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Title: Late-Night Nosh (Sequel of sorts to After School Snack) Author: Glossing Pairing: DB/JM Rating: R James has done everything he can to avoid the big guy. Earphones, Discman turned up to eleven, between takes. Fakes migraines between scenes, or brings his guitar and pretends to craft more songs with intense artistic concentration. A thick paperback -- he thinks it's _The Fountainhead_, and that's just laughable and more than embarrassing -- stuck in his jacket pocket at all times, just in case he needs to bury his nose and have an excuse not to reply. Ducking into empty offices. Or occupied offices and improv'ing sudden, urgent conversations with the startled assistants. He's fucking helped break down the craft services table three times in the past two weeks rather than chance running into David in the parking lot. He'd kind of hoped that Venice would be a break. Not that he went to Venice after all. Still, holing up in his apartment, sleeping until mid-afternoon and ordering food and girls and alcohol for delivery, served nearly the same function. Let him be himself again at least. Big brown eyes, though, sliding towards him, narrowing in a smile, every time he closed his own eyes. Big hands cupping his cheek like he was some cute scrofulous orphan. Eyebrows knit in confusion, incomprehension, whole face set slightly screwy, whenever David glances over one big shoulder at James. He's too old for this. Back for three weeks already, and memories of his fake vacation have reduced themselves to hard crystalline little slices of visuals. Skinny little girls who squealed, opened twigthin legs in their spotless white kneesocks, tugged up the tiny little kilts he likes so much. Hangovers that lasted for days; a single hangover, eyepopping, temple-pounding, left his brain dry as a nut and even less intelligent. Cartons of food, noodles dripping like Medusa's hair over the smeared sides. Some more girls, clean shining long hair and knobby little tits that took his bites like unripe apples. Fucking Viewmaster slides, that's all memory is, and it's not working. End of the day, late, and his hands smell like muffins and he burned his palm pretty bad on the massive coffee urn, trying to wrestle it into the craft guys' truck. He doubles back to his dressing room in search of the bourbon he's pretty sure he still has stowed there. Unless he drank it. Fuck. More where that came from. James grabs his jacket, pats the Rand bulging in the side pocket, and slips out into the hall. All the lights off, silent, dead to the world. Times like this he can't help but think of high school. Rehearsals on Saturday afternoons, the building all shut down but for the theater geeks; sneaking smokes backstage or up on the grid, everyone fiercely intent and convinced of their inherent greatness, inner perfection, innate superiority. Easy enough to rule the school when no one was there. Some people -- okay, everyone, fans, coworkers, the craft guys, that little kid in the bookstore last weekend -- laugh at the New Balances he wears and they can fuck off. They're comfortable and he can pad around the place and hear everyone else coming a mile off. Thick, careful, booming steps from the hall perpendicular to the one he's in, and James stops on his toes. Only one person in the possible vicinity walks like that. Might as well be caught in one of the show's more ridiculous scenes: Old man, trapped, eyes darting in search of escape. Utility closet. He's not going to hide in a utility closet. He has some dignity left. Somewhere. It's roomy in here. He's been reduced to hiding in a fucking utility closet, right between a couple of mops and big rusty sink, big enough to drown triplets in, but, hell. It's roomy. Soft, polite knocks on the door. "You in there? Jamie?" James opens the door so fast that David steps back, twice. "Don't fucking call me that, all right?" "What?" David's brow wrinkles. Next level of confusion he'll be tilting his head towards the Victrola. James leans in the doorway and crosses his arms. Rubs his forehead and pinches the bridge of his nose. He should be feeling really fucking embarrassed right now, caught flat out hiding among the brooms, but David's just looking at him. Like he's glad to see him, half-smiling, brows lifting. Eyes shining. "Nickname," James says, lifting his chin. "It's -- creepy, man." "It is?" David shrugs. "Why's that?" Don't know you well enough to have a nickname. It's the wife's