GLITTER

Title: Little Birds in Their Nest Agree (Sequel of sorts to Late Night Nosh)
Author: Glossing
Pairing: DB/JM
Rating: R

He shouldn't even be awake. Cottonmouthed, head pounding, James covers his eyes with his arm and shakes his head.

"Get your own fucking juice."

"But I'm so fuuuuuuucked up. Jimmy, I'm *gone*."

He looks at her. She is fucked-up, no doubt on that score. God knows on what; he drank a lot last night and she was popping various capsules.

Now, it's too early. Her eyes are spinning in opposite directions, hard as it is to tell in the sliding smear of black kohl and purple shadow ringing them. She doesn't have any lipstick on any more - it's wiped all over the sheets, his chest, down his dick - but she still looks like the spawn of the sad clown and a Croatian hooker.

She was cute last night. Gangly and coltish, sparkly eyes and long, shiny hair. Now her hair's tangled over her face and she's whining. Only thing that helps is juice, apparently.

Way too fucking early.

"Please?" she's saying. Whining.

Something in her voice - brittle and cracked, pralines broken at the bottom of the tin - and the way the sunlight's catching her collarbone - way too prominent for any First Worlder, casting too deep and long of a shadow - and how she's kind of hugging one knee to her chest like she wants to shrink: Something like that drags him to his feet and into last night's jeans.

"Apple," she says.

James nods shortly.

Runs his hand through his hair, pats his pocket for his keys while he toes on sneakers. Grabs a shirt from the top of the dresser, sniffs, and pulls it on. Smells fairly clean.

"*Organic* apple -" she calls after him.

The door slams.

He's fucking running *errands* for a chick named - Pammy? Ashley? Something pseudo-wholesome, prom-queen cute, thoroughly ridiculous. At ten o'clock on a Sunday morning. When only the old and the religious are even thinking about waking up.

The grocery store is far too large and bright for human occupation. Everything blinks with light, corners hard and gleaming, floors waxed so high that he slips a little, wandering. They keep juice where? He wonders, as he paces up and down aisles packed with towering, primary-colored boxes and shiny bags, if this is how it feels for refugees coming to America. So much, so bright, he's sick to his stomach. Greasy and hungover and where the fuck is the juice?

Bank of coolers on the far wall, glass and chrome, bright and shiny.

How many brands of apple juice can there possibly be?

Fuck of a lot, it seems. Squat little carafes. Regular glass bottles. Cartons, boxes the size of a pack of smokes, little foil sacks. Apple-raspberry, -cranberry, -wildberry. Low sugar, no sugar, all sugar. From concentrate, fresh-pressed, cocktail, pure juice. Cider cloudy as witches brew, juice clear as piss.

James just stands there, hand on the door, the hum of the cooler running up his arm. Jangling his stupid brain.

"Thirsty, man?"

He doesn't need to turn around. Doesn't need to look. If he turns and looks, then he'll see Dave. Confirm just how much worse this morning just impossibly became. Metastasized from grunge to nightmare.

"Yeah," James says. Grips the door handle and shakes his head. "No. For someone else."

"Date?"

He'd like to knock his head against the glass door. Do it hard enough, he could break through. "Something like that."

"Formula's three aisles back."

And, just to counterpoint the stupid joke, a child squeals and gurgles behind him. Fucking great. Big Daddy Dave and Junior.

"Ha fucking ha," James says and turns.

Dave's actually covering the kid's ears with his hands. Child can't walk, let alone talk, but god forbid he hear an obscenity.

Dave is - sparkling. Gleaming.

Like he's a display from the front of the store. Huge cardboard cut-out, All-American Dad. Tan, clean, his white t-shirt glistening under the fluorescent lights, hugging broad shoulders, pooling around his waist. Perfect ad for physical and spiritual health, complete with chubby blond baby bouncing in the cart.

Jesus. His hair's even halfway decently-combed.

James thinks of laundry detergent, the brilliant white granules with a couple chlorine-blue ones mixed in to heighten the brightness.

