He’s been making an effort not to look at the stage, in part because he doesn’t want to see that and in part because it feels a little like victory. Because he knows he’s supposed to be distracted. That’s how this was set up to go. The client, a long-limbed, dark haired professional who looks kind of like a whippet, isn’t here for her own pleasure. She’s here to broker a deal with HR in an environment where all these tough, dirty cops are distracted and uncomfortable, where they’re more likely to give in to her terms just to get out.
Fusco’s all for giving her whatever she wants and then some.
Dammit, it’s not even Fusco’s deal. Simmons actually specifically told him to keep his damn mouth shut. This has nothing to do with Fusco. He could be gone right now. He could be, except Simmons wanted muscle along, so it’s Fusco and some wincing young guy fresh from the academy who are stuck sitting at this sticky booth, pretending to drink their overpriced drinks and trying to case the room without getting distracted by the guy with the shiny gold banana hammock strutting around on stage.
So he tries to just listen in on the wheeling and dealing about evidence this and perjury that and who’s gotta disappear to where and Fusco bets that somewhere along the line, that’ll become his problem too, but he doesn’t get much more than that because Can’t Touch This is playing so damn loud he can feel it in the bones of his feet where they touch the floor and a group of nice, middle class ladies are whooping it up while some lucky bride-to-be gets brutally dry-humped into submission onstage.
It’s impossible to hear a damn thing that Simmons and the client are talking about and his partner for the night, the young officer with the burning ears, is way across the booth so Fusco just tunes it all out, lets his eyes glaze over, and pretends to be watching the doors.
He’s still pretend-watching the doors when the man with the golden package ends his set to mixed applause and boos from the ladies up front. Doesn’t matter. Less to distract him. The music dials back a bit to some thudding house music that isn’t in Fusco’s wheelhouse and gradually, he starts to come out of his self-induced stupor.
Just in time for the fleshpuppets to come out and work the room. Christ. Officer Fresh Meat looks like he wants to curl up and die. And Fusco, well, he kinda does too, but dammit, he’s the adult here and this isn’t a junior high locker room. It’s just, you know, a bunch of guys. Really fit guys. Wearing not that much. And kinda, maybe it’s just the sweat from dancing or maybe they oiled up on purpose to be theatrical, but they’re kind of shining. The bright, hot lights from the stage and the extreme dark of the club itself and the bright, dappling lights of the disco ball are all throwing strange shadows on the ridges and curves of muscles on their chests and backs and stomachs and doesn’t he have a door to watch.
Yes, he does. So he just grits his teeth and watches the hell out of that door. He’s supposed to be uncomfortable, he reminds himself. That’s the whole point.
After a while, a few minutes of clenched fists and hard breathing, he can look again. And, yeah, those guys are in some good shape, but they’re also waggling their dicks around like complete tools and fake humping a bachelorette party, so Fusco happily chucks whatever weird dreamstate he was wandering into just now and settles back into scanning the crowd for suspicious persons.
There’s one suspicious person in this club, besides himself and his company, but Fusco almost doesn’t notice until it’s too late. He’s gotten too good at ignoring the strippers for it to even raise an alarm when one detaches neatly from the crowd and prowls directly for their little out-of-the-way booth. And the way he prowls, the way he walks is what marks him out at first, because compared to the others he looks predatory. Then Fusco starts noticing the way he’s lean, the way the muscles are real, not delicately sculpted but jagged, like he’s carved out of wood. The way he’s a little older than most of the guys here. The way it’s all something Fusco’s seen before, but still very different. Fusco swallows, tears his eyes away from the guy’s hard, flat stomach to his face and god dammit, Fusco’s not sure if this is the worst thing that could possibly happen or the single most hilarious work story he’s never going to be able to tell, but either way, he’s struggling to keep a straight face.
