A/N: Okay, well, I'm posting this fic and the next (should hopefully be up on Saturday) as one story not because they're directly related but because I consider them companion pieces. Not in plot, because there isn't one, but in theme. They're sort of character studies? This first is Lester's POV and the second will be Becker's. Part of my Lester/Becker 'verse that started with "Promise Not to Try".

A Study on Need, Part One (Lester)

James likes to take his time.

He has always been of the firm opinion that anything worth doing is worth doing right, is worth the time and the effort it takes to do it the best way he can. He doesn't feel that sex should be any different.

Becker embraces this with the same enthusiasm he brings to anything involving sex. He is attentive and thorough when he's trying to reduce James to a quivering mess, when he coaxes out sounds that James didn't even know he was capable of making. Becker is nothing if not a giving lover and he likes nothing better than to have James completely at his mercy.

But Becker likes to be completely at James' mercy, too, and that actually surprises James a little when he thinks about it. It surprises him that he can never be exactly certain which Becker prefers because he wouldn't have thought that Becker would get so much pleasure out of being, well, the one on the bottom.

Before they were really together, when they were simply shagging and pretending not to like each other, they were each constantly trying to dominate the other, never wanting to reveal too much. They both have their pride. Even then, though, Becker dropped to his knees rather easily (and very prettily). And when they finally left the ARC, when they brought their… affair into James' bed, it was Becker who asked to be fucked. James doesn't think he could ever have done it; he still doesn't do it. Becker fucks him sometimes and James always enjoys it, but he never, ever asks.

He would never let anyone but Becker do the things he does.

He finds it hard to imagine Becker being like this with anyone else. Becker not being embarrassed to be seen so needy, Becker letting go of his pride. James has a theory that maybe Becker is like this only with him, but maybe that's purely his ego talking. Maybe Becker has always been exactly like this, a little bit slutty, perfectly willing to be the one submitting.

Still, though, he can't quite picture Becker wanting to open up to anyone the way he does with James and he's fairly certain that isn't just his ego.

James tries not to think about Becker with Lieutenant Ian Russell because it's pointless and brings up too much hurt, but sometimes he can't help but wonder. He remembers an angry Becker telling him that Russell was usually the one doing the fucking. He isn't sure how that makes him feel.

Regardless, James clings to his theory because he likes the idea of being something special to Becker, even in this.

James wonders at how well he has come to know Becker's body, maybe even better than his own.

He knows that if he scrapes his nails just there, Becker will arch upwards and if he touches there, Becker will moan softly. He knows that the bit of skin on Becker's inner thigh, just above his knee, is strangely sensitive and that the arches of his feet are ticklish. He knows that Becker likes it when James uses his teeth pretty much anywhere, that it's the most efficient way to get Becker to make that lovely whimpering sound. And when he puts his tongue in Becker's arse, Becker makes the most incredibly unmanly noises that James never expected to hear come out of him. He still remembers with a certain measure of fondness the first time he made Becker come without ever putting a hand on his dick.

He knows the exact weight of Becker's hard cock in his hand, the length and girth of it, the way the soft skin feels against his tongue and how it fits in his hand.

He knows every scar and the story behind them all, because once, what feels like ages ago now, he touched each one and listened while Becker told him about it, Becker's voice rough and halting. He remembers that seeing all of Becker's scars, easing his fingers over them, made him feel a little bit sad. And a little bit angry, too, to think of all that Becker has gone through, the sort of life he lives and the dangers he has to deal with. A small (or maybe not so small) part of James wishes he could take that all away but then Becker wouldn't be Becker.

One thing he will never tell Becker is that James is glad in a way that Becker resigned his commission. This way, Becker is only in danger where James can see him and attempt to mitigate the risk, where James can look after him. He doesn't have to worry about Becker suddenly being shipped off somewhere else, not knowing what's happening and whether he will come home. The creatures are bad enough; at least Becker's not getting shot at as well.

Now, whenever Becker comes home with a new wound that will scar, James kisses it carefully, reverently, and Becker tells him how he got it, even if James has already read it in a report. It's a sort of ritual, he supposes, and it helps him somehow to cope. In his head he knows of course that he isn't making anything better. Kissing Becker's scars doesn't make them go away, doesn't keep him from getting new ones. But it helps all the same.

Sometimes James likes to make his way slowly down Becker's body, cataloguing each and every scar, stroking with his fingers and his tongue, listening to the way Becker's breath hitches. Becker's scars are like a map of his life, like a storybook filled with images. The tiny cut in his eyebrow where he knocked his head as a child, the rough patch on his forearm where he caught a few shards of shrapnel, the jagged line where he busted his knee open playing rugby, the teeth marks on his chest and back that show exactly where a dinosaur bit him, held him in its mouth and then dropped him because Becker refused to give up.

