John grimaces absently as he shoves the perp headfirst into the backseat, and the small sound is enough to draw Dorian's attention from the report he's uploading to the police server.
"You all right?" he asks from the other side of the car, glancing up to see John fingering carefully at the bruise spanning the side of his face. "You should have that looked at."
"I did, Mom," John grumbles, ignoring the indignant yelp from the perp as he slams the door on the kid's heels. "Got an ice pack and everything."
"Mmm." Dorian hands his datapad to a passing MX and slides in the passenger side just as John levers himself in stiffly, groaning as his joints creak from the effort.
"Losing your touch, old man?"
"Shut up- hey, watch that," John snaps back over his shoulder at the perp, who flinches away from the wrapped prosthetic and squints through the grille.
"Just looking," the kid says, disgruntled, and he jabs at the package again out of spite.
"Ass," John mutters, and Dorian doesn't try to hide his grin.
"So you do like it," he can't help but comment, looking over at his partner. John glances at him involuntarily before jerking his eyes back to the front, and Dorian detects a slight increase of body temperature in his partner.
Interesting.
"I told Rudy I'd be out tonight," Dorian says casually, looking absently out the window as John swerves back towards the station.
"Yeah? You got plans?" He can tell that John's eyes are fixed steadily ahead of him without even looking.
"I was hoping that you would feel like drinking."
John snorts in soft derision and thumbs absently at the steering wheel. "That's a first."
"Thought we should celebrate closing the case. Giving your father some closure." It's a bolder statement that Dorian usually makes, and they both know it.
"Not really feeling like a bar tonight," John eventually answers. Dorian notes the restless way he's tapping his foot.
"Your place, then?" He glances over to properly examine John's reaction this time. "Mind, I don't put out on the first date." That prompts a startled laugh from the man, and his grip on the wheel relaxes slightly.
"Get a room," the perp mutters, and John raps sharply on the grille without turning around.
"Quiet down back there," he orders, but his ears are flushing a strange shade of red, and Dorian quietly files the visual input for later consideration. His storage components on John's oddities is growing exponentially, though most of the data files is the peculiarly violent way in which the man ingests donuts.
There's a crinkling sound from the backseat, and John glances up irritably at the rearview mirror. "Thought I told you to quit that."
The perp drops the corner of the wrapping paper sullenly, sagging back into the seat and jingling his cuffs. "What's it, a leg? Someone give you a leg? That's messed up, man."
"You're acting real mouthy for a kid facing time in the cubes," John says threateningly, but there's little menace to it. John's always had a soft spot for the problem kids, the ones with bruises on their faces and the raw urge to prove themselves in the dark alleys of the city.
"Ain't like I've got no better alternative," the kid mumbles, staring out the window, but he falls quiet and John redirects his attention to the road.
"I'm out of beer at my place," he says eventually, almost making the statement a question. "It'd be boring for you, anyway."
Dorian tilts his head, contemplating the issue briefly before dismissing it as a deflection technique. Both of them know that's not really what he means, though Dorian might have a better idea of it than John. "There's a corner shop on your street. And you don't bore me."
John glances at him, a habitual flick of the eyes by now, and Dorian makes sure that he meets it. "Nah," he finally grunts, staring hard out the windshield. "It's good. We could watch a vid or something."
"I'd like that."
The perp grumbles something incomprehensible from the back, and John sighs aggressively. "Look, if you've got something to say-"
"When's the wedding?" the kid instantly snarks. John rolls his eyes and takes the next turn a little faster than he could have, grinning at the thump when the perp bounces off the door with a startled yelp.
They drop the kid off at the station, where he'll be transferred to the cubes the next morning. The kid's facing four to five months in the juvenile division, but Dorian knows that John already argued the case for a reduced sentence when he realized how young the boy is.
"You're very kind," Dorian says quietly, as they're driving along the freeway towards John's apartment.
John glances at him, clearly startled. "What?" He's too off guard to raise the usual prickly shield, and for a moment, Dorian hears what might have been vulnerability in a softer man.
"That boy could have been in the cubes for six to eight months. You helped him."
"He's just a brat," John says dismissively. "Stupid, but just a brat."
Dorian considers this for a moment. "Were you like that as a teenager?"
