[FIC] Darkness Behind the Lamp Part 1/2

[makingamochrie.livejournal.com]

This fic is a promise I made to mizzmeowwhen she gave me her yummy LT caps.  She wanted makeup sex with Colin on the bottom.  It turned out longer and darker than I anticipated, so this is part one. Read this first, please.  The second part will be up later tonight.

To save some confusion, the characters aren't named until halfway through this part.  The introductory character is Colin--I gave several hints in the first paragraph, but I wanted to make sure you knew who was who so you wouldn't get confused.

This is for you MizzMeow.  With my thanks and affection.

TITLE:  Darkness Behind the Lamp 1/2
AUTHOR:  makingamochrie
PAIRING:  Colin/Ryan
RATING:  PG for this part.  It steams up in the second part
DISCLAIMER:  As with all the stories on here, this is AU in that we're writing about real people.  In this case, neither character is married.  Ryan is mostly gay, and Colin is mostly bisexual.  That doesn't really have anything to do with anything, but just wanted to say it.  It is a work of fiction not intended to hurt the principles.  Don't own, don't sue.
AUTHOR'S NOTES:  See above

Humming softly to himself as he approached the door—and his voice really was better than he pretended—he eased the key into the lock and turned it.  He was feeling rather…loose from his evening out, though not in the least drunk.  No, the pure Scotsman blood that was his inheritance, along with the male-patterned baldness and his looks and abilities would rather curl up and die than admit it could get pissed on two glasses of rather good wine and a few after-dinner beers.  But he was feeling rather more…unencumbered…than he had in awhile, and that alone was worth the fuss of dressing up and leaving for the evening.

 

Still humming, he stepped inside the house and quietly, through habit if nothing else, closed the door behind him, then moved easily, fluidly to the vestibule closet where he removed his expensive leather coat and hung it up, touching the coolness of the leather briefly and welcoming it as much as he now welcomed the heat of his home laying prickles on the chill-rosy skin of his cheeks.

 

Padding softly, almost silently, into the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and removed a bottle of white, good vintage, uncorked it and poured himself a glass.  Smiling slightly as he savored the bouquet, he padded back into the living room where an old art nouveau  lamp with a gooseneck stem cast a cone of light onto the deep, burgundy carpet, enhancing the darkness behind it even as it gently lit his way toward the couch, where he intended to curl and sip in peace.

 

It was only, then, a product of his long years of training at a craft that depended on never showing surprise to anything directed his way that allowed him to accept what he heard from the darkness beyond the lamp without freezing up or dropping his exquisitely fluted glass.

 

“How was he?”

 

He didn’t even pause, not really, though ones who knew him well might have seen a telltale hitch in his step before he continued toward the couch.

 

The voice, as deep and as velvet smooth as the blackness surrounding it, came again.  “How was he?”

 

If one could call the faint upturn of his lips a smile, then he smiled.  “It was a ‘she’, actually.”

 

A deep baritone chuckle, light for all that, seemed to coalesce the darkness behind the lamp even as it scattered its density some, becoming somehow less oppressive than it seemed just a second before.  Perhaps the faint but distinct tone of relief in the otherwise gently mocking sound changed the molecular properties of the darkness, or perhaps not.  Nevertheless, he knew the real reason.

 

Women couldn’t be competed with. They were a species, and a gender, of their own and so existed outside the carefully set limits.  Men, however….

 

“Alright, then,” the dark voice continued, if a bit more amiably than before, “how was she?”

 

Completing his journey to the couch, he lowered himself into it and curled his long legs halfway beneath him on the deep, plush cushions.  He pretended to think as he slowly sipped his wine.  “Mm.  Quite nice.”

 

The chuckle came again.  “Nice, huh?  What, no rockets bursting in air?”

 

This time, the smile went all the way to his eyes as he stared across the room and away from the darkness to his right.  “Would I tell you if there were?”

 

“Touché.”

 

Choosing to keep his silence for the moment, he simply sat and savored his wine, biding his time for whatever part in this little play was to fall to him.  It felt, more or less, comfortable, familiar, given what they both did for a living.  Living on the edge wasn’t a job perk, it was a job requirement, and whatever came, he knew he would handle it, give back as good as he got, or better, as was his way.

 

The dark, deep velvet voice came again.  “Tell me about it.”

 

He snorted softly, drawing the glass temporarily away from his lips.  “What, are you my psychiatrist now?”

 

“Hardly.  Maybe I’d just like to…live vicariously.”

 

“When have you ever been interested in a woman?”  He held up his free hand, forestalling the comment.  “Aside from the strippers you like to ogle.”

 

“I haven’t done any more than ogle any one of them for the past five years,” the voice replied, slightly defensive.  “You know that.”

 

“Do I.”  He imbued his tone with as much sarcasm as he could feasibly get away with.

 

“If you don’t, you should.”

 

Thinking about that for a moment, he acceded by tipping his head slightly to the side, toward his watcher.  “Point to you.”

