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“Clyde Logan,” Ito announces, clicking to the next slide and revealing the expressionless face of the younger Logan brother; a man who has supposedly managed to ghost in and out of prison at will. “He does have social media and a modern smartphone, but isn’t particularly active with either, especially recently. His ‘friends’ are all old military buddies, and a few doctors from Walter Reed and the VA. None seem aware that he’s recently been incarcerated. His last post is from 2015; it was also his first post.”

“Relationship status says married to Monty Logan,” Sarah says, narrowing her eyes and glancing to the available profile pictures, but none of them bear the name.

“I’m getting to that,” Ito says, turning around and gesturing at the screen with her clicker. The image switches to a man smirking down at the photographer, red haired and slim, “Monty Logan, married September 3rd 2015, in Las Vegas. We tried to pull his other records, but we got stonewalled. Hard. Add a mote in there filled with crocodiles and no drawbridge.”

Sarah feels a frown pull at her lips. “By who?”

“Had to pull a few strings just for that info, too,” the slide clicks, now displaying a familiar logo next to the husband Logan. “CIA.”

Sarah exhales slow, leaning back on one foot and reaching up to tap at her brow. “Wonderful.”

The next picture is of a roadside bar, clearly taken from Google Maps. “He recently stepped down from his position, whatever it may have been, and now lives with Clyde Logan full time, running their bar the Duck Tape.

“Where was he during the robbery?”

“That is also classified, but it wasn’t West Virginia or North Carolina,” Ito says, walking the length of the table and gesturing cyclically, her other hand rubbing at her temple, evidently frustrated at just the memory of this part of the investigation. “He returned about two months ago, when he started dutifully visiting his incarcerated husband once a week, on Thursdays at 2PM, and participating in phone calls at least every other day.” She turns back to Sarah, rolling her eyes, “I listened to the nearly six hours of tapes, and I have to say: the conversations recorded there were so painfully mundane to the point that I’m certain it was code. They spoke about the bar, the Logan siblings, the hazards of domestic housework, and notably, plans to get a dog. One wants a coonhound, the other a Doberman. They’re probably going to end up with a cat.”

“Right,” Sarah says, tutting shortly, and stares into the middle distance as she tries to think of further lines of inquiry. She looks up with a hum. “No prison gossip?”

Ito grimaces, shaking her head. “To say the husband dominated conversation would be an understatement.”

“Jimmy'll explain if you – ”

“Baby,” Monty interrupts, gesturing flat over the table, voice going low and downright acidic. It’s a new tone, which isn’t to say Clyde’s never seen him this angry, only that it’s been a while since it was so obvious. “I am not here for your excuses. Especially not ones involving your fucking brother, or why you two decided it was you that would be here.”

Clyde leans back in his chair, shifting his jaw and trying to ignore the nosy CO in the corner. “He got Sadie to worry about.”

“Not to mention how you texted me that you were going to jail,” Monty snaps, evidently on a tear, rather than actually looking for answers; not a surprise, but definitely wearisome. “Texted me, Clyde. And I wasn’t even in a place to see that until a week ago!”

Clyde slowly blinks back to Monty, drawing his teeth hard over his lower lip. “And where was that?”

Monty doesn’t look away, barely even moves, but he still manages to go markedly shifty. “Work,” he says, reaching up for a pair of sunglasses that aren’t there, then dropping his hand to the table with a grimace. “Like I told you when I had to leave.”

“Four months,” Clyde says, trying not to think about the halfway point of that being when he agreed to this whole raceway idea. He’d sort of decided that Monty wasn’t coming back around then, had maybe been working to bringing it up with Jimmy amid the rest of their family troubles, if that English bully hadn’t walked in and interrupted them.

Probably better now that he hadn’t ever gotten around to it.

Monty gives an expression that might be a smirk if it weren’t so much like a grimace. “I hit a snag,” he says, his head tipping to the side at the same moment he looks toward the barred windows, tongue peeking out momentarily between his lips. “It’s a non-issue now. I was going to apologize, but I think we’ve come out even.”

