by A. Nybo
The doctor read it and smiled uncertainly. “Sorry, I can’t read it. It looks like it says a parachutist.”
Donnell gave a solemn nod.
Dr. Beck’s black eyebrows shot up. “It is a parachutist?”
Donnell nodded again.
When the doctor broke out into a grin, Donnell didn’t know whether to admire the beauty or cringe from the impending rash of jokes informing him of his stupidity.
“Well, you’re original. I don’t think I’ve ever dealt with someone who’s had a parachutist stuck in his mouth before.”
Was that a sly double entendre he detected in the doctor’s words?
“And what is our parachutist made of?”
Donnell frowned.
“I need to know so I can determine what we can use to free him.” At the rate the doctor was handing out those smiles, Donnell wondered if it was because he was trying not to laugh. “We don’t want to cause him to explode… through a chemical reaction.”
The doctor focused back on Donnell’s teeth, but not before Donnell glimpsed the spark of mischief in his deep brown eyes. Unable to help himself, Donnell put pen to paper.
A little plastic, but he has wood.
Dr. Beck’s mouth twisted as he tried to contain his grin when he read it. Seeing if he could get the doctor to lose his composure, Donnell added:
I would be eternally grateful if you didn’t deploy his parachute.
The doctor’s laugh was a merry sound, which drew a grin from Donnell. He considered asking if he wanted to know how grateful but decided that was a bit too sleazy.
“Okay, well, I think we can probably free him with some margarine. I’ll just send down to the kitchen for some.”
Donnell began writing frantically as the doctor rose to full height. He passed the clipboard to Dr. Beck once he’d finished.
Can we add steak and a bottle of wine to that?
“I can ask, but I’m pretty sure the hospital kitchen doesn’t serve wine after closing time.”
Saddened the doctor didn’t ask if Donnell was asking him out, his disappointment was strangled by another knee-melting smile.
Donnell nodded, unhappy to watch Dr. Beck take his smile and disappear through the split in the curtains.
Maybe before the doctor returned, Donnell could find the courage to ask him out. Although he’d need a lot more courage than could be carted in a goddamned submarine. Who’d want to go out with a feckin’ eejit who could barely complete a transaction for a sandwich and coffee and was stupid enough to get a parachutist stuck in his gob?
The longer the doctor was away, the more Donnell thought his best course of action was to hide beneath the gurney. When the margarine arrived, he could thrust his hand out of the shadows like Gollum and draw it in to tend to Captain Mal himself.
Once the parachutist was freed without complication, he could commando roll beneath the other gurneys to the automatic doors and make his escape. Sure, they’d have him on security camera, but what would that matter? Although with today’s luck, they’d think his stealth escape was because he’d set a bomb, and they would track him down to the terrorist-hole-in-the-wall fronted by Mikey’s Sandwich Bar and get him fired.
“Are you okay?”
Donnell started at the doctor’s voice. He was so intent on planning his escape, he hadn’t noticed the curtains parting. Now the doctor entered like an actor closing out the rest of the cast so he could take his final bow. Looking at all that smooth golden-brown skin, Donnell would be willing to offer more than a mere round of applause.
“I thought you might be thirsty.” The doctor lifted a juice with a straw.
“’Hank-you,” Donnell managed.
He made to reach out for the drink, but to Donnell’s dismay, the doctor brought up a stool and sat before him. Was he trying to get a front-row seat to see exactly how much of the juice Donnell could dribble down his front?
“Keeping the parachutist moist might have helped the glue dissipate,” said Dr. Beck.
“His wood might swell.” Donnell’s unintended double entendre struck him the moment he’d spoken. The hope that Captain Mal had distorted his words to incomprehensibility didn’t stop Donnell’s cheeks, face, and neck from burning.
Dr. Beck’s brows drew down, and he shook his head. “Sorry, I didn’t get that.”
Relief flooded him, and Donnell waved the apology away.
“As I was saying, saliva and most of those superglues tend to work against each other. Keeping it moist might help to dislodge it.” The doctor cleared his throat and thrust the juice and straw out. “And, ah, a drink. For your thirst.”
