Author: Remnant
Email: flagitiosus@yahoo.co.uk
Summary: English winters are always unusually harsh. Rodney Skinner/Tom Sawyer slash.
Note: As yet unbetaed, so forgive the shoddiness.
The room was unusually cold, Tom thought, as he rolled his sleeves down and rubbed his hands together in an attempt to warm himself up. Winter was coming, and even the Nautilus' excellent heating system couldn't stem off the distant chill in the air. England's winter, just like the rest of its seasons, always arrived in sudden spurts, and carried with it a pinched harshness, reminiscent of the lemon curd that its people seemed to enjoy so much. Tom himself had never particularly appreciated that dessert; it was too sour for his liking.
He picked up his rag, and resumed with the polishing of his rifle. The recent spate of dampness had proven particularly harmful to all sorts of weaponry, and his gun was no exception. Just the previous fortnight, during his weekly shooting practice, he had discovered the first rusting spot at the tip of the barrel. He'd hastily begun the daily routine of polishing his rifle after that, with top-grade gun oil he'd brought with him from America. That rifle had been with him since he was fifteen, after all, and it had become even more precious after he'd left its twin on Quatermain's grave.
Humming softly, he had just finished with the trigger and was moving on to the intricate bits of the lock when he heard the footsteps, the faint vibration of bare feet slapping gently against the ground. He frowned, and set the rag gently down on the table.
"Skinner, that you?" he called out, rising from the comfortable armchair. He scowled when he didn't receive an answer. The idiot was probably up to another one of his annoying pranks, and Tom wasn't inclined to play. Not when it was so fucking cold.
"Look, I'm kinda busy right now. Go bother Mina or Jekyll or something." He remained silent and motionless against the edge of the chair, and strained to hear if the footsteps were leaving. Surprisingly enough, Skinner didn't seem in the mood to put up much of a fight. The steps were already growing distant, and he watched in mild satisfaction as the opened door was closed with a soft click.
Sighing in contentment, he was just sinking back into his seat when he felt a hand grabbing at his collar and jerking him upright. The wind was knocked out of him as the invisible force slammed him brutally against the wall, and he winced as his skull hit the steel with a painful crack. "Skinner? The hell are you -"
But Tom was cut off in mid-sentence as a pair of cold, chapped lips covered his own. He tried to open his mouth again, to ask what on earth Skinner thought he was doing, but Skinner only took the opportunity to slip his tongue inside Tom's mouth, exploring and violating the sleek, moist heat. He struggled to pull away, but Skinner stepped even closer, placing a leg in between his and laying a hand against his temple to hold his head in place.
"Close your eyes," whispered a soft, velvet voice into his ear, with a faint trace of buried laughter. Tom's eyes narrowed as he reached up his hands in an attempt to push the other man off, but Skinner was already moving away from his ear, leaving a trail of butterfly kisses down his jaw and finally stopping just below his jawbone, alternately licking and sucking on the patch of sensitive skin. His traitorous hands, at first positioned to push Skinner away, were instead curling into the man's shoulders as he panted softly into the cool air, and he could feel himself involuntarily hardening against the man's thigh. Obediently, and because it made it so much easier to concentrate on the individual sensations, Tom's eyes fluttered shut.
Caught in a haze of pleasure as a hand pulled up his shirt and stroked down his back, he almost didn't notice when another set of deft fingers tugged at his trousers and pulled down the zipper. But he was paying enough attention to the proceedings to let out a strangled gasp when he felt a hand curl around his erection, callused fingers stroking him steadily. He felt warm, almost feverish, mind blown to pieces as he moaned just once, before his hips bucked upwards and his knees buckled, and he was coming over Skinner's hand as the other man placed a steadying arm around his waist, holding him up.
His eyes remained firmly shut as he sensed Skinner leaning to the side, picking up a flannel from the bedside table and using it to wipe him off gently. He sighed softly, leaning limply against the wall, before the ghostly touches disappeared and he heard footsteps heading towards the doorway.
That was when his eyelids flew open, and he frantically pushed himself off the wall. "W-wait! You haven't told me why - why you -" And he paused, frustrated, unable to bring himself to go on.
There was a moment of crushing silence, before - "I suppose I just...wanted a little warmth." - and then the footsteps resumed, making dull, pattering sounds against the cold steel floor.
Desperately, Tom called out again. "Wait." And he stumbled blindly towards the middle of the room, hands flailing in a clumsy attempt to locate Skinner by touch. Fortunately, before he could fall from tripping over the footstool, an invisible hand gripped his left shoulder, and roughly manoeuvred him upright.
There was an attempt at a rude chuckle, but the effect was ruined by a gruff and mutely concerned "Watch where you're going, you clumsy twit."
Tom faltered, and flushed, but resolutely began to shrug out of his jacket. Grasping it by the edge of its collar with one hand, he used the other to locate Skinner's shoulders, and awkwardly slung the jacket over them.
"Just," he began lamely. "Just something to keep you warm."
Then his eyes widened as lips - now soft and slightly moist - brushed lightly across his forehead, before footsteps resumed, and the door opened and closed behind the other man.