Clyde bites at the inside of his cheek, knowing by the flicker of Monty’s eyes that he’s seen it.

“Fine,” Monty snaps, breaking bizarrely quick and shifting in his chair in a manner that shuffles his feet loud on the linoleum, practically stomping like a kid. “I’m sorry.  It was… a long time to be gone.”

Clyde tips his head, raising his hand to swipe a few times across his lower lip.

Monty exhales hard, both hands clenching on the tabletop as he slumps in his chair. “I won’t beg in here. In the fucking prison you put yourself in.”

“Didn’t ask you to do nothing,” Clyde says, managing to catch Monty’s anxious eyes for a short moment, then glancing over his thin shoulder to the CO, only to find they’ve evidently got better entertainment in their phone. He’s tempted to mention it to Monty, but he doesn’t want to seem like he’s accepted the apology too quick. He’ll give it a minute or two.

“You getting treated okay?” Monty asks, his voice fading of any indignation into general dejection.

Clyde answers with a short grunt. “Been better. But it’s prison.”

“Great, good,” Monty says, looking down and scratching at the back of one hand, taking an oddly charged breath.

“Monty,” Clyde mutters, reaching out to stop Monty from digging trenches between his own knuckles. He peeks over to the CO, but they’re still not paying attention, and reluctantly leans back again before he tests his luck too long.

Monty clears his throat, his eyes still firmly on the table, jaw twitching, “If you’re in here much longer, I might have to do something to join you.”

“Bound to happen eventually,” Clyde says, lightening his tone just slightly and watching Monty perk up around the shoulders, “You’re already half criminal.”

“Only half?” Monty says, and a grin curls across his lips as he looks up to catch Clyde’s eye, mood visibly lifting with his gaze. “How often am I allowed to visit a week?”

Clyde feels a grimace abruptly break the line of his expression. He’d almost forgotten that part of it; give it to Monty to pay attention to the regulations, for all he won’t be able to get around these ones. “Once.”

“Next Thursday, then,” Monty says, smile fading in quick fashion. “You still going to be here?”

Clyde tilts his head. “Got forty days to go.”

“Right. Well, I know I was gone a long time,” Monty says, leaning forward on the table with a lesser version of his smarmiest expression; good natured enough, if with a particular threat underneath. “But if I find out that you’ve been getting head from some used-up twink, I’m exercising some favors to get you fit out in one of those chastity devices for dicks, got it?”

Clyde holds the stare, blinking slowly, “Alright.”

“Alright,” Monty repeats in a passable impression of his accent, punctuated with a flicker of his eyes up to the clock. He exhales like a shot, pushing up from the table. “Get up; I’m hugging you.”

Clyde shoves up from the table with a low sigh, something under his sternum starting to ache. He has a hard time remembering the endgame of this stupid plan when he folds his arms around Monty’s thin frame, clenching the fabric of his shirt for a too-quick moment.

“Thursday,” Monty reminds in his ear, and the press of his hands lingers even when he steps back, hot against Clyde’s ass. “Stay out of trouble.”

“Trouble finds me,” Clyde reminds, swallowing hard and catching Monty’s eyes, knowing that CO would definitely start paying attention if he tried for a kiss.

Monty gives a smirk and short shake of his head, turning on a heel. “Whatever, Lucky, I’ll see you next week."

“Who was your visitor, then – Jimmy come by to explain hisself?”

Clyde shakes his head, carefully sanding down the edges of the shelving unit; he’s near started to enjoy the woodworking, for all everything he builds in here is downright pointless. He looks up when Joe doesn’t say much else, finding him to be waiting, “Just Monty.”

Joe blinks at him a few seconds longer. “You got more friends than your siblings?”

“Sorta,” Clyde says, the dig managing to twist something low in his gut for how often he’s gotten it. Earl’s a friend, even if he is mostly on Jimmy’s side.

“What’s he bring in, then?” Joe asks, settling against the table with both elbows, voice lowering with bile. “Is he gonna go after your lying, yellow bellied brother?”

