FIC: Around for the Dawn (2/?)

[nilchance]

Title: Around for the Dawn (2/?)
Author: nilchance
Rating: Adult
Pairing: CWRPS, JA/JDM
A/N: Mpreg.



It's pouring steadily when they reach the parking lot. It takes Jeff too long to figure out where he parked, a lifetime ago. He should've told the kid to wait by the building, under the awning where it's dry, but he wasn't together enough to figure that out. So the kid just shuffles after Jeff, hands in his pockets, not commenting even when they're on the third loop around the lot.

Jeff hasn't felt this fucked up since his father died. He has a breeder, a breeder. He's supposed to make a baby. Half the time he can't even make a damn roast.

Finally, he sees his truck. He swears and grabs his keys, fumbling with the extra key to the kid's chains. "Here we are, okay, sorry, sorry," he chants. He remembers to unlock the kid's door first and opens it for him. "Here we go. You need help in?"

The kid ignores him, grabs the handle and hoists himself up into the seat. Jeff hovers for a minute, fighting with some obscure urge to do the kid's seatbelt, then goes to unlock his own door. He gets in, dripping rain, and turns on the truck. The heater's a piece of shit, but Jeff cranks it up as high as it goes.

"There," Jeff says, raising his voice over the rattling. "Should warm up soon."

The kid tucks a little closer against the door. He doesn't take up much space.

"Uh." Jeff drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "I'm Jeff, by the way. I don't know if you-- Jeff Morgan." When the kid doesn't say anything, Jeff tries one last time. "What's your name?"

With a shuddering sigh, the kid turns towards Jeff. In the light of the cab, he looks even narrower. "You need to open a window."

"Excuse me?"

"It's a closed cabin and I'm in heat. Unless you want to freak out a few miles in and get us both in a car accident? Open. The fucking. Window."

Jeff cracks the window on his side, letting the rain in. He raises his eyebrows at the kid. "Far enough?"

The kid eyes it, then nods and looks away.

"Good. Now buckle your seatbelt." When the kid gives him a sidelong look, mulish, Jeff says, "I'm not getting a ticket, dude."

A muscle in the kid's jaw jumps. He buckles up.

"Thank you," Jeff says, more sweetly than necessary, and pulls out of the lot. The way this is going, it'll be a while before he gets the last word again.

By the time they get onto the highway ramp, the kid's head is dipping against the window. He's out in a matter of miles. For his bitter tongue, the kid looks surprisingly sweet in his sleep, his eyelashes heavy and his mouth slack. Jeff's hand itches to push the messy hair out of the kid's face. For safety's sake, he rolls the window down another few inches and keeps his hand to himself.

They drive and drive. It's never seemed so far from his office to his home, the little cabin on the lake so far removed from easy help. If the kid gets sick, or goes into labor, or...

They're alone out there. Jeff should worry about a number of things, starting with and he doesn't even like me, but instead he thinks, unbidden, so I have to look out for him.

Right. In addition to being about as needy as a fox with one foot in a bear trap, the kid is government property. On loan. Once Jeff succeeds in knocking him up, it's back to the breeding center to squeeze out a kid and disappear. The 21st century version of immaculate conception. He isn't some stray Jeff can just keep.

At the last exit in civilization, Jeff's rumbling belly reminds him to stop for food. He's got leftovers at the house, but he feels too goddamn raw to manage the microwave. Feeding Bisou before he falls into bed will probably use up the last of his braincells. He expects the kid to rouse while the guy takes their order, but he's out for the count, so Jeff orders enough food for three men plus a milkshake. The kid could stand to gain about forty, fifty pounds in Jeff's estimation.

By the time they pull into Jeff's driveway, the rain has died down to a drizzle. Jeff parks and turns his lights off, then just sits for a minute in the dark. It doesn't help him find his bearings. There are too many things to do; he doesn't even have sheets on the guest bed, he doesn't know if he has spare towels.

The kid's voice breaks the silence wide, jerking Jeff back. "You married?"

