gratuitous story post
Nov. 28th, 2003 09:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gwynI always used to look at people I knew who had friends (not LJ friends, but RL friends) heavily pimp their stories on lists and everywhere else, and pout, because in my non-Buffy fandoms, that never seemed to happen for me, even from people I'd actually write the stories for. But after all the edit rounds to this Miami Vice story, I know why -- I'm crap! Craptastic crap! I feel like I can work and rework and massage this thing till the cows come home, but it will still not feel right. I don't know why, other than that it's a first effort in a fandom I haven't written before. But MV came in second in the "vote and tell me what to write" poll, and it intrigued me enough that I wanted to try. I'm still working on the experimental Buffy story, though, so don't think I violated the result of the vote. ;-) But that's turning out to be way more complex than I had anticipated. I'm nothing if not a dork.
Anyways, continuing my semi-tradition of trying to post some kind of story on my b-day, I am calling it a draw and putting this up. It's Crockett and Castillo slash, set at the end of the episode Shadow in the Dark, where Sonny goes nuts trying to solve a series of cat burglaries made by a man who's completely wacked out and is escalating in his crimes. I have no idea what else to do with it, so am posting in two parts here, since I think I'm over the line limit by a few if I try to put it in one chunk.
Eidolon
By Gwyneth Rhys
“I’m putting you on desk for a few days,” the lieutenant said, staring off past Sonny Crockett’s shoulder. Martin Castillo was agitated, the edges of doubt grating sharply against those softer comforts he offered in friendship always when Sonny was at his worst, in those moments when Sonny was no longer the subordinate.
And Sonny was at his worst now, maybe the lowest point he’d ever reached in a life of ceaseless lows. “I’m just... tired, Lieutenant. I’ll be all right.”
“I know,” Castillo muttered and walked away, knuckles brushing against Sonny’s shoulder as he walked past, shoving hands into pockets and leaving behind a warm reminder of their connection. The door closed softly and Sonny was alone, watching through the one-way glass, an animal’s face staring back at him from the interrogation room on the other side. Staring back at nothing, because nothing and nowhere were the only places that man existed in. He was trapped inside his own squirming brain, so far beyond the boundaries of reality that he could never come back. But he knew his captor was here, and that they had some fierce, primitive connection that Sonny couldn’t escape. Knew he had won something from Sonny that was forever his.
Sonny put his head down on the table, the cool metal against skin soothing a little of the fire that consumed his mind. The questions the duty cops asked the phantom madman droned on and on, his nonsensical answers blurring together, until Sonny found himself half in and out of sleep, drifting among walls covered with pictographs drawn in blood.
He woke with a start when fingers gripped his shoulder. Flinging the chair back and stumbling, he blurted, “Rico?” and rubbed a hand violently over his eyes.
But it was only Lieutenant Castillo. Staring intently, those dark eyes burning even in the inky dark of the close room. Was the AC broken in here? Sonny wiped the sweat from his forehead, skin clammy and sticky. It might have been easier if Marty could have just walked away like he was any other cop, if he would not have shown such kindness. Told him he’d gone just that step too far and punished him. Instead it was his mute belief and unswerving faith that was killing Sonny, because that was not the kind of thing he understood. Marty’s support was singular in his experience, and almost impossible for him to understand.
Castillo slid the chair back in under the table. “They took him to county. I thought you’d gone.”
Sonny looked at his watch. It was late, so of course Marty was still here; he was always here.
“You need to go home.”
The sound of his own laughter was bitter and unfamiliar.
“You were just in too deep,” Castillo said quietly, putting a hand on his shoulder and steering Sonny out the door.
“Haven’t I always been? I mean, what kind of excuse is that?”
“No excuses, just facts.” He paused. “You can climb back out.” Marty closed the door, not looking at Crockett when he spoke.
“I don’t know the way out anymore.” The desperation in his voice was embarrassing.
Castillo turned out the lights in the squad room, then took keys from his jacket pocket. “You’ll find it.” His voice was a balm; he had a way of slipping you a dose of calm through only a word or glance. That zen serenity was a perfect remedy for the turmoil in Crockett’s chaotic life.