Donnell took it but made no move to drink. “I might just wait until he’s out,” he tried to say. By the doctor’s confused expression, he’d been unsuccessful. He waved dismissively to show it wasn’t important enough to repeat.
“Well, while we wait, I’ll check your blood pressure.”
Certain his imagination was enhancing the sensuality of Dr. Beck’s touch, Donnell hoped his increasing awareness of the good doctor’s proximity wouldn’t alter his blood pressure. Oh Christ, he was forming a chub. That would definitely affect his blood pressure—wouldn’t it?
He focused on the filling pressure cuff. The squeeze quickly became a muscle-crushing force. The doctor let out a small sound of surprise and stopped inflating the cuff. As it deflated, Donnell gave an inward sigh of relief. For a moment, he thought Dr. Beck was trying to give him a crush injury.
Once the cuff was completely deflated, Dr. Beck tore the Velcro open and slipped it off. “Your blood pressure is a little high, but it might be stress.”
High! Given that his blood was currently pooling in the south, Donnell had to wonder how that worked. Although among other things, he was certainly experiencing stress.
At that moment the curtain opened, and the doctor spun around so fast to face the newcomer that the pump of the pressure cuff swung out and hit Donnell in the chest.
“Sorry.” He patted Donnell’s chest in a conciliatory way and then, realizing what he’d done, averted his gaze and cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he said again, this time ostensibly for the chest pat.
Ignoring the nurse’s announcement of the margarine’s arrival, Donnell pondered what had caused Dr. Beck’s flustered state. Automatically, Donnell checked his own crotch to see if his partial arousal was visible—that would cause embarrassment, being at such close quarters as they’d been. But nope, it could easily be misconstrued as him just being better endowed than average.
Sitting back on the stool, the doctor used a swab to apply the margarine. With Dr. Beck’s attention on Captain Mal, Donnell took the opportunity to study the thick black eyelashes, which contrasted beautifully against his golden skin. A little upward furrow developed at the inner edge of each dark eyebrow when he concentrated.
When the doctor moved to the side to direct the margarine-laden bud to the back side of Donnell’s teeth, Donnell was left with nothing more exciting to look at than the curtain.
“Right. We’ll let that sit for a minute,” said the doctor as he rose to his feet. “I’ll be back shortly to see if we can dislodge your parachutist.” He gave Donnell a strained smile and turned to leave. As he turned, Donnell was sure he glimpsed a slight tenting of Dr. Beck’s trousers. He did a double take, but the doctor was already pulling the curtain across. It was a little strange the way he held the outer edge of his white coat out. Perhaps he was hiding something from onlookers outside the curtain?
You dirty wee bugger! Donnell chuckled in a quiet, yet hopeful way, praying he was the cause of the doctor’s awkwardness.
A quick reality check had him rethink the idea. Who the hell could get turned on slathering some dipshit’s teeth in margarine? To think he’d been the cause of anyone’s arousal at this point was proof that he was suffering too much stress, fatigue, or too many beers. No. Couldn’t be too many beers. Impossible. The beer Spunky Mal had tried to set sail in had only been his second.
>
Donnell was wondering if he’d been forgotten—or maybe his eagerness to see Dr. Beck again just made it seem that way—when the curtain flung open.
“Right,” said Dr. Beck. “Let’s get this guy out of your mouth.”
Donnell barked a surprised laugh. But rather than the mischievous sparkle in the doctor’s eye that he’d expected, his almond eyes were screwed into a wince. Damn! He clearly hadn’t meant to say that. Donnell schooled his features to what he hoped reflected some semblance of a businesslike expression.
Captain Mal was wriggled and jiggled back and forth. Dr. Beck looked up as Donnell was once again admiring the doctor’s straight nose. Caught out staring, Donnell’s bravery at maintaining eye contact earned him a full-lipped smile that caused Dr. Beck’s eyes to narrow and crinkles to form at the corners. Happiness bloomed from the depths of Donnell’s chest.
In that moment, if Captain Mal hadn’t been in his mouth, Donnell would have swallowed his cowardice and kissed the man. He’d previously suspected Captain Mal was a cockblocker, but now he had proof.