"No. It's just me and my dog. You're okay with dogs?"

The kid looks at Jeff like that's the stupidest question imaginable. "I'll manage."

"Right. Um." Jeff forces a smile. "Home sweet home, then. Hey, no, I'll carry that, you just... you get yourself inside."

They go in. The house is more cluttered than Jeff remembered, mail stacked up on his kitchen table. He pushes it all aside and sets the food down, starts to say something stupid about digging in, and pulls the kid's chair out instead. He wants to push the kid into it, but he looks so damn fragile, like he'll shatter if Jeff moves too fast or lets him stand too long. And he is standing, hands stuffed in his pockets while he peers around at Jeff's living room.

"Do you want something to drink?" Jeff asks. "Soda, or beer, or-- well, not beer, I guess. Milk?"

"Water is fine." The kid approaches the table only when Jeff backs away, moving sidelong like... like he's trying not to spook Jeff. He looks at the food, and the hope in his eyes squeezes Jeff's heart. "Thanks."

"Sure. Half of that's for you. And the shake's all yours." Jeff pats his own belly, the slight stubborn slope of it, and manages to grin. "I don't need any help."

The kid squints at him, but doesn't say anything. He pulls out his own chair and perches on the very edge, then begins to unpack the food. His hand lingers over each new thing, almost reverent, like the food's going to disappear on him. Despite Jeff's best intentions to give the kid a minute, he can't help glancing through the breakfast nook while he's in the kitchen. Just in case. He hasn't heard any sickening thumps or explosions, but he's strangely reassured to see the back of the kid's head when he peeks in on him.

Jesus, is he really convinced that this kid is going to explode?

He wants a joint. He viscerally needs a joint, but he manages to settle for a cold beer. It's maybe not the most polite thing, drinking in front of the guy who's governmentally mandated to stay sober, but it seems better than curling up in the corner in the fetal position. Jeff brings the kid his water, too, and settles in on the other chair to eat.

It's... awkward. Quiet. Jeff can hear the clock ticking in the other room, the swoosh of water against the pier. The kid eats fast and feral, curling his body around the food to protect it. He'll make himself sick, gorging like that, but Jeff's not his mother.

After a few minutes, Bisou comes clicking into the room. It's almost a physical relief to see her appear, her mouth parting on a 'hi daddy' smile as she starts to wag. Jeff grins back at her. "Well, hi, honey. Come around to mooch?"

Bisou trots over; Jeff sees the kid tense and grabs her collar just in time to stop her from pouncing on the new guy. He tucks her between his knees and makes her sit. She peers up at him, confused but game, and wags harder. Jeff rubs her ears and tells the kid, "This is my girl, Bisou."

The kid stares at her, frozen.

Oh, yeah, they're a match made in heaven. It's the first thing Jeff uses to gauge people, whether they do well with dogs, and the kid is stark terrified of Jeff's girl. The only thing worse would be if Bisou didn't like him.

"She's all right," Jeff says. He can't quite keep the edge out of his voice, but fuck, he's tired and at least he's trying. "She's trained, she doesn't bite."

The kid wavers, then wipes his hands on his sweatshirt and glances at Jeff. It's unfair, but Jeff likes him a little better for leaning forward to let Bisou sniff his outstretched fingers. She snuffles and kisses, polite as ever, and bludgeons Jeff's leg with her tail. Solemnly, the kid rubs his fingertips over her nose. "You're a horse," he tells Bisou. "I thought you'd be a little dog."

It's almost civil, an apology through the dog. Jeff wonders if his courtesy information includes anything on diplomacy.

"She's just big-boned." Jeff pats down her body and grabs her love handles. "She's fluffy. Very fluffy."

The kid smiles, ducking his head to hide it, and scratches under Bisou's chin before taking his hand back. After a minute of picking at his fries, he says to the table, "Jensen."

Jeff blinks at him for a second before following. "That your name?"

The kid (Jensen) shrugs and burrows deeper into his food.