Somehow, Sonny thought, with Marty by his side, finding a way out might actually be possible. The ghost that had dogged his every step for so many days suddenly felt farther behind, growing distant just because of his presence. “I’ll drive you home.” He got no argument.
He rode quietly in the passenger seat of Marty’s practical cop sedan, scrunched down into the seat, watching through half-closed eyes as the brilliant neon colors of the Miami night flowed by the window. The silence was a harbor, welcoming and safe and comfortable. Hard to believe he had once found it threatening.
When they reached the marina, he got out of the car and motioned goodbye. But as he turned to walk down to the slip he heard the car door close, and then Marty’s quiet footsteps behind.
Castillo watched with concern as Sonny twitched and jerked, wondering if he should wake him. The dreams wouldn’t go away soon. That he knew from experience, and he wouldn’t presume to think Sonny could just close it out and forget it like this was only another case. He’d discovered a part of his psyche that, even through all the years of intense undercover work, he had never really confronted, and it would trouble the detective for a long time. Sonny might be able to let go of the control this had over him, but he couldn’t forget. Still, it was so hard to watch him suffer and sit idly by as the shadows of his mind clouded little sanity he had left.
Crockett jerked awake, shouting “no!” Eyes narrowed, ready for a fight. Sweat covered his face and neck, his bare arms and legs. Whatever he’d seen, it had terrified him.
He’d followed Sonny to the boat because he’d wanted to at least make sure he slept, even if it took a few shots of whiskey to put him under. Encouraging Sonny’s drinking scared him more than a little, but tonight, that hadn’t mattered as much. Castillo had sat down by the desk and picked up a newspaper, while Sonny had changed into shorts and a cut-off sweatshirt. When he came back out, he lay on the couch, arm over his eyes. Neither of them had really even acknowledged the other.
The water lapped gently against the boat, no other sounds but a ticking clock or the occasional rustle of the paper. He’d known Sonny wouldn’t ask him to leave; he seemed to take for granted that Castillo would watch over him. Maybe because Sonny so often wanted to watch over him. Sonny’s protective nature had always quietly amused Castillo. And for some reason he tolerated the attempts at coddling, even welcomed them, just because no one else had ever had the cojones to try to get away with such liberties on his behalf. Or even simply to show him that much emotion.
Even as the minutes had ticked by, there had been no conversation and Castillo thought he’d fallen asleep. Then from under his arm, voice muffled by the sofa, Sonny had broken the silence. “Thank you,” was all he said before he really did fall into sleep.
Regardless of the kind of work he’d done, regardless of where he’d been and the nature of the relationships he’d forged, Castillo had never felt such a connection to someone he worked with before, maybe not even to a partner -- even Jack Gretzky. Something about Sonny brought out a tender side he kept hidden, awakened a desire for understanding -- to know and to be known. Not since Mai Ying had he grown so close to another so quickly, or cared so much. It was enough to make him laugh, sitting there, watching Sonny sleep. As if Sonny was really a co-worker anymore; clearly they’d left that behind quite some time ago.
Somehow Crockett and Tubbs had both slipped inside his life like a drug into a vein, and it was impossible now to go without the fix. He couldn’t just leave Sonny to fight the demons that plagued him alone; Castillo needed Sonny now far too much to let him suffer alone -- the possibility of losing him to the pain was too great.
Since Sonny was awake now, Castillo finally moved from his chair. He poured another whiskey and brought it over, sitting on the edge of the couch. Sonny sat up, then knocked the drink back in one gulp.
“I dreamed... He was on the other side of the glass, looking at me. I couldn’t... I couldn’t move and then he grabbed a chair and came crashing through the glass.”
“It’s over now.” Castillo took the empty glass and set it on the table. Their hands, for the length of a lightning flash, connected, the thrill crackling along his skin.
Castillo looked at him, that sensitive, open face now stricken with fear and resignation. “Is it?” Sonny’s voice was cracked, and it sounded old.
