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True Player

by Te

True Player
by Te
May 3, 2003

Disclaimers: Not mine. I'm not even upset about that.

Spoilers: Much of S1.

Summary: Undercover.

Ratings Note: NC-17.

Author's Note: Two solid days of Fastlane and the gay has had its way with me.

Acknowledgments: Love to my Webrain for getting me into this, and to the Spike and Jenn for audiencing.

Feedback: Always. teland@teland.com

*

Van knows people.

It's a function of what he does for a living, yeah, but it's also the way he lives.

The way he's lived.

Once upon a time, there was a little boy who figured out early that the one person he could trust the least was the person he wanted to trust the most. And yeah, that was a lot of childhood angst, and the source of most of the reasons why he really thought he'd end his life in therapy, but... it's also not really the point.

The point is what he did with it. Some people wind up following in the footsteps of the parent who did them the most wrong, some people wind up following themselves right down into the bottle or the bong or the needle.

Van... he can just about remember making a decision one day that no one was ever going to play him again. It's not that he wanted to be on the other side of things -- the image he gets in his head is always of a kid with a fat lip giving some other poor bastard a fat lip -- it's just that it's... safer when you can see where the other guy is coming from.

So he wasn't exactly shocked to wind up in undercover, and he isn't even especially shocked to wind up here.

Here is behind about six square miles of mosquito netting -- and who the fuck buys mosquito netting for a place in the desert? -- on a bed once owned by some purveyor of urban pharmaceuticals long since put away.

On a bed next to Deaq, actually, who always seemed to wind up with these pads while he got stuck in the same damned hotel room, week after week. It didn't matter that he knows better. Deaq's cribs always looked like home, even if the man himself was still living out of a duffle bag. Something about how they were always different. The way you could tell a personality -- a person -- had been behind the design choices, even if that person was a pretentious fuck who wanted to pretend he was in the jungle.

Mosquito netting, Van has learned, feels not-quite-scratchy enough on your fingertips. Like the kind of sandpaper someone would use for really fine work.

A part of him files that away, a detail he can use should he ever wind up having to play some pith-helmet-wearing wannabe explorer.

Van laughs to himself and looks over to his right. Deaq is asleep, and probably wouldn't appreciate the joke, anyway. Or... he would, but not right now. Deaq takes sleeping seriously, in a way Van respects. He thinks maybe his partner has some nasty awakenings in his past. Two a.m. phone calls or something.

He knows he'll hear about them one day.

He knows Deaq will be pissed off about telling him, too.

He knows Deaq.

Van, in fact, knows Deaq well enough that he saw this coming. It's more than just being unsurprised, it's...

There was one point, early on, when he looked at Deaq and realized that the reason he made everything hard is that he needed it that way. He needs someone who actually feels like -- no, wants -- to do the work to get through to the contrary ass son of a bitch. Because then he can trust.

It's fucked up, and Van suspects it has a lot to do with Rosaria not following Deaq to New York, and that's even more fucked up -- who expects an eighteen your old to follow them across the country? -- and there's probably more there, but that's the way it is.

Deaq bitches constantly about the way Van pushes, about the way he uses personal information to get personal information, even about the fact that Van wants that personal information.

But he doesn't do a goddamned thing about it.

Deaq knows Van as well as Van's let him -- forced him, at times. Van knows that Deaq knows how to get him to stop. A few well-placed insults here, an honest request there. He never does, though, and Van thinks he maybe never will.

A lot depends on what happens when Deaq wakes up, but even that -- even this...

No. Deaq may be the man with the plan, but Van's the guy who makes those plans work. Because Deaq doesn't know half of what he thinks he does, especially about people.

Deaq has the world separated out into... abstractions and categories. Black men don't surf, pimps have no souls... whatever. It's all the same to him, in the end, and Deaq doesn't really care if it actually isn't.

It'd get him trouble if Van didn't have his back.

Not that he'd ever admit that.

Of course, there are times when he does defy type -- even the one he has set aside for himself -- but Van thinks that has more to do with the job than anything else. He doesn't really want to be the Black guy who knows how to line dance -- or surf for that matter. He wants to be the guy who can do those things to get a job done.

Van wants him so badly sometimes it makes him stupid.

The way he licks his lips, the way he makes looking good effortless, like style was something he inherited along with his ass. The way he fights Van and practically begs him to keep pushing, keep...

Something.

And Van's not an idiot. He knows this isn't going anywhere. It isn't as fucked up as winding up in bed with a mark, and it's a little more permanent and... okay than most of the sex he's ever had, but, well, he knows Deaq.

It doesn't matter that he kisses Van like he needs him, or that he lets Van do things that Van knows he's never done before.

Deaq has his issues, like everybody else, and that means that they won't be retiring to San Francisco anytime soon. Or ever.

If he was as smart as he's supposed to be, he'd take all that wonderful knowledge and do something with it, like claw his way out of the mosquito netting and into his clothes and out the door.

