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CHAPTER THREE: Catalyst

Lucy was in a proper rage by the time I entered the dry chill of our little underground lair, five minutes too late to witness her chewing Desmond out for leaving me behind in the shady backstreets without my gun. I was fully confident she'd had her say on the matter. On my behalf. You know, because we're such chums.

" - need to spend more time training and less time sitting around waiting for your mind to overlap itself. I want to tighten up the schedule over - hey!" Lucy drops her arms, clipboard clattering to the desk as Desmond catches my eye and bolts. Lucy turns just as I'm striding across the open space, nearly stumbling over a Rebecca-shaped lump setting live traps (bleeding hearts unite) under my desk for our rodent problem. Lucy squares her arms in front of me."You. We need to talk. That could have been better handled."

I tug my desk chair out of Rebecca's way, both hands on the backrest to keep it between me and the half-drowned she-lion, lacking for a bullwhip and one of those flaming hoops. "Sure I forgot to load the gun, but who's the bright star that grabbed the wrong phone?"

"YOU DID WHAT?"

"... Desmond not as much of a rat as I supposed, then?"

Rebecca springs vertical. "S'cuse me, did I hear 'rat'? I thought they were just cute little mice! Screw this, we're getting Raid."

Lucy's fingertips are pressed to her brow. "Shaun, why - how could you possibly - "

I take a breath, carefully editing the event, "I was cleaning the damn thing and Desmond came in and decided to be Desmond at me so I repaired my weapon quickly to make a timely escape and, and simply forgot." A shrug, clothes sticking to the movement unpleasantly. "I didn't expect anyone to ring in with an actual alarm. This IS Brotherhood territory, after all."

Lucy waves down the air between us, dismissive. "No, you know what? No excuses. This is - this is inexcusable. I'm upping the hours for Desmond's training this week, and you two can join us."

Rebecca drops the small metal trap she'd been trying to shove back into its box. "What? Hey, my Glock is always loaded and I do my own callisthenics."

Lucy sighs. "I know, Becka. We need to be able to respond to emergency situations better as a team, though."

I snort, shaking rainwater from my sleeve. "I'm not jumping off any bloody buildings. Not climbing them in the first place, for that matter."

"That's fine." Lucy closes her eyes. I take the chance to try and slip past her, but she nearly clothes-lines me. "Hey. Stop it. Stop. Fighting. I don't care what he did this time, and I understand we're all going a little stir crazy, but this-" She frames a box in the air between me and the rest of the room. "Isn't helping. Let's all try to remain adults, here."

"I'm only going to hit him a little," I wheedle. Lucy meets this with one of her Looks, as if she actually expects me to give Desmond a good smack, given the chance, which is her fault entirely for under-estimating my level of self-preservation. "Actually I'm just eager to get into something dry. It's colder than a w-"

"'Witch's teat'; totally called it. Luce, you owe me thirty bucks." Rebecca nudges Lucy, wielding a dry cloth at our footprints lest someone slip and harm a machine with their head.

"Whale's anus. I was going to say 'it's colder than a whale's anus'. Have you ever migrated through the Arctic Ocean? Perfectly reasonable metaphor and stop betting on my bloody vernacular."

Lucy sighs through her nose, forehead doing that veiny wrinkle thing (28 years old, my foot). She drops her arm. "I'll e-mail the new schedule. You get some sleep because we're not going to start without either of you."

I nod. "Yes yes, all right. I'm fine, by the way. Nobody tried to mug me on the way back. Still got my shoes."

"Good night, Shaun."

Desmond hadn't disappeared out of embarrassment, nor for the sake of any bizarre chase fetish. Wanker just wanted to commandeer the shower for himself, a point I overheard Lucy protest while I made due with towels and a dry set of pyjama sweats. I pace our - the room for a bit, until Lucy's carrying-on finally pries Desmond from the shower.

I can hear Desmond's protest drifting in from the small stone corridor, " - wasn't even fifteen minutes, sheesh. Keep your panties on."

