Author: Jen
Rating: R
Disclaimarama: The characters aren't mine (unless it's possible to shoplift a Merton). I have nothing whatsoever to do with any BWOC people, and I'm not making any cash from this. Unfortunately.
Summary: Angst. Merton's POV. Tommy's not happy.
Author's notes: This fic is brought to you by Asda Apple'n'Cinnamon cereal bars, WH Smith's stationary department and 'Dave Pearce Dance Anthems Volume Two', which I've discovered makes for a great workout.
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I guess I've gotten used to these visits now, to the point that I more or less know when to expect them. Not tonight, though. When the door crashes open, briefly exposing the Lair (and myself) to the icy wind howling outside, I literally jump out of my seat.
I'm on my feet before the door closes, hands raised defensively (as if I could ever fight anyone off) as I wonder where I left my crossbow.
It's not a member of the undead community though. Well, technically it is, but it's friendly.
"Hey, Tommy," I breathe as I try to force my heartbeat back to near-normal.
He doesn't say a word. Barely even looks at me. Just stomps across the room, drops on to the edge of the bed and lies back with the most melodramatic sigh I've heard since... well, since the last time he did this.
So that's what he wants.
He never asks me to: he never has done. The first time it happened, he never even suggested it was what he wanted. He just never stopped me.
My heart flips, but at the same time I get this thud in the pit of my stomach. To think I actually used to enjoy this. Now, it's like I'm being taunted: like being allowed to have the glass of milk but not the cookies.
"I didn't know you had a date tonight," is about all I can manage. I haven't moved from behind the desk. I'm not entirely sure if I can deal with this tonight. Okay, I didn't have anything else planned, but right now I figure I'd rather sit here and rot than sink any further into despair.
"We didn't," he replies, not even bothering to look up. Sometimes I wonder if he ever makes a conscious decision to do this, or if he's just too caught up in his frustration to really think about what he's doing. Whatever his motivation is, though, whatever his reasoning, I know it's entirely selfish.
But I don't care.
And that's what kills me.
"Stacey stopped by to drop off some CDs she borrowed," he continues by way of explanation.
"And?"
"And she wanted to stay and talk. In my room."
When I don't say anything, he raises his head and really looks at me, for the first time since he got here. I try not to catch his eye, but he's obviously pleading with me. Even in human form, he can pull off a pretty good 'hurt puppy' look, and I crumble.
Without a word, I cross the room and kneel behind him on the bed as he sits up again.
The first time it happened, it was nothing like this. I was sitting on the bed reading when he crept into the Lair, fully wolfed out and looking like he'd been caught without pants. This was only a couple of weeks after his first transformation. He was wolfing out at the slightest provocation: in this instance, locking eyes with Stacey across the Factory. We were still getting used to the idea of being friends, so for me, the realisation that he trusted me enough to come to me for help was overwhelming.
He kind of hovered in the doorway for a few seconds, stuttering through an explanation of what had happened, until I told him to come in and sit down. Hesitantly, he came over and perched on the edge of the bed, with his back to me, and I figured he was embarrassed. I couldn't blame him. Here he was, the guy everyone at school thought of as Mr Perfect, and suddenly he had this affliction that was keeping him from everything he wanted.
I tried a couple of haiku's for starters, but when they had no effect, I decided a more direct approach was needed.
I shifted till I was kneeling behind him, desperately trying not to let my imagination run away with me. I guess it still hadn't totally hit me then that Tommy Dawkins of all people was actually choosing to spend time with me, and I was still of the opinion that I should make the most of it while it lasted. So if he came to me, all stressed out, and sat on my bed practically begging me to help him calm down, who was I to argue?
I had to take a deep breath to steady myself before I placed my hands on his shoulders, but when he began to relax into my touch I was so startled I actually forgot about being nervous. I know that sounds like a stupid thing to say, but it's true: he let out this sound that was almost a moan, and I couldn't think about anything other than the feel of those muscles under my hands.
Right now, I can't help but feel tense. I need that: I need to distance myself from him, from this entire situation. I pay no heed to the sounds he makes as I begin to knead his shoulders.
Back then, I thrilled at every noise that escaped his lips. The first time, I kept thinking, I'm the reason he's moaning like that. I knew I was only supposed to be helping him unwolf, but from the position I'd assumed, kneeling behind him as he sat on the edge of the bed, well, the second I looked down I saw exactly how tense he really was.
I knew better than to think that his physical state had more to do with me touching him than with his encounter with Stacey. Still, given the circumstances, I don't think I was thinking entirely straight. As I felt his shoulders begin to relax, I couldn't stop my hands from roving further down his back. At the time, it seemed a perfectly natural progression of movement, and Tommy certainly wasn't complaining. In fact, the lower my fingers strayed, the more he seemed to enjoy it.
He's making just as good a show of his enjoyment now, apparently oblivious to the fact that my movements are entirely mechanical. My own body still responds to the situation, of course, especially to the way his head lolls back in abandon, and to the noises he's making. My hands have almost reached the small of his back, and he shifts his legs slightly, preparing for what he knows is going to happen. It always happens this way.
Of course, the first time was a lot more hesitant. When my right hand drifted to his waist, I don't think either of us completely expected it, but when he gasped, it didn't seem like an indication that he wanted me to stop. While I continued to work his back with my left hand, my right gradually wandered a little further around his waist, not really touching, just sort of resting, hovering. Whatever description I might have chosen though, eventually there was no denying the fact that my hand was most definitely where it should not have been, yet he made no attempt to move it away.
My fingers were shaking so much I could barely work the zipper on his jeans. He didn't try to help me, but I think if he had touched me right then, in any way, I'd have gone completely to pieces.
He still makes no effort to help, but now I think it's more because he expects me to do this for him. I don't know what he thinks I get out of this. I no longer feel a thrill just from being able to touch him like this. Now that I know for sure that this is nothing to do with me, and that he'd never even think about showing me the same affection...
He knows why I do this; he has to recognise my feelings, surely. The first time, when he collapsed, breathless, into my arms and I, completely overcome with the realisation of what I'd just done to him, dropped the lightest of kisses on his shoulder...
He must remember that. Sometimes it sickens me that he can be aware that this is more than me helping out a friend and yet be completely nonplussed about using me.
That first time... the moment my lips connected with his shoulder, he shot forward, wrenching himself out of my embrace. Never said a word about it, just let me know that was crossing the line. I wasn't even aware at the time that there was a line to cross. Still, he let me know in no uncertain terms: jacking him off, yes, kissing him, no way.
He doesn't move when it's over, not now. I think, when that time usually arrives, he knows he's vulnerable. He might have unwolfed, or un-tensed, or whatever he wanted, but he's still wary. One wrong move on his part, and it'll turn into something he can't bear to think about, but knows that I want.
Dammit! Just this once, I want him to lay back, and let me hold him, even if it's just for a second.
I shouldn't be letting myself get carried away like this. I know it's not about that, not for him. As soon as he learns to control himself around Stacey, or around pretty girls in general, I won't be seeing much more of him. I'm just his plan B, and I can't express how much I resent that.
Thing is, I have no idea what he'd do if ever I said no.
Because I never want to try it. If I say no, he might not come back at all, and if being a plan B is the most I'll ever have...at least it's something.
*****
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