forthedog | Let's not try to figure out everything at once...

Entry tags:

hutchinson au,
neil

Let's not try to figure out everything at once...

It's better. For the first time, it's better and he's sure it's not just wishful thinking, or adjusting to a situation that's just as shitty as it was before.

He's still not good. The morning he and Neil had spent in bed and curled around each other, he hadn't dreamed, but that night he had, and badly. And the night after. Neil touches him, and he still flinches instinctively away most of the time. The thought of going outside for anything--even the smallest task--feels like an exhausting ordeal. At times even getting up to bathe or eat is difficult.

But a few days later, and he's sure it's still better. As he makes his way up the stairs to he apartment, he's sure he feels less tired. Less battered inside.

Again, he's coming back from therapy, but he's feeling cautiously hopeful in addition to sore and tired. Donna had seemed entirely unsurprised when he had broached the subject--sidling around to it with an awkwardness that made him cringe and yet that he couldn't really stop--nodding and moving over to a desk and scribbling a name and a number down on a scrap of paper.

"There," she had said, tossing her long blond ponytail back over her shoulder and handing the paper to him. "Call that number. They'll take good care of you. Promise."

And he had thought that might actually be all she said about it, but as she pointed him back to the mat and his stretches, she had smiled, and it had been faint and warm. "I'm glad you said something," she said quietly. "'Cause I was about to."

Under the embarrassment, he was--and is--grateful. Because people care. They care without prying, without making themselves a nuisance.

Unless they have to. He thinks of Johnny and doesn't quite smile.

He turns the key in the lock, pushes the door open. Maybe it's better, but he's still tired and everything still hurts, and all he wants to do is curl up on the couch and doze.

Once it would have been with a drink. But now part of him--a louder part--is wondering if that might be the best idea.

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"Yeah," I murmur, sliding closer to him without even a hint of hesitation, even though I know he's trying to distract me. It's a kind of distraction I'm more than willing to participate in.

"'Cept I don't remember makin' any fuckin' list."

"Details." The word comes out with a casualness that he almost believes, but for the nervous twinge in his gut. But there's a lot more dancing up and down through his nerves besides that, and he thinks he could ignore it. Neil is warm, loose, and for once his physical perfection doesn't feel like a kind of taunt.

It just feels... amazing. He slides a hand down over Neil's shoulder, feeling the slender muscles, angles of bone.

"Make one now?"

"Was kinda hoping you'd fuck me," I breathe, my arm sliding around him, pulling him close, being as forceful about it as I dare to be. "Or I could work you open with my tongue, and fuck you. Or we could just keep fuckin' talkin' about it. Your call."

"Fuck," he manages, and it comes out in something close to a sob as he's overwhelmed all at once. He can't play at this level. He can be here and he can function, but it can't be play. Not yet. Neil says something like that and it's all he can do to hold himself together. It's like G-forces under his skin.

Fuck me.

Part of him is aching for that, ripped open and raw for it. But it's too much. It's giving up too much control.

Soon.

"I could fuck you," he mutters, scraping his nails down Neil's spine. Their legs are almost hopelessly tangled. He remembers this. He remembers how to do this. At the very least, he can fake it. "Think I could probably make that happen."

It was too much, and I know it was, but I think acknowledging at could be worse, so I pretend like I don't notice. I move on to the next thing. We'll get there, eventually, or we won't. Whatever.

"Probably," I smirk, pressing up against him as much as I possibly can, my hand sliding down the length of his back, curving over one ass cheek and hauling him closer.

"Don't wanna promise more than I can deliver," he murmurs, hips rocking forward into the cradle of Neil's. There's very little line between talking and kissing right now, and really he thinks there won't be any issue at all with doing this... but joking, serious, either way...

He's learned to hedge his bets.

He feels the duller movement of his prosthesis and hisses in a light breath. "Should get that thing off."

The weight of his prosthesis was unmistakable, cold and hard and a little uncomfortable, tangled up together with our legs, but I hadn't really thought about it, past an initial wince of pain when I knocked the bone of my ankle against the shaft that's replaced his shin.

But then he mentions it and I pull back, shifting to sit up a little and reaching for it, my hand connecting with the top joint that fits the stump of his thigh, before I even realize that I've never actually touched it like this while he was wearing it.

