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Title: Time After Time Author: RosFod Pairing: JM/VK Rating: NC-17 A/N: Takes place in the Soupverse i. James had wanted to say it earlier. Like that night when it had taken Vince two fucking hours to get from Westwood to Malibu because of some basketball game tying up the interchange between the 5 and the 10. By the time Vince'd shown up, he'd looked frazzled and grey around the eyes and the dinner had ended up rubbery and unchewable as it came out of the microwave. He'd almost said something, too, one early morning when they were sitting out on the deck, watching the line of the horizon grow farther away as the sky gathered more light. Vince was wrapped up in a throw, his stick legs poking out from between the fringed edges of the blanket, his chin resting on his chest as he dozed. Every time James had scratched his nose or wiped his mouth, he'd smelled come on his hands. The backs of his eyelids were scratchy and the carpet burns on his knees still stung, but he couldn't seem to stop smiling. He actually opened his mouth, right then, to say, Stay, just that and nothing else, and he'd known Vince would get it. But he hadn't wanted to wake the boy up. That had been three-four months ago. James didn't know what he was waiting for, exactly. The perfect time, the perfect place. He kept rolling the words around in his head, rehearsing. He'd start out slow, inquire about when Vince's lease might be coming up. Move smoothly into asking if Vince wasn't tired of commuting between their separate homes. Point out that he was at James's place most evenings and mornings and weekends, anyways, so. James had it all worked out. "Hey, why don't you just move in here, already?" he said, and it took him a few horrified seconds to realize that he'd said it out loud. They were in the kitchen, Vince rinsing the dishes before he put them in the dishwasher. It was a nothing day. Vince squeezed the tap off and turned around slowly, soap bubbles still foaming on his hands. "What?" He was wearing that Bambi-hit-with-a-stun-gun look on his face, blinking at James in a way that seemed part guileless, part suspicious, somehow. Two years and James couldn't get Vince to get rid of that look. That initial, instant bloom of disbelief that could only mean Vince hadn't expected this, hadn't thought James was capable of it. It twisted something inside his chest, a sharp pang that felt like failure, but he didn't want to dwell on it. The moment soured. "You heard what I said." James opted for casual and threw in a shrug for good measure. "'s no big deal if you'd rather keep putting all those miles on your car." Vince wiped his hands on a towel and wiped the shock from his face. Looked back at James in an appraising way that made James's spine itch. "You're asking me to come live here with you?" James leveled his eyes straight ahead while Vince leaned back against the counter. He was trying for nonchalance, too, trying to call James on what he thought was a bluff. But then, Vince hadn't yet learned how not to let everything he was feeling shine from his eyes. "Yeah, why not?" James replied. The pause stretched while Vince's expression dampened and he pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Yeah, why not," he repeated, without the inflection. Without any inflection at all. James was halfway to suggesting they call it off, it had been an impulse, he should put some more thought into it, maybe they weren't ready – "I'll start bringing some stuff over tomorrow." James dragged air into his lungs and waited until his heart stopped hammering inside his ears. "Okay, then," he said. Vince lifted his gaze from the floor. "Okay." And that was that. ii. James kept expecting something to happen, to wake up and see on the news that a neon sign had appeared in the Malibu hills, emblazoned, "This Is the Beginning of the End." But all that happened was that he found Vince's socks wedged between the mattress and the footboard with more frequency now. When Vince lost his watch, James located it days later behind his printer when he was changing the cartridge. The fridge got stocked with Belgian beer and Portuguese sausages. He came home one day to see a bowl of Fuji apples sitting next to the toaster. It wasn't until weeks after that little things started to needle him, working under his skin, just deep enough for him to feel it like a constant buzz. He'd wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and stab his toe on the corner of one of Vince's jewel cases. For example. "Pick up your things, would you?" he said to Vince the next day, in a tone that wasn't as light as he'd intended. There was also the steady exodus of Vince's things from his apartment to James's house. He kept bringing things