Life Between Day and Night

"Strip quarters."

I give a surprised huff of laughter. "Strip quarters? What the hell is that?"

"Like regular quarters. Only when you lose, you don't just drink, you also have to take off a piece of clothing."

"And this was your favorite game?"

"I didn't say that. You asked me what the favorite house game was."

"I'm starting to regret having gone Greek now; sounds like the GDIs had a lot more fun than we did. So, did you play?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

He grins. "Well enough."

I sit back in my chair. "You surprise me, Boss."

"Why? Did you think I spent my entire time in university with my nose stuck in a book?"

I might find him sexy as hell, but that doesn't change the fact that he's a bit of a geek. "Well... yeah, I did, actually."

"I'm a man of many interests and talents," Will states complacently. "Ready to go?"

**********

At some point, and I'm not quite sure exactly when or how it happened, sharing breakfast after shift became a habit for us. Sometimes others would join us, but mostly it ended up being the two of us. It got to the point where we didn't even have to plan to meet; we just did.

At first, we used to discuss the cases, or things that the cases reminded us of. Nothing too personal, just glimpses into our pasts or our interests. A movie we'd seen, or the course we'd most enjoyed in college, or our favorite food; that kind of thing. As time passed, we stopped discussing work altogether.

And then, slowly, ever so slowly, our conversations no longer felt as comfortable. I started to become aware of pauses and hesitations, of things that I was leaving unsaid, of times that he would seem to suddenly change the topic. Sometimes we're well into our second cup of coffee before either of us says a word, and then, more often than not, it's nervous, a botched joke, a story that has nothing to do with anything and falls flat.

Spending time with him isn't exactly uncomfortable, but it certainly isn't as effortless as it once was. There's this something else that's starting to take shape between us, something familiar, but unsettling nonetheless, and I don't know whether it's better to acknowledge or ignore it.

**********

We walk to our cars in companionable silence and when we reach them, I dig into my pocket, pull out my key, and press the button to unlock my truck.

"Okay. Later," I say, my mind on whether I need to stop at the corner store for some orange juice before I go home. The fact that he doesn't respond doesn't immediately sink in; when it does, I look back to see him staring at me, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Boss?"

"Let's go for a drink."

"What, now?" I check my watch, but it's not really the timing of the invitation that's throwing me (working graveyard for so long, we don't exactly wait for sundown to have a drink) as much as the fact that it's been issued in the first place. This is something new.

"No— or actually yes; yes, why not? Now. We need to talk."

"Okay. Where?"

He looks around, as if checking for something suitable within eyesight. "My place?"

"Where's that?"

His eyes snap back to me. "What do you mean?"

"Where's My Pl—?" Realization suddenly strikes. "Oh, I see. I thought you meant the name of a bar, you know, like Living Room, or Kitchen." I laugh weakly and draw to an uncomfortable stop as he just stands there, blinking at me. "Uh, sure. Your place it is."

**********

"So, what's up?" I ask, aiming for a facial expression that is both inquiring and comforting, sort of what I imagine therapists must wear a lot of the time.

He cocks an amused eyebrow. "Up? Nothing much."

He hands me a glass of scotch on the rocks and then sits down on the couch next to me.

"Oh. I thought you wanted to talk about something."

He stares down at his glass, shaking it slightly, so that the ice cubes clink together. "Talk. Yes."

I wait patiently for what seems like a long time. "Well?" I encourage gently.

He turns his head to look at me. "This is a lot harder than I thought it'd be," he says. "Maybe I should just show you."

He sets his glass on the coffee table and reaches out to cup my cheek, the skin of his palm cool, because of the cold drink he's been holding. I'm frozen to the spot, my eyes locked on his, my stomach starting to coil. His caress is almost rough, his fingers rubbing along my hairline, tracing my earlobe, then tightening around the back of my neck in order to pull me towards him. Not that he has to pull hard, because I'm not resisting. I taste the whiskey on his lips, then in his mouth and on his tongue.

I reach out blindly to set my own glass on the coffee table, then thread my fingers through his curly hair, almost yanking at it in an effort to pull him even closer. This can't be happening, but then his tongue is in my mouth, licking at my teeth and at the underside of my lip, and that's pretty clear evidence that it is. He's kissing me, and I can question him and risk it coming to an end, or I can go with the flow. I choose the latter.

Suddenly he pushes me slightly away. His face is flushed and his lips are wet and swollen, and I don't think I've ever wanted anybody as much as I want him right now, so I pull on his hair to bring him closer again.

"Ouch! Wait, Nick. Wait," he gasps.

"What?"

"You're okay with this, right?"

"I thought that's pretty obvious."

He traces my smile with his fingertips, then he bends forward and kisses me again, his fingers trailing down my neck and inside the open collar of my shirt, tickling a little, and making me squirm.

"I've wanted this for years," he whispers, his breath hot on my skin. He nibbles down my neck and buries his lips in the curve of my shoulder, biting down softly. He unbuttons my shirt one button at a time, and I feel first the brush of his fingers, then of his tongue, and although I try to suppress it, I moan each time he moves lower. He spends a long time right below my navel, and I arch up against his mouth, almost desperate for more contact, but he backs away again.

