Disclaimer: Not mine.

Pairing: H/S

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Consume

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            "Speed." His voice passes the locker room door, enters the bathroom, "Tim."

            Then Delko's, "Tim?" As the man sticks his head into my current sanctuary.

            I've been wedged into the corner for a good hour now, not really paying attention to the people looking for me after I ran off angry.  I hear their voices.  I don't hear the words.

            "There you are." Soft and gentle, careful to avoid startling me.  Only one person would ever do that.

            "H." It's spoken mournfully, which pushes him to kneel down in front of me.  A hand lifts to stroke my cheek.

            "Sweetheart." He's taking a huge chance by calling me that in a public place, but it means more than I think he realizes, "Wanna go home?  We can stop off, get something to eat and lay around for the rest of the day." He slowly shifts, moves away slightly and never relinquishes contact with me.

            But I can't leave.  He'll see then.

            "Speed." He tugs me forward a bit, "I know you're bleeding."

            And, holy shit, he's right.  I guess I didn't realize when I cut myself that it was in so visible a place, even covered by my shirt, "Oh."
He sighs, then goes to his locker.  He doesn't need one since he's got his own office; still, there's one labeled `Caine, H.' right beside my own.  What a coincidence.

            Withdrawing a black shirt, he fingers it lovingly and I remember the night two days ago when I made him take it off me while we laid in bed.

            Pale fingers slips into that space between the buttons, touches too-sensitive skin.  A mouth clamps over mine to claim and I cannot stop the mewling protest I give when he pulls away.

            "My shirt?" He asks, dark topaz eyes filled with calm laughter.  The eye of the hurricane.

            "Smells like you." I answer, "If you want it gone, you'll have to do it yourself."

            I don't have to tell him twice.  Case and point – the first eight clear plastic circles are done away with in one smooth motion.  He kisses my chest, fumbles to rid me of the top by snapping off the last two fasteners.  His tongue leaves a line as he traces a pattern from nipples to navel.

            My mouth is open, but there is no noise.  He keeps exploring, nipping at my skin and pulls down one side of my jeans with a finger…stops completely.

            "Oh, Tim." He sits back on his heels, and there's a fingertip gliding over a new scab, "When?"

            The look in his eyes was enough to elicit a response, "Two days ago."

            Horatio leans in, licks the wound, "Juni's gonna have my head.  Should stop right here." He laughs at himself and I don't care.  So what if he tells my therapist, so what if she reminds him (none-too-gently) that doing…what we do only reinforces my `bad' behavior?

            The jeans and boxers dip lower, lower and finally disappear all together, "Please." I normally never ask.  Not for this, but I need him and I can't wait.

            Wet heat surrounds me…

            "Sweetheart." He loves to call me that. I don't know why.  He just does and I never counteract him, because it sends chills through me.

            He sinks back onto his knees and reaches for my now-bloodied gray shirt, helps me to lift it over my head.  He throws it to the floor by the trash bin, then winces when he prods at the seeping wound.  There's a first aid kit at his feet. I don't recall him having one before.  I guess it's easier to have it with me around.

            Unscrews the antiseptic, covers the crimson-line, covers it with white gauze.  Motions we've gone through a hundred times over.
He eyes me, "What'd you use?" I'm sure he's hoping that I've not used any of the broken slides from trace.  Unfortunately, by maintaining silence, he gets his answer.  There's a blink, clutching shut of eyes.

            "When'd you sew the buttons back on?" I ask, only because he's looking at me with pity now and I'd rather lust or anger or fear or *something* else.

            "Last night while you were asleep." It's instantaneous, as though he'd been expecting me to make the inquiry.  He covers me with the light-consuming fabric, loops the fasteners through the holes, before I can do anything else.

            I look down at my hands and whisper, "I hate this job sometimes."

            "We all do." He grins mirthlessly, more a frown than anything else, "And that's why we keep coming back." H brushes fingers across my cheek.
I know what he's thinking.  What he's trying to decide.  "I'm alright." My knees pull away from my body and I manage a few normal breaths, "I just…" Pausing for thought, then, "Before I left home, ya' know, I really only had Tyler.  He helped me realize I wasn't attracted to women, defended me against the other kids when I couldn't do it for myself.  Did the same for him." I shrug, remember the day I got suspended for punching some kid square in the face, "And when he died, I lost myself.

            "Like a week later, his mom came by my house, a day before I ran away, to give me this letter.  He'd written it to me the day of that last surgery.  Ty had this addiction to poets and he left me a copy of one of his favorites." I force myself to stare up at him, "The poem we found on the D.B. tonight."

            "That's how you knew it." He nods, an `Oh, fucking hell.' expression on his face, "And Tyler had brown hair and green eyes, right?"

            I nod, "Yeah." And he puts a hand on the back of my neck, scoots closer and kisses me hard.  His tongue begs entrance and the moment I part my teeth, it invades my mouth.

            When he pulls back, "If anything like this *ever* happens again, I'll send you straight home.  No ifs, ands, or buts. Got me?"

            I trace his face with my lips, "You're the boss."

            "Damn straight." He presses keys into my hand, "I have to go find Calleigh and Eric.  You go start the car."

            But as he turns to leave I let my tears fall, pent up pain ten years old dripping from my eyes.  I try to not sob, but the strangled sounds tear out of my lips.

            He's back beside me, drags me into his arms awkwardly, "Okay, Sweetheart." He soothes, rubs my back.  Kisses my scalp, "S'okay." He rocks me, and I wonder what I ever did to deserve him, "Hush now." The last of the tears are wiped away. He hugs me closer to him, then lifts me to my feet, "Let's go."

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*v* Cassie Jamie *v*

csimiami@cassie-jamie.com