#lunael

Michael, who had been a hair’s breadth away from openly snarling at Miles like a caged animal, leaned back in his chair. Just slightly. He was still handcuffed, metal linked behind his back, so he couldn’t move much, couldn’t get comfortable. His right eye was starting to go dark from where another LSPD officer had punched him on his way to the interrogation room. His lip was split. 

There was a speckled pink to his cheeks, too. “You’re fucking with me,” he muttered, squinting across the table like he wasn’t so sure.

Detective Miles Luna was too on edge to casually lean back in the metal chair, but he imagined it for a moment; sitting with his feet on the little table that separated them, half the legs of the chair off the ground, an arm behind his head. Instead he twisted his mouth, carefully molding the words he was about to say. 

“You’re a good looking guy, Jones.” Michael snorted, rolled his eyes. His blush got slightly worse.

“Now I know you’re fucking with me. This some weird torture technique you’re trying out?” 

“I’m trying out a deal, asshole.” Michael looked at him again. From just the corner of his eyes, like he couldn’t quite face Miles head on. “You and I both know you’re not the worst thing in this city.” 

“What, am I not enough trouble for you? Your stupid fucking officers chased me around the whole north quarter just to bring me in -”

“You’re plenty of trouble,” Miles interrupted, “but you and I both know you like to target the really depraved fuckers around here. Every arson case I’ve found linked to you always seems to be targeting a meth lab, a cartel setup, some gangster’s safe house. I wouldn’t be surprised if crime rates dropped in the last year just ‘cause of you.” Miles leaned forward in his seat. “Why do you do it?”

There was a long pause. Miles was used to long pauses.

“‘Ts more fun,” Michael said slowly, “when they deserve it.” They stared at each other for a long moment.

As a detective in Los Santos, Miles had seen some shit. Some truly fucked, absolutely soul-crushing shit. He had gotten intimately close with men who killed their families, fucked up their lives irreparably for a hit of something, a moment of escape. He’d stared down men who had squeezed the life out of someone and smiled when the body stopped twitching. He knew the criminals, the evil that walked the streets.

And Michael wasn’t it. They both knew he wasn’t. That if their lives had shifted, even just a few degrees, their spots at the table would be different. 

Miles raised his hand. Michael tracked the motion, but didn’t move when it came up to his cheek, the tips of Miles’ fingers brushing the swollen skin around his eye. “They roughed you up pretty good, didn’t they?” He could imagine there were more bruises he couldn’t see. Bumps and scrapes mottling Michael’s pale skin under his clothes. New and old wounds mixed together.

“I’ve had worse.” Michael let him caress his cheek. It was absolutely silent in the interrogation room, aside from their breathing. The metallic click of the cuffs as Michael shifted ever so slightly in his seat. The heel of Miles’ hand bumped against Michael’s throat when he swallowed. “You gonna let me out?”

“You gonna give me what I want?” Miles answered. He swore he saw the corner of the other’s mouth tip up in a smile. Answer enough. “Come over here, then.” 

Slowly, carefully, like he didn’t want to alarm the other man, Michael stood up, arms still pinned behind his back. He walked around the edge of the table, turning as Miles scraped his chair back to give the other room. Michael stared at his lap.

“You been thinking about this a long time?” he asked. 

“Long as we’ve known each other,” Miles offered. 

“Figured that.” 

Another moment of consideration, and Michael carefully swung his right leg over Miles’ lap, settling on top of his thighs. Michael’s eyes were big and dark under a furrowed brow, mouth parted slightly. He ducked down, and Miles could feel warm lips brushing along his jaw, down his neck. Not quite making the full connection of a kiss, but promising, promising… 

He ran his hand down Michael’s back, along his spine. Expecting to feel the metal cuffs, warmed by skin contact. Michael always ran so hot, like his fires, his explosions. It made him want to split Michael open and peer inside, see what everyone else couldn’t.

Instead, though - he felt Michael’s hand in his hair; a second later there was a fist connecting to his jaw, the open handcuff cutting along the bridge of his nose. He fell sideways, Michael hopping off of him before he connected painfully with the ground. 

Before he could shout, Michael was leaning over him, knees pressed down on his palms, crushing his fingers between his weight and the uneven texture of the concrete floor. A hand covered his mouth. 

“I liked your proposal,” Michael murmured, voice hot. His other hand yanked the keys from Miles’ belt. “But I wanna do it on my terms when your friends aren’t swarming around.” He shushed Miles when he started to wriggle under his weight. “Saturday, late, 57 Bachman Road,” he added, words heavy. Miles glared up at Michael, flexing his fingers uselessly. 

Michael slowly took his hand from Miles’ mouth. Neither spoke for a moment. 

“Good,” the other breathed out, and before Miles could come up with a contingency plan, Michael’s mouth crushed against his, and he licked sloppily into his mouth. Miles tasted blood and warmth and - before he could even think of what else Michael tasted like, how much he needed another kiss, Michael was pulling away, mouth wet and bruised. He rose up on his feet, walking backwards towards the door.