Happy Birthday was made for you

Reno hadn't really expected Rude to follow him outside. He'd just needed to get out, needed the cold bite of winter air on his skin to numb out the heat that's been rising until he's sure he's going to burst into flames, and it doesn't hit him till he's already out here that he didn't even grab any cigarettes out of his jacket pocket.

He flops back against the wall and stares at the front of Rude's truck for a few seconds as the throb in his pants becomes almost unbearable. He wonders if Rude would ever fuck him on the hood of it.... a shiver runs down his spine that has nothing to do with the cold and Reno takes another hit of the scotch in the desperate hope he can chase it away.

Rude would kill him, no, Rude would fucking destroy him if he knew half the shit floating through his head right now but out in the cold, he has a little better of a time controlling it. His dick is cold though and yet still fighting to stay erect in his pants.

Reno scowls at Rude's truck and blames it for that fact. How the hell could a truck turn him on just because it belongs to the killing machine inside? The sound of Rude's voice is unexpected and Reno rolls his head across the brick, enjoying the gruff scratch of it against his scalp, until he's able to look at Rude.

Steam rises off the larger man's shoulders from the sudden change in temperature and it only serves to make him look like a demon straight out of the darkest nether pits.

Reno's dick twitches its approval.

He chews his tongue till it bleeds to swallow another moan and goes back to resolutely staring at Rude's truck. When Rude speaks though, it catches Reno's attention enough to make him risk looking at the other man again. Rude never sounds this strained. There's a note of confusion there that's tinged with something else, something Reno can't quite place.

Worry that he's offended the larger Turk after the kindness that Rude's shown him tonight works it's way through his system and he gives Rude an apologetic look. "Rude.......I....I need.." To fuck you, taste you, be fucked, break noise ordinance laws in three counties "...need to go home, Rude. Thanks for havin' me out 'n all but I ain't fit company. Can ya....I mean...I can't drive 'n all. Can ya take me home?" Back to your place? PLEASE?

Reno mentally slaps himself and shakes his head. He walks to the passenger side of the truck and leans against the door. "Can ya grab my stuff to?" He turns to cast a pleading look over his shoulder, needing a moment alone to collect his thoughts and after Rude heads back inside, Reno reaches into his own pants to adjust himself.

He only meant to just shift the stiff flesh so it wasn't so uncomfortable but the minute he touches skin to skin, his body screams need at him and he gives himself a few short strokes to appease. He should stop now...should just get in the truck....should NOT be jacking off while leaning against that cold metal and thinking about Rude.

The scotch bottle hits the ground and Reno slaps his free hand flat against the glass, his forehead pressed to the cold window, huffing breath against it with each stroke until the window is half fogged. Little moans fall from his lips and he's so into the smell of the truck and the feeling of a hand around his dick that he doesn't hear Rude come back outside.


The frown sets deeper into his face when Reno looks up as if Rude walked in on something personal. he wipes a trickle of sweat from his temple on his sleeve and sighs. His shoulders droop a little when Reno asks to be taken home. What did he do wrong? Is he being too demanding about the game? Has he been ignoring his partner without realizing it?

Rude knows he doesn't like outings, knows he spent at least the first half of this endeavor wanting to go home, but he finds himself disappointed and guilty nonetheless. He wants to ask Reno what's wrong, what changed his mood all of a sudden, but Reno is already walking away, dismissing him as if he were a fuck in a storage room.

The terminology from his own mind clamps iron jaws into the pit of his stomach and rips, leaving Rude riveted to his spot for fear of dropping and vomiting at the slightest movement.

His fists clench, his jaw sets and he turns back inside without a word, taking deep breaths as he retraces his steps to their table and stools. He gathers their coats, tips the staff involved with their patronage and heads back to the door, idly rubbing a thumb at the hem of Reno's jacket.

The pack of cigarettes falls to the floor from the pocket, and Rude stops to regard it quietly. Reno went out for a smoke... without his smokes. Come to think of it, he wasn't patting himself down to find his pack when Rude found him, the way he normally does after a mission or on his way out the doors from work. He was distracted enough to forget them tonight.

