need [part three of three]

Here, it's finished! Wow. *is tired*

Title: Need (When You Get Close) [part three of three; part one here, part two here]
Rating: NC-17; see warnings.
Warnings/Summary: lots of sex, James wearing a vibrator on set, misuse of quotes from Lethal Weapon, D/s themes, some emotional hurt/comfort, non-explicit mention of past non-con, cuddling in an enormous hotel bathtub.
Word Count: 14,795 (total); 3,586 [this part]
Disclaimers: boys are not mine; only doing this out of sheer affection. Title from Eve 6’s “Inside Out,” which isn’t exactly thematically appropriate, but does contain the suggestion when you get close/ tie me to the bedpost…
Notes: part of the Things With All The Porn; fits in between Stay and Touch, but you don’t necessarily have to have read the others for it to make sense, though it might be helpful. Partially prompted by nianeyna, who reminded me about James's promise, and even wrote me an inspirational comment idea.

He explored as gently as he could, knowing that it probably did hurt, more than James was admitting to him. But James needed to be encouraged, needed to be reminded, needed to be told and shown in every single unmistakable way how much Michael wanted him, always. How much Michael loved him.

He ventured a little further. Found the spot, that spot, that made James whisper his name, involuntarily, a rush of escaping sound.

He whispered back, “Look at me,” and James turned his head, and Michael lifted his free hand and traced fingers across the closest cheek, down to parted lips, and James opened his mouth and allowed that last invasion, too.

“I love you,” Michael told him, and James shivered, and shut his eyes, wet eyelashes clinging together in protective huddles, hiding all the blue from view momentarily. Then opened them again, shimmering with brightness that plunged all the way into Michael’s chest and stayed there, warm against his heart.

“All right,” he said softly, “now,” and flicked his finger across that throbbing spot one more time, definitively, and James didn’t even make a sound, against his hand, just shuddered all over, one final orgasm, white-hot and scorching and dry as a desert thunderstorm.

The world held its breath, for a crystalline and soundless minute, too. For them.

After an endless while, Michael started to wonder whether the quiet had gone on just a little too long. He moved the fingers, the ones that had been filling up and silencing that usually-so-mobile mouth. “James?”

No answer. James was breathing; he could feel the in and out of air against his hand, but…

He withdrew the other hand, also, as gingerly as he could. Felt the corresponding flinch, which made him snap his gaze back to closed blue eyes, but they didn’t open. Inadvertent, he thought, concern beginning to edge out the contentment, uneasily. Not voluntary. Just muscles protesting the scrape of any extra friction.

“James? Are you all right?”

Nothing; and now the concern was rapidly progressing toward concrete fear. “James, seriously. Not funny. You know I need you to talk to me, come on…”

He touched that damp cheek again, hesitantly. Brushed back an escaping tendril of dark hair, where it threatened to land over one shut eye. “James, please.”

And this time, finally, miraculously, he heard James breathe in, a real audible inhale, awake and responding to his voice. No words, not yet, but that was fine, he didn’t need words, he could wait for words and just listen to James breathing, for now, forever.

Outside, a faraway cloud, understanding the need for privacy, blocked out the distant curiosity of the moon. Inside, the glow of artificial light fell, smoothly, over bare skin and colorful sheets. And James sighed, and blinked, and looked up at him.

“So…that’s never happened before…”

“Oh thank god, fuck, thank you, James, are you all right?”

“I…honestly, I’m not sure. Yes, I think. I just—I don’t know what that was.”

“That was you practically unconscious, James!”

“Oh…no, I was—”

“Yes, you were! I was fucking terrified, you know. You didn’t—that was too much. You can’t tell me it wasn’t. Not after that.”

“No. I mean…I’m fine. Now. And I could—I heard you say please, I think. And my name. You were talking to me—”

“Of course I was!” James hadn’t heard anything before that? The fear wasn’t all past tense, even now.

“Thank you. Not only for that, I mean. But for that too.” James stopped to breathe, again. Michael, on the other hand,  had forgotten how, just waiting for that voice to keep saying things, so that he could listen.

“And…you might be right…but not because of anything specific you did. Any other time I think that last part would’ve been amazing. It was amazing. But it was just…the entire day. Today. Everything. Sort of…overwhelming. And I felt—I feel…”

“Overwhelmed?”

“Well…yes. I’m sorry.”

