A lifetime of study in the field of forensic entomology had not adequately prepared him for waking up naked beside Nigel Townsend. In point of fact, he found himself suddenly certain that there was no adequate preparation for it--that it was simply something that happened to one despite one's best efforts to avoid it--the way that stubbing one's toe happened, even in one's own house, where one knew every angle and the location of every one of one's personal possessions, including the pillow (my pillow, a part of him--a distant part--shouted to be heard. But distance-- a bloody enormous distance--was necessary here. And so he silenced that voice before it could go on to note that Nigel's head seemed fully ensconced in it, that the man was, in fact, drooling on it, and that, should he try to smother Nigel with it, the trail of evidence would be ridiculously easy to trace back to him. Though who would believe it? Even now, he himself didn't, although that was his certainly own hand stroking the sweaty hairs at the nape of Nigel's long neck.).
Nigel rolled over onto his back and Bug found himself staring at the stubble-shadowed face--the beard lending a surprising masculinity to his usually coy features. Nigel looked peaceful, enjoying the sleep of a man who was so inherently corrupt--or perhaps it was just so simple-minded--that nothing could bother him before the alarm woke him.
The suspense of waiting for morning, Bug decided, would likely kill him, so he reached over and turned the radio on, increasing the volume without mercy when the first quiet strains of "Paint it Black" failed to wake the dead.
"Hmm." The giant at last stirred, but his eyes remained closed.
Bug slapped him somewhat gently on the cheek until Nigel's eyes snapped open.
"What? Oh, you--Sweet Nancy, what time is it?"
Nigel squinted at the clock and stretched an arm out towards it, trying to find the large red button that silenced the radio alarm and nearly crushing Bug in the process. The clock was on Bug's own side of the bed, although he paused to wonder when he had come to accept that he might lay claim to only half of it.
"Hmm, ready again, are we?"
"Idiot," Bug managed, trying to ignore any reaction he might be having to the too-warm press of flesh against his own. Nigel's stomach was still vaguely sticky (error piled upon error, the condoms in the bedside drawer had somehow remained there) and they were both rather ripe.
Bug moaned again, realizing he was about to turn an unhappy accident into a routine.
"That's it, love." Nigel's voice had turned breathy, and Bug managed to slide out from under him and climb up on top of him, all without allowing himself to think (much) about the day they were going to spend at work trying to act normal, although it was unlikely that anything Nigel could do would move him any closer to normal, so he supposed he should warn Nigel against the attempt. Later.
For now, he took solace in the slightly startled expression on Nigel's face (and nevermind how quickly that shocked expression turned back to one of smug amusement).
"That's it," Nigel said again, and Bug shut his eyes, the last of his logic and sense seeming to separate from him like a discarded shell he'd outgrown in the last few hours. His skin felt raw--too new to be touched. Naked.
He came entirely too quickly this time, and Nigel laughed low in his throat but looked so pleased with himself that Bug found it almost impossible to hate him for it, though he could not yet bring himself to call this feeling love.