He always saves the same scar for last. The one on Becker's thigh, courtesy of a Therocephalian in a school. This is James' favourite of all the marks on Becker's body because it reminds him of what it had taken to get over himself. He kisses it and feels Becker tremble as he licks the sensitive skin.

James knows exactly how to push Becker to the edge and hold him there, how to make him beg and plead and then how to let him fall. He knows how to tease until Becker swears at him and calls him every manner of filthy name but he also knows how to wring out endearments and 'I love you's that drip from Becker's lips like he can't stop them. He knows also that now Becker wouldn't really want to stop them, that it's easier for him to say what he feels when he has an excuse. It's that damn pride again.

They've never been comfortable with expressing themselves but they've always been good at sex. James isn't really surprised that the physical part helps them with the rest. Hell, he has no idea how long it would have taken him to admit that he loved Becker if he hadn't blurted it out in the middle of sex.

James likes to go slowly because he wants to make Becker feel good, but if he is honest, he gets nearly as much out of it as Becker does. Becker makes him feel possessive, makes him want to mark his territory, in a manner of speaking. There is something about him that brings out all of James' insecurities, makes him want to jealously guard every second of time they have together because he doesn't know if it will last. James has never understood quite why Becker stays. Sometimes he wakes up at night or in the early hours of the morning and watches Becker sleep, listens to his even breathing and admires his long limbs and the fine bone structure of his face.

Becker is young and he has the sort of good looks that draw the eye of everyone who sees him. He could have anyone he wants and yet he stays with James. James knows he shouldn't be so surprised by this. After Becker so firmly and vehemently declared his affections, James should be able to rest assured of his place. It shouldn't matter that Becker is still afraid of making any sort of real commitment because James knows that has less to do with him and more to do with Becker himself.

But the fact remains that it does matter and that James can't help but retain that small amount of fear that Becker will someday soon come to his senses and leave him, leave him for someone younger, someone better-looking, someone who cares less about their career and their reputation. Someone who doesn't come with an ex-wife and three kids.

This fear that spawns his neediness comes out at strange times, like when he watches Becker and Ian Russell bend their heads together and laugh and it still makes something in James' heart ache because he thinks that's who Becker should have, someone like Russell. It isn't just Russell, either. James isn't a very publicly affectionate person, never has been, but all it takes is one appreciative look from a stranger for him to throw an arm around Becker's waist. When he does, Becker's inevitably pleased reaction never fails to provoke a pang of guilt. Becker has no idea that James does it not because he wants to, because it's natural, but because a primitive part of him feels the need to ward everyone else off.

And when they are in bed, his doubt and insecurity make him possessive. He likes to be able to smooth his hands over every inch of Becker's skin, to press kisses against Becker's body, to leave bruises in the shape of his fingers. Because he can, because no one else gets to have Becker this way. Because Becker lets James see a side of him that no one else can, not anymore. He tries to believe that this will always be true.

Becker has become a comfort to him, something that says 'home' in a way James hasn't felt in a very long while. It should make him feel silly, to know that he thinks that. Uncomfortable, maybe. But in the darkness of their bedroom, after everything they've been through, James can't be ashamed about it. He looks at Becker and thinks, I love you, thinks, Stay with me forever, even if he doesn't say it out loud.

James loves the scratch of Becker's stubble against his face after a long day and he loves the curly patch of hair on Becker's chest, how he can rest his nose there and breathe in and know that it's Becker just by the way he smells. The soap he uses, a plain, sterile sort of smell in contrast to the citrus scent of his expensive hair products (James laughed the first time he saw the bottles appear in his bathroom, but not to Becker's face). Leather and sweat and sometimes blood. Then, somehow, he always manages to smell a little bit like gun oil even though they almost never use conventional weapons at the ARC anymore. And beneath all of that, just Becker.

He loves the drag of his tongue over the knobs of Becker's spine, the salty tang of sweat that he can lick off Becker's back, just above the sweet curve of his arse. He loves the feel of Becker against him, all angles and hard planes of muscle, and he loves that he can be as rough as he wants and Becker will take it and still want more, harder, faster.

And then there's this. The way Becker smiles at him, lazy and sated and affectionate, sometimes with a quip on his tongue and sometimes too tired to bother. Becker never smiles at anyone quite like he smiles at James.

This is what James loves best of all.

End