#being playful/glib/exaggerating something??

[secriden]

There's something so wondrously momentous about Style only saying his "I love you" now, when he realises that all the secrets he was keeping from Fadel are already laid bare.

He says this a significant time after Fadel has said his (and, in the context of the wider narrative, after Kant and Bison) and for the character we have seen as prone to glibness, exaggeration and flippancy with his words, that feels incredibly intentional.

Because this confession was the only truth Style had left to give.

Fadel is finally done playing his (poorly thought out) game, done with his (already cracking at the seams) charade, done with giving Style more opportunities to pull at his heartstrings with his earnestness lies.

Fadel is demanding the truth, and tells Style exactly what truth he wants to hear.

And the thing is, there is truth in this: Style's motivations at the start were wrapped up in a deception specifically targeting Fadel.

I know we, as a fandom, harp on about Style "doing all that for a car", but something I would like us all to revisit is what Kant actually says to Style when he first asks Style to "hit on" Fadel:

Kant: You need to help me. You know I don't usually feel this way about someone. And then shortly later, after Style refuses: Kant: Hey, hold on. (Kant grabs Style's hand.) What do I have to do to for you to help me out? Should I pay you?

(Please forgive my inability to gif and watch Style's reaction to this.) Style is visibly surprised and intrigued. Kant seems to be serious about this request, and I think Style decides to test just how important it is to Kant by asking for the one thing he knows Kant will not give up.

Just look the expressions on Style's face. We didn't have the context of knowing Style back then as well as we do now, but this is the look Style gets when he's throwing out a challenge (to Fadel), when he's trying to ferret out some new insight (from Fadel), when he wants to see how someone (Fadel) will react to whatever outlandish (provocative) thing he's said or done.

And when Kant agrees, Style even checks again if Kant is serious about going through with it -- and it's this that convinces Style of the sincerity of Kant's request.

Yes, the car was a factor, and yes Style also wanted revenge and to humble Fadel, but at the centre of Style's motivation has always been a plea for help from a friend.

In episode 1: Kant: Under one condition. You have to make him head over heels in love with you. Style: I'll do it. Not just for the car, but someone like him needs to be humbled by someone like me.

But in agreeing to help Kant, Style really was damning Fadel to play the fool because Fadel's feelings (his heart) was a commodity that Style was fully willing to play with back then.

And there are aspects of truth here too. When Kant tells Style about Fadel (and Bison) being hitmen, Style decides he's done and wants out. Kant reasons that it's more dangerous for Style to break up with Fadel now, because it would look suspicious, but crucially this isn't enough to convince Style.

So Kant, once again, makes the plea to friendship and to his need for Style specifically, and it is this that causes Style to finally cave.

But in doing so, the things that Style agrees to are:

Kant: Work with me. Help me get more information about them. Once we get that, it's done. Captain puts them in jail, and we walk free.

So while Style may not be directly working with the police, he is working with Kant who he knows is working with the police. By proxy, Style is involved with the police, but in front of the empty pool, he makes it clear to Fadel just what that involvement actually entailed:

Style: Kant asked me to take you out so you could leave him alone and he could freely investigate. Fadel: What did he get out of it? Style: I don't know! That ain't my business! All I was asked of is to take you out.

And this, too, actually is true! Since finding out, Style has literally not discovered a single thing that could be remotely useful to the police investigation:

He's found out that Fadel likes to gym at night. He's found out that Fadel uses tenderloin in his burgers. That he runs in the morning before going to the market. That he attends a grief support group.

But these were all things Kant also already knew and could have given the police if it were in any way useful for the investigation.

Even his attempts to get Fadel to confess to his "other job" (something the police also already know) were clearly in service of wanting to save Fadel and/or convince him to give up the life of crime in the hopes that Fadel wouldn't have to be sent away from Style to prison.

But the truths are tangled up in misunderstandings and Fadel's own assumptions now; and also further tainted again by Bison's own hurt over Kant's betrayal. And Fadel literally cannot see -- because his eyes are filled with tears [see: @thisautistic's gifset + my tags] (good grief, Joong, the actor you are) -- the honesty Style is bleeding from the marrow of his bones.