Because it’s Reese. It’s Reese covered in baby oil and swaggering along to cheesy fucking techno and wearing tiiiny camo-patterned underwear and okay that’s enough stop looking and stupid fucking platform combat boots to make him look taller and Fusco presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose like he has a headache or something so he can laugh, just for a second. Just, get the insane hysterical laughter out of his system. Just for now, because he is going to be laughing about this in stages and bits and pieces for the rest of his fucking life.
When he recovers, Reese is leaning across the table, charm turned up to 11 as he gives their client the eye. “You looked like you weren’t getting the right kind of attention,” he explains.
She breaks away from her conversation with Simmons, contains the whole group in an imperious, appraising stare and says, “They’re not much to look at, are they?”
Reese shrugs. “Not really my place to say.”
She folds her hands on the table, leans in like they’re someplace private and intimate and dignified and Reese isn’t in his damn skivvies, and says, “Tell you what…” Her eyes drop for a moment and the corner of her mouth draws up in a smirk. “…Soldier. I’m kind of in the middle of something so why don’t you…occupy yourself for a little while. We can decide later if you’re worth my time. OK?”
Reese accepts that gracefully, though the set of his eyebrows and his mouth say all too clearly, “Let’s see if you’re worth my time,” and Fusco lets himself breathe a premature sigh of relief because this stupid, tense, hilarious bullshit is over.
Reese slides into the booth next to him, lets his bare leg lie flat against Fusco’s and his arm drift across Fusco’s shoulder.
“What the hell are you doing?” Fusco growls, none too quiet, but he figures that’s probably what he’d say anyway, so it doesn’t matter if someone hears.
“You heard the lady,” Reese says, and it’s himself but not, that same silky voice with an added layer of faux-sultry bullshit. “I’m supposed to keep occupied.” He moves very quickly, so quickly it’s kind of hard to process, and in a second Reese is straddling him, hands pinning Fusco’s shoulders back, thighs wrapped around his hips, dick pressing against Fusco’s belly.
Oh god, this isn’t funny anymore.
Fusco raises his arms up between them, tries to push him off, and the client says, not louder than she has to, “Stop.”
Fusco and Reese turn to face her in one motion, awaiting instruction.
She says, “Let him. I want to see where he thinks he’s going with this.”
They turn back to each other and Reese tilts his head, half shrug, half expectation, and Fusco gradually, bitterly lowers his arms to his sides, where they grip the edge of the naugahyde bench.
Reese is on him in a second, grinding hard against him and pushing Fusco’s sport coat wide open so Reese can have an easier time feeling him up through his clothes. Reese leans in close on the side that the client can’t see, like he’s gonna start kissing Fusco’s neck or something, and he whispers, “Sorry about this, Lionel.”
“Bullshit,” Fusco snarls.
Reese’s laugh puffs gentle against his ear. “Maybe. Just remember, it’s all for her benefit.”
“She’s one of our little projects, but I’m sure you figured that out by now.”
He kind of had, yeah, although it wasn’t what he was thinking at the time. Or now, really. Reese is relaxing on the whole grinding thing and just gently insinuating a hand between Fusco’s thighs, which he’s keeping clamped tight together, thank you.
“Very tight security, almost never leaves her penthouse. The code for the elevator is so complex even Harold can’t crack it. I think he’s in love.” He finally manages to ease his whole hand between Fusco’s thighs and from there he makes a fist. “But she picks up men from this club sometimes. I thought that could be my in. So you see, when I’m doing this to you, it’s really her. So relax.” His fist moves, his knuckles brush against Fusco’s perineum. “It’s nothing personal.”
Fusco’s legs snap open on automatic and that’s all Reese needs and soon his knees are being pushed as far apart as they can go and Reese is dropping to the floor and kissing every individual button of Fusco’s shirt on the way down. Fusco’s maybe actually panicking now, actually freaking out while Reese settles between his feet, gives Fusco’s inner thighs a stroke before returning to grip his knees again. He looks to Simmons, the client, even the new guy in search of some kind of reprieve, but Simmons just looks like he’s trying really hard to focus and the client looks like she’s trying really hard not to laugh and the new guy has this multi-layered expression on his face that is equal parts “I’m going to cry”, “Sucks to be you”, and “Thank you for taking that bullet.”