"Okay. Thanks," Jeff says. "I'd hate to call you 76 for the next few months. Because, y'know. That might get awkward."

Jensen's laugh is startled, almost a cough, and he covers his mouth with his hand.

Jeff grins at him, ridiculously pleased with himself, and pushes over the rest of his fries. "Here, I'm getting full. You want to watch some TV?"

The light drains away from Jensen. Lowering his hand from his mouth, he puts it flat on the table. His nails are ragged; he bites them, Jeff realizes absently. Jensen's voice is quieter, the emotion flattened out. "I have to-- within thirty-six hours of the heat starting, I need to receive semen."

Receive semen. Who even says that? Jeff's stomach crawls, he wants to pull back, but he can't. "So when did you start?"

Jensen shifts around in his chair, shoulders drawing tight. "Sperm counts are higher in the morning. The CFC recommends a wait time between breeding to allow for recovery in the donor. Tomorrow morning before 11 or tonight are both fine, but you should consider your options."

"My options," Jeff echoes, like an idiot.

"Yes. I can wait upstairs while you think it over--"

"Jensen." Using his name seems to hit Jensen like a slap, breaking him out of his spiel. Jensen glances up through his eyelashes, and Jeff holds his eyes. "Does it hurt? Waiting?"

Jensen's blush drowns out his freckles. He scoots back from the table. "Is there a guest room?"

It's not about linens or inconvenience; Jeff wants Jensen in his bed. He wants to come upstairs and find him there, to have the ghost of Jensen's scent in the sheets. Jeff feels heat rising in his own face now and looks away, clearing his throat. When he gets up, he nearly trips over Bisou. She retreats with a baleful look.

"Sure, yeah," Jeff says, with an ease he doesn't feel. "Let me show you where you'll be sleeping."

Jensen keeps his distance as Jeff gives him the quick and dirty house tour, and Jeff can tell why: Jensen's scent is up, sharper than before in the close quarters of Jeff's house. Jeff can smell his arousal, smell him, knows from its sweet salt that if he pushed the jeans off Jensen's narrow hips he'd find the tip of his dick wet with want. He'd find Jensen's balls riding high and heavy, all full up.

He walks Jensen past the guest room without a word, his pulse pounding behind his eyes. He's sure that alone gives him away, it sounds so loud, but Jensen doesn't comment. Jensen lets Jeff lead him to the bedroom.

The sheets are still rumpled, his quilt kicked to the foot of the bed. It feels like Jeff's life is on display: the glasses sitting on his nightstand, the book he's reading (a lousy mystery that puts Jeff out faster than sleeping pills), the picture of his mother, the painting hung over Jeff's bed because it matches the colors of his quilt.

"Here we are," Jeff says, a lightness he doesn't feel. "Make yourself comfortable."

Jensen turns and looks at him, his expression hard to read. "This is your room."

"Yeah." Jeff has no excuses for this, but it's not enough to make him send Jensen down the hall to sleep alone. "It's my room."

Jensen stares another second, then says inexplicably, "You'll have trouble getting the smell out of the sheets."

The smell. Jensen's scent, the one that's driving Jeff crazy. Jeff huffs out a laugh. "I'm not gonna forget it anyway."

"Oh." Jensen looks away, at the bed. His throat works as he swallows. "Okay."

"Okay," Jeff says. The word lifts a weight off his chest, so he says it again. "Okay. Um. I'll be back. I need to let the dog out and close up things for the night. Do you need anything?"

Jensen takes off his shoes. Deliberate motion, like a kata. He lines them up at the foot of the bed. His feet are bare and shockingly pale. "No."

Jeff hovers for a minute. There has to be something else for him to say, something, but he can't think of anything else.

He goes while he still can.

Comments

[acidquill.livejournal.com]

This is twelve different kinds of awesome. Srsly.

...

And apparently all my intelligent comments have gone out the window, so I'll just be over here. Waiting to see what happens when Jeff comes back.