Holding Out for a Fairy Tale

by A. J. Thomas

  Elliot fully expected Ray to be hungover. Ray had been so wasted the night before, he should have been battling a throbbing headache and nausea. Elliot expected to wake up to Ray rolling around on the bed groaning. He’d even set a bottle of water and one of his own pain pills out on the nightstand in case Ray needed them.

  The last thing he expected was to wake up to the smell of breakfast and the brush of lips and stubble along his neck. Elliot tried not to laugh as Ray kissed the ticklish spot beneath his ear. Ray’s hands and lips roamed across his shoulders and down his back. Ray’s cold, slick fingers eased inside him, coaxing him to wake up and respond. Ray leaned over his shoulder, and Elliot met him halfway, crushing their lips together. He felt Ray’s fingers brush against his prostate and shoved back. Ray broke their kiss and lined himself up behind Elliot quickly. Since Elliot was still loose from the last time, Ray’s silicon-encased erection rocked into him smoothly.

  This time, Ray didn’t seem concerned about dragging things out. He shifted in and out of Elliot’s body, moving fast and hard. Elliot shoved his hips up, meeting Ray’s urgent pace eagerly. Ray grabbed his hip and shoulder, using his body to get more leverage. Elliot arched into the motion, amazed at how fast his orgasm was building. When he felt Ray shudder against him, Elliot didn’t hold back, letting the tension inside him break as Ray rode out the aftershocks buried inside him. Elliot came against the sheets, then dropped back down onto the bed. Ray slipped out of him as he moved, then rolled to the side, panting. Ray smiled at him and pressed a surprisingly tender kiss to his temple. “Good morning.”

  When his nerves finally stopped firing, Elliot shifted into Ray’s outstretched arms. He could too easily get used to waking up like this. “Definitely a good morning.”

  “There’s bacon and eggs.”

  “How long have you been awake?”

  “About an hour. I’m lucky I managed to stay asleep as long as I did. Alcohol always messes with my blood sugar, makes me too hyper to sleep.”

  “Hangovers make you hyper? And you can stomach the thought of food?”

  Ray’s humongous grin was unnerving. “I know. I’m a lucky bastard. I’m sure it’ll catch up to me eventually, but for now I’m not complaining. Do you want to shower before breakfast?”

  Six hours after breakfast, Elliot was nestled in Ray’s arms on the couch, feeling warm and comfortable, despite how awkward he was sure this would be. Whatever hang-ups Ray had had on Tuesday morning seemed to have vanished, along with the endless machismo and snide comments that seemed to make up Ray’s entire personality. Beneath the asshole facade of Detective Delgado, Elliot found that Ray was an affectionate guy. He was downright cuddly, even. Ray was constantly reaching out to touch him, to kiss him, or just to drape a long arm across his shoulders. As the morning faded into afternoon, Elliot relaxed and let himself enjoy it. He knew better than to expect it to last, but it still felt nice.

  Being cut from the case and effectively grounded, they didn’t have anything to do except hang out and explore each other. And watch television. Hayes’s apartment didn’t have cable, but Ray kept old episodes of a lot of different science-fiction shows on his phone, and he soon had it plugged into the flat-screen TV. Elliot wasn’t really a fan of science fiction, but Ray made such a fuss about how amazing Firefly was that he’d paid attention anyway. It turned out Ray was right, and the show was growing on him more with each episode. As the familiar theme song came to a close, Ray unwrapped himself from Elliot and got up to pause the show.

  “Were you just shitting me when you said they canceled this show without finishing it?”

  “I wish I was joking about that.” Ray stretched with his arms above his head. “It’s one of the greatest tragedies in television entertainment, canceling Firefly.”

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far. What’s up?”

  “Popcorn. Or real food. It’s a couple hours past lunchtime.”

  Elliot shot up from the couch and followed Ray into the kitchen. “Hey, you made dinner and breakfast, let me handle lunch.”

  “I didn’t buy Pop-Tarts.”

  “You bought garlic, and there’s olive oil and pasta in the pantry. It’ll do.”

  “Ah, will it? For what?”