Pavlov's theory of associative behaviors; if you ring a bell when presenting food often enough, a hound will drool when it hears the bell whether there is food or not. I mostly associate men-who-kiss-me-and-then-are-naked with sex; so if I could lay down on my cot and turn my back on that figurative bell, no drooling need happen. Figuratively. I keep my back to the door, head on the pillow, nose in a paperback.

The hushed proximity of Desmond's voice runs a prickle down my spine, "Hey. Lucy's got the shower next but she's never more'n ten minutes." The mattress - my mattress - creaks on its springs the way it did when Lucy had perched in that very same spot.

I forget to pretend to sleep, nevermind having left my glasses on. Oh, so that's what the rest of that tattoo looks like. Huh. "Hey is neither my name nor job title. Now sod off; I just got dry and you're dripping on my bed." The insult lacks venom; traitorous reptilian brainparts softening my regard for the man I had been all too eager to inseminate mere moments ago.

"Okay, Shaun, Lucy will be out in ten." Desmond shifts to face the door, elbows on knees, towel wrapped securely around his waist.

I kick my leg out vaguely in his direction, failing to make contact but jarring the rickety cot. "Still dripping, Desmond."

"You know, you always say my name, like that's a thing for you. First thought it was just your wacky English etiquette." Desmond shrugs a shoulder, the slide of muscle under skin that looks like it misses the sun - I try to swallow as quietly as possible. "But I started counting and it turns out that you say my name way more than Lucy and Rebecca combined. So, I figure you just like saying it." He glances at me, wiping a trickle of water from the back of his neck like slapping at a mosquito, inspecting his hand as if to check for blood before soothing the spot with careful fingers.

"Bit jumpy, Desmond?" I bite the inside of my cheek. Bollocks, he was right.

"Not at all." Desmond delivers that easy, over-confident smile - and fuck me for having ever gone into that narrow alley in the first place because he knew, he knew and he wasn't ever going to just forget it, or pretend it didn't happen, or just let the matter drop. Wasn't going to do the smart thing.

My glasses are carefully set atop the travel-case serving as a bedside table. I scrub my face with both hands and settle back into the starchy pillow, exhaling in a rush. The figurative bell is already ringing so we might as well declare the dog's appetite sufficiently roused (as it looks that Desmond isn't going to leave me alone and god help me for once I don't want him to). "All right, down to brass tacks. I'd rather we skip all the pigtail tugging; you have to admit neither of us has much time for pre-coital bullshit."

Desmond chews the inside of his cheek, contemplating the door I hadn't noticed he'd shut (the presumptuous bastard). "Is that what you want?"

My stomach clenches, tension pooling in my balls already. "Am I known to bluff? No, don't answer that, just get over here and blow me already." I would regret this in the morning, when Lucy might be pulling drill-sergeant torture down on us all before the sun's break over the bleeding horizon. The rest of the cot takes the weight of another fully grown man with a loud complaint. Guess inherited superhuman nightvision counts for balls-all if you close your eyes when you kiss because you are just that much of a woman, Miles.

Desmond's thumb kneads slow circles against my shoulder and I realize that this is the kind of pre-coital crap I proposed we avoid. I wanted to bang Desmond, not have a litter of kittens, for crying out loud - through fits and starts and relentless open-mouthed interruptions, I manage to tug out of the stifling sweatshirt, nudity as good a catalyst as any. Lungs pulling in deep and quick, nose pressed into Desmond's shoulder, neck, cheek, hair; never wanted to fuck anyone as badly as I wanted to fuck the man I knew it was a bad idea to fuck.

Did that make any sense? Brain on holiday; body under new primeval management.

I get a hand up the still-warm towel to give Desmond a clearer idea of what was meant by 'skip to the good parts', and he's half hard already. How long had it been since I felt another man's prick stiffen against my palm? The sting of heat in my chest multiplies and, and there is motion and the first prickle of sweat in a room that was sub-arctic at best, dear god Desmond how did you even know I like that thing you're doing to my ear...?