“Mostly came here to nag me,” Clyde says, looking back down to the shelves. He drops the sand paper and reaches for a vice and some glue; the smoothed edges should fit together well enough.

Joe scoffs loud, audibly disappointed and turning more mocking for it. “I didn’t know you was married to the fella.”

“Probably shoulda mentioned it,” Clyde says, rolling his smirk against his teeth when he predictably hears Joe start to sputter in shock. He’s a little wary that Joe might be an ass about it, but Joe is an ass about damn near everything. “But I was thinking he wouldn’t be back.”

Joe goes quiet for a tense moment after his carrying on in shock, then takes a hissy, lengthy inhale. “Oh.”

“His job don’t got a high survival rate,” Clyde continues, clearing up the assumption he can hear forming in the silence. “Works with mostly dumbasses.”

“He military, too?” Joe asks, reaching out and tapping at the shelf, trying to knock it out from under Clyde’s hand in typical asshole fashion.  “That’s real sweet.”

“Could say that,” Clyde mutters, gritting his teeth for a quick few seconds, determinedly holding the setting pieces in place, then looking up with a hard stare. He blinks slow and watches with some satisfaction as Joe wilts.

“Never took you for the settling down type,” Joe says, taking a step back and crossing his arms, giving a defensive sneer. “Here I thought you still lived with your brother in your daddy’s old trailer like a couple bachelors.”

“Might do,” Clyde admits, carefully squeezing the vice together, balancing it uncomfortably against his arm.

He doesn’t mention that he’s decided to build a real house on that land when all this comes together, with a big goddamn staircase and a fence and maybe even two bathrooms, but he does look down at the shelf, not even dry but already sturdy, and realizes maybe the woodworking ain’t all that pointless.

“You look like shit,” Monty says, giving his sweetest, fakest smile.

“I’m real bored,” Clyde says, shrugging vaguely toward the room they like to call a library, but is little more than an office with a shelf and a pair of ancient computers. “I’d already read all the books they got in here.”

“Good,” Monty says, leaning back in his chair and throwing an arm around the back of it. He lifts his chin, gesturing with a pair of fingers down Clyde’s front. “You're supposed to be thinking about how you’ve wrecked our only car.”

Clyde blinks and frowns, “Earl was supposed to – ”

“And he did,” Monty says, gesturing over his shoulder in the general direction of the parking lot. “But you still did it.”

“Be worth it, soon,” Clyde says, though the he can hear the platitude ring empty to his own ears.

“Fuck,” Monty exhales, eyes rolling practically out of his head. He shifts to lean forward over the table, looking sullen around the edges as his voice dials low. “I can still hate it. I left the Agency to get away from this sort of shit.”

Clyde can practically feel the words sink into his bones, eyes going wide as he stares openly at Monty. He smacks his lips slowly, trying to gather if he believes the claim or not. “You did?”

“I told you I did,” Monty says, speaking quick and defensive; his expression twisting in on itself with typical irritation. “It was my last assignment.”

Clyde tips his head, resisting against the impulse to be accusatory. “You’ve had a lot of last assignments.”

Monty responds with unexpected flinch, a grimacing mouth that betrays the honesty of the reflex, and hands curling together on top of the table. “The assignment ran long, I know,” he says, his words too light to be taken at face value. “And that’s because the op, it was… The decision was made that I need to know not to say anything. Because it was the last one.”

Clyde feels his heart turn to lead in his chest. “What did they do?”

“Nothing that’s not part of the job,” Monty says, clearly trying to brush it off with a short scratch under his beard, but his eyes are still evasive. “I should have expected it, I guess. Said something before I left.”

Clyde takes a few breaths, swallowing tight against a burst of resentment that has him looking past Monty and at the exit. “Shouldn’t have taken my name,” he says, hearing his own voice come out tight and ashamed. “Just leads to shit.”