This was the thing Marty knew, the thing others could never see: that Sonny was fragile, shattered over and over, put back together so recklessly that someday he might not be able to keep all the fragments together. All the growled pals and snarled fuck offs, the wise-ass comments and bitter, cynical rants, were only masks for brokenness inside. Everything he did under that hard-edged cop routine, or as Sonny Burnett, or simply as a lonely, brittle man, was all just to hide the emptiness. He was as alone as Marty, not only because he’d lost Caroline and Billy, but because he’d let so few people back in after their loss. Both of them afraid of trying to fill the empty spaces left by those they’d lost, because it was easier to be alone.
What could he tell Sonny -- that the emptiness of this life grew easier? The loneliness became more familiar, so that eventually you didn’t even notice? That living a lie every day didn’t destroy your soul? The world they worked within had eaten away what little sense of self Crockett had left after all these years, and even Castillo, for all his belief in the man, didn’t know if Crockett could keep a grip -- unless he chose to absolve himself.
“It will be when you let it,” he answered softly. He believed Sonny had the strength to let it be over, but that was such a hard belief to impart to another. Sonny bore his guilt like a cross.
Castillo got up, went to the sink and ran cold water over a washcloth. He put it on Sonny’s forehead, sighing, and sat down again. Sonny hooked one arm behind his head, lay back, and smiled wryly.
“You’re got a Florence Nightingale streak I wasn’t expecting.”
Castillo perched on the edge of the couch, resting his chin on steepled fingertips. “Might be a good idea to see the staff counselor.” That would no doubt anger Sonny, but he had to say it. All part of being the boss.
Sonny didn’t really acknowledge the suggestion. “Do you really believe I have control over it? That guy got into my head, Marty, he got into my life. Gilmore said you had to think like him, walk like him, talk like him in order to catch him. And I almost did. How do I just cut that out? It would be like cutting out a piece of my brain.”
This was always Sonny’s downfall: how much he felt, the intensity of his emotions. Pain trapped inside, held close as though he couldn’t stand without it. But these dark emotions battled endlessly with his open and trusting side, and the conflicts might kill him some day.
Castillo put his hand on Sonny’s arm. “Let it go. Don’t let it own you.”
Sonny took his hand, wound his fingers with Marty’s, then slid the cloth off his forehead, dropping it to the floor. Something sharp and cold twisted inside him, turned with a ragged spiral inside his guts; it took a moment before he recognized the feeling as fear.
“You have to help me, Marty. I don’t know how to do it anymore.”
He could tell Sonny that it was all right, that he did know how, that this was in his blood. But maybe that’s what they both feared most about Sonny’s world -- they each wondered how far before it was too far?
Castillo touched his smooth, perfect face, expecting a flinch. Sonny probably had little experience with anything like this, not that Castillo had all that much of his own history. But there had always been something between them... intense, illogical, frightening. Something that made him forget all his cherished beliefs, as if he’d never held them in the first place. “I know you. I know what I see, and what I believe in.”
Sonny had such beautiful hands; not a cop’s hands. Manicured, gentle, soft. Lover’s hands. He reached up timidly, then moved his fingers through Castillo’s hair.
“Do you believe in the man who’s sitting here in front of you? The one who’s been slowly going mad?”
Sonny’s fear of losing himself suddenly seemed so small compared to the rising panic Castillo now felt. He could believe so fiercely in Sonny, but recoil when confronted with his affection. But he allowed Sonny to pull him close and kiss him, the silky, warm mouth graced with a faint salt tang of sweat along the edge of his upper lip. With both hands Sonny gripped Castillo’s head, kissing him harder, pulling him down onto the couch, the leather creaking beneath. He tasted of whiskey and fear.
He undid Marty’s tie with deft fingers, then kissed him some more, each one resonant with a kind of desperation that had never seemed possible. The feel of Sonny’s smooth, slick skin under his hands, on his mouth, left Castillo disoriented and intoxicated with an unaccustomed pleasure.
