rhodes (ireland) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2016-02-16 09:13:00 |
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There were times, here and there, when Castor wanted to put the world on pause. Just in the heat of things, when everything went too fast and he couldn't pull the brakes fast enough before colliding headfirst into responsibilities. Into what had to be done, and where, and how. He played so many roles, sometimes in tandem with one another — son, brother, reclamation agent, captain, Killjoy — that it was all too easy to remember how to forget it all, if only for a heartbeat, and breathe for himself. In this moment, back pressed into the mattress and eyes on the ceiling, he tried for a pause. Had to, with how boneless he felt, his hair still damp from the shower and only half of him dressed. He certainly wasn't an image of urgency, not at this hour. Not with present company. He took in a breath. Closed his eyes. "Ireland?" "Mm?" Hand resting over Castor's knee his thumb running in circles over the bone, the other holding a piece of paper that had his attention. Ireland was perched on the side of the bed, wet blond hair tied back, dressed in sweats, and shirt that it belonged to Dix(evident by its size, loose over Ireland's shoulders). "Everything alright?" Tired eyes opened toward the ceiling again. That touch was distracting, to the point where he was nearly ready to brush his request off to the side in favor of staying with it a little longer. "Yeah," he mumbled, almost hoarsely, forgetting himself for a second. "I just—" Goddamnit. "It's— fine. Nevermind." Ireland's weight fully on the bed, his hand now gripping Castor's knee: No, don't do that. The paper was discarded, attention now on his captain, following the black lines and scars. "I'm listening, 'I just' what?" That attention, alarmingly, was even more distracting, if that was possible. A fact unnoticed by Ireland who was preoccupied with Castor's injury. Castor allowed a second for their eyes to meet, his gaze flitting away. He didn't understand the anxiety, not when Ireland had been so frequent a presence these days — these weeks, even. Not when his lips and skin and heart rate remembered. Gunfire, the threat of death, pain — these were things he could face without blinking, so how could this be so fucking hard? He could hear his heartbeat beating thunderously loud in his ears as he spoke, eventually. "If I asked you to stay tonight," quiet, but tense, mostly, "would you?" "Yes." No hesitation, despite the initial surprise that crossed his expression, Ireland had known the road they both had set out on these last few months. Perhaps, Castor was now beginning to see it too. "And if you want me to go, you just need to ask." He ran his thumb upwards, from clothing to skin, and held still. For Ireland the matter was simple, there was a warm knot unwinding from his lungs(it was not complicated, this was pure happiness and affection -- no over thinking, no complications. Why should there be?). "If I asked to stay, would you let me?" In turn, there was a pause, if only because the blonde could feel everything assembling in his throat, at the top of his lungs, halting the automatic Yes that sounded so fucking needy in his head. He didn't know how to do this— he'd never done this— Not trusting himself to say the word, he dropped his gaze once more, met Ireland's eyes. Maybe Ireland would read it in his face — hadn't he been terrible at hiding anything, lately? hadn't the navigator known things only by looking at him? — if all he did was reach out, fingers sliding beneath a wrist to graze the skin there. "Just—" he exhaled shakily, Ireland's heart caught in that voice, "come over here." Limbs were not difficult to tangle, keeping his weight off as he leaned over to press their mouths together. Ireland did know, but more than that he knew Castor; what was beneath that formidable armour, the vulnerability that pulsated, an undercurrent of blood and sorrow. Watching these last few weeks trickle by had been painful, the acute void that was left in the absence of the captain when Ireland had come to the realisation that he could never be one. Never wanted to be. He liked to follow, he liked to be half of one(Dix's presence a fixed point; Ireland functioned well like that — not as a leader). And that was all well, because he made a fine navigator, a trustworthy second-in-command whom Castor trusted with his life, the crew's safety. With Grace and Ireland at his side for the two years spent as captain, for even longer before that, he was free to be vulnerable. Free to slide hands up beneath that ill-fitting shirt, palms over low back and spine; to sigh into the kiss and lean upward and surrender. Tracing the ink beneath the skin had become second nature, his fingers learned the shapes and followed and fell — deeper, to sink and lose himself. Mouth to skin, clothing half tangled in the haste. Ireland forgot himself, became greedy and sought more, but it was met with similar desire, uncontained and spilling out over the edges. Castor pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth to contain most of the moan; he couldn't be too loud on this ridiculously echo-prone vessel, the shower aside, where it was tucked safely