If he leaned in, James would bet anything Dave would smell like Tide and toothpaste.

Dave's grinning at him, letting the baby pull on one of his fingers.

"Hell are you doing here?" James asks. Runs his palm up and over his face, tries to unstick the haze and grease.

"Shopping."

James kicks the cart's wheel lightly. King of the Fucking Obvious, that Dave. "Can see that."

The kid giggles at the cart shaking, so James kicks it again. Gets a toothy, wet-faced smile and chirp from Junior. Cute.

"Nipper's helping, aren't you, kiddo?" Dave says and tickles the kid.

James always thought 'nipper' was a common noun, not a proper one. Like 'dog' instead of 'Spot' or 'Rex'.

But give him two minutes in Dave's company and he starts doubting parts of speech. Jesus fucking wept.

*

He took Dave back to his place after their little utility-closet adventure. He didn't have much choice, not with the guy leaning on him, limping a little, pretending nothing was wrong.

Besides, he tends to lose 85% of his brain capacity every time he comes. Kind of the whole point of avoiding Dave.

He tossed a couple blankets and a pillow on the couch and Dave sat there, relaxed, kind of grinning smugly at him when James opened his mouth to say goodnight.

"Nightcap?" Dave said.

"Yeah," James said. Brought over a couple bottles - both of them will drink anything, no need to check - and glasses. He was *tired*, body rubbery from a long day, long couple of weeks ducking anything more than eye contact with the big guy, and this was his fucking place. Drink up and roll into bed: Same old routine.

Just with company. Dave-shaped company.

"So we're good?" Dave asked. For about the fifteenth time since he'd sucked James off.

"We're good, sure," James drained his third or fourth drink and set the glass down. More than enough for a worknight. "What's up with that? Keep asking me like it's important shit or something."

Dave blinked. Jesus, he could be slow. And his eyelashes were really thick. Couple shades darker than his eyes. Unsweetened chocolate versus black coffee.

And that's how James knew he was drunk. Once he started waxing lyrical about Boreanaz's fucking *eyes*, he was a lost cause.

Dave, of course, didn't have to know that.

"Is important," Dave said. Poured them each some more bourbon and handed James his glass. "For the show. Little birds in their nest -"

"Fuck you," James said. Drained half the drink and let it pour hot and sweet into his gut. "Fucking quoting *Little Women*?"

"- Agree," Dave said and nodded. His forehead creased. "That where it's from? Huh. Never knew that. Anyway, it is important. For the show."

"Show's fine," James said. Finished the drink and poured another. His head was loose on his neck and his hands pleasantly warm and buzzy. "Stop shitting me."

Dave rolled his glass between his palms and nodded. Like James had said something very wise. Profound, even. He shifted against the cushions and licked the corner of his mouth.

"For the show," he repeated and James stifled a groan. Swallowed more bourbon instead. "My show. See, and I need -"

Sparklers, tossing cinders, up his spine, exploding against the back of his skull. "Right, right," James said. "Your show. Of course. Can't fucking forget -"

"Need to fuck you again." Dave nodded, sipped, and set the glass aside.

James's jaw kept working. Cinders catching, sparking, fire burning higher in his head, around his eyes and all the way down to his gut. He swallowed. Blinked.

Dave just looked at him. Pleased with himself, relaxed, head on one hand, his other arm thrown over the back of the couch. Warm fingers started brushing the nape of James's neck like fucking mosquitoes. Fire ants.

"That so, big guy?" Heat in his mouth, anger and something he didn't want to name scraping his throat. He could smell moisturizer again, taste Dave's milk-and-fruit-yogurt tongue, feel those hands grasping his hips as the table shook itself apart. "Think you're drunker than I am if you think -"

"Think about you a lot," Dave said. Curled his fingers into James's collar, tried to tug him forward.