My eyes flicker up toward his face, apology or asking permission, I'm not sure.

He hisses in breath, starting up, though the touch isn't even on his skin, isn't even on anything that he considers part of himself--except maybe that's not so true anymore.

Because if it were, why would it feel like this to be touched there?

It feels like something more than fucking. It feels like being stripped and flayed open, and he feels himself being pulled back and slammed into a memory as it rises up from the depths of his head: Neil spreading the medicated cream on his scars, and Mike shuddering under the touch, trying to bear up under it like withstanding a beating.

It shouldn't be this hard. But it is.

Breathing hard, he meets Neil's gaze and then, trying to swallow past the ache in his throat, he nods. Once.

It shouldn't be this hard, and he's going to shove his way through it until it isn't anymore.

I almost ask, almost stop to make sure it's really okay, but that barely there nod is gonna have to be enough. I can't start questioning these things. I've gotta just let it happen, or we'll never get anywhere.

It's awkward, 'cause I've never taken it off of him before, but I've watched him do it enough times that I slide it off without too much fumbling, turning to put the prosthesis down on the floor by the bed. I turn back to him, hurrying before he can take the liner off himself, and I reach down to slide that off, too, touching that part of his leg for the first time in months.

He doesn't really feel it, at least not at first. Sensation in that part of his leg has been strange and patchy, seeming to come and go according to some logic of its own that he hasn't yet worked out. He feels that the touch is there but the finer elements of its texture escape him. But that might be for the best, because what doesn't hurt his actual nerves is like a spike through his gut all the same, and he almost twists away, fear tearing at the edges of his brain.

And now he understands: some of it is about shame. But not all of it is, or ever was.

He's so afraid of being hurt again.

He pushes through it, closing his eye, his head tilted slightly back as he leans up on his arms, and he keeps the stump of his thigh still.

He's afraid of being hurt again, yes. But this is Neil. And he has to learn to trust.

Rolling the liner off, I let my fingertips brush over his scars, the place where the doctors sewed up all that ruined flesh over the broken stub of bone, and it's horrifying, if you think about the details, the pain of it and the sense of loss he must've felt... must still be feeling, but there's nothing disgusting about it. I don't feel revolted, or even slightly turned off by it.

But I can tell he's barely keeping it together, so I pull my hand away, stretching out beside him again and reaching for his face. "It's okay," I murmur, sliding in close to him, my lips just barely brushing against his.

"I know," he whispers, voice shaking slightly as he reaches out and curls an arm around Neil's waist, holding on and, for the moment, letting thoughts of sex escape his attention. He's scarred on the inside, he thinks, hurt there in a way that hasn't yet healed, and that's why he feels like this. And he's going to get better.

Neil's been hurt too. Maybe hurt worse. And he's all right.

Isn't he?

"It's not you." He shakes his head, mouth against the edge of Neil's jaw. "You know? It's not."

"I know," I whisper, pushing a hand through his hair, the other arm hooking around his shoulders, holding onto him tight.

"I know, Mike. It's okay," I murmur, my voice as thin and wavering as his. I can't fuckin' stand seein' him like this. I can't fuckin' stand not being able to do somethin' about it. I've never felt responsible for someone else, like this. I dunno what the fuck I'm supposed to do.

"Just--fucking stop," he hisses, suddenly angry--Neil is being so patient, too patient with him, too open and too giving and just now it's almost making him sick.

He just wants to fuck. Like a normal person. Like it's not even a big deal.

He finds a wellspring of energy, summons it up and twists, flipping Neil over onto his back despite the uneven balance of his lower body, hand hard against the back of Neil's neck and teeth against his ear. "I love you," he growls. "And I don't wanna fucking think about this anymore."

Just you.

"Then fucking don't," I hiss, angry right back at him, feeling a surge of anger and shame and confusion twisting sickly in my gut. As soon as I get a handle on one thing, everything about him changes. I can't fuckin' keep up.

"I don't know what the fuck you want, asshole," I say, shoving against him, and he's weak and off balance but hovering over me like this, with the added weight and height, he's always got the upper hand.