But... well. It's good here. Right now. Even sitting up awake and listening to Deaq snore in a way that -- surprise -- he'll never admit to in the morning. Even knowing that when he does wake up, it's going to be awkward, and weird, and...

Well, he's going to have to play that this is just fine with him. More, that it's something he'd do with anyone, that it doesn't have a thing to do with the fact that Deaq's the closest thing to home for Van in about a million miles.

And he knows just how fucked up that is, but shit. When you're undercover, you can't trust anybody, no matter how well you think you know them. No one but the guy who's backing you up. Who has your back and won't let you down and... shit.

See, once upon a time, Van knew full well that he'd never fuck around on the job. He had a plan and everything. He'd keep it in his pants until the job called for it to be out, or until he'd reached a place in his career where it was safe for him to have somebody to go home to.

Until it was safe to have a home.

Deaq isn't the first partner he's had. He's not even the first fucking hot partner he's had. Not even the first hot partner who it felt this good with, this natural.

But it's still different. Special, if he really wants to make himself sick. He hit a groove with Deaq so fast he missed the golden moment. He doesn't just want to spill his guts to get Deaq to spill his -- no matter how well that works -- he wants to do it because he wants Deaq to look at him, and know him, and want what he sees.

He wants to know what Deaq looks like when he comes, because Van always sucks dick with his eyes closed, and he missed it. He wants to twine his fingers with Deaq's the next time Deaq jerks him off, wants to show him how he likes it and have Deaq do it his own way anyway.

He really, really wants to get inside that ass. Not just with his fingers, or even his tongue. Deaq's ass -- scar and all -- deserves worship and debauchery. And possibly even poetry. The sheet can't hide it. All round and tight and there like an invitation to sodomy.

Van knows he probably shouldn't voice any of that quite yet. But still. No harm in looking.

Fuck.

Watching Deaq breathe and he knows what that feels like, the rise and fall, the flex of muscle and the breaks in the smooth line of it. Scars.

Van knows exactly how bad he's got it. How good, and fuck this.

Takes his cock in hand and it only takes a few strokes to get hard, a few sighing breaths next to him, and yeah, his cock is a little chafed so maybe he licks his hand. Licks it again to get it good and wet and just --

"You are not jerking off."

Van grins, high right hand in motion. "No, I'm not."

"You're shaking the bed."

Van doesn't really have an answer for that, because the sheet has slipped down right to the swell of Deaq's ass and that's just --

"Fucking Energizer Bunny motherfucker --"

And Deaq's got his hand right there, and it's just one twist to get his fingers tangled with Van's own and he can't hold in a moan. Only it's less a moan than a needy little gasp from the back of his throat. His cock is spitting pre-come and his body is in the sex groove, arching and tensing up and it shouldn't be this easy. He shouldn't be this easy.

"Do I even wanna know what you were thinking about?" But it's not Deaq's normal voice at all. It's his chest-deep gonna-touch-you voice, which makes sense, because he's got his fist wrapped around Van real tight and he's bracing himself up on his other hand like he wants Van under him.

Like Van isn't the only one hard and ready. "Just... you," he manages, and gets his other hand into the action, cupping his balls and squeezing just a little.

"Jesus, Van. You're just..." But he doesn't finish. Strokes Van a little faster. Sits up and shifts and straddles his legs so that they're face to face and the head of Van's cock hits Deaq's abs every few strokes and it's good, too good.

Has to throw his head back and cry out again. Again when Deaq strokes his free hand up over his belly and chest up to his neck and for a breathless heartbeat, two, the only things that matter are Van's cock and Deaq's thumb rubbing his throat. Up and down and stroke and squeeze --

Comes gasping and jerking, feeling like an idiot and feeling so good he thinks he could maybe just die like this, like some old man's cliche of perfection.

When he opens his eyes, Deaq is... looking at him. Really looking, like maybe Van had just shocked the hell out of him.

His dick doesn't look shocked at all, though.

Van licks his lips, some part of him cataloguing the effect and saving it. The rest of him just... wants. "Wanna do something about that?"

And Deaq kisses him, slick hand over Van's heart, pushing him back against the wall, other hand cushioning his head, or maybe just holding him still. Fuck, yeah. Van flips them sideways and pants into Deaq's mouth. He can't meet those eyes, but he can stare at that mouth and it's... fuck it's good.

"What do you want, Deaq? C'mon, tell me what you want me to do." Bites Deaq on the chin and doesn't wait for an answer, just drags his mouth down, like a kiss he can't be bothered to complete. Deaq tastes like sweat, tastes like something he doesn't have words for and Van doesn't care.

Van knows there are ways to avoid a morning after.

It doesn't feel like cowardice with his mouth on Deaq, with Deaq's hands moving all over him like he just hasn't figured out what he wants to do yet.

Van knows Deaq'll work it out. And that makes this just one more necessary step to getting what he wants.

"Christ, Van --"

He doesn't want to play anyone.

It's just the way he lives.

End.


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