“Arctic Monkeys?” he asks, flipping the record over and surveying the back. Don smiles.
“Enjoying yourself?” he replies, raising an eyebrow from his slouched position on the black leather couch. Don props his bare feet up on the glass coffee table and takes a slow swig from his soda can, watching Adam raptly. The young lab tech’s body moves like the ripples in the Pacific Ocean as he bounces on the balls of his feet, hair flopping over so fringe brushes against his eyes; his lips moving soundlessly as he reads the title of each album as he passes it, fingertips sliding over the faded, deteriorating covers. So beautiful, Don thinks.
“Hn. Oooh!” Adam snatches an album from the rack, eyes raking across it as he turns it over in his hands. “Radiohead! Nice choice, man.” He reluctantly puts the album back in its place; quickly flipping through more albums. “R.E.M., U2, Whitesnake, Johnny Cash,” -and he snickers there, pausing, before he continues- “ZZ Top, Richard Wright, Jackson Browne, Emerson, Lake & Palmer…”
Don’s already zoned out, eyes mesmerizing every curve and contour of Adam’s body that is visible. It’s not often that he gets to see Adam this exposed, and Don plans on taking full advantage of the situation. He’s only in plaid boxers and a threadbare t-shirt, hair ruffled and unkempt, and Don wonders if it’s possible for someone to look so breath-taking like that. He shakes his head of the thought, taking a rather large gulp of his soda to compensate for his rebellious thoughts. It’s not right to think of his guest like that, even if he is undeniably sexy.
Adam’s apartment had to be fumigated for unknown reasons, so he had desperately needed to stay with someone. No one else at the lab had the space on such short notice, but Don had come to the rescue and offered his spare bedroom. Adam had beamed at him and said he’d be over later with some of his things. And sure enough, an hour or two later after Don had gotten home, Adam appeared on his doorstep with a duffle bag and another unintelligible bag under his left arm. When asked about it, Adam simply blushed and said it didn’t fit in the duffle. Don didn’t press the matter, but he’d been tempted to go see what was inside the bag.
A sudden shrill beeping from somewhere in the condo startles Don out of his reverie and he jumps, successfully sloshing cola on his wife-beater. “Ah, crap,” he grumbles, standing up and padding out into the kitchen to clean up his mess. Adam is behind him within a minute, peering over his shoulder as Don wipes hastily at the brown liquid on his white tank top.
“Smooth,” he says, his voice raspy with sleep and Don leaps a mile into the air.
“Jesus, Ross,” Don snaps, cheeks darkening as he pants and looks at Adam. “Sneak up on someone, will ya? Scare the shit out of a guy.”
“Sorry,” replies Adam, holding up his hands and snickering. “I think that was your alarm clock, by the way.”
Don’s eyebrows furrow as he stares at Adam quizzically, before the beeping from before starts up again and Don remembers the alarm clock. “Oh, yeah, right. Damn, have we been up all night? Crap, I’mma be tired all shift today…”
Adam looks sheepish. “Sorry. Couldn’t sleep so I came out to find something to do to kill the time… Guess I ended up keeping you up to…”
“Nah,” mumbles Don, shaking his head as he tosses the damp paper towel into the trash can. “I coulda went to bed, but I stayed up with you. ‘S all good, man.”
Adam beams at him, and Don thinks that maybe pulling an all-nighter wasn’t too bad.
-x-
It’s the fourth day in a row he’s up at 4am with Adam, the younger man intently studying his music collection. It had started with his vinyl records, and it’s progressed to his CD collection as well. Don’s gone into work as sleepy as all hell each day this week so far, but not once has he regretted staying up with the lab tech. He’s sprawled on the couch this time, feet dangling over the edge with his head cradled on his left bicep as he watches Adam across the room.
“Red Hot Chili Peppers, awesome. Live, Stone Temple Pilots, Chevelle, Fuel, Journey, Van Halen…” Adam’s fingers stop over one particular CD case and he pulls it out, looking it over intently. “Bobby Darin?” he asks after a moment of silence. Eyes flick up to find Don’s, and when they connect there’s a spark that ignites throughout the detective’s veins, his blood boiling and his skin tingling.
“Yeah. What can I say? The man’s a genius,” Don says, waving his right hand in a vague gesture. Adam smiles at him from the floor beside the TV.