That - that confidence, the ease with which he moved his own body, James's body, the certainty that just because David wanted David could get - that was what flooded James's veins and nerves with something bright and toxic, Clorox and ethyl alcohol. He twisted closer, Dave started to smile, then he pinned Dave into the corner of the couch.

His couch, his place. His.

Knee in Dave's crotch, hand on his neck. "Think about me fucking you? That what you're thinking?"

Dave tried to shake his head. His eyes were hooded, long lashes almost long enough to brush James's cheeks, he was leaning in so close. Chlorine and fire under his skin as James rocked forward.

"Yeah, big guy. Little different, something new. Figure you know what to do, don't you?"

Dave's eyes were widening. He was still and they both knew he could probably toss James off him as easily as a wad of paper. He didn't. Thousands of colors there in his eyes, amber to coffee to night sky and stars as James licked a long stripe over Dave's mouth.

Pulling back, James grinned tightly. "Don't you? Suck cock like a pro, can't believe you've never flipped over."

*

"I like this one," Dave says, reaching past James, extracting a large carton decorated with huge, shiny red apples. "Organic, none of that stuff Meryl Streep used to bitch about."

James holds the carton in both hands.

The kid fusses a little and Dave digs out a pacifier from his back pocket. Sucks it clean, and James is definitely *not* watching that happen, not glancing at Dave's hollowed cheeks or hearing the wet pop when he pulls it out and inserts it into the baby's mouth.

Because that's just sick.

"C'mon," Dave says. Hipchecks James and pushes off. "Just grabbing some crackers, then I'm all yours."

James follows. Couple steps behind and to the side, recalcitrant delinquent, head down, doing as he's told. Dave's jeans are dark but well-worn. Comfortable, Dad-jeans and James is not admiring the twist of shirt just around the waistband or the easy lope with which Dave navigates this place.

Fucking liar.

"Look, I'm going to get going," James says in front of the Saltines. *Multigrain*? Low-sodium, rye, sundried tomato? When did grocery stores become gourmet emporiums?

Dave murmurs something, squinting at the rows of boxes. Looks like he's trying to decide between the snack packs, two per cellophane wrapper, and the traditional stacks. He bends closer, close enough that James thinks he might need glasses.

Starts picturing Dave in the surely-ridiculous glasses he'd choose, if his taste in sunglasses is any indication, and starts laughing.

He's hungover, greasy as hell and pissier than that, but he's laughing. Dave glances over, smiling, sharing the joke he didn't hear. Couldn't have heard.

"Fuck off, rockstar," he says cheerfully. "I always get the wrong kind and Jaime has my nuts for breakfast."

James cups one hand over the baby's ear and shakes his head. "Watch the cursing, huh?"

Dave frowns. "Shit -. Sorry. Yeah, gotta be careful."

The laughter's burbling back up James's throat, sweet and bright. Fruit candy and juice. "Yeah, 'cause he's really paying attention."

"No idea, man." Dave nods and pats the baby's belly like he's Buddha. "They're really smart. Like, everything affects them. 'Specially this one, he's -"

James steps back. Light inside Dave's face, and they say brides and mothers glow. They ought to see the lug; that's a glow, and James's stomach hurts. He shifts the carton of juice to the other hand and scrubs fingers through his hair.

"Like I said, better get going."

Dave twists, squinting at him. "S'cool, be just a sec." Without looking away from the moppet, he grabs a box of crackers from the shelf and lifts his chin towards James. "See? Good to go."

*

Dave's hand was still on his neck and he squeezed hard enough that James took in a quick breath. "Could do that," he said quietly. Evenly. Squeezed again and brought his other hand to James's waist. "Thinking about that, rockstar?"

Dave licked his lips. Looked like he was tasting the traces of James's tongue and it was too much. Dave slid down a little, rocked his hips gently against James's thigh, and from all evidence he was as hard, harder, than James.

James's legs trembled and he closed his eyes. Easier to stay here, in the dark, taste fire, than have to see huge brown eyes and fake, slow smile. "Yeah," he said. Like he needed to consider it. "Think about flipping you over. On your hands and your fucking *knees*."