over, small amounts at a time, as if James wouldn't notice the packages if they were below a certain size. It just made the move seem endless. "You’ve got to be kidding me," James said, when Vince pulled the tape off of yet another box and reached in to retrieve a lamp in the shape of a baseball diamond. Twins, it stated in bold athletic letters along the whole length of the stand. James could feel his eyebrows touching his hairline. He made sure to keep them up there. Vince passed his knuckles over the shade, uncertain. He swiveled his head around the room once and then put the lamp back inside the box. Closed the flaps and pushed the box up against the wall. "Maybe I'll finish later," he said. James drew his head forward, off of the headboard, and looked across the room to where Vince was tapping his hands against his knees, mouth flat. By the time James closed his book, Vince was already fussing around in the closet, and so he didn't belabor it. The next morning, James woke up just as dawn was tipping past north. He lay there, listening to Vince breathe in his sleep. One of his hands was curled against James's chest, fingers twitching as he dreamt. There was a weight, a rock pressed against James's gut that wouldn't let loose. He untangled himself from Vince's legs and sat on the edge of the bed. That damn box was still just sitting there. It took him a good hour to unpack everything. He set the lamp on Vince's bedside table and took a step back, judging the effect. Christ, it was ugly. He was already working on his shave before he heard Vince rustling the bedsheets, and James had to put the razor down on the vanity when he realized his hand was shaking. There was a long, excruciating beat of silence before Vince shadowed the door to the bathroom. James shook the head of the razor under the running water and waited. His eyes flickered to the mirror, watching as Vince's feet lapped the tiles and he moved to the sink, cheek creased and his lashes sticking together. Vince wrapped his arms around James's waist and pressed his face against the back of his neck. James let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Vince smelled of sleep and clean sweat and James left a trail of shaving cream along his chest and stomach on the way down. He licked around all those secret places until he could feel Vince's knees buckling, then he bit his way upwards while he tugged on Vince's hands to get him moving to the bedroom. "Wait," Vince said, holding them back to reach for the pajama bottoms that had pooled on the floor. "Leave it," James said, catching Vince's mouth. They never did make it to the bed. iii. Three Sundays later, they were taking breaks in between groping sessions to watch the PGA Championship, James mumbling that golf always made him think of Dave just so that he could get a swat from Vince. He caught the wrist neatly and pressed it back against the arm of the couch. Lowered his hips another fraction and smirked when Vince's mouth fell open. He was starting to make those soft, quiet sounds at the back of his throat, trying to get his free hand between James's legs, when the phone rang. Vince froze like he thought there was any way they were stopping to answer the fucking *phone* and James snorted. Gathered both of Vince's wrists in one hand just as Vince said, "It's Sunday." Which meant, of course, that it might be James's kid calling. He groaned into Vince's hair and pushed himself up with both hands. Buttoned his pants and shook some clarity into his head before he picked up the receiver. "Open your door," a voice said, accompanied by a giggle in the background. The line clicked silent and James stood there, staring at the phone, contemplating a pleasurable image where he wound the cord around a Brendon-sized neck. Vince's head came off the cushion. "What was that?" he asked. James looked down the hallway at the door, then back at the couch. Vince's eyes were still hooded, and his cheeks were still pink. His mouth was swollen. James decided that choking was too kind a death. "One of the wonder twins," he said, as he made his way towards the front of the house. Vince bounded off the couch at that, not wanting to miss whatever it was. By the time James felt Vince's arm knock gently into his, he had the door open, eyes trained on the basket sitting on the stoop. There was a bow attached to it, giant and flourescent pink and marked with looping letters that read, The Marsterheisers. "No," James said. "What?" Vince was trying to look past him, t-shirt grazing over James's skin, balancing himself with hands on James's hipbones. "What is it?" James closed his eyes. He was on the verge of beginning to pray. "No," he said, again, making sure to cover all the bases. "What?" Vince finally managed to hook his