Because the truth is that along the way Style has also found out that Fadel is a good older brother. That Fadel is still hurting and bleeding inside because his parents were murdered. That Fadel wears his favourite bands' make up in secret because he cannot bear the thought of other's judgement. He's found out that Fadel misses Style, wants Style, and hates himself for it. That Fadel is afraid to love. That Fadel is acutely aware of his own darkness and cannot comprehend an existence that would not involve someone (Style) rejecting it. That Fadel does not believe that 100% trust is possible, but that he will get himself drunk so that he can offer Style as much vulnerability as he can physically make himself give.

Because the things that Style did find out were all the ways Fadel's heart is soft and tender and precious and worthy worthy worthy of all the love Style has to give.

And Style will stand firm on this truth because this is the only thing he has left to give Fadel.

Because Fadel knows, now, all the ways Style was unworthy of his trust, but crucially has not figured out the most important truth:

Because in a very significant and profound way, Style is wholly deserving of Fadel's trust. Because in all the ways that Fadel has ever known he should want, Style actually IS worthy of his trust. Style knows the truth Fadel is hiding, knows what this man is capable of, knows the danger of being in his arms, knows the likely nonexistent future Fadel has to offer him -- and wants him anyway. -- Quoted from my meta post on the "One day, I'll be your 100%" line.

And as I alluded to in the tags on @yinwaring's insightful post: Style fully embodies the belief he espouses; because even in the face of a gun to his head and Fadel threatening to kill him if he will not admit that this, too, is a lie, Style refuses to give Fadel anymore dishonesty.

And this is because Style knows that the truth matters; now more than ever.

Because Style has had days to grapple with his worry after Fadel's disappearance. Style has had a week's worth of checking the diner only to face the regret he feels about not handling things differently. Style has had to recognise the terror of thinking he had lost something he never even knew he wanted in the first place.

And while Fadel had his realisation back in episode 4, Style never had to face this until Fadel vanished from his life and left a gaping hole in the shape of the absence of Fadel's smile.

So if this is what it takes, if this is the penance that Fadel demands of him, then it is a price Style is most happy to pay.

Because Fadel does not realise is that Style, too, now knows what it means to lose a love worth fighting for.

And in the war Fadel now feels compelled to wage against Style (because, yes, that's definitely still going on), the one damning thing Fadel has failed to recognised is that his only true weapon was leaving Style behind.

Which is why Style has already won. Not because Fadel's walls have crumpled again or because they don't still have a ton of things to talk through and work out (they really, really do), but because Style has already been stripped bare (and I mean this literally, like we all recognise THAT was the reason why Dunk is only in boxer shorts in that scene, right?? Like, I know we were joking about it, but seriously, that was so very intentional and a visual representation of Style being both stripped and, most importantly, freed from the lies he felt compelled to tell Fadel) and this means he has nothing holding him back.

And Fadel can wield his gun and his words and his anger and his hurt, but Style will die on the hill of the truth that he knew and understood and chose to love Fadel anyway, and saved this last confession for when he knew he could tell Fadel the truth without any lingering deception; and when the time is right, when Fadel is finally ready, Style will be there to welcome him back with open arms and, without any hesitation, an open heart.

[writteninsunshine]

Hard To Say I’m Sorry - Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester - SFW

Title: Hard To Say I’m Sorry

Author: Keith

Fandom: Supernatural

Setting: The Impala, Some Freeway

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester

Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester

Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Romance

Rating: T

Chapters: 1/1

Word Count: 2040

Type Of Work: One-Shot, Started as a Ficwip Drabble Challenge

Status: Complete

Warnings: Gay, Slash, Yaoi, MLM, Sibling Incest, Brother/Brother Incest, Brocon, Homophobia Mention, Hate Crim Mention, Dental Trauma Mention, Dating But Fighting, ficwip drabble challenge

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything!

Summary: Sam was being a baby about something, but Dean didn’t quite know what.