Dave's breathing was getting louder. Soft whisper of upholstery as he shifted again. Red pain when he squeezed James's neck - could probably span his throat, snap his neck, with one of those fucking massive paws - and slapped his ass.

James opened his eyes. Hands tingled with the need to punch, smack, choke the cocksucker for that. But Dave just blinked. Smiled a little wider.

"Yeah?" he said. Rocked a little faster and moved his hand in slow circles over James's ass. "Go on."

Bourbon and rage and lust in his system, and James was still stupid. Stupider.

So he kept talking, hoarse and stuttering, and Dave kept rocking and squeezing. Tilting his hips every so often, breathing ragged and fast. James told him what he'd do. Told him everything. Fuck him until his arms gave out. Until he couldn't moan, until he'd come so many times he was dry, until he couldn't walk. Keep fucking him. Fuck him for days, fuck him black and blue. Make him take it, make him beg for it.

Stupid, impossible, honest.

Dave kissed him, wide open mouth, tongue searching for James's. Held James's head and rocked faster, hand working between them, biting and sucking on James's lips as he unzipped-unbuttoned-pulled. Wrapped his fingers around their dicks, dug nails into James's scalp and sucked his tongue deep into his mouth.

Like James was the one trapped, butterfly flapping its wings weakly against the pins, held by the root of his tongue, root of his dick. Pulled into Dave and it hurt as much as it felt good.

Dave's eyes were closed, thumb on James's jaw, turning his head back and forth, kissing him hungrily with teeth and tongue and lips, jerking their cocks together until James gave up a muttering groan.

Heard himself and tried - finally, valiantly, stupidly - to pull away. Honey and fruit taste of Dave's mouth, like he'd been chugging smoothies, not whiskey and bourbon, heavy on his face like sweat. Dave's eyes fluttered open and he smiled again. Jerked a little harder.

"Huh, Jamie? Like that?" Gravel voice, squinting eyes. Bit James's cheek and scraped his teeth down over the jawbone as he thrust up. "Want that?"

Challenge flaring there in nearly black eyes, in the rough twist of their cocks, in the syrup-poison smile he could paint on and off his face almost as quickly as James himself could smirk for the flashbulbs.

Flare met flare and James wrenched away.

Throat swollen and dry, he scrubbed his fist over his mouth, shook his head as hard as he could, sat back against the far arm of the couch.

Too old, too late, too tired, just not up for *this*, games Davey plays when he's bored and the wife's out of town and the nanny's sleeping over with the rugrat.

Dave reclined there, in front of him, like he owned the fucking place, comfortable and content wherever he found himself. Fly open, hand wrapped loosely around his dick, his other hand wandering over his chest.

"Simple question," Dave said. Sweetly, no gravel, just conversation.

"Turn the fuck over, then." James's sex-voice, thick with grit and need, spoken through teeth that might as well have been clenched.

Dave lifted his hips, shimmied his pants down his thighs. "Nah. Bum knee. Back or nothing."

*

"Look like shit," Dave says in the line for the cashier. "Rough night, huh?"

"Could say that," James says. Flicks through The Globe or some rag, gets newsprint all over his fingers. "You? Looking flush with health."

Dave's unloading the cart, leaving James to entertain the baby.

It's a - baby. They all look alike, little Winston Churchills, and they make weird, disturbing noises. This one's all right. Has his father's reflexes when James tries to play peekaboo with him, so James gives up. Hands Dave the steaks piled around the baby, slips his own carton of juice - show's not named after him, is it? - in with the rest, all the milk - whole and skim - and boxes of berries, bunches of bananas, sacks of nectarines, and jar of wheatgerm.

No wonder the guy tastes so fucking good. His diet's better than an Olympian's.

The baby's psychic. Squeals when James thinks that and kicks out both legs.

"Pick him up," Dave says, squatting down to haul the huge bag of dog food from the bottom of the cart. "Just like jiggle him. Likes that."

"I'm your fucking nanny now?"