“Shut up,” Monty snaps, and his eyes are practically on fire when Clyde glances over to catch them. He exhales a shallow breath, shaking his head with barely a twitch; the tension is visible from the shoulders under his polo to the white knuckles of his hands. “It has nothing to do with your curse. If anything, it was… a taste of my own medicine.”

“Don’t make it right,” Clyde says, chewing at the inside of his lip and trying to quiet the part of him that’s still an overprotective grunt; barely-twenty and eager to impress the smooth-talking pretty boy with the sick sense of humor. He knows probably too much of the terrible shit Monty has helped the government do, not even counting the stuff that he helped Monty do, but he’s finding it hard to care that he’s being a hypocrite.

“What did they do,” Clyde says, not quite asking for an explanation, so much as saying he’s about to get one.

Monty offers a jerky shrug.  “Nothing that would leave a mark.”

Monty,” Clyde repeats, only feeling a little guilty for the quiet way Monty acquiesces to the tone.

“It was a mock-up of capture,” Monty admits all-too-carelessly, lifting a hand and gesturing cyclically, lashes reflecting light as he turns slightly away, somehow finding the perfect angle in the narrow window to look contrite. “I was in a cell off and on for about… fifteen weeks.”

“Off and on,” Clyde repeats blankly, though it’s the fifteen weeks that echoes between his ears – that’s longer than his own sentence. He has a despairing thought that he should’ve known, guilt blooming deep in his gut.

“It’s not particularly accurate if they just let you sit, is it?” Monty snaps, recovering his attitude predictably quick and starting to scratch at the knuckles of one hand; it’s the same place as the first visit. He probably had something dug sharp in between, stuck now chasing away memories when he gets rattled. “It has to be convincing; otherwise, the data is fucked.”

Clyde realizes his throat has practically closed up, finds himself dragging his teeth sharply down the surface of his tongue to distract himself from the low heat under his skin. He has to look away from Monty for a few seconds, inhaling slowly and exhaling slower. He wants nothing more to reach out and hold Monty still, sooth the hurt for a few seconds, but he can’t fucking do that from here. He can barely touch him at all.

“It was an informative experiment for everyone involved,” Monty continues, his voice slightly rough, but hollow of any real feeling. He tilts his head, delivering a jarring crack of his spine throughout the visitor’s room. “Probably read about it in a couple decades. If a whistleblower doesn’t get there first.”

Clyde manages to open his mouth, uncomfortable when his voice comes out stilted. “I’m out next Thursday.”

“I know, Lucky.”

Clyde grips into the bench as he sits up, exhaling hard and flexing his hand into the worn foam. He looks at the floor through his hair, watching Joe’s feet step around to the front. “Just a few more.”

“Hey now, big boy,” Joe says, leaning up near the wall with a clear intent to quit, one foot hitting the brick behind him. “You got barely a week to go – don’t want you to get yourself put in the infirmary.”

Clyde shakes his head, laying back down and staring up at the bar, breathing hard at the ceiling. He lifts his arms, only to grit his teeth when Joe still refuses to come over and spot him; he’s tempted to just go ahead, but… he’s still not sure enough about the hook. It’s made of goddamned wood.

“Fine, I’ll bite,” Joe sighs, sounding an overexaggerated world-weary. “What happened?”

Clyde weighs the things he’s comfortable saying and the things he wants to, then lets the simplest answer crawl up his throat. “Monty.”

“He leaving you or something?”

“No, he wouldn’t – he’s…” Clyde shakes his head, curling farther into himself with a low groan, locking out the light with both arms over his eyes. “He’s just been hurting. Bad. And I can’t do shit.”

Joe is surprisingly reticent for a beat, then sighs hard, “Well.”

Clyde waits for more, but the silence settles quick into discomfort, leaving him cataloging growing little prickles of pain. The worst is still an indistinct ache at the center of his chest, but it spreads out across his shoulders into a physical throb with his arms getting heavier the longer he holds still; his stump pulses with ghostly nerves the moment he thinks about it.

“Like I said,” Joe continues, his belated words cracking through the air with a particular awkwardness. “You got a week.”