The doctor cleared his throat and turned his gaze back to the parachutist. Donnell couldn’t recall the last time he felt such jealousy, but then if he was going to be jealous of another man, Captain Mal wasn’t the worst choice in the world. He was a model after all.
Donnell was still praising his own clever humor when another wriggle freed Captain Mal. His jaws opened as if they were spring loaded, and he moved his lower jaw to loosen and relax muscles that had been locked in an unnatural position for far too long.
“Thank God for that,” he said. He smacked his lips a few times, and the revolting taste of margarine pervaded his mouth. “Ugh.” He snatched up the juice.
“Here.” The doctor held out a clean swab. “You might want to wipe the excess off the inside before you try to wash the rest away.”
Thankful, Donnell did as was suggested before drinking the entire juice box. “Thanks.”
Once he’d finished, he lowered the empty box and found himself being stared at.
“Oh.” The doctor thrust Captain Mal forward. “Do you want him back?”
Donnell grinned. “Of course. What would a steampunk dragonfly be without a parachutist?”
Dr. Beck’s black eyebrows steepled in the most alluring way. “A steampunk dragonfly?”
“A Christmas present I’m making for my nephew.”
“You have relatives nearby?”
“Aye. I’m going to spend Christmas with them. Want to come?” The moment the words flew unbidden from his mouth, anxiety paralyzed him.
“Yes.” Dr. Beck froze. “I mean….”
Donnell wondered what question the doctor thought he was answering, the double entendre, the acceptance of an invitation to a stranger’s family Christmas, both, or something else entirely. But what else could the invitation possibly have meant? Maybe the doctor had been expecting a different question and had answered unthinking.
Jesus, Donnell didn’t even know what he’d intended when he asked it. His mind raced with possibilities.
“I, um, meant….”
Donnell broke into a grin. “I’m not sure what you meant, but I’m open to at least hearing all possibilities.”
“Fraternizing with patients is inappropriate.”
Donnell rose and plucked Captain Mal from between the doctor’s fingers. “I’m no longer your patient. But you know where I work.” His sudden bout of false bravado allowed him to smirk over his shoulder as he exited.
The moment he was through the curtains, he almost broke into a run. Christ, where the hell had that come from? Never had he been so confident in the face of a fantasy man. Ever.
UNSURE HOW his boldness of two days earlier had been received, when the doorbell of Mikey’s Sandwich Bar rang, admitting Dr. Beck, anxiety speared Donnell. Thankfully no one else was in the shop to witness his discomfort—there was something to be said for a floundering business.
Donnell tried to cover his awkwardness with humor. “Ah, Doctor Beck, savior of the adventurous Captain Mal.”
“My name is Charlie. And how is Captain Mal?”
“Nice to meet you, Charlie. As you may already know, my name is Donnell.”
Charlie smiled and nodded.
“And Captain Mal is sitting on my dining table planning his next adventure. Although, he seems to be a bit off-color. I’m not sure whether it was me sucking on him or the margarine that made him fade.”
Charlie’s laugh floated through Donnell like fresh air. “Well, if he’s a little off-color, I could always drop in and check on him.” Charlie pressed his lips together and shook his head. “I mean being a doctor and with the captain off-color, I meant—”
“A house visit,” said Donnell, hoping to rescue Charlie from drowning in awkwardness. Donnell held up a pacifying hand. “That’s quite all right. I understand entirely where you’re coming from. I hadn’t intended to imply I was giving Captain Mal a blowjob… I mean oral.”
They looked at each other and laughed.
“Och, fuck it,” said Donnell. “I can’t embarrass myself anymore. Would you like to come to my house where we can talk about Captain Mal’s sex life?”
Charlie chuckled. “Is that what you really meant?”
“Which bit? The coming to my house or the discussion regarding Captain Mal?”
“Either. Well, both; I’m a bit of a Firefly fan.”
“You’re not,” accused Donnell, thinking he was just being polite. But then he took in Charlie’s genuine expression. “Are you?”
“Yes, I am. They did the world a disservice by canning it.”