Dave glances up and the baby starts to wail. "Pick him up." Then, softer, singsongier, "S'okay, Nipper. Uncle Jamie's got you."

Yeah, James is tasting copper as he bites his tongue and lifts the baby up. They're heavy and floppy, babies are, and squirm enough to make him a little nauseous. Really easy to drop and they smell like sour milk.

Not this one, though. Just like his dad. Fucking settles on James's jutted hip like he belongs there, clutches at his shirt, and smiles. He smells - James sniffs the top of his warm, fuzzy head while Dave flirts with the cashier - like powder and bananas.

"That's *James*," he whispers and could swear the baby nods.

Smarter than his dad, too.

Bright in the store, but fucking *glaring* when they hit the parking lot. Hot and close, dazzling his eyes. Somehow James is still holding his new best friend, Junior, Jason, Hayden, whatever the fuck his trendy name is, while Dave wheels the cart toward the black suburban *thing* he shows up at work in sometimes.

"Trade you," James says when the cart's unloaded, Dave's located his keys in the first pocket he checked, and James's discomfort has reached previously unimaginable proportions. "One offspring for a carton of juice."

Dave grins and reaches for the baby.

James leans in, twisting a little, and Dave claps his free arm around James's shoulder. Hot, wet lick up James's neck. Whisper, hoarse and thunderous in James's ear. "Free this afternoon, rockstar. Call me -"

And then he's pulling away, tickling the baby and still grinning like a shiteating motherfucker. James wipes his palms on his jeans and shrugs. Fucking king of the world, this guy. Tan and fairly young with an actually really cute baby, far as babies go, and his eyes are bright and welling with love and it should make James sick.

Definitely pisses him off.

"Need a sitter?"

"Something like that," Dave says.

*

James swigged the last of the bourbon from the bottle. Glass squeaked under his sweaty palm.

Pants open, held up with one hand, he shuffled into the bedroom. Swigged a couple more mouthfuls from the bottle in there, stuffed the shit into his pockets, and Dave was talking to him when he got back into the living room.

"Really got it made," he said. Big, wandering hand, touching himself lovingly, like he'd never felt something so wonderful, so glorious. Shirt open, pants in a heap on the floor. "Nice big condo. More chicks than you'd ever dreamed of. Guitar -"

"Fuck off," James said. Peeled off his own pants and knelt between Dave's legs, lube in one hand, rubber in the other. Heat and sweat in some kind of sweet, berryripe haze coming off the man and it soaked through James's skin. Joined all the booze in his belly and swirled around with it, shook itself a new cocktail.

Dave just tilted his head, stupid grin on his face, and pulled James against him, shoved James's face against his neck and started rubbing himself like a fucking kid or puppy against James. Breathed hot and loud into James's ear. "Meant it. All of -"

James pulled away, propped himself on one arm. Swatted Dave's hand away from his dick and started stroking lube, fast and cold, until the big guy, Mr. I Work Through the Pain, started shivering.

Dave bit his lip, kept shivering, widened those eyes as James opened him up. A little too hasty, just to hear the sharp gasp, and then he was shuddering at James fucked his fingers in and out.

Dave started to turn his face away, lower lip gone white under his teeth, until James said, "Don't." Pressed a little deeper and gasped himself. Too hot, too tight, and the smile was coming back to Dave's face.

"Not," Dave said. Spread his legs, crooked one around the back of James's legs, and dropped a hand on James's shoulder. Huge eyes glittering up at him, too big, too much, but he shook his head as James started to close his own. "Don't."

Ethyl and chlorine and that fucking cocktail fizzing through his gut and through his veins, red tensionheat and need shooting streamers through his hand, and James nodded. "Not."

Wanted to see that challenge again. Thought he needed it, the gold flare of something, daring him to do this. But Dave just stretched like a fucking cat, bore down and spread his legs wider and *grinned*.