name. It's what my mother called me. James circles his hand dismissively. "Never mind." David reaches out and clasps his shoulder. "Missed you," he says and squeezes. James rolls out of the grip and glares. Talking to the guy is usually like conducting two separate conversations, but now? Two different conversations in two completely unrelated languages. Over a landline. Composed of Dixie cups and frayed twine. "Been right here," he says. Swallows and clears his throat. Angry at himself, angry at the thickheaded dolt, angry that he got caught. Again, take your fucking pick. "Saw you this morning, in fact." Dave moves a little closer. Entire empty building, and he's close enough that the toe of his huge shitkicking boot nudges at the soft toe of James's sneaker. "No," he says. "*Missed* you." Fucking big, this guy. James wonders sometimes if he's even all that aware of it. He's got to be; you don't grow that big, wide through the shoulders, with hands that could crush a basketball if they wanted, without noticing. He slides his glance to the left, then the right. No escape. "Yeah, about that --" James starts to say. Dave cups his cheek and kisses him hard. Gentle touch of the palm, thumb rubbing his jawbone like he's got dirt there, but the kiss is all teeth, dry lips and slick, insistent tongue. James tilts back his head, shoulders tightening, kissing him back. Feels fucking good, and he's not one to argue with *that*. Not for a while, anyway. Dave presses closer until the doorjamb's starting to dig out James's spine, his free hand coming to rest on James's hip, knee nudging a little too firmly at James's thighs, and -- . "Jesus, Dave --" James grabs the front of Dave's shirt and pushes him back. Attempts to push him back; Dave doesn't actually *move*, but it's all about the gesture. "Fuck're you doing?" "Missed you," Dave says for the third? fourth? something time. "What?" James's chest is tight from the inside out, like fucking pleurisy or something, and when he blows out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, it hurts like something's twisting a rusty screwdriver down between his lungs. "It's okay," Dave says before James can say anything. Pats his cheek again and now James is thinking of him burping the baby, and he *really* doesn't need images of that when Dave's still basically painted over him. "Everyone went home." "Yeah," James says, finally loosening his fingers from the fabric of Dave's shirt. Watches himself as he smoothes out the wrinkles in the light cotton, as he pats Dave's chest in return. "Not really what I'm talk--" "Shit, I interrupted you," Dave says. "It's just, you know. Been so busy and there's all this medical shit and I realized you probably thought I was avoiding you or something. Finally saw you alone and I --. Got carried away." James isn't sure whether to laugh or cry. Definitely too old for this. "That's what you think--" He *will* finish a fucking sentence before he gets out of here. Matter of fucking honor at this point. Dave kisses him again, hand on his shoulder, guiding him back until he's up against that massive sink again. And it's teeth and tongue and gentle rolling thrusts of Dave's hips, and James realizes for the last time that he's some kind of brainless sybarite, because he's kissing Dave back, hand in Dave's ridiculous hair, tugging it by the roots, turning his head back and forth, teeth in his upper lip. Jesus assfucking Christ. He's thrusting back and Dave's *moaning*, low and constant, and the red hazy tightness in James's chest is spreading and brightening, up the back of his throat to meet Dave's tongue and straight down his guts to his dick and any second now he's going to push the dolt away. "Taste fucking *good*," Dave mutters, sliding his mouth up the side of James's face, words vibrating right through his skin, hand slipping inside James's jacket, into the back of his waistband. Long *warm* fingers, scrabbling gently in the small of James's back. "Jesus, Jamie, you're--" James ducks and slides, knocks the brooms out of the way. "Don't --" "Fuck, I'm sorry. Got --" "Carried away?" James says. Tight chest, tight dick, and his eyes, cheeks, mouth are burning. "Leave me the fuck alone, would you?" "But --" "Alone." In the gloom of the closet, Dave's tan is darker, ruddier, and he ducks his head like a kid caught with his hand in his pants. He mutters something and James could swear he's actually shuffling his feet. Jesus. "Dave," he starts. "I'm okay," Dave says. Lifts his