behind another door. Impatient hands slid back around, skirting up sides (mindful, but only barely in the heat of the moment, to avoid the scarring of that stab wound) to twist tight in soft fabric. "Off," he panted, "Right now." "Well, okay." Ireland's voice playful and breathless in equal measure, shirt discarded with one easy motion. It gave him enough pause to adjust his weight, hesitation crossing his face(it was not enough to stop his hands from wandering over Castor's skin --- want, want, want. He leaned over to satisfy that with a deep kiss before forcing himself to stop. "You're still injured." Not that that was making him untangled his limbs from Castor's. The I don't care that surfaced within was automatic, instinctive. It wasn't even the truth — he did care, in some capacity. He needed to be in one piece for the crew; he just didn't need to be in one piece now. That renewed desire, that returning need was frustrating, grating on his patience. So he sagged into the mattress, as far as it would allow, remembering, first, to catch those eyes.(and for once Ireland was the one discomforted by the weight behind each shared look). "Trust me when I say," he breathed, "that you can't hurt me, Ireland." "You know," a pause to press a kiss, "some might take that," the start of a path, "as a challenge." along his shoulder, brushing the tip of his nose — a nuzzle, the thrumming pulse beneath as he nipped Castor's throat. And Ireland did understand the frustration, shared showers were only so satisfying(not as good as being wrapped around each other, where he could peel off Castor's armour and be with him). Some have, he didn't voice, distracting himself with the sensation of Ireland's warm skin beneath his fingers. He directed an annoyed look toward the ceiling, a look stemming from frustration, that need scrambling desperately inside his chest. Castor wished there was a way to reach in and undo that knot with his own hands, unwind the tension and stress that could build up so quickly. But this was a knot he had no idea how to unravel, a knot he didn't know was even possible to exist. A hand drew up, settling along the back of the other man's neck, brushing damp strands. And when the emotion began to swell, somehow both heavy and light, fluttery, he tightened his grip, and whispered, strangled, "Ireland—" "—I know." He met Castor's eyes with a smile, a mirror — thumb brushing his jawline. The only advantage Ireland had was that he understood how he felt, and by extension could make an educated guess as to what was reciprocated. There couldn't be any doubt of that in the gaze below, the blue stripped of the distance and reservations and distrust that had been so familiar for years. Instead, there were only dashes of apprehension. Nervousness, as Castor exhaled shakily, fingers slipping, but— Breathless adoration, too. "Do you?" A soft laugh, thumb moving now to brush his ear, "For a while now." That admission made the slightest tinge of awkwardness surface beneath the warmth, like sharing a secret that was perhaps best left alone. Ireland was made of secrets, intensely private and fiercely protective of his ongoings outside the RAC. Castor, however, no longer occupied one aspect of his life, but at least two. (Even now there was so much Ireland would never say). "But, what you want will be what I want." The dull ache began to rise somewhere below the collarbone — or maybe, it had been there the whole time, discomfort forgotten and only now surfacing in the pause — but it didn't stop Castor from pushing up (from ache to sharp stab) onto an elbow anyway, from swallowing his pained groan so that he could grasp a little more firmly, bring their faces closer. He didn't lean up just yet. Only savoured the proximity, even as his heart threatened to crawl up out of his chest. "Stay," was his soft, but strained plea; Ireland dipped in closer to give his answer: tongue brushing against Castor's mouth. Yes, yes, yes. Too easy to rest too much of his weight against his captain, to take his previous words as a challenge, and ignore the injury(but Ireland would never, not because of control but because this was his nature — had to stop, adjust, please, as if his affections only had validation when they were helping the other. When they were saving another.). "Probably better for your shoulder if you're on top." The breath of a laugh forced past Castor's lips was pained, but fond, still. "Probably," he echoed, not entirely behind the idea of protecting those muscles in the moment. With the whirlwind that the last two, three months had been, he wanted this — they needed this. They could put life on pause, just for right now. He tilted his chin up, grazed Ireland's lower lip in a nip. "So lay back, or trust me, I'll put you there myself." "You say those things," Hands, legs, torso — shifting to swap their positions, avoid straining Castor's injured shoulder. "I am going to eventually take you up on those challenges. Won't forget." Though right now, it was easy to put everything aside — to not care about what the outside world was doing. It did not disappear(as one would hope) it was just — just — Ireland didn't care to think anymore. He let his lips and hands do it for him, and Castor, with his skipping heartbeats, let him. |