  “Aglio et Olio,” Elliot said in a singsong voice. “My mom always said it was too plain for anybody but poor bachelors, but I remember serving it as a weekly special at least once a month growing up.”

  “Huh? You totally lost me.”

  “Trust me,” Elliot grinned. “I grew up in an Italian restaurant, and this dish was always on the menu. Even when it wasn’t on the menu, people still ordered it.”

  “What? You grew up in an Italian restaurant, and you live on Pop-Tarts? That’s wrong on so many levels.”

  “I do actually know how to cook. I just don’t usually have time. Real Italian food takes all day.” He pulled down a skillet and a large pot, then pulled everything he’d need out of the pantry.

  “You really grew up in an Italian restaurant?” Ray asked dubiously. He hopped up onto the counter, well out of the way of the stove, and watched Elliot move around the kitchen. “And since when is Belkamp an Italian name?”

  “My dad’s family is Dutch. But I did grow up in an Italian restaurant. It’s in a little part of San Francisco called North Beach. The neighborhood was mostly Italian, once upon a time. My grandparents opened up the restaurant in the fifties, and it’s done okay through the years. My mom and her brothers own it now. My dad worked there as a waiter while he put himself through school. Now he owns an accounting firm, but he takes care of the business side of the restaurant and lets them run the place. My uncle Gianni cooks. My mom….” Elliot smiled as he thought about the way his mom always seemed to be everywhere at once, chatting with everyone, and keeping everything alive and vivid. He set a pot of salted water on the stove and turned on the heat, then cracked the garlic with the flat side of a steak knife and peeled it quickly. “Honestly, my mom just chats with customers and bustles around the kitchen smacking cute waiters on the ass.”

  “Your dad’s okay with that?”

  Elliot grinned. “That’s how they met. They were both hippies in the 1960s, and they’re pretty open-minded.”

  “Really? You know, you’ve just totally fucked with my assumptions about you.”

  “Have I?”

  “Ah, yeah. Decorated Army veteran, hard-ass FBI agent, psychotic martial artist, and stoic bastard,” Ray ticked off items on his fingers. “Budding Italian chef and son of open-minded San Francisco hippies doesn’t fit.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “How did you end up…?” Ray swept his hand up and down, indicating Elliot’s entire body. “How did you end up as you?”

  “Well, growing up in San Francisco is probably why I don’t have a lot of guilt or shame over being gay. Not anymore, at least. My family’s Roman Catholic, so it took a while before they came around, but since they were from San Francisco, it wasn’t so bad.” Elliot poured a lot of olive oil into the hot skillet. He swirled it for a moment, then tossed in the garlic he’d minced, then added some pepper and dried parsley from the pantry. “As for the veteran bit, my dad wasn’t happy about that. He was never that active in the peace marches and stuff in the sixties, but he still holds to the same values. He’s not happy about my job, either. He’s okay with me being gay, but not with the rest of my life. We’re just different people. Very different people.” When the water came to a boil, Elliot emptied an entire box of spaghetti into the pot.

  “How did you get past it?” Ray’s tone was quiet and serious. “How do you reconcile being gay with everything else?”

  Elliot had been prepared for this. He’d been trying to think of what he could say that might help Ray come to terms with being attracted to men as well as women, trying to sort out what it was in his own life that had shifted being gay from something shameful to something he could accept. His family had been a huge part of his own self-acceptance, b
ut there had been more to it than that.

  “I guess I realized that who I’m attracted to doesn’t change who I am. It’s a part of who I am, but honestly, not that big of one. I’m still a man, I’m still a soldier, and I’m still a federal agent. My accomplishments, my hobbies, my life isn’t going to change because I’m gay. Being gay doesn’t make me less of a man. It didn’t make me less of a soldier, and it doesn’t make me less of an investigator now.” Elliot shook the skillet to keep the garlic from burning. “It’ll make having a family tricky, but even that’s not impossible these days.”

  “You’re lucky,” Ray whispered, his gaze locked on the floor.