chin over James's shoulder and then he actually *gasped* and James knew he was totally, royally fucked. "James..." He spun around and grabbed Vince by the tops of his arms. "No," he said, trying to sound determined and scratching desperate instead. He didn't care. He made certain to look directly at Vince's face. Which was a mistake, because Vince was already starting to grin and his eyes were crinkling at the edges and he was getting splotchy with all the expectant hope he was barely managing to hold inside. James let him go and slumped against the wall, defeated. Vince fucking well squealed and pounced across the threshold. He wrapped his arms around the basket and sprung his way back to where James was still muttering about dismemberment. He leaned in close and James broke off his mantra. "Kitty," Vince whispered. "Evidently," James said, looking down at the puff of furball peeking out from under a circle of blanket. He closed the door. iv. Vince was due at the airport the next day. Final destination: London, with a quick stop in New York for a press conference that involved Sharon Stone and Justin Timberlake being in the same room together. "When you hear the world starting to collapse, remember to run," James said. Vince just gave him a wide smile, the length of his finger running under the cat's chin. Later, when Vince touched him in a similar way, fingertips stroking below his jawline, he tried to mine some resentment. But then Vince settled himself between James's thighs and pushed inside. Low growl building in his chest and his eyes squinted shut, no asking or hesitation. He drove his cock in and out of James like he had a fucking right to and James forgot all about the cat in the whiteout that rushed through his brain as he came. The day of Vince's flight, James kept puttering around, moving knick-knacks he hadn't bought and rearranging magazines he didn't read. From the master suite, the sound of the shower drifted out in a hiss. He was very studiously not looking at the clock on the DVD player. He made himself sit down, and then got up again for a beer. Remote in his right hand, bottleneck in the left, he slumped down on the couch until his chest was almost parallel to the floor. Which the cat took for an open invitation. She jumped on to his stomach and owl-blinked at him, and then, with a slight tilt of her head, she spread her paws open and pressed her claws into his skin. "Vince!" James yelled out, arms extended on either side of his body. That made the cat purr like a diesel engine as she sank her claws deeper. The faucets squeaked shut and he heard the bathroom door swing open. Vince took his goddamn time, pitter-pattering over to the couch, towel hanging low on his hips and another rubbing into his hair. James broke off the staring contest he'd somehow let the cat rope him into. Gestured towards her with his beer. Vince rolled his eyes, and plucked her off of James's shirt. He swung the towel over his shoulder and made a cup with both hands. She rolled up into a ball inside of the space. "You could just pet her, you know," Vince said, scratching her behind the ear. He was damp, the shimmer of water still rubbed into his skin, the line of hair below his navel almost black. "Hmm," James said, his annoyance dissipating. He elbowed himself up to a sitting position and set the bottle and the remote down on the coffeetable. Reached out to tug at the end of the second towel. Both Vince and the cat twisted their heads downward to regard him silently. "Take this off," James said, tugging harder. Vince let the cat jump from his hands and toed a ball in her direction. She scampered off after the tinkling of bells, and James felt the beginning twinges of affection building in the wake of her disappearance. As Vince began to fold to his knees, James turned him to face the other way. Pulled him on to his lap with the kind of roughness that always made Vince's breath catch. "The airport," Vince murmured. "We've got time," James said, open hand on Vince's sternum, tight fist around his dick. Vince arched and shuddered, flush spreading in a strawberry stain down his back. James had to take the freeways at 95 miles and hour to catch the plane. It was a miracle he could find the accelerator with legs that wouldn't work. He came home late from the studio or the bars or both. Sat in front of the TV until he fell asleep. Five days into Vince's trip, seventeen more to go, he made his way into the kitchen to forage for signs of food. The only thing not rotting or stale or IAMS were the Cheerios that Vince ate for breakfast. James poured the whole box into a salad bowl and sniffed speculatively at the milk. The cat twined herself around his ankles. He filled a teacup and pushed it in front of her. When she stuck her