une couronne farouche

The rain starts when he’s halfway down Gower St but that’s okay because Peter Grant enjoys the small things in life like knowing that when he gets home he can have a hot shower, get changed, and truly leave the grime and smoke of London behind him and the afternoon he’s had to boot.

He also enjoys the appreciative looks he starts getting after a while – which is about the moment he realises he’s wearing a white t-shirt which is now effectively see-through. Brilliant. Well, at least this proves he’s got plenty to feel good about – not that Nightingale hadn’t already made him feel that way several times over this morning which, well, might account for somewhat more of his high spirits than he’d like to admit.

The thing with him and Nightingale was pretty new but it was anything but tentative, at least once he managed to get Nightingale into bed or pushed up against a wall or, generally, in some way engaged in acting on what they both wanted rather than thinking about it.

They’d ironed out a lot of the things which came of thinking about it, too, but Nightingale still occasionally looked at him with a frown that seemed to Peter to say that he was considering breaking things off. That, in Peter’s opinion, was definitely not okay. It was also definitely ridiculous given the fantastic sex they were having. And Peter is damn sure he’s not the only one who thinks the sex is fantastic, judging from the way Nightingale had arched and moaned underneath him earlier and pulled and rocked and— okay, Peter does not need to be thinking about this right now and giving people other reasons to stare at him in the street.

The walk back to the Folly really does feel longer than usual. Possibly because of the rain but also because he’s now trying not to get a full-on erection while being gaped at by UCL students out of the windows of the university buildings he passes. He tries to reassure himself with the fact that he can always build wanking off into his showering plans – not that that particularly helps with his attempts to think unsexy thoughts so that he doesn’t wind up guilty of some form of public indecency given that, yeah, his jeans are clinging almost as tightly as his t-shirt by this point even if they are, mercifully, less see-through.

He actually has the situation largely under control by the time he walks through the front door of the Folly. He seriously contemplates whether he ought to take off most of his clothes right away and drape them over the conveniently placed statue of Isaac Newton in an attempt not to drip an obvious trail upstairs and thus avoid annoying Molly but stops short, just taking off his shoes and socks. He hopes that might at least mitigate the damage and avoid treading quite so much water into the carpeting.

He thinks he’s being quiet enough as he walks upstairs barefoot that there’s no way Molly will catch him and frown at him until he takes off his clothes and lets her exchange them with a towel (which is what he somewhat horrifyingly expects would happen if she caught him); but, when he passes the reading room, he hears his name and stops short. It’s Nightingale, of course, calling his name from inside. And Peter is really hoping this isn’t a case thing, not some urgent matter which will require him to leave the Folly post-haste, cold wet clothes sticking to his skin be damned.

He stands in the doorway of the reading room, waiting for Nightingale to say whatever it is he’s going to say. He lets his mind snag on the thought that maybe, just maybe, this day is about to take a turn for the way fucking worse and that those brooding expressions he’s caught on Nightingale’s face are going to turn into a big damn talk leaving Peter standing there, shivering and humiliated in his wet clothes, listening to how this has all been one big mistake.

Only Nightingale has got up out of his chair, folded his suit jacket over the back of it, and then wordlessly closed almost all the gap between them. And this, in Peter’s estimation, doesn’t seem like the opening move of a break-up talk.

Nightingale stops short, just a foot or so away from him and there’s this look in his eyes that’s hungry and heavy. He only looks away for a second and that’s to glance out of the window and confirm that Peter’s being utterly drenched is not due to anything other than the charming English weather.

When his eyes return to Peter, it’s not Peter’s face he seems interested in. Nightingale gaze fixes on Peter’s chest. Peter knows he must be able to see through the fabric not only to the curve of muscle but also to the way his chest is rising an falling, a clear sign that he’s breathing heavier than he ought to be.

Nightingale says “May I?” and even waits for a response before stepping into Peter’s personal space which really shouldn’t be a good kind of infuriating. And then there are Nightingale’s hands, running over the wet fabric, tracing over already erect nipples. Nightingale kisses him, open-mouthed but slow enough that it’s almost cruel, his hands still on Peter’s chest.

Peter isn’t sure whether he takes a step backwards first or whether Nightingale steps forward but he finds himself with his back against the wall pretty soon with Nightingale’s torso pressed against his, Nightingale’s hands hooked with his thumbs just inside the waistband of Peter’s jeans at the back. And, god, this is better than having a wank in the shower.

The distance between their chests increases a a little when Peter presses his erection against Nightingale’s thigh and Nightingale rocks his own hips in against Peter’s proving that, sure, Peter may appreciate the small things in life but not all the things he appreciates are small.

He grins against Nightingale’s mouth, then uses the break in the kiss as an opportunity to move his mouth down to Nightingale’s neck, bringing up hands to loosen his tie and fumble open the top two buttons of his shirt. Nightingale gasps at the feel of Peter’s cold hands against his neck but sighs when Peter runs his mouth over the skin, breathing warmth back over it, and letting his hands quest downwards over Nightingale’s clothes.

There’s a drop of water beading down the side of Peter’s face and he’s still pretty fucking cold but he takes a moment to appreciate sight of Nightingale, when Nightingale steps back and his own shirt is practically soaked through at the front where it’s been pressed against Peter’s. Peter is pretty damn sure there’ll be wet hand prints on the back, too, where his hands have been and on his suit trousers from when Peter had groped his arse with not a lot of sophistication. (It had been worth it for the way Nightingale had bucked his hips. Sophistication be damned.)