It was not being with another man he feared. That it was Crockett -- his subordinate, his friend -- was what terrified him. So many possible outcomes for these overtures, none of them good. Too much danger for both, professionally and personally, not the least of which was to be subsumed by Sonny’s needs. He had so often succumbed to the obligation to shore Crockett up and to care for him, but this... this couldn’t be considered a curative. Such heedless actions only put them both at risk, the way all mistakes based on passion and desire and need did. Need turned strength into weakness, integrity to corruption.
But he was weak; always made weak by Sonny. Castillo let him take his shirt off, then pulled off what little clothing Sonny wore, slowly and with such deliberate care. Sonny murmured encouragements, urged him on with guttural sounds and hungry kisses. That body, tanned and lithe and responsive under his hands, was a revelation to his long-chaste eyes. When he tentatively put his hand around the long cock, hard and ready, Sonny only said, “Yes, goddammit,” and thrashed against him. Castillo shivered with want and fear.
Marty shed his remaining clothing, limbs twisting against limbs, torso with torso. Pressed against Sonny’s body, the precious control he’d maintained his whole life eroded with each kiss, each heartbeat, and he could not pull it back.
If he got up to find something to use as lubrication, he was afraid Sonny would stop, whatever desire he’d projected onto Castillo disappearing as cooler heads prevailed. But Sonny stopped, pulled away from the kiss, and rubbed his thumb along Castillo’s lower lip, then scrambled out from under him. In a moment he was back, a tube of something in his hand, and Castillo looked at him wryly, trying to cover his surprise. Sonny touched his fingertips to Castillo’s mouth again, then bit his lower lip. “My misspent youth.”
Life gave him so few occasions to smile anymore, but it was always Crockett who could give him a reason. No matter how bad things got, somehow he always found Castillo’s better side. Somehow this seemed to fit, this off-kilter picture of a different Crockett than he’d ever imagined. Now he wondered just who was the more experienced here.
He didn’t want to assume that he was the one in control, but Sonny handed the tube to him, then shifted back underneath Castillo and onto his stomach. The look he cast over his shoulder was confident now, provocative and brave, as though in this he’d found his way to move on, found his way home. He’d pushed himself past a different boundary.
Marty slipped his hands underneath Sonny’s, palm to palm, twined their fingers together, and murmured softly, careful to ease Sonny’s fears. The strong grip urged him forward, their bodies locked together now, the way it felt like they should have been for such a very long time. Maybe, by being with Sonny in just this way, for just this time, Marty had also found his way home.
Anyways, continuing my semi-tradition of trying to post some kind of story on my b-day, I am calling it a draw and putting this up. It's Crockett and Castillo slash, set at the end of the episode Shadow in the Dark, where Sonny goes nuts trying to solve a series of cat burglaries made by a man who's completely wacked out and is escalating in his crimes. I have no idea what else to do with it, so am posting in two parts here, since I think I'm over the line limit by a few if I try to put it in one chunk.
Eidolon
By Gwyneth Rhys
“I’m putting you on desk for a few days,” the lieutenant said, staring off past Sonny Crockett’s shoulder. Martin Castillo was agitated, the edges of doubt grating sharply against those softer comforts he offered in friendship always when Sonny was at his worst, in those moments when Sonny was no longer the subordinate.
And Sonny was at his worst now, maybe the lowest point he’d ever reached in a life of ceaseless lows. “I’m just... tired, Lieutenant. I’ll be all right.”
“I know,” Castillo muttered and walked away, knuckles brushing against Sonny’s shoulder as he walked past, shoving hands into pockets and leaving behind a warm reminder of their connection. The door closed softly and Sonny was alone, watching through the one-way glass, an animal’s face staring back at him from the interrogation room on the other side. Staring back at nothing, because nothing and nowhere were the only places that man existed in. He was trapped inside his own squirming brain, so far beyond the boundaries of reality that he could never come back. But he knew his captor was here, and that they had some fierce, primitive connection that Sonny couldn’t escape. Knew he had won something from Sonny that was forever his.