Clyde nods to the CO as they gesture him through the main gate, then tries to hide the relief that courses through every fiber in his body it clangs to a close behind him. He keeps on his path forward, looking at the road, if attention focused from the corner of his eye on the shock of red he saw the moment he left the front door thirty yards back.

He slows his step gradually, wondering how far he’ll get before –

“Get back here,” Monty says, grabbing Clyde’s shoulder with an audible whine in his tone.

Clyde grunts as he turns, opening his arms, and tries to act surprised when Monty takes that as invitation to jump up. He manages to catch him, weight shifting as long legs wrap around his hips, though the way Monty tucks in is more like a hug than anything real stimulating.

The fact it makes him drop his bag of effects is a bit of a shame.

“Asshole.” Monty pinches hard at the skin of Clyde’s nape. “You walked right by me.”

“Didn’t see you,” Clyde says, pressing a kiss to the edge of Monty’s mouth, turning his head to slowly scratch into a neatly trimmed beard with his own unkempt jaw. “You was hiding behind that fence post.”

So funny,” Monty says, his flat statement punctuated by a pair of thin-fingered hands sliding deep into Clyde hair.

Clyde leans into the pressure, locking his arms together under Monty’s narrow thighs and trying to remember if he’d always been so light. “You been living on gin?”

“One zinger after another,” Monty mutters, leaning down and pressing his brow to Clyde’s, his eyes dark for all the relative humor. “But I expect to eat better now you’re home.”

“You need it,” Clyde says, mentally weighing the likelihood of Monty being amenable to start that with a cookout at the bar. He’s harder to wrangle in public, getting simultaneously puffed up and anxious; ten times more likely to lead to a fight that Clyde has to put an end to.

“I think it’s this,” Monty says, interrupting thoughts with an unsubtle palm down Clyde’s shoulders and along his arms. “You really have gotten bigger. What are they putting in that food?”

“Yard time,” Clyde says, squeezing harder for a quick flex that has Monty humming, and the flattering attention burning pleasant stripes across the tops of his ears. “Made myself a hand goes around a weight bar.”

“Resourceful – did you bring it?”

“Nah,” Clyde sighs, inhaling the subtle scent of sweat and beard oil, savoring it now like he longed to after every quick hug they had in visiting hours. “Weren’t supposed to have it at all, but the COs felt bad for me.”

“We’ll have to make you another,” Monty says, his voice little more than a purr in Clyde’s ear, his curling arms a welcome relief around his neck. “You haven’t been this thick since Iraq. I bet you could fuck me standing up.”

“Wouldn’t be against trying,” Clyde murmurs, pulling back slightly just to catch Monty’s eye, finding him looking downright sly.

“Boys!” Mellie snaps, punctuating her interruption with a loud smack at the side panel of her car. “Stop being cute and get in the damned car.”

“She’s been awful, by the way,” Monty says, heaving a sigh that seems to contain multitudes.

“You’ve said,” Clyde says, giving Monty another squeeze before dropping him back to the pavement. “Thanks for comin’.”

“Now, I’m gonna leave the house,” Mellie says, lifting her hand from the wheel and fingers twirling in a gesture down the road. “Go to work. I will be gone until 6PM. Got it? I don’t want to stumble in on nothing.”

“Yes, Mellie,” Clyde says, casually ignoring the hand squeezing his ass through his jeans; he knows if he gives Monty even one flicker of attention, he'll just test his luck with it for weeks.

“Good,” Mellie says, relaxing back in her seat with a low exhale. Her expression softens into an easy grin, eyes catching his with the sort of genuine cheer that makes him feel almost embarrassed. “Glad to have you back, brother.”

“Thanks,” Clyde mutters, nodding shortly, taking a step back when her hand drops tellingly to the shifter.

Mellie gives a short huff, shaking her head to drop her sunglasses back over her face. She peels out and off down the street in usual enthusiasm, carelessly blowing past a four-way.

“I’m also glad you’re back,” Monty says, his lips soft as they brush against Clyde’s ear, close enough now he's practically pasted on. “And very eager to show you my appreciation.”

