#( ix. liam prescott )

[theasteriae-arc]

five times kissed ( selectively accepting! ) / @diabolicaltendencies​ said:

❝ Five times kissed. ❞ ( for BASH & SAM )

[ also feat. august, @epiitaphs​’ sebastian, and @gunmetalgrey​’s severin ]

i.

Two sets of blue eyes fixed, unblinking, on one another. Two pairs of lungs working overtime. Sebastian can feel his pulse beating in his ears, hear the rush of blood. His ear drums ( aptly named ) are pounding. He drops his gaze to Sam’s lips, which are compressed into a tight line. His nostrils are pinched, he’s trying so hard to stay in control, but with that one flicker of Bash’s eyes, something breaks. The invisible string, growing tauter by the second as it tries to hold them apart, snaps, and they lunge for one another at the same time. Mouths ( teeth, tongues ) clash, and hands, fingers, nails scrabble against cheeks. Sam grunts as his shoulder collides with the corner of a shelf, but he only kicks the spilled packets of gauze aside as he presses forward, backs Bash up against the door, and seizes hold of his wrists.

“By your sides.”

This has been a long time coming, weeks of flirting ( sideways glances, smiles that didn’t extend past the corners of the lips ) that could only have culminated in one thing after Bash dragged him into this supplies cupboard in the middle of his shift. Sam’s not complaining, but if Sebastian thinks making the first move gives him the upper hand, he’s sadly mistaken. The other’s chest is heaving, his desperation evident in the way his hands keep leaping back to Sam’s waistband. He draws back minutely, not letting their lips touch until Bash’s palms are flat against the wood again. Then he rewards him with a trail of light, biting kisses down the side of his neck. They have both waited long enough.

ii.

Stolen: one kiss. Sometimes, if they are lucky, they can snatch fifteen minutes to themselves ( thirty is a miracle ), but today, no sooner has Bash shut the door behind him than his radio crackles with an incoming call. “Bash, this is Seb. We’ve got a shout. Get your arse back here. Now. Copy? Over.” He sighs and looks at Sam, sprawled out on the bed, before unhooking the radio from his belt and responding, “Copy. Over.” But though his cousin’s voice sounded urgent over the airwaves, he can’t resist ( before he goes ) planting one knee on the mattress and leaning forward to touch his mouth to Sam’s. He’s barely there when they’re interrupted again by a beep from Sam’s pager. The doctor puts a firm hand on Sebastian’s chest and pushes him back.

“Multiple GSWs incoming,” he reads. Sev needs him in the pit. Bash is probably going to be on the scene. That gives him pause. “Are you going to be all right?”

Bash doesn’t talk about it, and Sam doesn’t like to ask, but the scar on his back tells its own story. He’s been under fire before, and if the gunman hasn’t yet been apprehended … Even if he has, how will Sebastian react to the sight of the bodies?

“Fine.” His voice is level, and he doesn’t look concerned as clambers off the bed and straightens the front of his jacket. “Just a part of the job, isn’t it? I’ll come and find you later, if things aren’t too mad.” But what Sam doesn’t see is Bash pausing just outside the on-call room, trying to get a handle on the breaths he’d been holding so that he wouldn’t know how much shouts like this still got to him.

iii.

For someone who works in, or at least alongside, one, Sebastian’s dislike of hospitals might seem ironic, if you don’t know the whole story behind it. He’d spent months lying in a bed just like this one, surrounded by machines that bleeped and buzzed when he managed to detach the monitor from his finger, and patronising nurses who told him, recovery takes time, when they restrained his wrists and ankles to keep him from toppling himself off the mattress again or messing with his drips. Months when he hadn’t been able to feed himself, clothe himself, go to the toilet. He couldn’t walk, couldn’t stand. For a long time, he couldn’t even sit up. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling more helpless than he had ever felt before.

Years later, the feeling still pervades, but this time, he’s not the patient. He’s sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair beside a bed in the ICU, waiting to see if Sam will wake up. He was unconscious when August brought him in, his brother’s broad frame sagging not only with the weight of the doctor but under the burden of his own injuries too. He’d been patched up in A&E, put back together with glue and gauze and tape, while Sam, bleeding from two bullet holes in his stomach, had been wheeled straight up to an operating theatre.