Sonny put his head down on the table, the cool metal against skin soothing a little of the fire that consumed his mind. The questions the duty cops asked the phantom madman droned on and on, his nonsensical answers blurring together, until Sonny found himself half in and out of sleep, drifting among walls covered with pictographs drawn in blood.
He woke with a start when fingers gripped his shoulder. Flinging the chair back and stumbling, he blurted, “Rico?” and rubbed a hand violently over his eyes.
But it was only Lieutenant Castillo. Staring intently, those dark eyes burning even in the inky dark of the close room. Was the AC broken in here? Sonny wiped the sweat from his forehead, skin clammy and sticky. It might have been easier if Marty could have just walked away like he was any other cop, if he would not have shown such kindness. Told him he’d gone just that step too far and punished him. Instead it was his mute belief and unswerving faith that was killing Sonny, because that was not the kind of thing he understood. Marty’s support was singular in his experience, and almost impossible for him to understand.
Castillo slid the chair back in under the table. “They took him to county. I thought you’d gone.”
Sonny looked at his watch. It was late, so of course Marty was still here; he was always here.
“You need to go home.”
The sound of his own laughter was bitter and unfamiliar.
“You were just in too deep,” Castillo said quietly, putting a hand on his shoulder and steering Sonny out the door.
“Haven’t I always been? I mean, what kind of excuse is that?”
“No excuses, just facts.” He paused. “You can climb back out.” Marty closed the door, not looking at Crockett when he spoke.
“I don’t know the way out anymore.” The desperation in his voice was embarrassing.
Castillo turned out the lights in the squad room, then took keys from his jacket pocket. “You’ll find it.” His voice was a balm; he had a way of slipping you a dose of calm through only a word or glance. That zen serenity was a perfect remedy for the turmoil in Crockett’s chaotic life.
Somehow, Sonny thought, with Marty by his side, finding a way out might actually be possible. The ghost that had dogged his every step for so many days suddenly felt farther behind, growing distant just because of his presence. “I’ll drive you home.” He got no argument.
He rode quietly in the passenger seat of Marty’s practical cop sedan, scrunched down into the seat, watching through half-closed eyes as the brilliant neon colors of the Miami night flowed by the window. The silence was a harbor, welcoming and safe and comfortable. Hard to believe he had once found it threatening.
When they reached the marina, he got out of the car and motioned goodbye. But as he turned to walk down to the slip he heard the car door close, and then Marty’s quiet footsteps behind.
Castillo watched with concern as Sonny twitched and jerked, wondering if he should wake him. The dreams wouldn’t go away soon. That he knew from experience, and he wouldn’t presume to think Sonny could just close it out and forget it like this was only another case. He’d discovered a part of his psyche that, even through all the years of intense undercover work, he had never really confronted, and it would trouble the detective for a long time. Sonny might be able to let go of the control this had over him, but he couldn’t forget. Still, it was so hard to watch him suffer and sit idly by as the shadows of his mind clouded little sanity he had left.
Crockett jerked awake, shouting “no!” Eyes narrowed, ready for a fight. Sweat covered his face and neck, his bare arms and legs. Whatever he’d seen, it had terrified him.
He’d followed Sonny to the boat because he’d wanted to at least make sure he slept, even if it took a few shots of whiskey to put him under. Encouraging Sonny’s drinking scared him more than a little, but tonight, that hadn’t mattered as much. Castillo had sat down by the desk and picked up a newspaper, while Sonny had changed into shorts and a cut-off sweatshirt. When he came back out, he lay on the couch, arm over his eyes. Neither of them had really even acknowledged the other.
The water lapped gently against the boat, no other sounds but a ticking clock or the occasional rustle of the paper. He’d known Sonny wouldn’t ask him to leave; he seemed to take for granted that Castillo would watch over him. Maybe because Sonny so often wanted to watch over him. Sonny’s protective nature had always quietly amused Castillo. And for some reason he tolerated the attempts at coddling, even welcomed them, just because no one else had ever had the cojones to try to get away with such liberties on his behalf. Or even simply to show him that much emotion.