AN: Hey guys, it’s me again! Just thought I ought to say, if you want vague updates and to talk to me more, I have a writing Tumblr, too! Twitter is Sunshinecackle, and Tumblr is Writteninsunshine! I also have a writing Discord that is currently pretty dead. xD If you want it, please contact me on Twitter!

Welp here’s to another Supernatural fic from me, but not the right one. xD I was doing a drabble challenge on the Ficwip Discord, and this one really stuck out to me, and so I wanted to add to it. The original drabble was paragraphs two to seven and the italicized Dean if you were wondering!

I hope you guys enjoy it! I am having a lot of fun with these boys right now.

Supernatural Fic Masterlist

Hard To Say I’m Sorry

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The silence was unbearable. Knowing that Sam was so upset with him was unacceptable. Of course, Dean handled these insufferable emotions in the only way he knew how.

"You don't have to be such a baby about this, you know." Dean huffed, glancing to his left out the window. Yep, more corn. It was almost as if this state was ninety percent corn, and one percent the single gas station they'd passed fifty miles back. Sam's silence, his furrowed brows, and firmly frowning lips told Dean he was still definitely in trouble, "Sam--"

"Dean, just shut up for a minute." Sam snapped, squeezing his eyes shut. He could feel a migraine coming on.

"Ohhh, sure, Sam, like I haven't been shut up for the last ten miles!" Dean snorted, fidgeting with the radio. 

"Why don’t you shut up for the next ten, too?” Crossing his arms as he adjusted his legs, careful not to kick Baby, Sam rolled his eyes, “Dean, who’s being the baby about this?" Sam asked, incredulous and clearly irritated, not bothering to turn away from the window.

"Uh, you? You're still pouting--" Dean was pretty sure that whatever his offense was, it wasn't even that important.

"I'm not pouting!" Sam snapped, the car falling silent save for Baby's purring. A solid ten minutes passed before Dean reached over, patting his brother's thigh, a silent concession of guilt. Sam turned to look at him, his eyes softening before Dean gave him an insufferable grin. Smartass.

"You're real cute when you pout, you know." Batting his eyelashes, an exaggerated pout worked onto Dean’s face, and he only laughed when Sam smacked him in the chest.

"Dean!" If this was his way of apologizing, Sam was half tempted to just get out and walk again. So much of the time, he didn’t want to just walk out as he had so early on in their journey together. Then, there were times like this, when Dean was absolutely intolerable. “Can you just leave me alone?!”

“Oh, come on, Sammy!” Exasperated, Dean flopped back against his seat and drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. Baby didn’t mind, but somewhere deep down he felt bad. Maybe later he’d get her a treat, wipe down the interior or something. “It’s not like it was a big de--”

“Do not.” Unlike Dean’s playful glibness, Sam’s voice was hard, cold, even, and Dean found himself sighing. Emotions, his or otherwise, were not his strong suit. Dean was the action, the one who did something about how he was feeling. Talking about these things always made him uncomfortable at best, and pissed off at worst. 

“What? Sam, talk to me.” As much as he didn’t want to, as much as he’d rather let Sam get drunk and hand him a pair of pliers for some impromptu dentistry instead, Dean knew better. Sam wouldn’t even hit him to get his emotions in check, much less something more violent. While Dean handled things by not handling them, Sam wanted a solution. Usually an emotionally charged solution, much to Dean’s chagrin. 

Or, at the very least, to get his chest clear so his head could take back over. To be fair, Sam suspected that Dean didn’t think with his brain, either. At some point, part of it had disengaged and went for a joyride to his fists. It was the only logical explanation to Dean’s ‘punch first, ask questions later, maybe’ policy.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Sam murmured, voice quiet and distant, “I just wish you’d think before you spoke.”

Oh.

Oh.

That explained a lot if he were honest. But it also didn’t explain a single damn thing. What had he said this time to piss Sam off so much? It was almost like he’d dropped the last straw; Like he was finally going to lose him, had finally pushed him away for good. The sheer amount of unease kicking up the bile in his stomach was leaving him feeling antsy, flighty, and nervous. 