Between the way his shirt clings unevenly to his chest, the loose tie and the mark forming on his neck almost of a colour to match his kiss darkened lips, Nightingale looks utterly taken apart. Peter grins and uses the opportunity of the distance between them to pull Nightingale’s shirt out from where it’s tucked into his suit trousers and start to unbutton the rest of the shirt. Nightingale stands there somewhat obediently, like he knows that Peter’s enjoying the view, but he doesn’t stop entirely, loosens his tie the rest of the way and drops it to the floor like he’s throwing down a gauntlet. He meets Peter’s eyes just as Peter finishes on the last button and makes sure he’s got Peter watching as he shrugs out of the shirt and closes in on him again.

Their hips grind against each other through wet jeans and quickly moistening suit trousers and Peter’s starting to think that this is some new kind of torture when Nightingale’s hand presses against the top of his abdomen and then undoes the button of his jeans, sliding down the zip and then reaching with a bizarre ease, given that Nightingale is definitely not looking at what he’s doing, inside the drenched cotton of Peter’s boxer shorts (which, yeah, okay, so it’s not all rainwater at this point).

Nightingale’s hand is warm and skilled and Peter feels like his whole body arches embarrassingly. But he thinks he’s still got control, sort of, mostly, enough that he’s going to be able to unbuckle Nightingale’s belt and reciprocate except for how Nightingale breathes against his ear that he knows how he can really warm Peter up, tongue darting out quick and sure to run along the shell of Peter’s ear. Then Nightingale is kneeling in front of him, both hands carefully peeling down the layers of wet denim until Peter’s jeans are around his ankles. And then the boxer shorts, too.

Peter just watches, trying to brace himself against the wall with his hands until Nightingale takes hold of Peter’s wrist with one hand and moves it so it’s cupping the back of his head. There is a brief moment of eye contact, a gleam in Nightingale’s eye and then, oh fuck.

Nightingale’s tongue is warm and a moist and his hand on Peter’s balls is, well, a really nice touch if Peter says so himself and he’d grin at the double-entendre if it weren’t for the fact that higher brain function isn’t exactly a thing he is capable of right now, especially not when Nightingale seems pretty damn determined to make sure that every inch of Peter’s cock gets in contact with the warmth of his mouth. And, fuck, if Peter doesn’t know that Nightingale is capable of it.

Peter doesn’t consciously make the decision to let go, either of the wall with his other hand or of his inhibitions, but let go he does. He gasps and moans and tightens his fingers in Nightingale’s hair a little more than he means to which, based on Nightingale’s response, isn’t something he ought to be sorry for. His hips buck more than he ought to let them but that is, apparently, another thing that Nightingale doesn’t exactly object to.

He tries to hold on longer by closing his eyes and tilting his head back and not thinking about the way Nightingale is moving his tongue, or the hollowed out look of his cheeks when he sucks but, well, it might not be embarrassingly fast but Peter comes pretty damn fast in the end.

Peter feels a certain sort of sadness about the fact that he isn’t going to get to feel the warmth of Nightingale’s mouth around his cock anymore except, well, some of that is made up for by the way Nightingale visibly swallows and by the way he gets up after and kisses Peter, runs his tongue over Peter’s, tasting of him in a way Peter never really thought he’d enjoy except for how, when it’s Nightingale, he apparently really does.

They kiss for a long time and Peter’s reaching for Nightingale’s belt buckle when their mouths finally part and there’s a pause where their faces are inches from each other and Peter says “I can’t believe I’m still wearing this shirt,” knowing it’s stupid and not the right thing to say, even as he says it.

But Nightingale smiles at that, sounding more measured than any man has a right to as he says, “Get yourself out of those jeans and we’ll see what we can do about that.” And Peter does, struggling and inept for a moment and pulling up his boxer shorts as he does so because, well, he has some sense of propriety at least. And then Nightingale takes his arm and pulls him toward the nearest bathroom. And it looks like Peter’s going to get that hot shower after all and Nightingale, too.

It’s only later when they’re reluctantly getting dressed and Peter is finally not soaking wet anymore, for better or worse, that he gets up the guts to ask the question which has been bothering him on-and-off since this whole thing started.

“You don’t regret this, do you?” He asks, going for casual and missing by a mile.

“No,” Nightingale says. He meets Peter’s eye as he responds, looks a little caught and shocked and says, “How could I regret this?”

Peter looks down and then up again. He’s just pulled a t-shirt on – blue this time with Fabricati Diem, Pvncti Agvnt Celeriter on it which Nightingale definitely frowned at the first time around but doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to now.

Peter stumbles through saying “Only I-” and doesn’t know how to say that the way Nightingale looks at him sometimes makes him think that Nightingale really does regret it.

“Do you?” Nightingale asks, as though he’s aware that Peter’s come up against something he’s unable to express. “Regret it?” Nightingale adds, his look somewhere between flirtatious and concerned. And then, when Peter doesn’t answer, Nightingale sits down on the bed next to Peter with something like a heavy air of resignation and says “Because I fear you might and that you wouldn’t feel you had any recourse to,” a pause and the slight uncharacteristic gesture of a raised hand, “call the whole thing off, given the nature of our professional relationship.”

“You really think that?” and Peter thinks it’s probably not the right moment to climb onto Nightingale and press him back into the bed but he wants to and he can’t stand the distance and the ridiculousness of the idea that he might want to call time on this, so he does it anyway, good sense be damned. He even pins one of Nightingale’s hands and manages to provoke a grin when he says, “I promise you, if I ever stop wanting this, I’ll let you know but, right now, right here, I want this and I want you and I really, really don’t want to stop.”