that it seems only Cole can stimulate. Clyde dips his head, his lips curving into a small, coy smile.
"Oh," Clyde murmurs, poking at a piece of sole with the fork in his left hand.
Clyde doesn't say anything else. Clyde stares down at the almost empty plate of fish for so long that there's a twinge in Cole's chest again, one that isn't physical but every bit as cutting.
"Clyde." He clears his throat a second time, slowly reaching for Clyde's right hand on th
e table top. "It's ... it's okay if you don't want to -"
"I do."
Clyde's grabbed his left hand and is now holding it in a grip tight enough that Cole almost grimaces. But there's no anger in it, no, none at all. Not when Clyde is staring at him with those wide, unguarded eyes that are certainly glistening now, not when Clyde eases his grip and weaves their fingers together. Cole stares back, breathing past a lump in his throat in the wake of Clyde's reply, of those two words that he's hoped so much to hear one day from Clyde for the vow it can be. It's not just a possibility, or a probability. It's an inevitability.
"Oh," Cole says, as the sun rises in his chest, in his eyes.
"I - I do. I mean it." Clyde sucks in an audible breath. Lowers his eyes. "It's just ... I don't even know why you wanna marry me."
Cole gazes at Clyde's flushed face, at the self-deprecating expression imbuing it. For three seconds, Cole experiences an unbelievable urge to excoriate every person who'd ever made Clyde feel insignificant, feel worthless when Clyde is anything but. He knows who some of them are thanks to Clyde's midnight revelations since they've become lovers.
I'm just former circus white trash, Phelan. I never even finished high school. I didn't have a home I could ever call mine, didn't have real friends and only allies or enemies until I joined the GATF.
Pop wished I was dead, all the time. Mom could barely talk to me or Danny and let Pop beat us unless she thought we were really gonna die. Danny left me in the circus without even saying goodbye. And Duchaine? Jesus, for the longest time I thought he was maybe the dad I never had or maybe the brother I thought Danny might have been, but he was his own special kind of monster who fucked me up with lies and manipulation. Even he got sick of me.
My own parents and my brother didn't want me. Even Melissa walked out on me before two years were up.