In another ten seconds, if he didn’t say something, or if Sam didn’t, he’d probably crank some Metallica just to calm his nerves. Instead, however, Sam reached over and pushed the radio button to turn it off, shaking his head. Apparently, that look had entered Dean’s eyes, distant and far away, and Sam knew what that meant. This time, it was his hand to land on Dean’s knee, and he rubbed it gently.

“You’re so stupid sometimes.” Sam smiled slightly, sadly, and sighed through his nose. “I really can’t believe you sometimes.” 

While Dean’s first instinct was to say something snarky, to take offense, his glance over to see Sam’s soft expression made his heart skip a beat. All he managed was a thin line with his lips, and Sam nodded a little, holding up his free hand.

“I promise I mean that in the best way possible. But, uh… It’s just…” Glancing back out the window, Sam slumped down in his seat, even more, nearly choking himself on the seatbelt, “I know how you are, Dean, but it still hurts when you…” No, the way he was going, Dean would just get offended, “When we have to get two beds, or you tell people we aren’t…”

“Together.” Dean finished when Sam trailed off, and he bit his lip, eyes back on the road. That made sense, he’d been very adamant about flirting with the motel owner’s daughter that morning after the owner had said something about him and Sam. When assholes made comments, Dean went on the defensive. Maybe it was his way of coping, Sam figured.

Truthfully, Dean wanted to protect his little brother. If people knew that they were together, two men, that was bad enough, but knowing they were also brothers? That would get messy fast.

Dean knew there were monsters in the world, things that went bump in the night, but nothing scared him more than the cruelty of regular people. Sam had been abducted once, had been taken to become part of an awful “game”, and Dean still hadn’t forgiven himself. He wasn’t about to let anything like that happen to Sam ever again.

“Dean?”

“Huh?” It suddenly dawned on him that Sam had been talking. The look on his face, when Dean took a sidelong glance at him, told him he’d asked a question. “Sorry, Sammy, lost me for a second. What?”

“I, uh, was asking if we could just do one bed next time.” Sam’s hand withdrew from the other’s thigh and he set his jaw for a second, “Forget it, though, it’s fi--”

“No, Sammy, we’ll do it tonight. Just… Promise me you’ll stay in the car while I get the room?” Dean’s voice wavered a little and he cleared his throat, absently reaching for the radio. His hand fluttered for a moment, hovering over Sam’s thigh again for a moment before falling back to his own lap. For another five minutes, Metallica soothed his frazzled nerves, before Sam turned it off again.

“Are you ashamed of me?” He asked, voice barely loud enough to be heard over Baby’s engine. Dean slammed the brakes on, squealing and swerving to pull off the highway to come to rest on the shoulder. Turning in his seat, he gave Sam the most confused, insulted look he had in his entire arsenal.

“What the hell, Sam? Of course not!” The yelling made Sam flinch, and he turned away, leaning into the door.

“You’re always so… I don’t know. Like this when people bring it up when people ask about it, or look at us together...” Gesturing vaguely at his brother, Sam couldn’t find it in himself to look at him, but Dean reached over anyway. Startling Sam with how quickly he’d shed his seatbelt, Sam looked over as his chin was taken between the elder’s thumb and forefinger. His lips parted in a question that didn’t get a chance to leave them before Dean was leaning in, kissing his lower lip. 

After a moment, the kiss moved up to properly claim them both, and Dean worked his mouth against Sam’s in slow, careful open-mouthed motions. His hand moved up to cup Sam’s cheek, and the hopeless romantic in Sam leaned into it, pushing up into his brother’s touch, melting into him. The center console between them made it a little difficult, sure, but he was managing it well enough. At the very least, Dean didn’t seem to care about it right now, and that spoke volumes for his feelings for his brother.

By the time Dean had nearly crawled over it to land in his brother’s lap, he began to pull back, breathing picked up and eyes half-lidded. Sam sat in awe of the beauty and power of the man in his lap, pinning him to the leather seat beneath him. At least he’d sat up from his earlier sagging.

“I love you, Sammy, you know that, right?” Dean asked, and Sam nodded a little dumbly, “I worry about you… About someone wanting to hurt you over this. Over… Us.” Voice quiet, their lips still close enough to brush against each other, Dean leaned in to lick at his lip again. “I don’t want you to end up dead because of me.”