Even as the minutes had ticked by, there had been no conversation and Castillo thought he’d fallen asleep. Then from under his arm, voice muffled by the sofa, Sonny had broken the silence. “Thank you,” was all he said before he really did fall into sleep.
Regardless of the kind of work he’d done, regardless of where he’d been and the nature of the relationships he’d forged, Castillo had never felt such a connection to someone he worked with before, maybe not even to a partner -- even Jack Gretzky. Something about Sonny brought out a tender side he kept hidden, awakened a desire for understanding -- to know and to be known. Not since Mai Ying had he grown so close to another so quickly, or cared so much. It was enough to make him laugh, sitting there, watching Sonny sleep. As if Sonny was really a co-worker anymore; clearly they’d left that behind quite some time ago.
Somehow Crockett and Tubbs had both slipped inside his life like a drug into a vein, and it was impossible now to go without the fix. He couldn’t just leave Sonny to fight the demons that plagued him alone; Castillo needed Sonny now far too much to let him suffer alone -- the possibility of losing him to the pain was too great.
Since Sonny was awake now, Castillo finally moved from his chair. He poured another whiskey and brought it over, sitting on the edge of the couch. Sonny sat up, then knocked the drink back in one gulp.
“I dreamed... He was on the other side of the glass, looking at me. I couldn’t... I couldn’t move and then he grabbed a chair and came crashing through the glass.”
“It’s over now.” Castillo took the empty glass and set it on the table. Their hands, for the length of a lightning flash, connected, the thrill crackling along his skin.
Castillo looked at him, that sensitive, open face now stricken with fear and resignation. “Is it?” Sonny’s voice was cracked, and it sounded old.
This was the thing Marty knew, the thing others could never see: that Sonny was fragile, shattered over and over, put back together so recklessly that someday he might not be able to keep all the fragments together. All the growled pals and snarled fuck offs, the wise-ass comments and bitter, cynical rants, were only masks for brokenness inside. Everything he did under that hard-edged cop routine, or as Sonny Burnett, or simply as a lonely, brittle man, was all just to hide the emptiness. He was as alone as Marty, not only because he’d lost Caroline and Billy, but because he’d let so few people back in after their loss. Both of them afraid of trying to fill the empty spaces left by those they’d lost, because it was easier to be alone.
What could he tell Sonny -- that the emptiness of this life grew easier? The loneliness became more familiar, so that eventually you didn’t even notice? That living a lie every day didn’t destroy your soul? The world they worked within had eaten away what little sense of self Crockett had left after all these years, and even Castillo, for all his belief in the man, didn’t know if Crockett could keep a grip -- unless he chose to absolve himself.
“It will be when you let it,” he answered softly. He believed Sonny had the strength to let it be over, but that was such a hard belief to impart to another. Sonny bore his guilt like a cross.
Castillo got up, went to the sink and ran cold water over a washcloth. He put it on Sonny’s forehead, sighing, and sat down again. Sonny hooked one arm behind his head, lay back, and smiled wryly.
“You’re got a Florence Nightingale streak I wasn’t expecting.”
Castillo perched on the edge of the couch, resting his chin on steepled fingertips. “Might be a good idea to see the staff counselor.” That would no doubt anger Sonny, but he had to say it. All part of being the boss.
Sonny didn’t really acknowledge the suggestion. “Do you really believe I have control over it? That guy got into my head, Marty, he got into my life. Gilmore said you had to think like him, walk like him, talk like him in order to catch him. And I almost did. How do I just cut that out? It would be like cutting out a piece of my brain.”
This was always Sonny’s downfall: how much he felt, the intensity of his emotions. Pain trapped inside, held close as though he couldn’t stand without it. But these dark emotions battled endlessly with his open and trusting side, and the conflicts might kill him some day.
Castillo put his hand on Sonny’s arm. “Let it go. Don’t let it own you.”
Sonny took his hand, wound his fingers with Marty’s, then slid the cloth off his forehead, dropping it to the floor. Something sharp and cold twisted inside him, turned with a ragged spiral inside his guts; it took a moment before he recognized the feeling as fear.