He pulled James in, pulled him closer, lifted his hips and kissed him, sucked the air out of James's lungs as James pushed, clenched his stomach and felt his head swim, tilt off its axis, start to spin away, and then he was in and Dave was rocking beneath him, clutching him, kissing his face and fucking *laughing*.

Throwing back his head and laughing like this was the best joke he'd heard in years. Huge, deep, baritone laugh and James was so close he felt its vibrations run up his chest and arms, right through him, front to back.

Like he was atmosphere, Dave terra firma, like he was just the medium for conduction. Shaking off Dave's hand, feeling it slide down his chest, fingers close on one nipple, he pushed in, up, started fucking in earnest.

Laughter, delight, something close to fucking *joy* rippled through Dave, doubling, strengthening, and the harder James fucked, chasing that vanishing point, eyes starting to roll back, the tighter Dave held him, more he laughed.

Wet open mouth moving over James's shoulder, neck, swiping his face and kissing him wide of the mark, sloppy and earnest and hotter even than the slick muscle gripping James's cock, taking him deeper, and it was getting tougher and tougher to move.

Dave rolled his hips, tugged at James's nipples, finally caught James's lips with his own. The couch springs squeaked and the cushions spread apart and James had Dave by the hair, fucking his tongue in and out, worrying his lower lip fat and wet with his teeth, grunting. Could barely see, haze of a Dave-shape, heat shimmering around, his own skin gone too tight, three sizes too small, and he slammed in again and again, bit that pretty face and pulled on that big, heavy dick until Dave was mewling back, giving up little squeaks and grunts, his eyes getting impossibly bigger.

Laughter gone but the joy still there, everywhere, radiating from those broad shoulders and big eyes, that wide red mouth and rocking, twisting waist.

James chased it with mouth, hands, cock, driving Dave against the arm of the couch, deeper into the cushions, folding him up, shrinking him, taking him until Dave was moaning long and endless and his cock jumped free of James's hand and his torso went one way, his legs the other and his mouth fell all the way open and James -

Twitched his hips like a pendulum, metronome, something regular and fast and back and forth as redpurple lights descended over his eyes and his spine started shorting out and Dave threw his head back and James bit the hollow of his throat, sucked one knob of that massive collarbone and Dave started expanding before him and he thrust three, four, five times deeper than ever and the muscles in his thighs and arms were screaming at him to stop and he was the one laughing now, corkscrewing his hips.

"Come on, big guy -" Oxygen something foreign and stinging in his throat and he paused, bit harder til that tan chest was flushing and bruising and he thrust and thrust. "Come for me, you know you want to, come -"

Grabbed Dave's cock again, heard his balls slap skin, buried everything he had and yanked the come out of Dave until those big brown eyes saw him again and Dave lifted his hips, going back on his elbows, grinding himself against James's hand, thigh, and he was gasping fast and ragged.

"*Fuck*," Dave said and his come was hot and thick over James's hand. He dropped his hips, screwed himself back, then upward, lifted his head and kissed James.

Long and sweet and indefinably wrong, out of context and alien, whispering secrets into James's mouth, straight to his brain, bypassing language, and James was coming, vertebrae clacking together like a cheap bead necklace as he grabbed hold of those shoulders and shoved in and fell and banged his forehead against Dave's.

Fell and fell, hotter and faster, chest heaving and regret rocketing toward him until he couldn't think any more but Dave was still kissing him.

*

Dave locks the kid into his carseat, sidles into the black behemoth, and fucking *toots* the horn and waves when he pulls out.

James still doesn't have the juice.

He's emptyhanded and drymouthed and his shirt now smells like baby spit as he heads for his car.

Pammy's passed out again, spread-eagled on his bed, hair in her mouth, bony ass up in the air. The lack of juice doesn't even matter. Fucking pointless waste of good sleeping time. Wild goose chase, red herring, plot point.

James lies on the couch, arm over his eyes, waiting for her to wake up and drag herself out the door, back to wherever she came from. Waiting, ignoring the phone balanced on his stomach.

He's going to make that fucking call.

-End