John huffs out a surprised laugh that's more air than sound. "My father was a cop. How do you think that'd play out?"
Dorian waits, and soon John raises and drops a shoulder in a sheepish shrug.
"Had a few smokes out behind the school in seventh grade," he mutters. "Rebellious phase."
Dorian tries to picture John as a sullen youth and fails. "You smoke?"
"I quit," John answers shortly, then falls silent. Dorian watches him for a long moment, then turns his head to stare out the passenger window meditatively.
"Why?"
"Wasn't worth it." Dorian doesn't need to look over to detect the smirk in John's voice. "Discovered girls instead, and man, I'll tell you. I never looked back."
Dorian doesn't dignify that with a response, and they spend the rest of the ride in comfortable silence.
It's late by the time they reach John's apartment, the parking garage dim and quiet as John slides smoothly into an empty space.
"Rudy sent you a comm," Dorian announces as they exit the car.
"Yeah?" John bends over to fish his new prosthetic out of the backseat, and Dorian walks around the car to contemplate the rare sight of his partner's ass hoisted high in the air. "What'd he say?"
"He asked if you had a charging port I could use in your apartment."
"Sure." John emerges triumphantly with the leg propped under his arm. "How are your levels now?"
"Fifty-five percent." They're actually closer to seventy-one, but he's learned that John's more forgiving of his expressions of affection when he thinks Dorian's low on charge. John doesn't notice his deviation, jabbing at the elevator button instead with the toe of the prosthetic.
"It can wait til after the vid, then."
They pile into the elevator and wait as it hums quietly upwards. "You should try it on," Dorian says, apropos of nothing, and John looks at him in surprise.
"What?"
"Your leg. You should see if it fits." He's certain that it will, but somehow the thought of seeing his gift on John is…..satisfying.
John hefts the leg absently, the wrapping paper crinkling in his hand. "Sure." He pauses for a second, glancing at Dorian suspiciously. "I don't want to know how much this costs, do I?"
"Technically, it cost you nothing," Dorian points out reasonably. "It was a gift." The leg is actually three times more expensive as John's current model, but he decides that what the man doesn't know won't hurt him.
"That's not the point," John argues, but then the elevator doors are pinging open and John reaches reluctantly instead for his keycard.
The apartment lights flicker on as soon as he steps through, and he hoists the leg out of the way to let Dorian pass.
"You can pick a vid out," John directs as soon as he closes the door, gesturing vaguely towards the wall. He watches long enough to see Dorian begin to examine the racks before turning and shedding his jacket, tossing it over the back of the couch. On second thought, he drops the wrapped prosthetic on the cushions as well and unhooks his holsters, hanging them on the wall.
"Can I see it?"
John glances up, surprised. Dorian's standing by his couch, watching him steadily. "Hmm?"
Dorian makes a small gesture. "You said you'd try it on."
"What, now?" John runs a hand through his hair distractedly, looking down at the half-unwrapped prosthetic.
"If you don't mind," Dorian says politely. "Please," he adds, almost as an afterthought.
"I…." John looks at him, then back at the leg. "Sure."
He feels unaccountably anxious as he makes his way to the couch, focusing on pulling the rest of the wrapping paper off the prosthetic to avoid looking at Dorian. It's wrapped haphazardly, pieces of tape in places that it shouldn't be and some areas gaping open, and he suddenly envisions Dorian perched on Rudy's lab table, frowning in concentration as he sticks the bow on.
God.
Dorian's quiet as John sits down, which is nothing to be complain about, but it's unnerving nevertheless. The leg is paler in its deactivated state than his current prosthetic, a lighter shade of chrome with a strip of circuitry down the side, and he turns it over absently in his hands before setting it down on the floor. It suddenly occurs to him that he's going to have to take his pants off for this to work, and his hands halt instantly on his belt.
"Something wrong?" Dorian asks, his voice dry and sounding almost normal enough for John to unfreeze. Almost.
"No." He takes a deep breath and curses himself silently. Fortunately, his hands seem to know what to do without the rest of his brain, and he pushes his pants down to his knees before kicking them off, leaving him in his shirt and boxers.
"It's nice."