“I won’t,” Sam replied sternly, whispering as his breath fanned out over the other’s mouth. Moving his lips to Dean’s jaw, and then his neck, he craned against his seatbelt before simply unbuckling it. “I can handle myself, Dean.”

“But what if you can’t?” There was always that chance, and he sucked in a deep breath, holding it. Sam had been making him focus, do these stupid breathing exercises in order to remain calm. They helped, but his pride would never let him admit to it.

“You’re going to help, you always find me. You’ll do whatever you can to help me, and we both know it.” Sam murmured, and the bold confidence that Sam had in him had Dean’s heart swelling. Tugging Sam back in for a kiss, he nodded.

“You’re right, Sammy. You’re never going to shake me, that’s a promise.” Chuckling lightly, he slowly started to slink back to his seat, offering his hand when he was settled and buckled back in. Sam followed suit, holding Dean’s hand and rubbing his thumb over his brother’s knuckles. Dean glanced behind him, pulling back onto the empty freeway with a smile on his lips. 

Right now, he could have taken on the world if he had to, his heart soaring with the closeness they had shared.

“Love you, too, Dean.” Sam offered absently, licking his lips before sighing softly, content, “When we get to the next motel, I think we should spend some time together before we do things.”

“We got work to do, Sa--”

“Please?” That little lilt to his voice had Dean giving in almost immediately. He didn’t even have to look at Sam to know that he had those puppy dog eyes on, a pout to his lips. Maybe he hadn’t been pouting earlier, but he certainly was now.

“Yeah, Sammy, we’ll do whatever you want.” Sometimes, Sam could be so manipulative, but Dean always gave in; It kept it going, perpetuating the fact that it did, indeed, work. It never worked on their dad, but Dean would drop everything to do whatever Sam needed from him, as much as it sometimes bothered him.

“Sounds good to me, Dean. You ready?” Reaching over, he hit the radio again, letting Dean sing his heart out as they sped towards their next destination. Baby’s rumbling crescendoed with the music as Dean punched it, sending them flying down the road. This was his own manipulation, as he managed to get Sam clutching his wrist, leaning his head against his arm to avoid looking at the blurry landscape around them. A little closeness on his own terms was never a bad thing.

The speed limit began to slip down, down, down as they found another little rat spit town, and Sam, mindful of Dean’s worries, sat up straight and let go of his hand. Leaning his arm out the window, bent at the elbow, he bobbed his head to the music, missing Dean’s thankful smile.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

AN: Alright, there we have it! I hope you guys enjoyed this, I know I did. It was a lot of fun to play with! Here’s to more Supernatural fics coming from me!

Prompt: Tongue In Cheek

[xlittlelionhamiltonx]

Pleasure in the Job, Perfection in the Work

{{ for @prodigyofprinxetoncollege / @whatisitlikeinyourfunnylilbrains }}

“You’re being ridiculous.” Alex doesn’t need to look up to see the exasperation on Aaron’s face, the annoyance that is probably only getting worse because he doesn’t look up.

“Abby, I’ve got to finish this piece by tomorrow morning, or Eliza is going to have a complete meltdown, and some snot-nosed kid who usually nukes the coffee will get their mediocre piece of mindless garbage published just so the paper can keep a leg up on the competition. So, please, just give me one more hour.”

“An hour?” His voice is quiet and flat, and to anyone else, he might seem to be indifferent to the request. But to Alex, who knows him so well by now, there is an evident bitterness in his tone, one that tells him he is treading close to disaster.

“Yes, Aaron. Just an hour of work, and then I’m all yours.” He speaks as though the answer is rehearsed, his fingers moving across the keyboard, the light reflecting off of his reading glasses as he watches the screen.

“Alexander.” Ah, shit. His fingers strike a wrong key or two, and Alex forces himself to focus straight ahead, but he knows that this tone, coupled with the use of his full first name can mean nothing but trouble.

“One hour will become two, and two hours will become the entire night. You can afford to take a short break.”