 

“I’d go for the obvious, but I think I’ll skip that for now.”  A purposeful beat of silence.  “So…how was she?”

 

He gave a long, silent sigh, wondering why it was that he gave in so easily, then decided it didn’t really matter.  He could, and would, hold his own when it counted.  He then smiled again, fondly, in remembrance of the evening.  “Quite attractive.  We talked, we laughed. We danced for hours.”

 

“How did she feel when you danced with her?”

 

He paused a moment, trying to divine the reasoning behind the line of questioning, though he suspected he probably had figured that one out from the start.  There was an advantage in knowing someone for as long as he did, after all.  “Very nice.”  He took another sip of his wine, rolling it a bit in his mouth to get its full essence, then swallowed.  “Soft, petite…fragile.”

 

“And shorter than you.”

 

“That’s not hard,” he replied mildly, raising an eyebrow.  He was six three, after all—taller than most men, let alone most women.

 

“Speaking of which…did you?”

 

He gave out a louder, longer sigh this time, tipping his head forward as the reasoning behind the mini inquisition made itself plain.  “This conversation is at an end. You know the way to the door.”

 

“What if I don’t want to leave?”

 

Well, that was easily enough answered.  Leaning forward, he placed his glass on the cocktail table before him, uncurled his legs and moved to stand.  “Than I will.”

 

The darkness seemed to coalesce a second time, though instead of lightening, it grew even blacker, more dangerous.  A soft sound of scuffling, and the figure he’d expected emerged from it, casually dressed and with flaming eyes.  It continued forward until it towered over the couch and a large hand clamped down on his shoulder, pressing him back down into the soft, warm leather.

 

He was stronger, but his position was awkward and he couldn’t prevent unwillingly acquiescing to the unvoiced demand inherent in the radiant heat of the palm on his shoulder and the fingers just now biting into the tender skin of his upper back and chest.

 

“What if I don’t want you to leave, either?”

 

Without moving his head, he rolled his gaze to look up into the gem-cut, smoldering green.  “Then I guess we’re at an impasse.”

 

One broad, if almost painfully thin, shoulder moved slightly upwards in a half-shrug.  “Impasses were made to be broken.”

 

“Not this one,” he replied firmly.  “And not in the way that you’re thinking.”

 

The smile he received was danger incarnate and he damned himself for feeling his heart speed a bit at the sight of it.  And not from fear, or anger, either.

 

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, if I were you.”

 

Quick as a striking snake, the hand left his shoulder and gripped his jaw, turning his head up even as lips came down to crush over his in a deep, feral kiss that could have been a lion’s before it snapped the neck of its prey.

 

With more effort than he wanted to admit, he pulled away, launched his own lightning-swift counterattack, and reached up toward the unprotected groin, grabbing hold and squeezing while prying off the steadfast grip on his jaw.  Then he rose, shaking his head.  “You never learn.”  Releasing the long, hot stone in his hand, he stepped back.  “We’ve said everything that could be said.  It’s been six months.”  Then, more softly still, “Let it go.”

 

The gaze then became openly pleading, though for the life of him, he couldn’t tell if it was real or not, and his heart quietly broke even more.  He felt dim amazement that such a thing was even possible anymore.

 

“What if I don’t want to?”

 

“What you want is no longer my concern.  Can’t you see that?”

 

“The only thing I can see is that if you wanted it over, you would have changed the code on the alarm system.” Impossibly long arms spread.  “It has been six months, after all.”

 

Damn it!  Damn him!  There would be no excuse, no matter how true it might be, that would be plausible enough to satisfy either of them, so he remained silent. Watchful. 

 

The long arms spread wider still.  “Besides, when has six months ever meant anything to us?”  That deep, dark chuckle sounded again, this time tinged with bitterness.  “Hell, when has a year?”

 

“Damn it, we’re not going to start this—”  Cutting himself off abruptly, he brought his left hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, embarrassed at unleashing a rarely seen, rarely used temper.  When he brought his hand down, he was visibly calmer, and his eyes were a deeper, softer brown.  “Look, I know you came a very long way to see me, and I’m sorry to have disappointed you.  I’m not going to turn you out, though.  You can stay here tonight.  I’ll go to a hotel.  But,” he held up one long finger, “I expect this house to be empty when I return tomorrow morning.”

 

As he turned away, he more than half expected to be grabbed again.  So absorbed in that, he almost missed the broken-voiced plea that floated over the currents of warm air in the room, almost becoming one with them.

 

“Don’t…go.”

 

Hesitating, he finally stopped, then turned and deliberately used the man’s name.  “Ryan….”

 

“Please.” 

 

He sighed again, softly, sadly.  “Ryan, I….”

 

“Please.  Don’t.  I….”

 

Then he saw something that scared him to the bottom of his soul.  Tears, large and glittering, escaped their bonds and rolled, slowly, majestically, down Ryan’s cheeks to drip, one by one, onto the carpeting, where they promptly disappeared as if they were never there.