“Not too subtle for a spy,” Clyde says, tucking his bag under his arm and reaching back, sliding his hand over Monty’s narrow shoulder with a gentle squeeze at his nape.

“I don’t need to be,” Monty says, a slick grin flickering across his face. “I quit, baby.”

“Right,” Clyde says, gently pushing Monty around toward the front porch. He quirks a brow as he watches Monty pull out an actual key, bemused until he remembers that Monty’s been living here over a month.

“I’m so ready to get you naked,” Monty announces, a lewd smirk widening across his face as he kicks the door closed behind them. “Hand wrapped around my dick.”

“You got the weirdest kinks,” Clyde says, settling into the comfortable ease of trying to gently nudge Monty off his high horse. He opens his arms again when Monty moves forward, gladly settling them around a narrow waist. “What sorta man is just into getting jacked off?”

Monty slides his hands along Clyde’s shirt, untucking it with eager haste and his fingers cool as they slip underneath to meet skin. “The sort that got used to fucking quick and dirty.”

Clyde exhales a low huff, leaning in and catching Monty’s lips with practiced ease. He uses the distraction to shove him in close to the wall, flattening his hand over a narrow chest and humming into Monty’s mouth with satisfaction. “You got a bed, or Mellie stick you on the couch?”

Monty tilts his head back, hitting the wall and exposing his long neck with a pointed smirk. “What about right here?”

“No,” Clyde says, retreating on a heel and turning around, heading toward the back. He knows Mellie’s got an extra bed, and he’s got no qualms with just taking it until they can get back to the trailer. 

“You’re no fun,” Monty complains, but he catches up quick, winding his hands around Clyde’s hips and plastering in close as they walk down the hall. He sighs into Clyde’s nape, breath warm and mussing his hair. “I’ve got her spare room. She evidently felt bad after the first week and cleaned out all that beauty supply shit.”

“Nice of her,” Clyde says, reaching for the door and finding it already open a crack. He gives it a tap, peering in and raising an eyebrow at the wall of locked gun cases; an ammo box just visible at the foot of the bed. “You got someone after you?”

“I told you I had some trouble with my exit interview.” Monty says, his voice going the sort of breezy that’s wound tight with discomfort, though it’s the way his hands fall that really makes the room go cold.

Clyde takes a few steps in, glancing across the spread before crouching in front of a rifle case. He hums, reaching forward and popping it open; not locked. “Thought that was over. They burned you.”

“Yes, and I did some bridges,” Monty mutters, reaching over Clyde’s shoulder to swing the case back closed. “No more backup.”

Clyde looks up, catching Monty’s eye with a firm stare. “You got me.”

“I do, don’t I?” Monty says, his expression relaxing and gaining back humor, his hands slinking along Clyde shoulders to squeeze. “You’ll protect me from all the spies.”

Clyde bites at the inside of his lower lip, a flash of heat crossing the tops of his ears. He stands up with a short nod. “I can try.”

The words seem to somehow embarrass Monty as well, a twisting sort of smile growing at the corner of his mouth. He ducks his head, starting to tug at the buttons of Clyde’s shirt. “Get this the fuck off.”

“Back in the mood,” Clyde says, helping along by getting a couple at the bottom and hoping to meet half way.

Monty scoffs under his breath, yanking at the edges of Clyde’s shirt as it fully separates. “Have to make sure you know I’m not going to ask for a divorce.”

Clyde tips his head with some bewilderment, ignoring the short brush of panic at just the word passing Monty’s lips. “Didn’t think you were,” he says, idly plucking at the short sleeve of Monty’s polo, slipping his fingers down soft skin. “Be a bad time for it.”

“That’s not what your brother said,” Monty snaps, quick and manic, his mood turning out of the blue and on a goddamned dime. “And he had a lot to say about it.”