“No, I’m a genius; Bobby Darin is like, a…,” –he waves his arms around wildly– “you know, an… er, miracle worker, or God or something.” Don laughs softly and Adam’s smile widens. It’s quiet again, Adam silently watching Don with Don doing the same to him. The CD case rests in Adam’s hands immobile, his fingers brushing over the surface lightly. “You’re really something else, Flack,” he says finally, and Don knows—he just knows—he’s blushing, and shit, that means Adam probably knows too.
“Oh?” is all he can manage to stutter out, and great, now he’s stuttering too, but Adam doesn’t seem to notice and if he does he isn’t saying anything about it.
“Yeah,” Adam confirms, and Don’s speechless for the rest of the night.
When they go into work four hours later, Adam’s whistling ‘Beyond the Sea’ and Don has a huge smile permanently attached to his face.
-x-
“Julie Andrews?” Adam asks, incredulous, as he holds up a worn CD case. Don blushes.
“My mom gave it to me when I was younger,” he mumbles, turning his face away from Adam’s laughing eyes.
“Aww, and you kept it. That’s cute, Don.”
Don’s a second away from retorting when his brain slams to a halt and he realizes that Adam just called him ‘Don’. He’s not sure why, but he’s having a hard time wrapping his mind around that fact, and for a majority of the rest of the night he’s quiet, intently observing Adam’s restless form cross-legged on the floor in front of his CD rack.
“Adam?” he calls, and the younger man looks up immediately, hand frozen in mid-air with a CD case in it, the words Bing Crosby in bold white letters along the spine of the case.
“Yes?”
“You know it’s the seventh night we’re up at 4am, looking over my music collection.” Adam’s cheeks tint pink and he nods. “You seriously still can’t sleep? Is it your bed? Coz if it’s uncomfortable, you know I can like, sleep on the couch and you can take my bed or something. Or is it just my place? Coz I could totally understand if you—“
“—No, no, it’s all fine, Don.” And there it is again: Don. It sends a rumbling shiver down Don’s spine and he squirms.
“Then what’s up? Coz this ain’t normal, man.”
Adam shrugs, turning back to the CD case in his hand.
“Hey,” Adam looks up, just like before, “hey; are you sure you’re alright?” Don tries to lessen the concern that’s coating his voice but he can’t, the overwhelming need to make sure that Adam’s okay, just corroborate that everything’s alright sweeps through him and he wants to be down there, holding Adam so bad his chest throbs.
“Yeah, man,” replies Adam, and he swallows thickly before turning back around, setting the case in its place.
This time, Adam slinks off to his room and shuts the door, meaning that they’ll actually get about three hours of sleep tonight.
Don lays awake on the couch until his alarm clock beeps from his bedroom.
-x-
It’s 4am again, and Don is the only one in the living room. The only light on is the dim glow from his fish tank, the blue scattered out across the carpet and outlining odd patterns on his legs. He sits silently on his couch, head against the back of the couch, hands lying motionlessly in his lap. The only sound is the gentle, low hum from the refrigerator in the kitchen and the honking, whirring, chit-chattering of the city outside the windows. Don stares up at the ceiling even though he can’t make it out in the darkness, tracing invisible shapes in the velvet blackness with his eyes. He hasn’t seen Adam since he got home tonight, and quite frankly he’s scared that the tech has already gone back to his own apartment. Don would like to think that he’d leave a note or some sort of acknowledgement dealing with his whereabouts, but he might have assumed Don would figure it out; and that’s probably the whole predicament, anyway.
They haven’t spoken since a couple of nights ago, when Adam went to his room and Don stayed up the rest of the night. Don’s almost positive that something is going on with Adam, something he’s been totally blind to see, and Adam was probably trying to tell him or show him what it was, and of course, Don missed the signs so now Adam’s avoiding him. And with Don’s luck? Adam probably feels the same, and the detective just missed his chance. Don swears softly under his breath, shifting his feet on the carpet. How unfair would that be? He’s been pining after Adam for a while, and just when Adam’s trying to say the same thing, he’s blind to all notions and misses his big chance? Not unfair; his luck.
He’s so far into his own head, brooding about lost times and hopeless feelings that he fails to hear a door squeaking open and creaking shut, light footsteps padding down a carpeted hallway and a figure emerging on the other side of the room.
“Don?”
Nothing.
“Hey, Don?”
Still nothing. Don grumbles inside his head, bringing his hands up to his face and then wearily wiping down it. Adam approaches him soundlessly, sitting down on the couch beside him. Don doesn’t notice the depress in the leather of the couch, but he does feel the warm hand that touches his upper arm.
