Finding Middle Ground
Part One - Undistributed Middle
Summary: some men, you have to hit with a brick. A big brick.
Wendy's heart was pounding. She'd felt less nervous facing literal demons. But her hand was steady. "Boss." He turned away from the HEYDAR, saying something. It faded out when he recognized the truth bomb in her outstretched palm. A puzzled crease between his eyebrows. Before he could start a different, what's-the-meaning-of-this sort of sentence she jabbed the red button.
The energy wave swept over them. It seemed more intense, with only two people splitting the effect; Wendy swayed on her feet a little. She shaped her words carefully, a demand. "Boss. Exactly how lonely are you?"
The Middleman was feeling it too; he moved unsteadily. "It isn't so bad."
Wendy slung the dead gadget into a corner. I thought you weren't immune to this stuff. "Don't give me that, I know. When you stood back from Lacey, even though you wanted … it wasn't just about keeping her safe. It hurts too much, to love somebody when you can't tell what you're really doing. When you come home from a war, practically, every few days and hide the bruises. And you have to act like life's all Art Crawl and paying the car insurance and … I know. Because God, I'm doing it too. I'm backing away from Tyler and I can't tell him why because why is the problem… and you haven't even got half a life outside, like I do. And if you're really under the truth whammy how the Hell can you stand there in the lonely going not so bad?" She was almost shouting.
His tension dissolved into that wide, easy smile. "I am telling the truth. I'm not lonely, or not much ... I have you now."
Something in her chest melted, or snapped. Truth is like oxygen, too much makes you crazy drunk. "Then my other question… how tired are you of being perfect hero boss man in charge all the time?"
"God," he breathed. The man who never swore.
Wendy was out of words, even true ones. Doing was truer than saying, anyway. She held out her hand. His big square one swallowed it. He followed her in a perfect, childlike trust that made her want to cry.
His room was small and spare and white-glove-inspection clean. Of course. And a single bed, although it was longer than average. The closet was an open alcove, jackets and shirts and uniform slacks in organized sections. And nothing else. Tears stung Wendy's eyes. "You don't own any other clothes."
"If you want me to, I can…"
She stopped him with a fingertip on his lips. "You're not doing things for me. I'm doing things for you. And I love unwrapping prezzies."
He lay back on the bed when she steered him there. Wendy sat on the edge beside him at first, dazzled by the possibilities. Acres and acres and it's all mine…
She stroked his face first. Ten years older than Lacey, he'd said once, and there was no denying that. The job had worn horizontal lines across his forehead, soft puckering at the corners of his eyes. He watched her back, clear-eyed, cooperating with her pretense of controlling him. As if anyone could. She wondered who had the most experience. Sex had been about all the entertainment her crowd of friends could afford, back in art school. On his end of the scale, from SEAL to super-Boy-Scout, it could be anything.
She traced his cheekbones, the strong chin. "I could never make art this pretty." Pillow lips. But that was Lacey's word, and she wanted him to herself. Wendy leaned in, mesmerized, and let herself drown in them.
Things got a little frantic. His hand on the small of her back, pulling her down against him, the other cradling the back of her head. Can't get up, don't wanna. But his grip loosened instantly when she shifted.
There was something crazy about the knot on this necktie. Or her hands were shaking. Wendy managed it, started on his shirt buttons. "Maybe I'm wrong. I know I'm the chick, but there could be such a thing as too much foreplay."
"Yes, ma'am." She felt the laughter under his words, rumbling through where their chests touched.
He played fair, only moving enough to let Wendy pull the jacket and shirt off him without shredding them. No t-shirt. Only a few scattered hairs on his chest, and no scars in spite of the life he'd led. The long smooth muscles were perfect, Michelangelo's David turned warm and breathing.
Wendy fumbled with her own shirt and tie -- damn knot again. Just her luck she was wearing a shabby, too-often-washed bra today. By the gleam in his eyes, the Middleman didn't seem to have noticed. His hands stirred. Wendy straddled his stomach at last and guided them up. "You can do this part."
He started at waist level, trailing fingers up her spine to open the fasteners with one quick flick. And on up; she'd never known the nape of her neck was so sensitive. He guided her down, breathed in deeply between her breasts before brushing his lips over one pebbled nipple. Wendy yelped, mashed herself tighter against him. "Holy crap, what are you not good at…" She pumped her hips, slid further down his body.
Stopped, eyes wider. He froze as well, the tension she'd tried to smooth away back in his face. His other hand traced the front of her hipbone. "You're so tiny."
"You just think that because you're a telephone pole." His face went blank; Wendy growled frustration. "Tall, I mean. Girls are stretchy." She rubbed against him again, felt him jump through both their layers of clothing. "If you can't already tell, I … God, I can't talk dirty to you. I am way flaps down and ready for a landing, get me?" Even the indirect words made her stomach muscles tremble and jerk like an instant of electricity. She leaned forward again, buried her face against the side of his neck. "You smell so good. Didn't know soapy-clean was better than cologne."
The laugh rumbled under her again. Most of the tension left his face, not quite all. "It's been a long time. If I'm too quick…"
"Have I ever not said, if something didn't suit me?" Wendy clawed at his waistband.
One long, glorious slide…. She sat bolt upright on him, keening like a maniac. His hands on her waist, cupping her butt, she was going to be bruised tomorrow. More, dammit. Wendy squeezed him back. He made a small, helpless noise and gave her everything.
Absolutely everything. Wendy was staring into his eyes when he went quiet; they were a thousand times more naked than his body. There's no one-nighter, no friendly playing around. He's not made that way. Such a light in his face, looking at her now. Something else too beautiful to paint. She slumped down half on, half beside him; his arms folded around her. She felt a tear where her cheek leaned on his, wondered who it belonged to.
"Dubbie." She felt his deep voice rumble through them, felt him swallow. "Wendy Watson. I should tell you my name."
From him, that was far more intimate than the sex. Maybe too much. She covered his lips. "I like nicknames. Gonna call you mine."
"It's a deal." He snuggled her into a more comfortable position. His breathing slowed into deep sleep.
Wendy lay still but far from asleep, tingling with release and happiness and what the hell have I gotten myself into? A blinking red light caught her attention, in the corner of her eye.
He'd worn the MiddleWatch throughout it all, something neither of them had noticed. And a single line of text glowed on the watch face: If you hurt him, I'll tear you to pieces.
Ida. "It's a deal," Wendy whispered.