Rude wonders if dinner disagreed with him, or if he's sick. His first instinct is to offer Reno his own couch, prepare medicines from his cabinet, but the way Reno turned his back on him outside... so confused. rude sighs and swipes the pack off the floor, intending to hand it to the man once outside.

The air is still cold, but no longer quiet. He can hear groans from around the other side of his truck. He squints- through shades and the tint of his windows, he can make out the outline of a hand on that side, and the vague shape of a head. Reno is sick. That's why he wants to go home; he isn't upset with Rude.

Relief floods the massive frame as Rude steps around to hold him up, pull his hair out of his face and... check... the mess... the world around them seems to grind to a halt. Moisture vanishes somewhat painfully from his throat as if it were coated with rubbing alcohol and set on fire.

This isn't sickness. This is the slouching form that instructed him in the fine art of billiards not half an hour ago. That is the hand that rested on his to direct his grip and show him the force with which to shoot. Those are the lips that murmured encouragement so close to his ear that the hair on his arms stood on end, that his neck prickled from the puffs of breath he can see escaping into the night now.

He can't see much more than the outline of knuckles under the protective cover of a shirttail and a shield of pants, but his imagination, breaking free of its sober restraints, happily supplies the image that's whispered through his dreams over the months: the curl of those pale lethal fingers around swollen skin, purpled with veins and the rush of need, closing over a blushed crown slicked over...

The detached part of his mind points out that now he knows why Reno is good with the grip on a pool cue- it's not that different than... and he chomps onto the tip of his tongue to tell his mind to shut up, for the sake of every god watching over them right this moment.

The moon rolls through the clouds to shake free the beginning of a night's snow, and the drifting flakes make the scene in front of him even more surreal (beautiful) and awkward (fantasy). Rude opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, flinching when a snowflake tucks itself behind his sunglasses and into his eyelashes.

He drops the cigarettes, because his fists are closed tight in the fabric of their coats (winding hair around his fingers) now, and the pit of his stomach is roiling in a much different way- a way that doesn't make him sick, but forces him to shift on his feet in startled discomfort that he hasn't let himself experience in years.

"...n... Reno-" he manages to whisper, though in a more coherent moment, he would berate himself for being too quiet for even himself to hear properly.


The fantasy is good, fueled by the burn of too much drink too quickly as it all races through his veins and strips away the last vestiges of his self control. Reno's drunk, seriously drunk, and the grip of his hand around his cock is far too good for him to stop now even as his mind supplies that this is a bad idea.

He placates it by allowing himself to think about the one thing he's been fighting all night....Rude. It's Rude's strong grip around his dick, Rude's breath on his neck and not the wind, Rude's warmth hovering over him, dangerous and beautiful. He just knows if Rude looks at him that way, the way he looked at the pool table, that he'll know what it's like to feel scared and visually devoured and wanted and....

Reno shudders hard and gasps in a cold breath. It burns at his lungs and the inside of his nose but he can't seem to keep his mouth shut all the way. He can almost imagine the other man's tongue pushed against his own and it makes him lick his lips again. His whole body is freezing at this point from the bitter air of a winter night but he's too far into what he's feeling to notice.

It's only when Rude returns that Reno's Turk training alerts him to his partner's presence. Even through the alcohol, he'd know Rude anywhere and he barely registers the larger form rounding the truck before he hears the wet smack of his cigarettes hitting the pavement.

There's a soft sound, like a distant roll of thunder and even though he can't hear what was said, Reno knows it came out of Rude's mouth. He should stop...he should apologize for jacking off against the side of Rude's truck, he should do a lot of things that he isn't and instead he finds himself looking at Rude out of the corner of his eye. The man's presence only fuels the mental image in his head of what he wants to have happening and his body responds with vigor to the added stimulation.

"Y..Yeeeaaahhhhh...." The word takes on a whole new dirty meaning as it falls from his lips in a voice too sultry to just be an acknowledgement of anything Rude might have said. It's an invitation, an encouragement, and a praise all wrapped around his tongue and half groaned out for Rude's benefit.