"Fucking hell - I want you in my mouth." I slide both hands up to push at Desmond's chest and maybe cop a feel: some blokes don't like the nipple thing, but he only presses in closer so I suppose that's some sort of consent and o my jolly giddy-fucking-odd, training indeed. "Sit back, I'm going to suck you off." Because, you know, fair warning and all that. Honestly, Desmond, move your ass before I throw you. He makes a noise like air leaking out of a balloon, teeth scraping over my jaw as his hips snap down. Or not, you know. Grinding is good too. The elastic hem of the sweatpants swipes down my cock, drawn as far as my thighs in a writhing fit before bare stomachs press up and down and this is the hottest, clumsiest thing I have done since fooling around beneath the rugby stands at uni.

Oh, christ, my entire fucking kingdom for a condom right now. Desmond would just have to take it dry, maybe learn a lesson about crawling into bed with the man he'd been tormenting for weeks. Fuck, nevermind, we weren't even going to get that far - Desmond steadily thrusting against my hip and well agitated prick. Not exactly quiet about how much he was enjoying the act of pinning me to a creaky mattress.

"Shh," I'm laughing because my God, could this get any more surreal.

It sneaks up on me, the orgasm. Not that I wasn't having a good time, just not exactly focused on getting my own rocks off in the face of Desmond's surprising greed and there the rocks went and got off all by themselves. Pursued by a slightly stubbled kiss, of all things. Desmond wedges a leg between my own, sliding the forgotten obstacle of pants completely off with a nearly violent twist, clutching at my arse as his own happy ending tightens every muscle under my fingertips.

Giving in to 'wacky English etiquette', I patiently wait for the shudders above me to dissipate and the tongue fucking me in the throat to withdraw before kicking Miles out of the bed. He even gets his towel back, after it servs its cottony absorptive purpose in cleaning up the evidence of our inter-office rendezvous.

Desmond reclines naked against the side of his cot, voicing no protest even as I shake my bedsheets out and turned off the cheap desk light between us.

A Summary of Incidents, Part I

There is beer in the mini-fridge, along with a bon anniversaire note from Lucy, who is just that much of a nerd to have actually memorized birthdays from everybody's personal files. Compared to her usual nazi lockdown on all things deemed unessential, this is a very deep and meaningful gesture that only proves to cement our friendship. So I offer to share.

Lucy declines, claiming beer makes her fat. I cradle a fresh bottle to my chest and peek in on Rebecca, who tells me that she can't imbibe on account of her mysterious pill usage. Desmond is in the kitchen by now, asking after the lager and how smashed one could get on Italian brew. Lucy reprimands him for the very idea, and I think I tear up a little when she announces Those Are For Shaun. I wait until Lucy leaves to mock Desmond, cracking a bottle open and narrating my enjoyment.

There is a witty exchange of light-hearted insults that inevitably lead to physical retaliation; physical retaliation is interrupted by Rebecca And Her Raised Eyebrows, who wordlessly retrieves her diet soda and backs out slowly.

A Summary of Incidents, Part II

Two words: Birthday Blowjob. Surprise attack birthday blowjob, which only improves the overall experience, I'll admit. Against the wall, no questions asked, relentlessly drawn-out, surprise attack birthday blowjob. Proof there is an almighty, infallible God and that He loves me.

A Summary of Incidents, Part III

Supply run with Lucy. I volunteer to pull the general toiletries-and-detergents half of the shopping list while Lucy goes on grocery, and we meet up back at the van. Among my half of the loot there is a small paper pharmaceutical bag, which Lucy immediately spots. I tell her I bought cigarettes.

Lucy reminds me that I don't smoke, but so long as we're both really that stressed, could I share? I decline, stating some garbage about athletic lung usage versus computer technician lung usage, followed by other awkward excuses, until eventually the lightbulb flickers to life over that immaculately arranged blonde head of hair and Lucy demands the bag.

The label is in Italian, but any grown woman would know a condom when faced with one. Or a box of them. Wouldn't want Desmond getting pregnant, since that would royally fuck with the Animus synching and my comment on the matter pulls Lucy out of the angry/hurt rage-spiral she looked as if she was tipping silently into. The worst I get of it is a lecture on professionalism during the drive back to base, but I make a note to be a little kinder to the boss-lady for the immediate future.