Page 91 of Under Cover
Harman’s thin face took on a trace of arrogant pride. “Yes. Yes I did. Go me.”
“Go get some sleep,” Crosby said kindly. Harman reallydidlook exhausted. ER doc, profiler, Harding’s significant other. All those things added together probably made for a very tired boy.
Harman nodded and made his exit, and Crosby moved on to his shower. He came out in sweats, his shaggy hair drying, and smelled food.
“Ooh… chicken and rice again?” he said as he entered the kitchen. A song was playing over a house speaker, something smokey and syncopated about stealing a dance with a lover on the downlow.
Garcia gave him a sideways look as he flipped what was in the pan. “Lightly breaded fish,” he said, and his voice was a little clogged. Crosby wondered what he and Harm had talked about and had a sudden need to comfort instead of being the one comforted.
He moved behind Garcia, cupping is hips and swaying a little to the music.
“Hey,” he murmured, dropping his face into the hollow of Garcia’s neck and shoulder. “You know what?”
“What?” Garcia seemed to melt back against him, and Crosby tightened his grip around his waist, ever so grateful Harm had taken the damned sling.
“We’ve got three days. That’s longer than we had last time. And maybe this time we can plan the op so next time I stay. What do you think?”
“I think we’re not having sex before I feed you,” Garcia said, and while he tried to keep his voice tart, Crosby could hear the yearning.
“That’s fine. Feed me. We can start on that list of movies we talked about. Then sex. At night, in the dark, like we’ve been married for years.”
Garcia let out a choked laugh. “That’s your fantasy, Cowboy? No orgies with the cast ofYellowstoneor nights out with Johnny Depp?”
“Nope. Toldya. Straight ol’ vanilla me. My fantasy is that this assignment is long past and you and me have worked a busy day with SCTF. And we come home, after some beers with our friends and colleagues maybe, and make ourselves some dinner. We clean up, watch some TV, and then slide into bed. One of us,” and he thrust his groin very gently, to indicate it was Garcia, “may think we’re all done, but the other one,” and he hugged Garcia tighter to let him know that this was him, “reaches across the bed and starts touching. And then kissing.” He kissed Garcia’s neck. “And then touching.” He slid his hand down under Garcia’s waistband, teasing but not intruding. “And pretty soon we’re doing our favorite thing. And when we’re done, we just fall asleep, because the alarm’s set, and we’re gonna wake up in the morning and do it all again. And when we wake up, you say, ‘Oh my God, we had sex!’ and I’m all smirky and proud, and maybe the next day,you’rethe one reaching forme.”
“Mm.” Garcia sighed into his embrace. “Let me move the fish, Cowboy. It’s done and I have to kiss you.”
Crosby stepped back long enough to let him do his thing, which was good because it smelled delicious, and then stepped into his arms when he turned around. For a moment he was afraid. They were so close, Garcia’s eyes enormous in his almost peaked face, and Crosby wondered if he could force the iron cage he’d held around his emotions, around his heart, down enough to touch him.
Then Garcia closed his eyes and held his face up for the kiss Crosby had promised, and Crosby knew he couldn’t leave his partner hanging.
Garcia’s lips were soft, and for a moment, Crosby just let the feel of them suffuse him, melt through his reserve, permeate his heart. Then his arms did that gathering thing in earnest, and he opened his mouth and swept his tongue in, wanting more taste.
Garcia reacted, putting his hand on Crosby’s shoulders, clenching his fingers in his T-shirt. He had to stand on his toes, and Crosby bent down, pillaging Garcia’s mouth like a kid with a sack of candy, and everything was sweet, and everything was better than the last thing he’d tasted.
A frenzied beeping penetrated his senses, and Garcia groaned and ripped himself away, turning back toward the stove. “Set the table, Cowboy,” he ordered gruffly. “If you kiss me any more, my brain’s going to leak out my ears, and then Harm’s going to need to come back and fixme.”
Crosby chuckled, feeling pretty good about himself, and set the table in short order. Garcia plated the food at the oven—always a good sign—and set the plates down with a rather pleased expression.
“What?” Crosby asked, as they sat down kitty corner to each other.
“There’s leftovers,” Garcia said, chuckling a little.
“That’s a big deal?” Crosby had no idea.
“It means you’ll be here tomorrow to eat them for lunch.”
Crosby grinned at him—gently, because his face still hurt, but it was nice to be able to react to Garcia’s optimism.
“See?” he said, giving a soft shoulder bump. “Small fantasies.”
“Best kind.”
IT REALLYwas simple. They watched a romantic comedy that night—one of Garcia’s favorites—on the understanding that they could watch a gritty crime drama the next night for Crosby. Crosby started nodding off midway, and he found himself asleep on Garcia’s chest, Garcia’s arm wrapped protectively around his shoulder. After the movie he woke up and stumbled to the bedroom,hisbedroom, all dumb jokes about living in the spare room burned away after over a month of living in a flop that could have been his coffin.
He didn’t need to reach for Garcia; Garcia rolled into his space, rubbing gentle hands on his skin while he fell asleep dreaming about sex. He woke up in the darkness, shivering in Garcia’s arms, while a dream about being locked in the tenement stairwell rocked him, a viscous goo flooding the tiny room, flowing into his mouth, his nose, his lungs….
“Shh, papi,” Garcia whispered, and Crosby woke up, shuddering out his reaction in Garcia’s arms.