“Hey, man, you still with us?” Adam’s voice floats into his senses and he swears that this is totally unfair. Because now his mind is going to play tricks on him and taunt him with the person he wants so bad, but can’t have. However, the hand on his arm is surprisingly life-like, and Don decides that if his mind is going to be a cruel, heartless bastard, he can at least try and enjoy this.
He pulls his hands away from his face, opening his eyes and looking up into shimmering blue ones. Adam stares back, concern evident on his face.
“Don, dude, you doing okay–“
But he doesn’t have time to respond, because Don reaches out, right hand cupping Adam’s cheek, thumb stroking the skin before moving to lightly skim over his bottom lip. Adam’s breath hitches, his body tenses, but to Don this is all just a painful fantasy anyway, so he believes it’s because Adam’s anxious, not shocked. The tech’s eyes follow Don’s hand as it progresses back to the nape of his neck, fingers curling to find purchase, and their eyes lock, an electric jolt shooting through Don all the way to his fingertips and toes, and suddenly he has no idea why he’s hesitating because this is his fantasy, so he can do whatever the hell he wants; and because it’ll end as soon as their lips touch, so he might as well make the most of this.
Adam has the chance to take a deep breath before Don makes his move and leans up, angling his head to the left and now their close enough that breaths are mingling, Don’s eyes sliding closed as he presses forward to end this deliciously sinful fantasy. Their lips bump, gently, and Don misses Adam’s eyes drooping closed as he applies tentative pressure, just enough that should make this daydream go away.
And this is one hell of a good dream, because the feel of Adam’s silky-soft lips beneath his own is all too real, the young tech’s hands gripping his shirt and bicep tightly feeling just on the side of believable, and the hot breath flaring out to mix with his through Adam’s nose is strikingly similar to what it would feel like if he was doing this in reality…
It’s when Adam moves his lips against Don that the detective realizes this is most definitely not a dream, or a fantasy, but rather very real, and before he can panic and pull away, Adam’s swiping a tongue over his bottom lip, and how can Don resist that? He parts his lips and the younger man’s tongue flicks inside, tracing the roof of his mouth, his teeth, his cheek before meeting his tongue in a sensual twirl, lips molding together uncannily, and Adam’s fingers are sliding down his bicep to grip his right shoulder, the hand in his shirt bunching it up further as Adam hauls Don as close as physically possible. Don flexes his fingers against the nape of Adam’s neck, gripping it firmly as he slides his left hand into the tech’s hair, entangling his fingers in the tousled brown strands as he fights determinedly for dominance in his own mouth. He wins, chasing Adam’s tongue back into its owner’s mouth. Breaths start to come shorter, shallower, harsher, losing control as fingers scrabble for any sort of material to try and pull away, lips retreating only to crash back together passionately, bodies humming in pleasure along with the refrigerator in the kitchen. A sharp nip at a bottom lip, hands sneaking underneath a wife-beater to feel heated, pale skin; strong hands gripping hips and yanking into a better position, those same hands sliding under a threadbare t-shirt and dipping below a waistband, tracing along flushed skin, pointed hip bones, and a delectable dip that Don wants to place kisses all over. But that’ll come later, he hopes.
They finally manage to pull themselves away from each other’s lips for a minute, Adam resting his forehead against Don’s as they catch their breath. Both cheeks are flushed, Adam’s eyes glazed, Don’s gleaming, their hands trembling slightly, body overheated with desire and neither wanting to stop. Don stares up into Adam’s eyes, searching for any sign of regret or remorse or something to let him know this was all a bad idea, but he finds none. Adam smiles shakily, and Don returns it full force.
“I couldn’t sleep because you were in the other room,” he mumbles against Don’s lips. “’S why I kept coming out here at 4am, hoping to see you each time. It was the only chance I got to spend time with you, y’know, outside of work and all…”
Don leans up and gives him an Eskimo kiss, which Adam blushes lightly at. “I’m glad I kept all of my old records, then,” he says, turning his head to give Adam a soft peck, which rapidly turns into more as they go at it again.
This time, when his alarm clock goes off, Don is in his bed, content, with a warm and boneless Adam Ross sprawled out across him, threadbare t-shirt clinging appealingly to his torso.
Don gets up wordlessly, heading into the kitchen to make coffee for the both of them. By the time the coffee is done, there’s a luxurious aroma wafting around the condo, and Adam materializes in the kitchen doorway, rubbing his eyes to try and wipe the sleep out, his hair messy and flopping over one eye, t-shirt rumpled and twisted tightly to one side. Don smiles over the rim of his coffee mug.
He thinks it might be time to get out the record player.