Reno can't peel his eyes away even as he waits for Rude to pound his head against the truck, the added danger of having just been caught seems to push him farther as adrenaline mixes with the booze cocktail he's sporting in his brain.

Rude could kill him, hurt him, hospitalize him ( FUCK him) and Reno is sure he wouldn't care at this point as long as it's Rude's hands on him somehow. "Rruuude....." Reno curls the name off his tongue like candy he wants to lick, tasting it as if it could tell him what Rude's skin would taste like.


He can't move his feet. Or the rest of his own body. Reno rivets him to this spot with one of those all-consuming eyes, the no-contact touch, even though all Rude can see of it is a sliver of blue from behind the disheveled curtain of hair. To brush that away and look fully into that expression, to watch Reno's features twist and dance in the throes of this sin- it would be like looking into the light in the center of the Void and being burned away willingly.

Reno knows he's there. Instinct tells him this, as does his faltering wellspring of common sense. The common sense suggests he get irritated- no, for an act this immoral, downright OUTRAGED- that Reno isn't stopping, apologizing, and his hands unfurl slowly from the jackets they hold, almost pulling him back to his senses, but then Reno speaks.

That voice that Reno only uses when he's fucking or picking someone up. Rude chooses this point to wonder if Reno's ever picked up a man before- he's only seen him with women. His stomach takes a turn for the worse at the thought, but fluxes between sick and excited as he watches.

The breath escapes faster now, and he can catch a glimpse of Reno's tongue (tracing his tattoos) flicking over lips frozen pink (locked on his mouth) almost as if he were wearing makeup. That's just a silly thought.

Rude doesn't have time to daydream. He has more important things to do. He shakes his head and blinks, expecting this drunken vision to vanish and be replaced with the real Reno, sitting in the truck or puking on the truck or something but he's still there, and that mouth opens again, and the siren calls.

It's calling his name in the hard, weathered voice that was up against his ear a half hour ago- centuries ago- the day they were assigned together. ("What the hell kinna name is Rude? Your mama musta hated you, huh?") It causes one of Rude's knees to buckle, and he sags against the fender of his truck.

His arms have the sense to lower and cover his groin with the coats, as if hiding desire would make it go away or make anything seem more proper in this situation- by the gods, those eyes- he knows what they're asking. It's been so long since he's allowed anyone to touch him.

He can't move his own body. It feels more like Reno moves him, with the power of thought and lust alone. The jackets are dropped to the ground over the cigarettes. His mind steps out of him, taking its alcohol with it, and watches him as he steps forward, watches as he braces his hands on the cold metal at Reno's sides, leaning but not touching.

And he's frozen for a moment before another sweet sound drives him again. He watches himself lower his head, face hovering in that ingratiating mess of red, and even though he's too far away to sense it himself, being over here and watching, he can feel the feather-soft strands caress his face and catch in his moustache.

He can smell the sweat and generic shampoo, proud of himself for recognizing it as he never uses the stuff himself. He watches with wide mental eyes as one hand goes to his pocket to fish out his keys, and the other twines itself in that red by the fingers and peels his partner off the side of his truck like a sticker from a panel.

The door, now clear, is opened, and Reno is shoved inside face first, slid over the seats until his legs can be shoved inside too, gear shift against his belly.

Rude watches, in something like fascinated horror, as he himself climbs in over that beautiful mess. He races to the door to look inside and see himself grab the hair again. He notes with interest that his tie folds in a strange shape over Reno's shoulder as he buries his face in that hair again.

He cringes, mentally, when he hears himself snarl, but that doesn't stop the desire from breaking free and drawing him back into himself. He can feel the hair on his face, smell the booze that clouds his judgment and perception as much as it seems to cloud Reno's, feel the small of Reno's back give a spine's worth of resistance against the beast Rude has ignored for years.

"Keep going," he's surprised to hear himself growl. He meant to ask what the hell the redhead was doing, but that doesn't seem to be on his agenda anymore- he checked.

He's always had a soft spot for redheads. Which is a hell of a testament, considering Reno is the only redhead he's ever met.