That had been three days ago. The surgeons are trying to stay positive—his vitals are good, brain activity remains constant, his heartbeat’s strong, he’s stable, Sebastian—but his eyelashes haven’t so much as fluttered. There’s a machine breathing for him, and besides, Bash can see them beyond the glass, heads with scrub caps on bent close together, voices lowered to a whisper. They’re not confident, and he’s not leaving.

He opens his mouth to tell Sev as much when he drops in to check on Sam’s progress a little while later, but Sev just checks the monitor, checks the charts hooked over the foot of the bed, and almost as an afterthought, chucks a cheese and tomato sandwich, a bottle of water, and a packet of crisps from the canteen into Bash’s lap. “I don’t want to see you in the bed next door because you’ve not been taking care of yourself,” he says.

Bash tears open the plastic wrapper and shoves half the sandwich into his mouth at once, washing it down with several gulps of water. This is the first thing he’s had to eat in he doesn’t know how long. Severin sighs and pulls up a chair. “Slow down, if you don’t want to make yourself sick. And- No offence, but after you’ve finished that, you’ve got to at least shower. You stink.” He relents a little by adding, “You can use the showers off the attending’s locker room,” but he’s not going to back down entirely. “I’ve got some charts to finish off, but I can do those here. He won’t be on his own, Bash.”

Bash swallows, but instead of arguing, he nods at Severin. He is grateful for this little bit of direction. With Sam unresponsive, he’s felt so untethered, on the verge of a spiral, ever since the news came in. He finishes his meal in silence, then stands, brushing crumbs off the front of his shirt. It feels a little awkward with his cousin, and Sam’s boss, watching, this was supposed to be a secret, but he can’t leave without saying goodbye, and sorry, in case this is the last time.

He strokes Sam’s hair back, out of his eyes, and brushes his lips over his forehead. “Won’t be long, love. You just hang in there, yeah?” And leaves the room without a backward glance, because he knows, if he looks at Sam again, he will never be able to go.

iv.

“Sit still.” The command in Sam’s voice helps, but it doesn’t stop the string of curses that leave Bash’s mouth when he probes at the purple flesh around his ribs. Pacifist his arse. Severin had kicked him hard enough to break his ribs, and then jammed his knee into the same spot not long later. Standing had not been an option after they’d stumbled into the flat, Sam supporting most of his weight before he’d collapsed into the nearest seat, but he can’t help but fidget and wince as his boyfriend pokes and prods at him with all the impersonality of a doctor. “Bash …” There’s a quiet warning in Sam’s tone and Sebastian does his best not to squirm anymore as he finishes up his exam.

He’s rewarded, when it’s over, with a soft kiss. Sam tilts his chin up with two fingers and strokes his cheek as their lips meet. “You did good. Very good. Now, let’s take a look at your hands.” His knuckles are in almost as poor a state as the other Sebastian’s face, and smeared with blood. Some of it is his and some of it is not.

“We got called out to a car accident today,” he says, as if that explains it all. Sam closes the minuscule gap between them and kisses him again. “Shush,” he says against his lips. “Shush. The why can wait till later. I just want to get you cleaned up first, okay?”

v.

Sebastian has always loved being by the sea—salty air, bracing wind, the sound of the waves lapping at the shore. These days, holidays to the east coast also involve buckets and spades and surfboards stacked up by the door, a heap of sand-covered towels, and two boys with bright eyes and cheeks falling asleep straight after dinner. Bash carries them up to bed, tucks the covers in around them, and creeps back down to the living room, where Finding Nemo is still playing on the television.

There’s a beer waiting for him on the coffee table. He hasn’t got that far when the dog comes up, wagging her tail and nosing her way into his palm in search of treats. He laughs softly and strokes her behind the ears. “I know you’ve been fed, girl. Go on.” He picks up the bottle and takes a sip, then wanders through to the kitchen, where Sam is washing up the last of their dinner things. Sebastian sets his beer down on the nearest surface and winds his arms around Sam’s waist from behind, blond hair tickling his nose and lips as he kisses the nape of his neck.

It’s a shame that they have to go home to London tomorrow, but Bash feels comforted knowing that this house will be here for them next summer, and all the summers after that. It will get plenty of use, he is sure.