Clyde feels his expression fall, cursing Jimmy’s big mouth, and glances down as he feels Monty’s hands tighten around his shirt, finding both near white knuckled against the fabric. “Hey now, I never – “

Monty immediately interrupts to speak over him. “He said it was because I’d fucked off that you even agreed to go to prison – ”

“Monty!” Clyde says, raising his voice and watching with no little regret as Monty’s shoulders curl up around his neck. He exhales slowly, leveling out his tone, “I know you ain’t – I might’ve worried you was dead, but I’d never think you’d up and left.”

Monty is quiet for a few seconds, his hands still flexing tightly on the lapels of Clyde’s shirt. “I wouldn’t,” he says, gradually relaxing and moving to push the shirt off Clyde’s shoulders. “I took your name.”

“You did,” Clyde agrees, curling his arms around Monty’s waist, sliding his hand over the base of a rigid spine. He’s never quite gotten the significance that Monty sees with it, but is certain enough it has something to do with Monty giving a multitude of names before taking Logan, and the little doubt that every one was fake.

“Glad we’re on the same page, because,” Monty pauses, his clever fingers twisting open the fly of Clyde’s jeans, “I would really love it if we could rub off on each other.”

Clyde dips his head, teeth catching on Monty’s ear for a quick moment, then lowers his voice into a growl. “What if I said I wanted to fuck you?”

“I would say that you shouldn’t have been in prison when I got back over a month ago,” Monty responds, his head tilting into Clyde’s to take his lips for a quick moment, soon breaking away and taking a step back. He grabs the hem of his polo and tears it over his head, dropping it at their feet. “And maybe I’d have even let you do it raw.”

Clyde finds himself caught on the pretty angle of Monty’s collarbone, feeling his face warm, and tries to pretend the dryness of his mouth has nothing at all to do with the godawful dirty talk. He huffs through his nose a moment later, and reaches out to shove Monty in the shoulder; they've gone raw for goddamn years. 

Monty peeks up through his lashes, then rolls his eyes back down to his hands and his fly.

Clyde shakes his head, lazily pulling off his undershirt and stepping out of his jeans, letting heat pool and the feeling in his groin get tight with deserved anticipation. He’s pretty damned eager all the time to have Monty any way he can get him, but right now – near six months on – it’s settled in almost like an ache.

“Slick,” he grunts, looking toward a fairly obvious candidate of a sidetable. He reaches out, only for Monty to grab his arm, pulling him back upright with a grip like steel.

“Just a second,” Monty says, letting go to dragging teasing fingers up Clyde’s arm and to his chest, groping with possessive intent. He leans in with a satisfied smirk. “Practice some restraint, Lucky.”

“I’m surprised you know that word,” Clyde drawls, feeling his dick twitch at the slow trace of his abdomen, cool fingers getting lower without quite touching him; he’s getting goddamn teased. He sighs heavily, easily taking both Monty’s wrists in his hand and taking a step back, pulling toward the bed, and uses himself to soften the fall with a grumble.

“Alright, fine,” Monty says, shifting around the moment they hit the mattress and he’s been let go, straddling Clyde between lean thighs. He tips forward with an unsubtle grind, an enticing press of skin to skin, and reaches between the wall and the mattress to reveal he’s used a hidey hole for the usual black bottle.

Clyde  leans back against the pillows before holding out his hand, watching as it’s filled with cool lube. He makes glancing eye contact as he reaches out to palm Monty’s dick, satisfying himself in the meantime with a lazy rut upward into the soft skin of Monty’s crack. It goes slow for a couple minutes, working into a passion that has Monty sinking down across him, back arched just enough to fit Clyde’s hand between them.

“Fuck,” Monty gasps, head lolling against Clyde’s shoulder. His hair is soft and feather-light, a bright, shifting spot at the corner of his eye. “Fuck, baby, just like that.”

Clyde nods along, shifting his slicked hand to rub harder just over the head of Monty’s dick, then teasing along the shaft as the breathy moans go load and throaty, prompting him to grab them both in hand and tug upward with a low, relieved gasp of his own. He startles some when a thin hand wraps around his other arm, just under his stump, but manages to recover quick enough before Monty can notice; he tries not to think about it, succeeding better than he might have a few months ago.

