Page 63 of Gunpowder

He reluctantly crawled off the bed and staggered to the door. His legs didn’t appreciate it much, but at least he managed to stay upright. Unlike Blair’s apartment on bad days, there were no clothes scattered around to trip on. He went down the hallway, around the corner in the living room and back into the kitchen. The bathroom was closer but Blair needed to collect his clothes and his gun off the floor. They were right where they’d been hurriedly discarded earlier, piled in a heap on the black tile.

He returned to the bedroom with paper towels in hand and was treated to the sight of Wren sprawled in the middle of the bed, illuminated by the light from the hallway before Blair closed the door. Wren’s skin looked like it had some color for once against the grey sheets. There was something intimate about seeing him where he slept after having never been further than the living room before that night. Blair sat on the edge of the bed and set to cleaning him off since he looked like he was fifty percent awake at the most. It was kind of nice, taking care of him without any quips or tongue-clicking for his trouble.

“I bet it’s late,” Blair said, awkwardly shifting his belongings in his arms so he could pull his shirt loose from the pile.

“Mm,” Wren said. “You probably shouldn’t drive,” he added, voice already thick with the growing haze of sleep.

Blair turned around. “What?”

Wren had moved to one side of the bed and lay facing away from him, the shadows deepening the contours of his back, bare until it met the sheet he had pulled up to his waist. Quietly, Wren said, “You were drinking tonight… maybe you should stay.”

“I’m the one who drove us—”

Blair brought himself up short and stared at the pointedly vacant side of the bed. He’d only had one shot and the adrenaline rush from finding out Wren was going to help against Phantom had been enough to sober him up but he found the words falling away. Wren was asking him to stay. Wren was asking him to stay.

He stared at Wren as he dropped his clothes on top of his discarded jeans and shoes from earlier, as if he would sit bolt upright in realizing what he had just said and retract the offer. Wren didn’t move at the light ting of metal on wood as Blair put his gun on the nightstand or to the feeling of the mattress depressing under Blair’s weight.

Blair slid under the blanket and blinked up at the dark ceiling. The blackout curtains left no way to see Wren, but he was there. He was a foot away, breathing a little too loud and evenly for Blair to buy that he was actually asleep. Blair didn’t know what to make of it all; Wren changing his mind about helping with Phantom and now this. He reached out to let his hand hover uncertainly, just a breath away from Wren’s shoulder.

Then there was pressure against Blair’s outstretched fingers, his arm, and hair tickling his neck. He jerked in surprise as Wren’s arm settled over his waist, Blair’s hand frozen in midair as Wren curled into his side, his exhalations falling in warm puffs of air on Blair’s chest. Blair gradually lowered his hand until it found the silky hair spread across his shoulder.

Blair held him, and Wren let him.

17

GRIT

Ow.

Blair woke up to a dull throbbing in his leg and a warmth against his front. He got around pretty good for it to have only been about three weeks since he was shot but his body still liked to remind him when he overdid it. His face warmed at the thought of how he exerted himself the night before. Images flashed behind his eyelids like retina burn; stumbling into the apartment, looking down at Wren on the bed, and maybe most memorable of all was the invitation to stay.

Oh, yeah. He stayed.

He opened his eyes as he realized he wasn’t at home. The room was only slightly brighter than last night, a halo of light around the thick curtains the sole proof it was even daytime. He also realized the heat against his body came from Wren. His back was to Blair’s chest, his waist secured under Blair’s arm even in sleep. Blair resisted the urge to press his lips against the pale skin so close. He would rather let Wren rest. He remembered Wren saying he was on call, but he didn’t know when he was supposed to be there (or even what time it was without trying to reach his phone on the nightstand) and Blair didn’t plan on disturbing him to ask. Wren didn’t get enough sleep as it was. If he was late, someone could call him.

He stretched, toes scrunching up against the back of Wren’s calf. As much as he wanted to savor the rare, quiet moment, his bladder was making a plea for him to get the hell out of bed. He reluctantly let go of Wren’s waist and slid off the bed.

He picked his phone up off the nightstand and left his gun where it lay next to Wren’s glasses. Even his paranoid ass wasn’t taking his 92 to the bathroom. He wondered, leaving the bedroom, if Wren would care if he used his shower. Sweat and trace remains of other things had dried on his body and he could desperately use some hot water and soap. I don’t think he’d care. Look at this place, the water probably heats back up before you’re done drying off.

The bathroom was unchanged from the only other time he’d gone in there, looking for a hairbrush. He closed the door softly, mindful of Wren still being asleep, and crossed the room to step into the shower. He stared up at the shower head. This bitch had settings. It took him a humiliating five minutes to realize all he had to do was twist the base to turn it on. Ever the considerate houseguest, he didn’t change the settings even though whatever ungodly one Wren had it set to made it feel like Blair was going to get more holes blown through him by the water pressure.

Fucking masochist.

He tilted his head back and made sure his hair was good and wet before he ran shampoo through it. It smelled like Wren, and Blair smiled to himself as water and suds ran down his back.

“Morning.”

“Fuck!” Blair shouted, dropping the body wash he’d been holding.

Wren stepped in behind him with a quiet laugh. “Only you would be so surprised by the owner of this apartment walking into his own bathroom.”

“I just, you startled me,” Blair said, working hard to put words together at the sight of Wren’s face without his glasses. Not that Wren didn’t look great in them, but it was the first time Blair had seen them absent. “I hope you don’t mind me borrowing your shower.”

Putting conditioner in fell much lower on his list of priorities as Wren leaned him against the wall, Wren’s hair falling under the spray, slicking the longest strands to his shoulders while rivulets of water streamed down his bangs and off his face. “I’ve been awake for five minutes and you’re already naked, I don’t have any objections,” Wren said, and Blair hoped he didn’t see his throat move when he swallowed. He sounded really good when he had just woken up, with the usual raspiness of his voice even more pronounced.

Wren kissed him and Blair kissed back even as his body protested the thought of doing anything strenuous again. As tempting as it was to let guide those hands elsewhere, he didn’t think he could handle sex again this soon, and Wren had to be at the hospital so Blair reluctantly pulled away to pick the conditioner back up.

Wren, for his part, showered as efficiently and somewhat violently as he did everything else. He scrubbed shampoo through his hair and when his fingers hit a tangle he just forced them through it and yanked it out.

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