#krampusschlapp

Jack’s bold conversational serve is met with stony silence. But he didn’t become The Wolf by giving up easily, so he launches another. “He seemed real keen for you to stay.”

Callum grunts, eyes on the road.

Not much of a volley, but Jack gamely lobs it back. “He got pretty friendly there. Whispering in your ear, petting your face. I think he likes you.”

“Of all the people in the room, you think he liked me the most?”

The sarcasm with which Jack’s earlier words are tossed back at him is impressive, given that up until half an hour ago, Jack figured Cal was a straight man in every sense of the phrase.

“I do, actually.” Jack studies Cal’s profile as he looks out the windshield, hands at ten and two on the wheel, back soldier-straight. “You guys have some kind of history?”

Cal doesn’t even glance at him. His expression barely changes. “We met once in neutral territory and exchanged sexual favors. Is that what you want to know?”

It was, but Jack is caught off guard by the straightforward admission. “Uh, wow. I mean, that’s the vibe I got, for sure. It just surprised me, because I didn’t think he’d be your type.”

Now Cal does look over briefly, brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m not human. Why wouldn’t I be attracted to other inhuman beings?”

“Not because he’s a monster, because he’s a dude. Didn’t think you were into men, especially after the witch conversation.”

“One of the witches I dated was male.”

“Oh. Cool. That’s—cool.” Jack is aware that he’s sounding like more and more of an idiot. He’s also very aware that he’s alone in a car with an armed (heh, armed, ‘cause it’s a gauntlet) inhuman being who could kick his ass without breaking a sweat. “I’m bi, too. So, no judgment.”

“Your judgment doesn’t concern me even slightly.”

Okay then. Jack was hoping for a different reaction, maybe some mutual queer support, not a reminder of just how little he means to Callum. He glares out the window at the winter woods whipping past, then decides he’s annoyed enough to keep poking the bear.

“Sorry I jumped in and messed it up, you know, if you were looking forward to moving in with your goat boyfriend.”

“What?”

“If you wanted to stay with Krampus—”

Cal gives Jack an “are-you-kidding-me” look. “No, I didn’t want to stay. Did you not see him slap my face off?”

“I, uh, well. Some people are into that.”

Cal’s expression escalates from “are-you-kidding-me” to “are-you-insane.” He says, “You didn’t think I was into men, but you did think I was into hardcore sadomasochism?”

“Sure. Maybe. Why not? You seemed pretty keen on slapping me around when we first met.”

“Because you’re the criminal who sold out Nick!” shouts Cal, finally goaded into action. He swerves off the road.

For a panicked second, Jack thinks Cal is going to crash the car on purpose, but he simply puts it in park and turns off the engine. Then he stares hard at Jack. “Why are you talking like this.”

Unfortunately, Jack wasn’t expecting the sudden scrutiny, and he doesn’t have time to fix his face. Cal must read the answer all over it. He smiles, slowly. Jack swallows.

“Jack,” says Cal. “Do you want to play Krampusschlapp?”

“No!”

Cal doesn’t say anything, but he swivels in the driver’s seat to present Jack with a full frontal view of his inhumanly broad shoulders and tree trunk of a neck.

Jack licks his lips, and amends his response. “Not with Krampus.”

Cal’s smile grows, though he still doesn’t speak. He reaches out his left arm, the one without the gauntlet. This huge forearm is hardly any less intimidating than the other one, but it is more intimate. Cal's hand pauses next to Jack’s face, close enough that Jack can feel the warmth radiating from his palm. He gets a whiff of some frosty cologne with peppermint undertones.

He should laugh, crack a joke, tell Cal to start driving again.

Instead, he presses his cheek into Cal’s hand and nods his head.

Long callused fingers immediately curl into a caress. Cal’s skin is rough; his touch is gentle. Jack digs his own fingers into his seat, shivering uncontrollably. It’s not the cold air, but the anticipation. His imagination is playing the scene out to its inevitable conclusion.

He shouldn’t trust Cal. He’s made a career out of trusting nobody. But he stares at the smile lines around the man’s eyes and he knows Cal won’t hurt him any more than he wants. It'll be a hot sting, an electrifying thrill, enough to redden his cheek and take his breath away.

Then it’ll be Jack’s turn, and he’ll reach for Cal’s smooth head (Does he shave? Or does he simply not grow hair?) and maybe Jack won’t even slap him. Maybe he’ll yank Cal’s head down and kiss him instead, just to see what he does with that.

Jack’s lips are parted and he’s breathing hard and leaning forward when he realizes that Cal has withdrawn his hand. Settling back into the driver’s seat, Cal turns the key in the ignition. They're cruising down the road again before Jack manages to emit an inquisitive whimper.

“We can’t play games while we’re on the job,” Cal explains, calm and collected.

The only thing that saves Jack from utter humiliation is a downward glance, which confirms that Cal is suffering exactly the same uncomfortable situation in his pants as Jack.

“Then let’s finish the job,” croaks Jack, adjusting himself without much discretion.