He turns his head just as Monty moves, humming high when sharp teeth bite into his lip. He takes his hand from between them and wraps it tight around Monty’s back, panting hard and getting better leverage to thrust upward along the hot-slick length of Monty’s dick. He shifts his hips up on a particularly forceful grind, throwing his head back at the perfect roll of Monty’s sac against his own as they rock in tandem.

Monty’s mouth shifts hot against his neck, nipping and wet, trying to mark with an uneven gasping pressure. His arms suddenly shift up around Clyde’s neck with a groan, hips moving erratically, “Fuck, fuck.”

“Come on now, darlin’,” Clyde murmurs, at the same moment he forces Monty’s hips down, sliding his palm along the narrow line of a spine and rocking upward in short movements. He manages to keep it under his control for a few requisite seconds, until Monty bites down into his shoulder and hot-wet spurts of come splash across his dick and lower belly; the erotic sensation of a dick coming against his own both familiar and coveted. “There you go.”

Monty continues rocking a few seconds, then suddenly pushes back, both hands sliding down Clyde’s chest as he moves down the bed. He settles himself between Clyde’s legs with bleary hum, scratching his beard harshly against the inside of Clyde’s thighs with a few sloppy kisses.

He glances up as he slides his tongue slow along the length of Clyde’s shaft, smirking when he pauses to press a showy kiss to the head. The eye contact breaks when he shifts focus, tongue teasing around the frenulum until he delivers a mild shock by swallowing Clyde down with a perfectly timed twist at the base.

Clyde reflexively rolls his hips up into that perfect mouth, knowing he can’t last long when he reaches down to cup his hand around Monty’s bobbing head. He can practically feel the smirk when Monty glances up, and tightens his grip in sweaty hair just as his breath goes shallow and he starts to come with a relieved groan, realizing in the gasping moments later that Monty somehow knew he was about to come even before he did.

Christ, but Clyde fucking loves him.

He hums low, scratching his fingers down Monty’s bearded jaw, and slips his thumb along lax, swollen lips. He makes lazy eye contact with sharp eyes, and tugs firmly on Monty’s chin. “Get up here.”

Monty slithers up in a smooth movement and eagerly moves in for a sloppy kiss, open mouthed and wet. He slumps down a few seconds later against Clyde’s arm, fitting in against him with a nip against his shoulder. “Mm, Lucky,” he hums, his fingers dancing light over Clyde’s softened dick, not quite painful but definitely uncomfortable against the recovering foreskin. “Love this big ugly cock.”

Clyde rolls his eyes to the ceiling for a few seconds, trying to drag himself back to the present before Monty inevitably gets bored of laying around and jumps out of bed. He’ll never get the hang of Monty’s post-orgasm hyperactivity, always a counter to his own lethargy. It doesn’t usually matter, but right now he really wants to stay awake – not to mention it’s barely afternoon. “You ever gonna stop calling my dick ugly?”

“Maybe if you get one of those adult circumcisions,” Monty says, peeking under his lashes, a smirk stretching across his face.

“No,” Clyde says, exhaling a huff and deciding he really doesn’t care what time it is – he’s been in fucking prison for three months. He shoves up on his elbow and turns over, locking one leg between Monty’s and effectively flattening him into the mattress with a little application of self.

“You’re crushing me,” Monty grunts, wriggling ineffectively, one of his hands shifting up along Clyde’s side and around his shoulder with a weak push. It’s pretty evident he’s just taking it as excuse to grope, hand sliding from shoulder to bicep with a pointed squeeze.  

Clyde reaches out and catches the hand, lacing his fingers through Monty’s to hold him still.

Monty gives a predictably put-upon groan, scratching his beard up the sensitive skin of Clyde’s neck. “Baby, I’m serious, let me up.”

Clyde closes his eyes when Monty shifts again, this time a deliberate rock upward, rousing a lazy throb through Clyde’s dick. He allows a few moments of limbo for it, then turns into Monty’s ear. “Sleep, Monty.”