head and gives the world's smallest, saddest, most pathetic smile. If Dave was a better actor, James would be really fucking pissed right now. As it is, he's --. Ought to be a word for this state where you're hard and breathless and swamped by equal portions pity, anger, and sheer fucking confusion. His head hurts. "Dave, this --" "Slipped out," Dave says. Sounds a little too hoarse to be entirely real. Except it's Dave and James is starting to doubt all over again whether Dave has any other mode than irritatingly real. "Know you don't like that. And I get that. Sorry. I --" "Not the nickname, man." "But you said --" James swallows, tastes bananas and milk and a random trace of cigarette smoke. "You smoke, Dave?" "What? No. Of course not." "Right," James says and he's moving forward again, backing Dave up against the opposite wall. Shelves full of bottles and buckets rattling against each other. "Taste like it." Dave grins and shrugs. Jesus, he can't even look straight at James; his eyes are half-closed and he's studying the mop in the corner like it's got the answers. James touches the tangles he just made in Dave's hair. Nothing. He grips again, digs nails into scalp, and --. "Yeah," James breathes out when Dave groans through closed lips and presses against him. James opens Dave's mouth with his tongue and Dave's melting or crumpling, something, because they're almost eye to eye now, and his arm's wrapping around James's waist and he's kissing back, hard and slow. James pulls Dave's head back and licks a thin stripe down his chin. "Closet smoker. Thought so." James drags his teeth down Dave's neck, tasting everything strong and healthy, and baby oil, sweet like powder, and warm skin, heating up under his mouth, tight in his teeth. "Fuuuuck," Dave groans. Semi-coherent, and James grins. Guy's easier than Play-Doh, his hands running up and down James's arms and sides, fingers opening and closing, eyes heavy-lidded and mouth just hanging open. "Like you like this," James whispers and Dave fucking *nods*. Like it was a compliment, like he'd really been fervently hoping that James'd like him. James keeps his voice low. No fear of getting caught, just wants Dave to have to work to hear him. "Whatcha thinking, David?" "Um." James works his knee between Dave's slightly bent ones and nibbles his way along the base of that treetrunk-thick throat. "Hmm?" "Missed you?" "Yeah, said that," James says. Lets go, steps away, just to see what the guy'll do. Dave hangs against the wall, arms dropping, mouth working for a couple beats before sound comes out. "I *did*, Jamie--*Fuck*. Know what I mean." "Not your wife," James says quietly. And this time, it's not about making Dave work for it. Or it *is* that, and something else. Something kind of scratchy, full of jutting angles, caught low in his throat. Makes it hard to talk around. Big brown eyes turned on him and something's off with James's vision because it looks like they're glowing and getting bigger by the second. "'Course not," Dave says. Patiently and it's the same fucking tone he uses when the baby visits the set and Dave talks to it like it can actually understand him if he just talks slowly enough. "She's in Mexico." James laughs. Can't help it, and Dave looks hurt for a second before his face relaxes all over again, and then he's laughing, too, louder, faster, and he's just *there*, right in James's face again, pressed up against him, huge hands on James's shaking shoulders, and they're kissing again and James isn't going to break this one. Not for a very good reason, anyway, and this -- this, as Dave's hands slide down his arms, squeeze his little twiggy wrists and Dave sinks to his knees and James twists, backs up against the sink -- *this* is a great reason. Hot mouth on his stomach, drawling swirls of heat and spit, and James pops his fly with one hand and pulls Dave's hair again with the other. Still hiccuping laughter like they're on whippets or some shit and Dave's looking up at him, tongue snaking out, licking his pubes so lightly that James growls between the laughs and Dave fucking *winks* at him. Squeezes his wrists, pushes his arms up so they're holding the edge of the sink together. "Fuck, Dave, just --" Quick on the uptake on some things, thank fuck, and Dave inhales half his cock, just like that, and his mouth is suddenly the biggest thing about him. Slick, hot, *wet* mouth with huge tongue wrapping around James's dick like it's his favorite popsicle and his cheeks are hollowing