Title: American Dream
Author: akisawana
Genre: Minutemen Dollar Bill/Mothman slash
Warnings: Porn. Please God, don't let my grandmother read this. No costumes.
Notes: Very established relationship. Bill totally fanboys Hollis; then again, who doesn't?
Summary: Bryon's dreams may not be prophetic, but they certainly are ironic.
Bill woke instantly at the touch on his neck. "What?" he began, sleep-fuzzy eyes focusing at the man standing at the side of his bed. "How?" he started over, then realized that was a stupid question –his window was open in the muggy New York night. "Why?" he finally settled on, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed and running his hands through sweat-soaked hair.
Byron, out of costume and for some reason wearing a trenchcoat in July, suddenly found his shoes very interesting. He jammed his hands deep into the pockets, which was probably the least elegant gesture Bill had ever seen him make.
And then he blushed, which made him look about ten years younger and ten times more (girly) vulnerable, and that just wasn't fair, because now Bill was on Red Alert.
Well, more like yellow, he thought as he stood up and untied the belt of Byron's coat. If something was really, truly wrong, like someone getting shot or World War III breaking out, Hollis would have called. Whatever reason Byron was standing in his bedroom sweating in a trenchcoat, it was entirely personal.
Probably couldn't be solved by punching someone repeatedly in the head, and Bill shouldn't be so disappointed by that.
Byron was trembling under Bill's hands, like he used to years ago, but he wordlessly let Bill peel the heavy coat off of him. He was wearing his pajamas under it –one mystery solved. "What happened?" Bill asked softly, pushing him to sit on the bed.
"It's stupid." Byron said, toeing his shoes off. He wasn't wearing socks. "I'm stupid."
Now they were on familiar ground. Something or someone had bruised Byron's ego, which was small and delicate as a moth's wing to begin with, and Bill had to fix the damage as best he could. "You're not stupid," he said, sitting next to him. Byron leaned into him, rested his head on Bill's shoulder when Bill wrapped his arm around Byron's. "You're the smartest person I know." And that was the wrong path to take, because Byron was setting up for Play 14, Mothman Has Done Something He Is Embarrassed About, and not Play 8, Someone Has Hurt Mothman's Feelings. It was all in how Byron attempted to crawl into Bill's armpit. "What happened?" Bill asked, because it was far more diplomatic than "Byron, what have you done this time?"
Even if he could hear Hollis saying that in his head.
"It's really stupid," Byron began, and Bill waited patiently. "I had a dream about you."
"Wait," Bill said. "We've had this conversation, eight years ago, only we were in the kitchen down at HQ, and it was after Ursula and Sally spent twenty minutes trying to see if they could cause you to spontaneously combust or at least pass out from embarrassment." Hollis had sent Bill in to rescue Byron, because Hollis had that terrible sixth sense that meant no-one had any secrets from him.
"Not that kind of dream," Byron sighed, breath ghosting against Bill's skin. Bill was wearing the only sensible thing to in this heat, which nothing but his shorts. Byron was burning hot against him in full-length pants and an actual, long-sleeved, shirt.
Bill was getting heatstroke just looking at him.
"What kind of dream?" he asked, reaching up with the hand not holding Byron and undoing the top button. Byron didn't say anything, and Bill undid the next one, and the next, and somewhere around the fifth button Byron finally answered his question.
"A stupid one, tha
t was not fun at all. Not even in the "Dear God, he'd kill me if he knew," way." Whatever this stupid dream was, it had shaken Byron to his core. He was still quivering, even as Bill finished with his buttons and slid the shirt off. "I shouldn't be here."
"Tell me," Bill said. He tilted Byron's face up, held his chin gently. "Anything that gets you here isn't stupid."
The joke fell flat. Byron whispered, as if merely speaking the words would make it true, "I dreamed you were dead."
Bill squashed his first impulse, which was to laugh in Byron's face, and his second, which was to kiss him until he stopped thinking such stupid thoughts. Instead, he pulled Byron back to hug him tightly, pinned him to the mattress and stroked his hair (just as sweaty as Bill's.) "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.
"No," Byron mumbled into his neck. Bill didn't press, he didn't really want to hear it. "I just…needed to make sure you were alright." Byron batted at Bill's shoulder, pretending to want to be let go. "I'm an idiot."
"If you're an idiot, I'm a jerk," Bill said, rolling onto his side to let Byron breathe. "'Cause I'm glad."
That earned him a glare, which was very out of practice and very not scary. "I have a horrific nightmare about your stupid cape getting caught in a door and you getting shot in the head, rush right over like an idiot at three in the morning to make sure you're not dead, and you're happy?"
"Yes," Bill said, wide-eyed and innocent as a babe. "It shows how much you care." Byron didn't really have anything to say to that, and so he kissed Bill instead, slow and familiar.
It was rare for them to make love like this, with no grinning and no straps. Byron's pants and underwear slid off easily, and he shivered when Bill swept his hands back up in one long stroke from his ankles all the way past his hips, over his shoulders and behind his head for one of those kisses that lasted for days. It took Byron a good twenty minutes of Bill kissing him and petting him to try to return the favor, but his hands were shaking too much (still!) and Bill kicked them off himself, barely breaking his stride as he tried to reassure his partner that he was alive and well and it would all be okay. Byron still trembled like a leaf in the wind, and clung to him, and there was a desperate quality to his kisses that made something in Bill's chest hurt.
Bill pulled a spare pillow out from under his bed at one point, slid it under Byron's hips and pulled lube out of the pillowcase. When Byron spread his legs for Bill, Bill kissed the inside of his knees, first one, then the other, like he always did. That finally calmed Byron, stopped the shaking, only to start again when Bill entered him after long preparation. Byron grabbed the headboard and made tiny little sounds in his throat, wrapped his legs around Bill's waist, arched his back. Bill wasn't nearly as flexible, so he contented himself with kissing Byron's stomach and tracing the lean muscles there with his tongue, one hand flat on the bed for balance, the other tightly around Byron to keep him as unbalanced as possible.
Byron always, always lasted longer than Bill, and tonight was no exception. Bill pulled out, towel handy in his pillowcase of tricks to catch the mess, and shifted on his knees to take Byron's hips in both hands and Byron down his throat, past his gag reflex and seven years of practice with his tongue to finish his partner. He spat into the towel (such a brilliant idea, saved so many sticky nights.) and slid bonelessly up Byron's body.
Byron flopped an arm against him in exhausted imitation of a hug. After a minute, Bill gathered him up in his arms and held him close, New York July be damned. Byron snuggled into his chest, and Bill felt no need to announce that his head ended up right over Bill's heart.
"Byron?" Bill asked when he got his breath back. "Why's your arm bleeding?"
"I bit it," Byron mumbled. "Lemme sleep."
Bill actually looked at Byron's arm, decided a few drops of blood weren't worth getting up for. "Wish you would've used the pillow," he said.
"Sorry. Used to the straps." Byron didn't sound very sorry, but he did sound like someone who was thoroughly exhausted from a very good time, so Bill forgave him anyways.
"I'm not going to die," he said. "I promise."
Byron didn't hear him; he was asleep.