  “You know, you’re too smart for your own good.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You overthink everything.” Elliot used a fork to strain the pasta, keeping just enough of the water to thin out the oil and thicken it into a creamy sauce. He dumped the noodles into the oil and shook the pan. “I don’t want to feed your ego, so I’m not going to point out that you’re probably the smartest person working in homicide. You remember every line from Firefly and details about potential nerve damage that can happen if you fail to double-lock a subject’s handcuffs. And I’d actually be willing to bet that you make a point of remembering to double-lock them, every single time.”

  “Sanchez ratted me out!” Ray looked insulted, and then he smiled.

  “And it took you less than a second to come to that conclusion,” Elliot pointed out. “You might not like her. You might not hang out with her. But you know enough about her allergies to know flowers and balloons wouldn’t cut it when she had a baby, and you put a lot of time and effort into a gift that wouldn’t cause problems. How were paper cranes special to her?”

  “Her husband is half-Japanese. Origami seemed appropriate.”

  “You analyze everything else in the world, too, including yourself. It might do you some good to stop overthinking your life and just live it for a while.”

  Ray slumped forward. “It’s not that simple.”

  “No, I imagine it’s not. Grab some plates?”

  After devouring the spaghetti, Ray sat back with a satisfied smile. “All right, I’ve been proven wrong. The Pop-Tart addict can cook. That was really good, and creamy. How’d you manage that with garlic and olive oil?”

  “Some of the cooking water from the pasta. It’s got enough starch in it to thicken everything and make the oil creamy.”

  “It was really good. So now I’ve got to know, if you can manage this with a box of pasta and a few cloves of garlic, why the Pop-Tarts?”

  “It takes about ten seconds to rip open a packet of Pop-Tarts,” Elliot explained. “This takes fifteen minutes. When I get really hungry, fifteen minutes is just too damn long.”

  Ray rolled his eyes. “Even fast food is better for you than Pop-Tarts”

  “I like them. They’re easy, calorie-dense, and they never go bad. I can toss them in my duffel bag and leave them in class until I need them. And they come in every flavor from strawberry to cake batter,” said Elliot, feeling defensive. “Just about the only bad thing about them is the way they squish when they end up at the bottom of my bag. Then I’m not crazy about them, but I eat them anyway.”

  “Ice cream comes in every flavor imaginable too. That doesn’t mean it’s healthy.” Ray stared at him for a minute, cocking his head to the side. “Hell, I love Italian food. Can I bribe you into making dinner, too?”

  “Hmm. I don’t know. Dinner’s a big deal. You know an Italian dinner is usually a five-course meal, right? If you count dessert. That would have to be one hell of a bribe.”

  Ray looked up at Elliot with a predatory smirk. “I’m sure I can think of something that would make it worthwhile.”

  “I guess you’ve got all afternoon to try, but I’m still doubtful. However, I reserve the right to order takeout if I’m inexplicably worn out.”

  “El, you can spend four hours straight sparring with men fifty pounds heavier than you. I’m flattered you think I could wear you out, but realistically,” Ray’s smile didn’t falter for an instant, “I’d have to build up to that.”

  “You know, you don’t have to analyze every comment I make to find a way for it to feed your ego.”

  Elliot let Ray tug him back toward the bedroom, trying not to wince at the thought of another round of rough sex. Ray pushed him down on the bed and crawled over him, rolling Elliot’s shorts down and hovering over his half-hard cock. The moment Elliot felt Ray’s breath pulse against him, his cock swelled, popping up far enough that Ray’s lips grazed him. Ray swallowed him, letting Elliot slide into his mouth and down the length of his tongue. Elliot gasped as he felt Ray’s carefully controlled breathing ruffle his pubic hair while Ray cupped his sac, massaging each orb in a teasing rhythm. Ray began to bob his head slowly, sucking Elliot in deep each time.

  Elliot watched his cock slip past Ray’s dusky tan lips, over and over. When he felt his body begin to tighten, he touched Ray’s head, warning him. Instead of adjusting his throat and swallowing like he had last time, Ray slipped off his cock and palmed him, stroking him so fast that he didn’t have time to mourn the loss of Ray’s tongue. He came in Ray’s hand, shaking as Ray scraped his thumb over the head of Elliot’s cock slowly, keeping Elliot trembling. “Do you have any idea how hot you look when you come? I love watching you.”