“Abby -”

“Stop.” And then Aaron is standing right beside him, so close that Alex can feel his body heat, which has probably gone up in direct correlation to his rising temper. Alex’s fingers finally stop moving, and he looks up slowly, meeting Aaron’s dark eyes and stern expression.

“I am quite literally taking a break from running the entire goddamn country so that I can spend a few hours with my boyfriend. The Post isn’t going to reprimand their most celebrated journalist because of one late article.”  Childishly, Alex wants to pout and accuse Aaron of belittling his work, but logically, he knows the man to be right.

“Aaron - a writer’s work is never done. Everyone knows that.”

“Really?” Aaron raises his brows, and, for a moment, Alex thinks he’s really pissed him off this time, but then there’s a shift in his expression so slight, it takes even Alexander a second to pick up on it. Before Alex can protest, Aaron is twisting his body, reaching behind him and shutting the laptop in one quick movement, Alex jerking his fingers away just in time.

“And now?” Aaron crosses his arms over his chest, looking down at his boyfriend with a pleased little smirk. Alex stares up at him in a moment of disbelief, the shock on his face slowly changing into a little pout of defiance. He leans back in the chair, tilting his head back and studying Aaron’s face before reaching up to tap his index finger lightly against his temple.

“Still working.” He winks at Aaron, unsure if he should take cover or not as he watches the smirk fade from his lips. Aaron huffs an annoyed breath, looking across the room at nothing in particular, lips pressed together as he shakes his head silently. But then, just like before, that little gleam reaches his eyes again, and he’s turning them right back to Alexander.

“Okay. Fair enough.” He nods once, dropping his arms to his sides and stepping between Alex and the desk, forcing him to push his chair back a little, allowing Aaron to stand directly in front of him. He continues to watch him curiously, trying to suppress a smile when Aaron reaches out and very, very carefully takes the glasses from his face, folding them up and twisting around again to set them on top of the computer, before glancing back at Alex.

“How about now?”

“My vision doesn’t need eyes to be seen.” Oh, he’s pushing his limits, and he knows it, too, can see it in the way Aaron purses his lips so subtly. But they are both as strong-headed as men come, and Alex knows that this game is nowhere near being over.

“You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?” Aaron’s soft voice is almost affectionate when he speaks, and before Alex can answer, the man is suddenly dropping himself down onto his lap, straddling him like a playful teenager, all traits that make him the President of the United States almost entirely forgotten. He leans forward, his nose nearly brushing Alex’s he’s so close, and then his hands reach up, fingers carding through Alex’s thick, dark hair, his voice growing quieter yet when he speaks again.

“Now?” Alex swallows down hard, but Aaron already knows he’s taken the lead, knows exactly how to brush and caress and tug at Alex’s hair in a way that makes him putty in the shorter man’s hands. But, goddammit, he isn’t going to give in that easily. He has a deadline, after all.

“Still working.” He whispers his reply, smiling at Aaron, licking his lips a little as he silently forbids himself to be so easily manipulated.

“I see.” Aaron matches Alex’s tone, nodding thoughtfully, glancing away for just a beat. Then he turns back, pushes his hands further into Alex’s hair, shifts his body forward a little more, and closes the almost non-existent space between them, soft lips meeting Alexander’s own with familiarity and purpose, fingers massaging his scalp in a manner that is all but second-nature to him now. When he finally pulls away, Alex is left breathless, but smiling, and he chuckles quietly, wrapping his arms around Aaron’s waist and bringing him closer to his chest.

“Come now, Abby - you want me to do more work than I already have. Not that I don’t prefer this type of labor.” He kisses Aaron’s curved lips again, pulling away and taking a moment to bury his face into the crook of the man’s neck, another kiss nestled against the soft skin there before he sighs heavily.

“Just an hour, sweetheart. I promise.” He winces at the way Aaron’s muscles tense in his hold, and before he can stop him, he’s pulling away and rising up from Alex’s lap. He reaches out, gripping Aaron’s hand and tugging on it gently, looking up at the man with an apologetic expression.

“Don’t be upset with me. You know I’d rather spend my time with you.”

“Don’t presume to know how I’m feeling.” Alex smiles a little at that, and Aaron’s hard expression softens just a touch. He sighs, shaking his head again and giving Alex’s hand a little squeeze.

