Something Human
Another Abe/Daimio moment. Sort of fits with Still Waters Run Deep, but is not a direct follow-up.
This one contains mild sexual situations. And while I don't condone smoking, comic-verse Ben and Abe have their own opinion on the subject.
Enjoy!
There was something about these post-coital moments—the ten minutes or so when Ben Daimio focused on his pulse slowing, felt the sweat cooling, listened to the sound of Abe lying next to him in the rumpled remains of his bedsheets, trying to calm his heaving breaths. Kind of funny, everything considered, that sex with Abe served to give him a weird sense of tranquility and—weirdest of all—a sense of normality, a moment that lasted until one or the other caught their breath and their senses and got up to get dressed again.
Daimio suspected that the lure of normality was much the same for Abe, though of course he'd never outright stated so. Never vocal, this strange lover of Daimio's. Even during the act itself.
While Abe didn't mind taking Daimio inside him, he did usually insist on being on top. He didn't insist with words, so much as actions, pushing Daimio down on the bed with a manner that did not invite debate, sliding down to connect their bodies with sharp, shallow breaths. Daimio must have been quite the stark contrast, with his own unabashed grunts and groans.
Always the panting, the stuttered gasps, and if he was really lucky, and Abe forgot himself, sometimes he got a moan or a whimper at the moment of orgasm. Never vocal, as though afraid that something unexpected would spill out while abandoned, something incriminating. Like he'd accidentally admit how much he needed this, cracking the veneer.
Daimio wondered if Abe talked in his sleep; he hadn't yet had the chance to learn that. They never really talked immediately after. It wasn't that kind of agreement, and Daimio went through some interesting mental gymnastics to tiptoe around the word "relationship"- because it wasn't, really. Even though at this point, he probably knew more about Abe than anyone else at the Bureau, knew the side of Abe that seemed to especially matter, knew the things about him that would have made him blush, if he'd have enough cheek left for it. Knew where to touch to draw out that full-body tension that might as well have been a scream, knew to stay away from the gills, not because it hurt to touch them, but because he'd clued in that Abe wasn't keen on being touched in a way that reminded him of his oddness.
Daimio wondered if anyone else knew that about Abe.
He glanced to his side, without looking as though he was trying to, saw Abe half-reclining against the pillow, still a little breathless, staring off at nothing in particular. He looked poised and relaxed in these moments, however brief they were.
Daimio shook his head, purely for his own benefit, and found himself with a craving for something else that screamed normality.
He kicked the last remnants of the tangled sheet off the edge of his bed- they weren't in a friggin' movie, after all; no point in a modesty sheet when you were sitting next to the person you just fucked. He stretched out a little lazily, reaching for his bedside table, and froze with his hand poised above the drawer as warm fingers suddenly stroked the small of his back.
Well. Now that was different.
He sat back on the bed and faced Abe, trying to look questioning without being accusing,
Abe had one leg drawn up, arm draped casually over his knee. His other hand hovered in mid-air, where he'd lifted it after Daimio's reaction to the touch.
"I never noticed it before," Abe said by way of explanation. "The scar on your back."
Oh. Oh right. Daimio shrugged and reached a little awkwardly for the small of his back, where Abe's fingertips had been moments before, felt the inch-long scar. "First and only bullet wound," he said. "So far. Haven't thought about it for about ten years."
Tried to avoid it altogether, if he could help it. Tried not to think about any of the scars, what put them there, whether it was the knife wound or burn scars from years of duty, or the more… unnatural ones.
"You've taken some punishment too," Daimio said, running a finger over Abe's ribs. A little too gently to be a teasing poke. Maybe it wasn't accidental. "You don't have much to show for it."
"I never really scar," Abe said, pressing his palm to a spot on the bare skin of his left thigh, that had probably been injured some time in the past, though remained completed unscathed as far as Daimio could see. "Not exactly normal, is it?"
"Nope," Daimio agreed, and watched as Abe took a mental catalogue of past wounds, touching a spot on his belly here and the skin of his arm there. Flexed his shoulder, ran fingertips over the only visible mark, the healing remnants of the massive wound he'd received in Balikpapan. It was obviously healing its way out of visibility, out of memory, like everything else. "Not much normal about us, I guess."
And then Abe was touching him again, not the savage scratches and white-knuckle grips from twenty minutes ago, but another one of those damn gentle touches, this one against his forearm. Found a scar there, a thin slice he'd gotten at some point while fighting with the frogs. It looked much tinier than Daimio remembered the wound. It figured.
"Things don't seem to scar the same," Daimio said. "Not since…"
"Yeah."
It wasn't the kind of thing they discussed. Not with words, anyway. And when Abe went to touch the edges of the scar tissue Daimio tried not to think about, feeling the mangled topography of his face, his neck, his chest… they knew exactly what didn't need to be discussed.
"Aren't we a pair," Daimio murmured, and to his own surprise there was more humour than bitterness there. Remembering what had started all this, he leaned over the side of his bed again, a little disappointed that he had to lean away from Abe's touch (when had they become so comfortable with just touching?) as he reached for the side table, nudging open the drawer that was already open a crack. He found the matchbook first, then pulled out two cigars.
"Want one?"
Abe hesitated—he didn't make a habit of it, and it wasn't like they ever stayed in bed long enough for the requisite after-sex smoke—though Daimio wondered too if there wasn't something a little too Victorian and a little too Langdon Caul about the idea of cigars, something Abe wanted to get away from. Like Daimio with his scars, something he probably tried not to think about too hard. But then Abe gracefully plucked it from his fingers.
"Thank you."
He didn't turn back to face Abe right away after chucking the matchbook back on the bedside table, closing the remnants of his lips around the cigar and working to pull in the smoke. Something else he tried not to think about too much; he'd had to get a little creative to learn how to smoke again. And kiss again. And learn to do other things with his mouth he never thought he'd have much use for.
On the exhale, Daimio leaned back, meeting the warm, sturdy expanse of Abe's back, felt the catch and release of breath as he too exhaled. He relaxed against Abe's skin, felt him doing the same, blowing out the smoke in a sinuous cloud. Enjoyed, for one brief moment, an instance of peace. Of something normal.
Something human.