 

Now yes, Ryan was an actor who, like most adult actors, was trained to cry at will.  He didn’t need it in Improv, where just pretending to cry was more than good enough, but he did have occasion to use the skill in some of his other work.  And while that skill might never win him an Oscar, he could do it well enough when pushed.

 

Colin tilted his head, testing the air the way an antelope tries to sense for predators before drinking at the local watering hole.  The tears seemed, to him, devastatingly real.

 

And more of his heart quietly broke.

 

“Ryan,” he said softly, restraining mightily the impulse to just rush to the man and be done with it, “please don’t.  You know how it hurts to see you cry.  Please.  Anything but that.  Please….”

 

“Do you think I like this either?” came Ryan’s now slightly nasal voice.  “No.  I fucking hate it!  But I hate not having what we had more.  God, I…fuck!!”  He dropped his face into his hands and his body entire body shook.

 

All of Colin’s carefully held restraint crumbled like an earthen dam at flood-time and he rushed forward, grasping the taller, sobbing man in a firm embrace.  “Ryan, Ry….please.  Please, we’ll talk.  Anything you want.  Just….just don’t cry.  Please.  Don’t…don’t cry.”

 

Throughout their long association, each man had seen the other cry less than a handful of times, and each one nearly killed them inside.

 

A hot, wet face buried itself into the skin of his neck and the body he held stopped shaking and started trembling, as if he were holding a high tension wire instead of a human being.  He tightened his embrace and lifted one hand to slowly drag it through slightly disheveled blonde curls, noting the tiny hints of gray at the temples which hadn’t been there before.

 

God, he thought.  What’s happened to you?

 

When the large hands wrapped so tight around his waist didn’t appear to desire to loose themselves of him soon, if at all, he managed to slowly maneuver them to a seated position on the couch, where he stroked Ryan’s hair and back in soothing lines and circles, trying his best to calm the tremors which wracked, unending, through them both.

 

Colin’s own eyes were suspiciously bright, but as yet dry.  All of his energies were put into tending to his soul-weary friend.  Crying came no easier to him than it did to Ryan, perhaps less easily still, because it was something many expected from him given what he took on a daily basis, but he could feel them patiently awaiting their turn behind his suddenly scratchy lids.

 

Instead, he murmured nonsense words into the flushed, damp ear at his lips and blanked his mind of everything but the feel of this man’s body pressed so tightly against his.  There was absolutely nothing sexual in the embrace, no more than there would be a crying child wrapped in a parent’s arms.  Like that, it simply was and no more need be thought about it.

 

So instead of thinking about it, Colin instead pondered the quiet, if exceedingly rare, pleasure of feeling Ryan in his arms instead of the other way around.  So thinking, Colin bit back a wince, knowing well that Ryan would feel it in the set of his body, and back away.  His pondering had inadvertently hit on much of the reason for their current, and likely permanent, estrangement.

 

Colin and Ryan were both men who, like most men—and, to be fair, perhaps most women as well, though they didn’t know that for sure—hated to be coddled.  Yes, some emotional comfort was, from time to time, most definitely needed, but as an all the time thing, well, that was unacceptable to either of them.

 

Unfortunately, the dictionary definition of ‘coddling’ was one Ryan Stiles, and Colin was the one in the overwhelming majority of circumstances to suffer that burden.  And, pity for them both, it only seemed to get worse as time went on.  Not that he didn’t accept it, even enjoy it, from time to time.  Most humans did, after all, and he was only human.  But with Ryan, there seemed to be no ‘off’ switch—or, at least, none that he could find, at any rate.

 

He let his displeasure be known, verbally at first, and when that didn’t work, distanced himself from the problem in the only way he knew how:  by taking longer and longer tours with Brad until months passed by without him even speaking to, much less seeing, his lover.

 

Which, as he’d half-known it would, only served to exacerbate the problem.  In place of joyous reunions, cold silences interspersed with passionate arguments stood.  Then the coddling would start up again until Ryan all but said—though, to his credit, he didn’t actually speak the words—that Colin’s place was in the home, where he would be safe from whatever outside demons Ryan had dreamed up for him.  He’d begun to feel like ‘the girl’ in every bad horror film ever made; the one who trips, falls, and screams as the monster catches and ravages her.

 

He hated that feeling, hated it with all his being, and he wasn’t a man to whom hate came naturally.  The man Ryan evidently saw when he looked at him, and the man he saw when he looked in the mirror were, seemingly, on the opposite sides of the planet, and finally, with his heart breaking into millions of tiny, cutting shards, Colin did the only thing he could think of to do. 

 

He left.

 

Retreated into an overlong tour with Brad that covered several continents, and returned, weary and still heartsick, to the empty house in Toronto that would never really be a home again, with explicit instructions to Ryan to keep to his own side of the line.

 

And Ryan, surprisingly, had.

 

Until tonight.

To be continued in part 2 of 2.  Stay tuned.