“Well - if you’re going to be working, I may as well do the same.” Alex grimaces a little at that, but Aaron pulls away, and he doesn’t try to stop him.

“I’m stepping out to make a phone call. I’ll be back.” Alex wants to apologize again, but he knows it’s useless at this point. Instead, he watches as Aaron grabs his cellphone from the pocket of his jacket that’s draped over an armchair, already dialing a number as he opens the door and steps outside.

“Alex, you are an idiot.” Alex mumbles quietly to himself, but takes another deep breath, reaching out and picking up his glasses again. Within seconds, he has the computer open and is typing away, lost in his work by the time he hears the door reopen after what can’t have been more than fifteen minutes. Half-expecting Aaron to occupy himself with something else, and wanting to finish as soon as possible, he doesn’t bother to stop what he’s doing.

“My work is done, and that means that yours is, too.” Aaron’s voice in his ear causes Alex to jerk just slightly, his fingers falling from the keyboard as he turns his head to look at his boyfriend in confusion.

“Excuse me?” He shakes his head, glancing down at his watch, brows furrowed as he looks at Aaron again. “Abby, that was hardly twenty minutes. I’m not -”

“I’ve gotten you an extension.” Aaron’s little smile is almost devilish, and Alex can’t do much more than blink up at him, mouth slightly agape as he considers what Aaron is telling him. And then Aaron is reaching over him, closing the laptop again before spinning the chair Alex is in so that he’s facing him.

“I don’t… I already told you, Aaron - this piece is going to be published tomorrow, whether I write it, or someone else does. I can’t just -”

“Alexander.” Aaron’s no-nonsense tone shuts him up like no one else in the world can, and when he reaches down for his hands, Alex gives them to him willingly, allowing him to pull him upright and tug him immediately toward the bed. His fingers are making quick work of Alex’s already loose tie and buttons, and by the time they reach the foot of the bed, he’s already pushing the dress shirt off of his shoulders.

“Abby.” Alex speaks against Aaron’s lips when he kisses him again, and he’s torn between laughing at the absurdity of it all, or being genuinely frustrated with Aaron’s apparent dismissal of his worries.

“Abby, what’s going on?” He puts his hands on Aaron’s hips, leaning back to look him in the eye. Aaron, looking as poised and certain as ever, raises one brow, eyes bright and expression one of absolute, exaggerated innocence.

“I told you. It’s been handled.” Alex does laugh this time, a breathy little sound, and he almost whines when he shakes his head at the explanation.

“Aaron. What does that mean?” Aaron smiles again, sitting down on the bed and pulling Alex down with him. And, dammit, he is just a man, and when Aaron gets pushy like this, it feels like a crime to say no. But he’s practically on top of him now, palms flat against the mattress as he holds himself over his body, hair getting in his face a little when he attempts to fix his lover with a serious look.

“Aaron. Spill.” Aaron sighs softly, shrugging his shoulder as best as he can manage in his horizontal position.

“A matter of National Security may or may not cause the DHS to call for a mandatory evacuation of The Washington Post and any adjacent buildings, beginning tomorrow morning, and going until, what I can only assume will be long after usual office hours have ended. What luck, hm?” Alex stares down at Aaron, searching his face for any of his usual tells, but seeing nothing other than a certain level of glibness that says all he needs to know about the lengths this man would go to for a victory.

“Dear God, Aaron, that is an utterly, beautifully, breathtakingly irresponsible abuse of the power of your office. And all just to get laid.” Alex laughs again, both surprised and impressed by the unforeseen measures he had taken.

“Relax - it’s an unscheduled and very, very thorough drill that’s required in the training regimen for all of the agency’s rookies. The Post will get a notice first thing in the morning.” He reaches up and pulls Alexander’s glasses off again, shifting so he can lay them carefully on one of the bedside tables. Alex continues to stare down at him, an almost proud grin on his lips when Aaron’s eyes meet his again.

“You are truly something else, Mr. President.”

“Well, a president’s work is never done, after all. Everyone knows that, Alex.”