face inside the rim, he figured that was good enough. At some point, his brain shut down and he ate on rote command, lifting the spoon to his mouth and down again. He found that his other hand was gliding along the cat's spine, petting her from neck to tail. He snatched it back. She stretched out her legs and yawned, baring her teeth. And then she headbutted his hand, looking up at him, eyes round and still kitten-blue. He touched her with just his palm. Grimaced when she began to quiver. He picked her up by the scruff and walked into the bedroom. Set her down on Vince's pillow and fell into bed, all of his clothes still on. "This didn't happen," he said to her. She rubbed her cheek on his arm and curled up against his side. He slept until noon. v. James took Vince's bigger, older car to LAX with intent. Found Vince in the chaos of the international terminal and kissed him in front of a group of nuns. Vince chuckled when he saw the Impala, and slid James a knowing look. They pulled into one of the abandoned parking lots of one of the office buildings on Century Boulevard and christened the back seat all over again, Vince thudding his head against the window and screaming behind James's hand. The defroster was broken and James had to wipe the windshield clean with his sleeve before they pulled back on to the road. Vince was still saying something under his breath that didn't sound like English. The cat squeaked in delight when Vince walked through the door, her tail swishing from side to side. James made himself wait until Vince was done playing with the cat. Waited through the long shower that Vince took after. Waited past that night and then the next one. At some point on the third night after Vince came back, the travel-weary edginess fell away from him and he slipped between the sheets with a sigh of comfort rather than exhaustion. James rolled him on to his back and stripped everything off of him. Nudged his knees open and leaned in to taste his mouth. He held Vince's head still, the side of his thumb brushing against Vince's jaw, his tongue sweeping between his lips and retreating again until Vince whimpered for more. When James drew away, Vince made another sound that pulled his toes into a curl. "Where are you going to be tomorrow morning again?" James asked, thinking that the time was finally right. Vince went quiet and drew his brows together. "I don't…" he bit his lip and James had to tense his whole body. "I don't think I have anything tomorrow morning." "Oh," James said, tugging his mouth up at the corners. He braced himself on his palms, one on either side of Vince's face, and hitched his hips back and forth, letting their cocks rub together in a gliding wetness. Vince's mouth rounded and he tipped his chin up, eyelids falling closed, hands clasped and pressed into James's back. "How about tomorrow night?" James asked, words falling in the same rhythm as his thrusts. Confusion solidified on Vince's face, and James felt him go rigid, anxious. He still gave up a sharp, helpless noise when James reached between their bodies. Good boy. "Here?" Vince said, trying to wrap breath around the reply. "Should I – " The rest of the question was muffled when James kissed him, teeth knocking together and James's other hand gripping Vince by the nape. Vince began clutching at his arms, then scratching nails down James's ribs. James broke the kiss again. Found that place where he knew Vince was pink and shining and nudged the head of his cock against the entrance. "How about next week?" Vince moaned and lifted his hips up, getting it. He opened his eyes. "Here," he said, managing to hold on to James's gaze until he pressed Vince's knees up to his ears and buried himself up to the base, with one, quick stroke. Vince twisted his whole body off the bed, weight on his shoulders, spread open and completely naked in his need. "How – how about – next year?" "Ohgod," Vince said. James shoved into him again, hard and deep. Five years from now, ten, he insisted, until Vince was yelling here, here, here while he clenched around James and spilled all over his hand and the sheets. He slammed their hips together, two-three more times. Vince let out a broken sob. Afterwards, they lay in a knot of limbs, trying to learn how to breathe again. James pulled himself off and flopped on to his back, hauling Vince on to the other side of the bed with him. Vince hummed against James's collarbone and swirled circles along his thigh. The ceiling looked really far away. James leaned his head over and stared at Vince's bedside table instead. "You know," James said, when he finally broke past the haze, "I still hate that fucking lamp." Vince laughed into the pillow and grasped James's fingers with his own. "I know," he said. "I know." - an end