John looks up, startled, to see Dorian suddenly standing right in front of him, eyes fixed on his prosthetic leg. "What?"
"I've never seen it up close before," Dorian muses. "Your leg." Scans and blueprints aren't even close to the real thing. They don't show the way the hologram flickers and glimmers when John moves, matching his skin tone as the shadows shift around him. They don't quite capture the way the synthetic muscle tightens and loosens, dimpling realistically to the slight pressure of John's fingers as he massages the joint absently.
"It's nothing special," John says dismissively, reaching down to untwist the catch. He freezes when Dorian's hand wraps around his wrist, and neither of them can remember him moving closer.
"Can I?" Dorian asks again quietly. He drops to his knees and hears John's breathing halt entirely. His vitals are escalating exponentially, Dorian notes, just before he turns off his sensors.
He wants to see John as a human would.
What he does see makes him ache for more than he will ever know. John's flushed skin, starting low from his collar and spreading across the back of his neck and ears, warm blood accenting the bruised areas, and Dorian reaches up impulsively to touch John's jaw with his fingertips.
"Does that hurt?" he questions. John hasn't ordered him to move away yet, and he takes that as a positive sign. Then again, Dorian's always been told that he's unreasonably optimistic.
"Yeah," John answers unexpectedly, his voice so low that it's barely more than a rumble in his chest. "It does." His eyes are fixed on Dorian's, both expectant and wary at once.
Dorian traces the edge of the bruise on John's cheek, then slides his palm up to cup the side of John's face. The swollen skin around the cut above his eye is still red, and a muscle in John's jaw jumps when Dorian's fingers brush against it. "This too?" he asks softly, then watches as John's throat bobs in a nervous swallow before he grunts ambiguously.
Dorian's other hand is still wrapped around John's wrist, and he releases it now to grip the knee of his prosthetic leg instead. The synthetic muscles twitch automatically when he squeezes, and he sends a small impulse signal through his palm.
John emits a startled squawk when his prosthetic clicks free, grabbing instinctively for the joint as Dorian sets the leg down on the floor. "Damn it, Dorian-"
"Hold still," Dorian interrupts, reaching for the new leg. It's lighter than John's old model by point three ounces, and Dorian hopes that it wouldn't affect the man's balance. His calculations so far have projected a ninety-nine percent probability of complete synchronization, but he doesn't like the feel of that one suspect percent.
John's breath hitches when Dorian rests a hand on his right thigh, just above the protective cap over his nerve endings. "You gonna do it or what?" the man asks testily, and Dorian doesn't need his sensors to tell how tense his partner is.
He fits the end of the prosthetic onto John's leg and twists until it locks, a glimmer of white circuitry trickling down from the length of the synthetic limb as it completes its calibrations. John makes a small noise of discomfort in his throat as his nerves reconnect, and Dorian finds it fascinating.
John clears his throat and extends his leg experimentally, bending it back and forth a couple of times. "Is it my color?" he asks jokingly.
The prosthetic shimmers, slowly assuming John's flesh tone as the programming adheres to its new user, and Dorian reaches over to catch John's ankle on the next upswing, feeling the soft surface of the prosthetic yield beneath his fingers. "Looks good," he says, running his eyes obligingly up and down the limb, but he's aware of the way John's knuckles have whitened against the edge of the couch.
"Tickles," John says tersely.
"Does it?" Dorian's hand pauses on its way up John's calf, digging his thumb behind John's knee with the slightest force, and the leg jumps beneath him.
"Stop that." John's voice sounds odd, tight and shaky like he's on the verge of breaking apart.
"Stop what?" Dorian asks absently. He inches his hand up higher, fingertips brushing against the bottom of John's shorts. He's at the top of the prosthetic now, where silicon meets warm flesh, and he stares bemusedly at the thin line for a moment.
"That. You're going to make me do something really stupid."
"I think I'm accustomed to that by now."
"Dorian," John says, and he sounds unnatural enough that Dorian lifts his head to meet his eyes. John's mouth is pressed in a thin line, his eyebrows drawn in an almost angry scowl, and Dorian wonders briefly if he's somehow crossed an unmarked boundary.
"John-" he begins, and John bends over, the angle made awkward by their positions, and kisses him.
