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Title: In your body I search for the truth (Sequel to: Like phantoms, like dreams) Author: Tesla Pairing: DB/JM (also features SG) Rating:  R (for language) James was smoking the chronic with Seth, at Seth's unassuming apartment in West Hollywood. Not that he was making a habit out of this, or anything, but it was just easier some evenings not to drive out to his own place. Seth had casually invited him, and after ten seconds careful consideration, James agreed. The first time, Seth had dropped a huge surprise on him. "Gonna leave the show, dude," Seth said, already with the munchies and ordering delivery pizza. James didn't think he'd heard right for a second. "No, Joss won't kill off Oz," he said. Seth was already shaking his head. "I'm leaving, got a movie offer." He closed his cell. "Haven't told Joss yet." "Shit," James said, taking the last hit from the roach. He looked up to see Seth's eyes studying him. "What?" "Well, man, I was just thinking. Here's your chance to step up. Marc's not gonna cut it as the love interest. And you, man, your scenes with Sarah are smokin' hot. Riley's gonna lose, Marc's gonna lose. He's gonna be the nice guy filler in the dead guy sandwich." James blinked. After a minute, he said, "Nah. Never happen. Repeat the vampire boyfriend? The fans are still pissed off because Angel's gone." "You watch. Marc doesn't have the same energy with her that Dave did, but you do." Seth dug around in his jeans pockets. "Wait and see." It was pretty cool that Seth trusted him enough to tell him, and James did wonder about that, but he wondered more about Seth's reading of the cast. James superstitiously didn't think about it. Then, they both went to the sister show for one episode, and smoked some weed with the big guy in his trailer that time. James kept thinking about Dave, after that, but he didn't want to ask Seth. Ask Seth, what? "Hey, are you and Dave a thing, or fuck buddies, or what?"  When James didn't really know what he wanted the answer to be. James had a pretty good sense of himself, and he was at home with himself; that's what he liked about Seth. Seth was comfortable in his skin, a small porcelain-skinned guy among big slabs of tanned American manhood, looking around, patient and unhurried among the cast and crew of the show. James wished he could be that calm, but he only had moments of serenity, bubbles of joy floating on the running stream. It was a interior tension that served him well, at times, but James wished he could ease it off. Dave had made him feel calmer, that one time, and Dave had been pretty out of it, muscle spasms torqueing him, even before Seth had rolled the first fat blunt, and they had shot-gunned the tokes to Dave. The first touch of Dave's mouth, and James had been almost swept away, feeling like he hadn't felt in years, since he first discovered himself in theatre. He kept hanging out with Seth, both of them playing around with guitars and singing at parties. Smoking some weed now and then, drinking now and then. Thinking how he could just stretch his hand out, and Seth could be there, and it would be so simple and comfortable.  He had almost decided to chance it, and felt pretty good about his chances, the next Friday night. James was showing Seth a new chord, when someone knocked on the door. "The fuck?" Seth said mildly, and got up to answer. James looked up and saw Dave, standing there in the semi-crouch that big men adapted, trying not to loom. He had a suitcase of beer under one arm. He didn't look too surprised to see James, and nodded at him. "Not bein' a third wheel or anything, am I?" he said to Seth. "Nah, man. Come on. Just playing some tunes," Seth said, holding the door open. James sat, hand on his guitar, waiting cynically to be disappointed. That was the way with these big, handsome guys; they were so accustomed to being the center of attention, that they were insensitive to someone else's mood. That should take care of my crush, James thought. It didn't happen that way. Dave put the beer up in the kitchen, unlaced his running shoes, and sat down on the floor, prepared to listen.  Seth picked up his guitar. "Dave plays a little," he said, seeming to feel that an explanation may be needed. "Very little," Dave said, opening his beer. "Go ahead. I just want to hang out."  He slumped against the sofa, his eyes half closed.  Seth went back to playing, like he wasn't there, and James followed his lead. After a while, James almost did forget, as he and Seth compared chords and tunes.  Dave was so silent and unobtrusive that James was sure he had gone to sleep, but when James looked over, he discovered that he was being studied by a warm brown gaze. "Want to try mine out?" James said, tilting his guitar towards Dave. Dave smiled, a tiny one. "Sure," he said, and sat up, broad palms outstretched. James was surprised to see a sad little quirk of Seth's lips, so fleeting that he almost missed it. David actually could play, little snatches of Eagles and Beatles tunes. While he was strumming, his down-tilted face was melancholy from one angle, placid from another. James was utterly charmed. Seth got up, brought back more beer, and his stash of weed, and they lit up. Eventually, James and Dave were smoking, bitching about the producers and the writers and the whole vampire mythology which kept them out of the sun to preserve that undead look.  Talking about Joss, and Steve, and the politics of the networks and the fucking big black coats, until James looked up and realized that it was late, and Seth had disappeared behind his closed bedroom door. "When did he go?" James asked. "Sometime around the Marti discussion," Dave said. "I think she's got a thing for you."  He picked up a beer can and shook it. "Well, all the beer's gone, and all the weed. So unless you can think of anything else---" and he leaned into James, and James was already there, Dave's lips as soft, his tongue as hot as James' had remembered. James thought he was melting like wax, and he crawled up Dave's sprawled long length like he was climbing a tree trunk, pushing up the faded khaki tee shirt so he could get at Dave's nipples. He bit, and Dave's groanmade him hard. Big hands under his arms, pulling him back up to Dave's mouth; James should have felt man-handled, but he didn't. He didn't. By what felt like unspoken agreement, they would not be asking Seth for lube, so they were kissing, rough, sloppy kisses as they reached for the other's cocks.  Having Dave's broad hand holding almost all of him was the hottest thing James had felt, he thought, for  years, until he got his hand on Dave. Dave was as thick as a club, as hard as James, and when James began yanking hard on him, Dave bit him on the neck, and James nearly came right then. "Jeezus," he gasped, "I'm supposed to be the Method actor."  And they both snorted in laughter. Laughter. James hadn't felt like laughing with a partner in a long, long time, but Dave was laughing in between strangled gasps of, "Yes, yes, Christ, just like that, you're so hot, wanna fuck you so bad," and James could only croak nonsense syllables as they rolled back and forth among the empty beer cans and full ashtrays. "Fuck," Dave said, and suddenly came all over both their hands, his thumb working over the head of James' cock, and he sat up and kissed James, jabbing his tongue deep, and James was there with him. And the jangling wires inside James were quiet for a long time that night. -End