“Wonderful! How long since you’ve seen it?”
“Too long.”
Donnell rubbed his hands together. “Should we watch an episode or two when you come around?” He loved that Charlie seemed unable to stop smiling. And what a smile it was!
“Count me in. When?”
“Well, now, what’s your work schedule like?”
THE DATE started just as expected. Then it turned into something so completely unexpected, Donnell was at a loss as to what to do. He awoke to the dark TV, his arm clutching Charlie’s lower legs to his chest, his feet almost under Donnell’s nose. Charlie’s head was on the arm of the couch at a most unnatural angle, his breathing wheezing from him through a constricted windpipe.
“Charlie.” He tapped Charlie’s legs several times, but Charlie didn’t stir.
Donnell fought to disentangle himself. Once off the couch, he looked back at Charlie, who, although in a different position, looked no less contorted. “You’ll feel like a feckin’ Twistie if you sleep like that all night.” Charlie still didn’t stir.
After a few decent shakes, Charlie’s eyes opened, but their lack of focus was enough for Donnell to know better than to send the man off into the world.
“Do you want to stay the night?” asked Donnell.
Instead of trying to decipher Charlie’s mumbled answer, Donnell took him by the hand and led him into his bedroom. Like a sleepwalker, Charlie appeared no more coherent when they arrived in the bedroom, so Donnell pressed a pair of trackpants to Charlie’s chest and told him to change.
Within minutes, they were both in bed. Charlie snoring at Donnell’s back. It was the most peculiar first date Donnell had ever had.
THE FOLLOWING morning, Donnell woke to Charlie curled around him. His fantasies had only ever got him as far as having sex with the man, never to waking up with him. Donnell did the only thing he could—he took his morning wood off to the kitchen to make coffee.
His disappearance from the bed must have stirred Charlie. The sound of the toilet flushing was shortly followed by Charlie entering the kitchen, his black hair awry.
“Did you comb your hair with a leaf blower?” asked Donnell.
“I’m so sorry,” began Charlie, sleepy almond eyes pulled tight with concern. “I didn’t—”
Donnell threw up a staying hand. “Stop! Don’t tell me you didn�
��t mean to stay the night. It is bad luck to start the day by having your fantasy ruined.”
Charlie’s entire face relaxed into one of his signature knee-melting smiles. “Your fantasy?”
“Aye. I’ve been fantasizing about having you in my bed from the first time I saw you.” Shocked by his own admission, Donnell turned to busy himself with the cups.
Charlie came up behind him and slid his arms around him. “Want to know a secret?”
The soft pressure against his shoulder and the sound of Charlie’s lips smacking was all Donnell felt of the kiss Charlie delivered through his T-shirt. He felt a whole lot more pressed against his arse.
“If you’re going to tell me you have a hard-on, then trust me, it is no secret.”
Charlie laughed. “No, that wasn’t the secret. The secret is that Mikey’s sandwiches are horrendous.”
“Trust me, boyo, that’s no secret either. Only the desperate eat those.”
Charlie nuzzled in against Donnell’s ear and nipped it gently. “The secret is I only ever ate the sandwiches once. I usually just buy them and throw them in the bin.”
Befuddled, Donnell turned in his arms. “Then why do you buy them?”
“Because I’d go in there intending to ask you out, but the only thing I ever managed to ask was for sandwiches.”
Donnell stared a moment and then snapped his mouth shut. He swallowed. “I understand the range of Mikey’s goods are somewhat limited, but you could have always bought coffee.”
“That would have required thought, which always seemed to wait outside the shop for me.”
Presented with far better things to do than talking about Mikey’s menu, Donnell pressed his lips to those beautiful little pillows beneath that straight nose—ahh, like sinking into the clouds, they were.
What began as gentle exploration soon turned to a matter of dire urgency. In a flurry of kisses and discarded clothes, they were back in the bedroom. Donnell used his lips and tongue to traverse the golden terrain of Charlie’s throat, chest, and stomach. He nibbled at Charlie’s hip and worked his way across to an erection so swollen it was threatening to erupt at any moment.