  “What about you?” Elliot asked, after he came down.

  “I’m supposed to be the one bribing you, aren’t I?” In the living room, Ray’s phone rang. “Fuck. El, that ringtone’s my office. I’ve got to get that.”

  “We’re in the same job, remember? I understand.” He dropped his head back while Ray sprinted for the living room. After he caught his breath, he cleaned himself off in the bathroom and wandered out to find Ray holding the phone to his ear, looking grim.

  “What happened?” he asked, forcing himself to focus.

  Ray held his phone out and swiped his finger across the screen. “My captain wanted to make sure I was okay. Things are blowing up.” After a few more swipes, he held the phone out to Elliot. On the screen was a series of San Diego headlines. Sixteen Dead as Gang Violence Escalates was the top headline. Elliot scanned the article fast, cursing. Three shootings had occurred since the mess at his house yesterday. Two in run-down residential neighborhoods and one in the middle of a busy street in the southern neighborhood of Chula Vista. The gang war Ray had warned them about was materializing on the streets, putting innocent bystanders at risk.

  “I need my phone back. I’ve got to make sure Carmen’s okay.”

  Elliot passed the smartphone back. He swallowed the urge to suggest they do something stupid like go back to work. St. Claire would call if she needed him to come back in, but she’d made it very clear that if she didn’t call, he would do more harm than good by being involved in the rest of this case. He listened to Ray’s conversation with his sister long enough to know that she was fine, then went into the kitchen to wash their dishes from lunch. If he let himself sit still, he was going to start fidgeting and feeling useless.

  The afternoon faded into evening and Elliot cleaned most of the kitchen while Ray paced back and forth through the apartment. Elliot thought he heard the other man growling. When he glanced up from cleaning the cabinet baseboards, he met Ray’s furious glare for a moment. Ray looked more like a caged, frustrated animal than Elliot would have thought possible. He reminded Elliot of a puma or a jaguar, lazy and more inclined to nap in the sun than do any regular work, but all claws, teeth, and confident strength when something he loved was threatened.

  Elliot couldn’t blame him. He wished he could go spar with someone, just to burn off the anxious energy eating away at him. The prospect of tackling Ray, which had been so damn appealing just a few hours ago, didn’t seem right. He had no clue what made Ray get off on watching Elliot spar. The adrenaline effectively killed anything approaching a hard-on for him while he was fighting, and there was just a
s much adrenaline coursing through his body now. He suspected Ray was worse off, because his pacing had carried him back to the bedroom for a moment, and when it resumed, Ray had found a pair of slacks and an undershirt.

  “Think Hayes would care if you tried remodeling the place?” Elliot asked.

  Ray froze and stared down at him. All at once the fury and anxiety faded from expression, and he flashed Elliot a goofy smile. “He’d kill me. You’re the only one I’ve ever known who’s trusted me with power tools. And that sucks, because recessed lighting would look awesome in this kitchen.”

  Elliot barked out a sharp laugh and sat back on his heels, surprised at just how tightly wound they both were. “Eh, not like we can run to the hardware store anyway. I found a deck of cards shoved into the back of the junk drawer over there. We should play.”

  “Cards?”

  “Yeah. There’s beer in the fridge and pretzels in the pantry. Cards.”

  Ray’s smirk grew into a wide smile. “What are the stakes?”

  He rocked to his feet, tossed the ancient sponge into the sink, and padded toward him. “We’ll just have to be creative. But I’m not playing strip poker unless I can get dressed first.”

  They spent the night playing cards and making jokes across the kitchen table. By the time they finished dinner and went back to playing cards, Elliot felt the tight spring coiled inside him loosen a bit. As he finally relaxed, he also found himself noticing the flashing lights floating across his vision that usually came in the hours before a migraine left him practically crippled. He eyed the rest of his beer, wishing he could drink it but knowing he couldn’t, and noted the time on the microwave oven. He’d have to wait at least an hour to be able to take his migraine medication. If he could take the medication before the throbbing pain actually started, there was a good chance he would be able to prevent it altogether.

  He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the cards in his hand, but the floating lights appeared wherever he tried to focus.