It's nice. It's more than nice, actually. It's very nearly perfect.
There's coffee dates and dinner dates and drinks, and there's nights where they're tangled together, rocking against each other, panting and groaning and it never fails to be some of the best sex Tim's ever had. There are also nights where they fall asleep watching a movie instead, and those nights are just as good, honestly. Some nights, Matt's busy, or Tim's busy, and they don't see each other at all. He misses Matt more than he cares to admit. Things are going well, but that doesn't mean they'll last.
They still aren't exclusive. There haven't been any talks, and Matt hasn't made any mention about wanting to be. Part of Tim is still waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he tries to ignore it. Focus on the good rather the inevitable bad.
He doesn't really stop hooking up with other people, but he slows down significantly. There's a lot less enjoyment in it now. It's not quite as satisfying, quite as fulfilling. Half the time, it feels like it's more trouble than it's worth. And all the time, he ends up thinking of Matt when there's another guy's mouth on his throat.
He notices the way Matt's bruises fade, and how more appear in their place. It's unsettling, at best. Matt's capable, strong, but that doesn't mean Tim's any less concerned. But he doesn't pry. Doesn't push. Doesn't want to force open any doors that might make Matt push back.
It's relatively quiet when the explosions happen. They're in a meeting, discussing the vigilante. It feels like Tim's been doing more of that these days than actually hunting fugitives. He remembers their meeting on the roof, being told that they're wasting their resources chasing the wrong guy. He remembers the information he was given, not quite proof but some damning evidence.
But Tim doesn't know how to not trust in the system.
The explosions send tremors through the cities. There's a commotion outside the conference room, officers dashing around and people gesturing out the windows. Hell's Kitchen is on fire, and all hands are on deck.
Tim calls Matt no less than four times without any answer. He tries not to worry. Tries not to let the panic rise in his throat. It's not as if Matt hasn't missed a call before, but he almost always immediate texts back with an explanation of being busy, and a promise to call later. Tim gets none of that now, and he hears the officers discussing the locations of the bombings. They're splitting into groups, already sending teams out to work damage control. They're saying the man in the mask did this, and part of Tim doesn't want to believe it.
It doesn't sound like the man that told him to do the right thing on the roof that night.
For now, Tim has to focus on his work. Matt's probably fine. Tim has to believe he's fine, because if he doesn't, he can't do his damn job. Which, right now, is joining the team that has the vigilante trapped and cornered. They need a sniper on a roof, and Tim's the best shot they've got. He can see movement in the building from where he's perched, but he can't get a visual.
But he can smell smoke. Taste it on the back of his throat. It's dark out, but he thinks he feel sun on the back of his neck, too, and feel grit and sand in his mouth. Now is not the time to be flashing back. Now is the time to fucking focus.
"I can't get a shot," Tim says into the comms unit, watching nothing but shadows through his scope. "He's stayin' away from the windows."
"Then we go in," an officer says. "And we shoot to kill."
Tim grimaces, pulling back from his scope. "Hold on. I'm gonna find a different angle. Do not go in."
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branchandroot
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Date: 2016-01-14 11:24 pm (UTC)There's coffee dates and dinner dates and drinks, and there's nights where they're tangled together, rocking against each other, panting and groaning and it never fails to be some of the best sex Tim's ever had. There are also nights where they fall asleep watching a movie instead, and those nights are just as good, honestly. Some nights, Matt's busy, or Tim's busy, and they don't see each other at all. He misses Matt more than he cares to admit. Things are going well, but that doesn't mean they'll last.
They still aren't exclusive. There haven't been any talks, and Matt hasn't made any mention about wanting to be. Part of Tim is still waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he tries to ignore it. Focus on the good rather the inevitable bad.
He doesn't really stop hooking up with other people, but he slows down significantly. There's a lot less enjoyment in it now. It's not quite as satisfying, quite as fulfilling. Half the time, it feels like it's more trouble than it's worth. And all the time, he ends up thinking of Matt when there's another guy's mouth on his throat.
He notices the way Matt's bruises fade, and how more appear in their place. It's unsettling, at best. Matt's capable, strong, but that doesn't mean Tim's any less concerned. But he doesn't pry. Doesn't push. Doesn't want to force open any doors that might make Matt push back.
It's relatively quiet when the explosions happen. They're in a meeting, discussing the vigilante. It feels like Tim's been doing more of that these days than actually hunting fugitives. He remembers their meeting on the roof, being told that they're wasting their resources chasing the wrong guy. He remembers the information he was given, not quite proof but some damning evidence.
But Tim doesn't know how to not trust in the system.
The explosions send tremors through the cities. There's a commotion outside the conference room, officers dashing around and people gesturing out the windows. Hell's Kitchen is on fire, and all hands are on deck.
Tim calls Matt no less than four times without any answer. He tries not to worry. Tries not to let the panic rise in his throat. It's not as if Matt hasn't missed a call before, but he almost always immediate texts back with an explanation of being busy, and a promise to call later. Tim gets none of that now, and he hears the officers discussing the locations of the bombings. They're splitting into groups, already sending teams out to work damage control. They're saying the man in the mask did this, and part of Tim doesn't want to believe it.
It doesn't sound like the man that told him to do the right thing on the roof that night.
For now, Tim has to focus on his work. Matt's probably fine. Tim has to believe he's fine, because if he doesn't, he can't do his damn job. Which, right now, is joining the team that has the vigilante trapped and cornered. They need a sniper on a roof, and Tim's the best shot they've got. He can see movement in the building from where he's perched, but he can't get a visual.
But he can smell smoke. Taste it on the back of his throat. It's dark out, but he thinks he feel sun on the back of his neck, too, and feel grit and sand in his mouth. Now is not the time to be flashing back. Now is the time to fucking focus.
"I can't get a shot," Tim says into the comms unit, watching nothing but shadows through his scope. "He's stayin' away from the windows."
"Then we go in," an officer says. "And we shoot to kill."
Tim grimaces, pulling back from his scope. "Hold on. I'm gonna find a different angle. Do not go in."