and *fuck*, he's beautiful like this, wide brown eyes and pursed lips and he's bobbing his head like a pro and James's eyes are burning. Should blink. Can't, just squeezes rusty paint and Dave's fingers hard enough to pop a couple knuckles, maybe his, maybe Dave's, maybe some sick intimate combination of both, and Dave's sliding up and down his dick, little bratty scrapes of incisor and James knows they're on purpose because Dave's eyes are crinkling at the sides and he makes up for every scrape with an especially fast thrumming pulse of his tongue, and his throat's working, head dipping down. James frees one hand, scratches nails over the crown of Dave's skull, getting a nice vibrating whimper, and tugs back until Dave's lips are locked around the head of his dick. Another little whimper. Big brown eyes radiating appeal and want, and James lets himself moan. Acting or not, the guy's coming off so needy, so innocent and *not* at the same time that his head's swimming, cheeks burning, and he thrusts in. Watches the lump of his cock in Dave's cheek and pushes harder. Dave blinks once, so slow, almost sleepy, and groans as he swallows, flutters his throat open and closed, and when James thrusts in, hard enough that he pushes the breath out of his own lungs, Dave's eyes open again. Darker, still glowing, and James is fucking his face, needs to fuck right through that big, glazed expression, fucking bring roses up on his cheeks, make him whimper again and again. Fingers curled in Dave's hair, he's thrusting hard enough that he can barely himself cursing, barely hear the little slap of his balls against the superhero jutting chin, but he *can*, hear it all and more, hear the spit swirling over Dave's eager superheated tongue, hear the slide of his dick into the throat, hear muscles contracting and hearts pounding, hear Dave moaning like a fucking whore and holding James's ass, pushing with him, asking incoherently and wetly for something as he squeezes James's other hand and those eyes. Those eyes are going to be the death of James. Tingling like a fucking lightning storm zips down his spine, flays him open as it passes and zooms around his balls, and Dave moans even louder and digs his fingers into James's hip. He's not that strong, though, and James swallows laughter and curses as he pulls out, wrenches his hand free from Dave's and jacks himself once-twice as he comes. Endlessly, it's always endless, but especially so now and it hurts as much as it keeps him hard when Dave's eyes close a final time and James's come paints his chin and cheek. Aching, flaming, panting, he's on his knees before Dave can open his eyes, and for once he's the one grasping *Dave* by the shoulders, kissing his half-open mouth, cleaning him up, licking him, tasting himself and cream and Dave and Dave shudders once in his arms before tilting his head and kissing him back. Shallow and careful, and James keeps it gentle. Poor kid. His mouth must be *aching*. James pets Dave's hair, tries to smooth it down into its usual odd little helmet, prolongs the kiss into something sweeter, less rushed, a little too close to necking for his usual comfort zone, but Dave's finally wrapping his arms around James's waist, kissing back like he could do this all night, so it's all right. "Better?" Dave asks, tipping back his head so James's mouth slides over his chin again. "Huh?" "Better? Like, not pissed?" "Far from pissed," James says and swallows. "You?" Dave smiles, wide and real. Blinding. His eyes nearly disappear. "Yeah. A-okay." James just shakes his head, huffing out a half-sigh, half-giggle. "My knee hurts, though," Dave says. Grips James's waist and just -- lifts him up like he's an empty milkcrate. "Need to get off it." "Right," James says. He's battling a grin, possibly a smirk, and the second he lets himself start thinking, he's really going to be --. What? Pissed? Probably. Confused as fuck, definitely. "Can't have that." "No," Dave says. Entirely seriously. "Hey, you wanna see my scar? Fucking grody." James gives him a hand up and winces at the pop of the knee-joint when Dave finally hops, one foot, then the other. "Let's get you somewhere more comfortable first. Then I'll drool all over your scar." "Cool. Your place?" James sighs. "Sure." He's really fucked himself over now. At least James thinks so, far as he's able to think at the moment, Dave's arm around his shoulder and draped against him as they hobble down the hall. Isn't he too old for this? -End (Read the Sequel)