"I want you," he breathes, and this time he doesn't have to think about it or second-guess it or over-analyze anything. It's just true and it comes out of him like blood--or like a sigh or laughter. He arches his mouth up and then down again, twisted lips against Neil's perfect ones, still that little edge of teeth melting back into tongue again once he feels like being gentle.

His hand finds Neil's wrist, but he isn't really all that interested in holding onto that kind of control. Not now.

"I just want you," he murmurs, softer. "I'm sick of all that other bullshit getting in the fucking way."

"It's gonna keep getting in the fucking way if I can only touch you in certain places," I say, and I'm not berating him for it. It's just the truth. I want things to be better just as much as he does, but just willing it away hasn't seemed to work, yet.

"I'm walkin' on fuckin' egg shells with you, Mike," I admit, my lips pressed against the corner of his mouth. Whether he's done it on purpose or not, he's taken control of every single situation we've been in in these last few months. I push forward and I pull back all based on how he reacts, what he wants, and I'm fine with that, because that's what he needed, but it's apparently not what he wants. Or maybe it is. Who the fuck even knows.

"I know." He ducks his head briefly, gritting his teeth, fighting back that spike of rage when it threatens again. He could still break things if he slipped up. He could maybe break people, in a bad enough moment. He's still weaker than he was before all this shit happened, but he's stronger now. Getting more so.

Strange. He never thought he'd ever be dangerous again.

"I'm trying. I'm..." He lets out a sound, grating and desperate, tightening his hand on Neil's wrist. "Fucking touch me, then."

I let out a sound, and it's almost a laugh, but at the same time, it couldn't be further from one. I reach for him. A hand on his cheek. The scarred side, because that's what I can reach with my free hand. Because I'm not thinking. Because I'm trying to make a fucking point.

I pull him into a kiss, and it's all teeth and tongue, harsh and demanding in a way that I usually hold back from, because I'm always so fucking afraid of scaring him off.

This time he doesn't stiffen or pull away. This time Neil kisses him and he plunges into it, pressing down into his hand, lashing his tongue against Neil's, teeth clicking together so hard it almost hurts.

There's no middle ground--or if there is, he has no idea how to find it and hold position there. He's either running away or he's surging ahead, and right now the latter option feels like the better one, even if it's harder. He slides up against Neil's body, the stump of his leg moving instinctively as he looks for purchase against the sheets. It doesn't matter that it's useless.

Enough of him still works to get the job done.

A whine of a moan catches in the back of my throat and I roll my hips up against his, my legs falling open, knees drawing up to frame his hips.

And just for a moment, it's easy. It feels a little more like it used to, before we started overthinking every single step.

"Mike," I groan against his lips, a hand sliding down to splay out on the small of his back and drag him closer.

He growls again, something that's not words, that doesn't need to be, because it's only a vocalization of the instinct he's following in lieu of anything else. He manages to get enough one-legged purchase on the sheets to grind down hard with his hips, cock stiffening against the inside of Neil's thigh.

And he's not going to think about how, every time they do this now, it feels a little bit like Russian Roulette.

And how he doesn't even hate it.

"God." The word is muffled against Neil's throat, still half incoherent as he gropes between them with one hand. "Where's the fucking lube?"

"In the drawer," I groan, groping blindly toward it, but he'd got me pinned down, and I can't quite reach. "Fuck," I hiss, rocking up against him,

"God, hurry the fuck up."

He rolls away in a welcome flash of dexterity, reaching for the drawer and fumbling it open and finding the little tube more by touch than anything else. He turns back to Neil, half crawling on one arm, rolling closer as he uncaps the tube one-handed. It's cool as it spills onto his fingers, but he doesn't care. Doesn't really care if Neil cares.

"C'mere." He closes his other hand on Neil's hip, tugs roughly at him and tries not to think about other times when he'd been more at home in this body, when he could have easily arranged Neil into whatever position he fucking wanted. "On your side."

I go over willingly, eagerly, drawing one knee up, opening myself up as much as I can, knowing that this isn't a guaranteed thing. We need to take what we can, when we can, 'cause tomorrow, he might not be able to stand the thought of me looking at him, let alone touching him.

"Just fuckin' do it. I don't need much." If it hurts, just a little bit, that's fine by me.

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