Nobody’s going to save him, Fusco thinks as Reese’s cheek rubs against his thigh. This is happening and nobody’s going to stop it. Reese’s mouth draws very close to him and Fusco freezes, stock-goddamn-still, as he feels Reese’s teeth clamp down on his zipper and begin to draw it down. He’s decided he’s not gonna look. He doesn’t want to see this stupid, awful, fake thing happen to him. He stares at the ceiling with its fucking acoustic tiles and he breathes, hard and shaky, as his zipper comes down with a purr.
Just as suddenly, it’s being pulled back up, tight and secure, and Reese is coming back up again, kissing every shirt button. This time he takes Fusco by the back of the knees and hoists him up just a little, so he’s folded in half against the back of the bench, so his ass is in Reese’s lap, so his legs are arranged to be locked around Reese’s hips. He leans in close again, presses a couple of honest-to-God kisses to Fusco’s neck, just below his ear, and whispers, “It’s alright. We’re just playing. You and me, we’re just playing around. Don’t be scared.” Reese begins to move his hips and Fusco clenches around Reese’s body with a whine as their clothed dicks start to brush together. Fusco realizes he’s being fucked, mock-fucked like that girl at the bachelorette party and Reese’s fingers are moving, kind of clawing their way along until they’re grabbing and kneading at his thighs and then his ass and Fusco lets out a tight, miserable little moan and he doesn’t completely hate this.
“Keep going,” Reese whispers. “You don’t have to be loud enough for them to hear, just keep going for me. Fake it if you have to, just…please.”
He keeps his lips pressed together, but he starts making tight little whimpering sounds with every push of Reese’s hips, every grind of a cock that never quite gets hard, every kiss to Fusco’s neck. Fusco isn’t sure, but he thinks it might make things better. For Reese, at least. Like, he can pretend this is what they wanted.
It ends when the client taps Reese on the shoulder and says, “OK, buddy, you made your point. There are better places you could be doing that. When do you get off work?”
“Right now,” Reese says easily as he lowers Fusco back to the bench. “Just let me get changed.”
“I’ll follow you to the dressing room,” she says, and in an instant they’re both gone and Fusco’s left feeling like he got short-changed.
The ride back with HR is very quiet, very tense, and finally, Fusco breaks the silence with “Just so you know, that never fucking happened.”
“Yeah,” Simmons says. “I’d be fine with that.”
The new guy just nods and stares out the window of the car like maybe he’s rethinking his choice of career.
Fusco guesses he’s expecting business as usual. Maybe Reese will be a little crueler this time, have a few new jokes to add to his repertoire but nothing’s changing. He’s not so naïve.
What he’s not expecting is a knock on his door at two in the morning and a disheveled, sleepy Reese standing on his doorstep. “I owe you an apology,” are the first words that come out of his mouth when Fusco answers the knock, and for a minute afterwards they just stand there, soaking that up. Like Fusco never thought he’d hear it and Reese never thought he’d say it.
“Save it,” Fusco says. “I’m getting my own back,” and he throws one arm around Reese’s neck and drags him into biting distance and then forgets to bite.
Funnily enough, even though he’s the one that started it this time and Reese is the one who keeps stopping and waiting for the green light from Fusco to do so much as touch him, Fusco’s not totally sure he wants it. Maybe it could be that he’s spent so much time doing what Reese wants that a ‘yes’ doesn’t mean anything anymore, or maybe this isn’t sex and is instead some kind of revenge. Maybe what he wants is to never see Reese’s awful, smug face again, but the closest he can get is to push it into the mattress.
He doesn’t know. Maybe he never will.
But Reese helps him with his zipper again, and it doesn’t feel fake this time. And he likes that. He likes it a lot.