“You have to help me, Marty. I don’t know how to do it anymore.”
He could tell Sonny that it was all right, that he did know how, that this was in his blood. But maybe that’s what they both feared most about Sonny’s world -- they each wondered how far before it was too far?
Castillo touched his smooth, perfect face, expecting a flinch. Sonny probably had little experience with anything like this, not that Castillo had all that much of his own history. But there had always been something between them... intense, illogical, frightening. Something that made him forget all his cherished beliefs, as if he’d never held them in the first place. “I know you. I know what I see, and what I believe in.”
Sonny had such beautiful hands; not a cop’s hands. Manicured, gentle, soft. Lover’s hands. He reached up timidly, then moved his fingers through Castillo’s hair.
“Do you believe in the man who’s sitting here in front of you? The one who’s been slowly going mad?”
Sonny’s fear of losing himself suddenly seemed so small compared to the rising panic Castillo now felt. He could believe so fiercely in Sonny, but recoil when confronted with his affection. But he allowed Sonny to pull him close and kiss him, the silky, warm mouth graced with a faint salt tang of sweat along the edge of his upper lip. With both hands Sonny gripped Castillo’s head, kissing him harder, pulling him down onto the couch, the leather creaking beneath. He tasted of whiskey and fear.
He undid Marty’s tie with deft fingers, then kissed him some more, each one resonant with a kind of desperation that had never seemed possible. The feel of Sonny’s smooth, slick skin under his hands, on his mouth, left Castillo disoriented and intoxicated with an unaccustomed pleasure.
It was not being with another man he feared. That it was Crockett -- his subordinate, his friend -- was what terrified him. So many possible outcomes for these overtures, none of them good. Too much danger for both, professionally and personally, not the least of which was to be subsumed by Sonny’s needs. He had so often succumbed to the obligation to shore Crockett up and to care for him, but this... this couldn’t be considered a curative. Such heedless actions only put them both at risk, the way all mistakes based on passion and desire and need did. Need turned strength into weakness, integrity to corruption.
But he was weak; always made weak by Sonny. Castillo let him take his shirt off, then pulled off what little clothing Sonny wore, slowly and with such deliberate care. Sonny murmured encouragements, urged him on with guttural sounds and hungry kisses. That body, tanned and lithe and responsive under his hands, was a revelation to his long-chaste eyes. When he tentatively put his hand around the long cock, hard and ready, Sonny only said, “Yes, goddammit,” and thrashed against him. Castillo shivered with want and fear.
Marty shed his remaining clothing, limbs twisting against limbs, torso with torso. Pressed against Sonny’s body, the precious control he’d maintained his whole life eroded with each kiss, each heartbeat, and he could not pull it back.
If he got up to find something to use as lubrication, he was afraid Sonny would stop, whatever desire he’d projected onto Castillo disappearing as cooler heads prevailed. But Sonny stopped, pulled away from the kiss, and rubbed his thumb along Castillo’s lower lip, then scrambled out from under him. In a moment he was back, a tube of something in his hand, and Castillo looked at him wryly, trying to cover his surprise. Sonny touched his fingertips to Castillo’s mouth again, then bit his lower lip. “My misspent youth.”
Life gave him so few occasions to smile anymore, but it was always Crockett who could give him a reason. No matter how bad things got, somehow he always found Castillo’s better side. Somehow this seemed to fit, this off-kilter picture of a different Crockett than he’d ever imagined. Now he wondered just who was the more experienced here.
He didn’t want to assume that he was the one in control, but Sonny handed the tube to him, then shifted back underneath Castillo and onto his stomach. The look he cast over his shoulder was confident now, provocative and brave, as though in this he’d found his way to move on, found his way home. He’d pushed himself past a different boundary.
Marty slipped his hands underneath Sonny’s, palm to palm, twined their fingers together, and murmured softly, careful to ease Sonny’s fears. The strong grip urged him forward, their bodies locked together now, the way it felt like they should have been for such a very long time. Maybe, by being with Sonny in just this way, for just this time, Marty had also found his way home.