It surprises Dorian- he blames it on general inexperience with human reactions, and John's an entire category on his own- but it's not unpleasant.
In fact, it may be the opposite.
John breaks free all too soon, his eyes crazed and his mouth working silently. "Shit," he says finally, and Dorian can sense the oncoming panic attack.
"That was nice," he tells John instead, giving his leg a comforting pat.
"I- you- shut up," John splutters. His face is slowly turning red and Dorian watches the flush creep up to his ears with unbridled fascination. "You made me do it."
Dorian's brow furrows quizzically. "I didn't."
"You did, you crackhead, groping me like that-"
Dorian tightens his grip on his thigh, rises up higher on his knees so that he's almost eye-to-eye with John, and kisses him again. John's mouth is open, caught off guard, and Dorian takes full advantage of it. He remembers what John did the first time, with his lips and tongue, and he does it back now. He's concentrating so hard on doing it right that he doesn't notice John's muffled protests until the man grabs at his shoulders.
He pulls back a couple of inches, then presses forward automatically when John slumps away from the couch to lean against him, swearing softly under his breath as his legs spread wider to accommodate Dorian.
"How long have you wanted to do this?" Dorian asks after a second, counting the racing heartbeats beneath the hand he has on John's back.
"Too long," John pants, then scowls. "Damn it." The next kiss is hard and forceful, as if John wants to bruise himself against Dorian's mouth, and Dorian softens his movements deliberately, pulling back and pushing forward little by little until John's growling in frustration, bunching his fists in Dorian's jacket.
"Dorian," he says warningly, knocking his forehead against Dorian's and glaring with unconvincingly glazed eyes.
"Hmm?" Dorian leans forward again, liking the way John's rough stubble feels against his face. The neural simulations in his upper dermis tingle and spark beneath the rough texture, and he nuzzles closer curiously.
"Dorian." John grabs for Dorian's collar again, yanking him forward so that their chests are pressed together. "C'mon," he whispers roughly.
"Okay," Dorian agrees, and he kisses John again, turning his face up eagerly to slant their mouths together. He'll ask Rudy to give him a sensory upgrade soon, he decides, as John surges up to meet him with tongue and teeth. Because it's impossible that he can't taste more of John, feel more of his warmth-
John's fingers twist harder in the fabric of his jacket and Dorian gives an impatient shrug, disentangling his arms from the confining sleeves. John falters, some befuddled realization coming briefly to light, then Dorian tosses the jacket aside and it's like it never happened.
"Ahhh shit," John curses, low and guttural as he drops his head to Dorian's shoulder and inhales raggedly. Dorian raises a hand to cup the back of John's neck, his thumb brushing over the short hairs above his collar, and John shudders involuntarily. "I didn't plan for this to happen tonight," he confesses. "Not like this."
"I was under the impression that you never plan for anything." Dorian gauges his charge percentage and finds it creeping just below sixty. He grips the back of John's head impulsively and pulls him back up, licking into his mouth intently.
John groans and all but collapses bonelessly when Dorian pushes him back against the couch, raising a leg to straddle across John's lap. The quiet submission is a bit of a surprise, but Dorian's had an inkling of a suspicion about this already and he finds nothing to dislike about the situation.
If it's loss of control that John needs, Dorian's perfectly happy to take it from him.
"Okay?" he whispers, pressing a careful kiss to the bruise on John's cheek. John's head tilts back against the couch cushion as he exhales, exposing his throat, and Dorian follows the bruise where it curves just beneath the jaw.
"Really….didn't expect this….tonight," John gasps. His hands flutter and slide hesitantly up Dorian's sides, then drop back down to grip his waist when Dorian shifts closer.
"Are you complaining?" Dorian counters mildly, cupping John's face lightly between his palms. John stares up at him blankly, and Dorian bumps his thumb against his slack bottom lip.
Then John's right leg is hooked around his hips, tightening and twisting as John flips him easily, and then Dorian's lying on his back on the couch with John bouncing to a stop above him.
"I see you like the leg," he says, as John shuffles to find a more comfortable position.
John grins, confidence softening his face as he bends over, pressing his mouth to Dorian's once more.
"It's growing on me."