"Will..." I whisper, and he looks up at me, his eyes inky blue.

"Take off your shirt," he says, and his hands are busy at my belt, then at the button and zipper of my jeans. He kisses me again, his mouth wide open over mine, and I'm struggling to kiss him back and to untangle my arms from my sleeves and to raise my hips, so that he can pull my jeans down, all at the same time. He drops to his knees between my legs and he's pulling off my shoes, socks, jeans and underwear in a tangle, and then I'm naked, while he's still wearing all his clothes and kneeling between my legs, his hands running up and down my calves in a rough caress, and it makes me feel vulnerable and weird, but also so excited, that I'm iron hard.

He suddenly hoists my legs to his shoulders and jerks me towards him, so that I slide down the couch a little, its nubby material scraping roughly against my back, and my ass is hanging off the edge. He turns his head to kiss the inside of my left thigh, and his fingers are tracing random patterns on my hips, and he hasn't even touched my cock yet and I already think I'm about to explode.

"Jesus, Will. Please..." but I don't know what I want, because it's too hard to choose between the options (and God, this is Will, this is my boss, and even though I suspected he might not be straight, I was never 100% sure) and then he takes my cock into his mouth and I stop thinking, I'm just feeling, as his tongue swirls against the head, one of his hands now playing with my balls, the other probing at my hole. I don't want this to end quickly, I want his naked body against mine, I want to make him feel as good as he's making me feel, but fuck, just lying here and leaving everything up to him is good too, so, so good.

And he knows what he's doing. He knows exactly the moment it gets to being too much for me and he'll pull back a little, or press a finger against my perineum, or squeeze my balls, hurting just a bit, enough to bring me down a couple of notches, but not enough to keep me there, and then he knows how to start building the pleasure again, sometimes gently sucking just the tip of my cock and sometimes deep-throating, sometimes pushing his finger into me and brushing against my prostate and sometimes just massaging at the entrance, one hand pressing down on the base of my belly or reaching up to pinch my nipples. I suddenly realize that the sobbing sounds that I've been vaguely aware of are coming from me, and later I know I'm going to be embarrassed about them, but right now I don't care, the same way I don't care that I'm pushing myself down onto his finger and begging for more, or that I'm probably suffocating him as I keep trying to force his head down and my cock deeper into his mouth, or that I'm pleading with him to let me come, even though I could easily just finish myself off.

I think I must black out a little, because next thing I know he's straightened up and he's hugging me to him, his shirt soft against my chest. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and blindly bury my face into his neck.

"I need to come," I grumble dazedly and he laughs.

"You already did, Nick. But we can do this again, if you want."

I try to pull away from him, but he tightens his arms around me and whispers no, and so I stay put, my eyes closed, feeling him breathe against me and wishing I could fall asleep like this, because I'm already starting to think about what happens next, and I don't want to go there yet.

Eventually we have to move. He hoists himself onto the couch with a pained grimace, and sits rubbing his knees, as I half-heartedly try to untangle my boxers out of my jeans, waiting for him to say something, anything, that will indicate how he wants to treat this, because for the life of me I don't know.

"Well," he says, making it sound like a statement.

"A deep subject," I mutter, as I start to pull my boxers on, and he laughs and turns to face me, one arm on the back of the couch, almost, but not quite, embracing me.

"Do you have to go?" he asks.

"Do you want me to stay?" I turn the question around on him.

"Yes," he answers without hesitation. "If you want to."

"This, today, this doesn't change anything, right?" I don't want lose the comfortable relationship we have at the station, which is sometimes the only thing that makes the job bearable. I don't want to lose his friendship.

"I certainly hope it does," he responds lightly, and his fingers touch my neck in a fleeting caress. "But not unless you want it to."

I reach over and kiss him, and then we don't need to talk anymore.

**********

The following shift we barely see each other, and I'm over an hour into overtime before I can finally punch out. Although I know he won't still be at the diner, I drive by, just to make sure, and I see his car parked in its usual spot, and it's only then, as relief washes over me, that I realize how tense I've been since I drove away from his house yesterday afternoon.

He's reading the paper and doesn't see me at first, but then he looks up and I see his expression, welcoming and happy and relieved and almost shy all at the same time, and I smile at him.

"I wasn't sure you'd make it," he says when I've placed my order, and I hear that hint of something else that's been between us all these months, but now I think I know what it is.

"I wasn't sure you'd still be here," I respond, because I still need more confirmation before either of us take another step away from what we had until yesterday that I haven't misread him, that yesterday morning was more than scratching an itch.

He doesn't answer for a while, his expression thoughtful, then he focuses on me, his eyes serious.

"You don't ever have to worry about that, Nick" he reassures me quietly and it's ambiguous, but then again, he's the one who's been putting himself out there, even though as my superior officer he has more at risk, while I've been playing it safe.

"Neither do you, Will," I say, hoping he'll understand, and he nods, a short, jerky movement, then concentrates on stirring his coffee.