“What?! You—no, you shouldn’t—I’m sorry I pushed you, are you—”

“I’m all right. I swear. I just…” James tried to move. Judging from his expression, and the trailing off of the sentence, movement’d been a very bad idea. Michael found himself abruptly shaking with the effort not to demand future promises, current explanations, reasons why James hadn’t stopped him. Or maybe that was the need for tears, delayed reaction to the stomach-churning panic and the whirl of relief that had left his chest aching. Or something else altogether.

Instead he just put both arms around James and held him, because he needed to feel that heartbeat next to his own, those long legs tangled up with his, that sturdy weight leaning into him, on the tired hotel bed. Said, because it was the only thing he could say, apology and assurance and inarguable truth, “I love you.”

“And I love you.” That normally melodic voice sounded slightly tattered, ragged around the edges with exhaustion and emotion, but absolutely certain, regardless. Beyond any doubt.

The words floated out into the quiet room, and stayed there, keeping the watchful furniture company in the night.

James added, thoughtfully, into his shoulder, “It’s sort of a…tingly feeling.”

“Tingly?”

“Mmm. Like everything’s…lit up. Like if you touch me one more time, anywhere, I might explode. Or cry. Or maybe have another orgasm. And I couldn’t tell you which one of those is most likely, right now. But…I am fine. More or less.” James shifted position, in his arms, just enough to tip that head up and meet Michael’s eyes with his own. “Are you all right?”

“Still terrified, sorry.” And now kind of afraid to move his hands, or any other body part, even though he wanted to pull James closer, as close as possible.

But maybe James read that in his face, because, very slowly, arms crept around him, too, holding him in return. “Better?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“I still shouldn’t’ve—I should have listened. You did say no.”

“I did?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Oh…right. Yes. I did. But I didn’t tell you to stop, did I?”

“That’s not the same thing?”

“Um…no. If I’d wanted you to stop, I would have said so. I didn’t.”

“You—we might have to talk about this.”

“Now? I’ve only just remembered that I can talk.”

“Still not funny.”

“Um…still?”

“I knew you weren’t awake. I think this is probably important, yes.”

“Oh…all right, then. I said no because I was very tired and a little bit in pain and I didn’t think I could take more, not because I wanted you to stop. Two different ideas. But you told me I could, and you were right—”

“We can argue about that one later. Go on.”

“Um, that was about it, I think. I said no, and I didn’t say stop, because I didn’t think it would work, but I was willing to be convinced if you wanted to try. I do see why that’s a problem, though. I’m sorry. And I’ll try not to say no unless I mean it. All right?”

“Better. Yes. Thank you.”

“No, don’t. You’ve not—I have more experience with this than you do. I should know better. So, yes, sorry.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Wait. I do want to tell you something, and maybe it’ll help. When you—back when we first started this, you said you’d done research. And I—so we probably both know what a safeword is, and—”

“You—you think we need to—” He had hurt James. Had made James feel unsafe, or afraid, somehow. His chest felt numb, suddenly. The half-moon, beyond the window, hid itself behind a cloud again, leaving the artificial light, from the bedside lamp, on its own. It wasn’t enough.

“No! You asked me to talk; would you quit interrupting…?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry. For this one too. But you—I just…”

“I know. I love you, too.” James kept looking at him, steadily; that familiarly alluring Scottish accent burnished every word with the ring of truth, beneath the placid haloes of the lamplight. “I was trying to say, we’ve never needed that. Not between us. Didn’t you ever wonder why I never asked for one, though? Considering, um. What happened to me.”

Michael’d had an answer, or at least a reply, on the tip of his tongue, but those last four words knocked every other thought out of his brain.

He could number on exactly two fingers the amount of times that James had brought up that subject voluntarily, unprompted by questions or actions, and the first time didn’t count, because he hadn’t known anything then and James had needed to make sure. Can I add something to your list? No knives, in the bedroom. No sharp objects. He’d stared at James, silhouetted against the rain, and said what the fuck, no, of course not, why would you even ASK—? And James had told him.

And he should answer James now, but the truth was he couldn’t think of any words. He hadn’t wondered, not really. He’d just assumed they were fine. That everything was working. That James knew that Michael would stop, of course, if he asked, if he needed that, at the first sign or hint or suggestion of anything uncomfortable. Did James not know that?

James had said the word trust, earlier. He trusted Michael not to hurt him. But maybe that meant something different from what Michael’d always thought. Maybe James couldn’t define trust the same way, anymore.

James looked at him, through all the troubled silence. Sighed. Shook his head. “And now I’ve made you worry about me, haven’t I? More, I mean.”

“You—”

“You need to stop that,” James said, and then put one hand into Michael’s hair and kissed him, decisively, lips firm and convincing. “I’m not going to say I’m fine. I think we both know, after last week, that’s not precisely true. But—”

“James—”

“What I am is closer to fine than I ever have been. And I can talk about it without—we don’t need to tiptoe. And I won’t break into pieces if the subject comes up. And whatever you’re thinking, wearing that expression, is probably wrong; what I’m trying—badly—to tell you is that that, all of that, that’s because of you. I never asked you about safewords and escape routes because I never needed to. If I said the word stop, you would stop. I know that. I believe that. That’s what I mean when I say I trust you. I can trust you. With everything. And you gave me that. You give me that every day.”

Michael stared at him, voiceless. Captivated. Completely knocked over, even though they were still lying flat on the disheveled bed and hadn’t moved.

James smiled at him, and then gave a kind of complicated eyebrow shrug, as if embarrassed by all the honesty in the face of Michael’s dumbfounded inability to respond. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that. So you don’t have to worry. At least not so much. Um, I sort of feel sticky, now. Do you think we can shower, maybe?”

“I think,” Michael said, “I think I’m in fucking awe of you.”

“What?”

“You’re amazing. And you amaze me. And you—you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met and you say you’ll let me help you anyway and you tell me I can help and I’m so fucking honored that you let me try. Even when I get things wrong. You said that I—that you trust me, every day. You always can. I’ll be here every day. Every night. Every fucking minute, James. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” James whispered back, wide-eyed and no longer at all embarrassed, and then kissed him again, laughing, or maybe crying, or maybe that was both of them. Perfect, either way.

In the middle of all the kissing, Michael attempted to mentally review his sentences, trying to figure out just what he’d said that had made those blue eyes glow like that. He wasn’t quite sure which words had been the magically right ones, but he did start to regret certain less-than-sophisticated vocabulary choices.

“Um…sorry about all the…fucking.”

At which James cracked up. “What?”

“I meant the profanity!”

“Oh, good, because I was about to be really worried—”

“You know what I was trying to say!”

“No, sorry, you might have to, um, fucking say it again…”

Michael let out a growl of mostly-mock annoyance, told him, “I fucking love you,” and then pulled James back into his arms while they were both still laughing.

“I love you fucking me,” James retorted, and stuck his toes under Michael’s bare calves.

“I—” He’d started to answer, but switched questions mid-sentence. “Are you cold?” Stupid comment; he knew how sensitive James was to temperature changes, and those feet, against his legs, felt like ice-cubes.

Or maybe not that stupid, because James sounded surprised by the observation. “I…am, actually. I hadn’t even noticed.”

Of course not. James hadn’t exactly been noticing anything. Michael, on the other hand, needed to take care of him, in those moments, all those moments, always.

“Shower?”

“Yes—”

“No, wait. I don’t think—I don’t want you to try to stand up.”

“Oh, come on, you know I’m fine—”

“Just…wait here for a minute, okay?”

“Why?”

“I’ll be right back. But get under these first.”

James muttered something undecipherable under his breath, but settled down into the pillows and let Michael stack blankets on top of him.

“Did you just tell me I’d make a good nurse?”

“I think there were a few more uncomplimentary adjectives involved…”

“I love you, too.”

He hopped off the bed, and headed for the bathroom. Heard, from the depths of the blankets, just before he made it through the door, “You’re my fucking favorite nurse,” and then laughed so hard he had to lean against the wall for support.

Amazing. Honestly. How had he ever deserved to be this lucky?

The cavernous bathroom didn’t offer any answers to that question, but it did provide some suggestions. As if making up for the profusion of color in the bedroom, the tile and walls and fixtures gleamed back at him in stark white; helpfully, the giant bathtub, separate from the shower and gleefully occupying the entire far corner, presented itself as an alternative.

It was a nice bathtub, he decided. And not just because it looked opulent and lake-deep and luxurious. He could picture James in that bathtub, mahogany hair and sparkling freckles against all the whiteness. Found himself persuaded by the image. Plus, James wouldn’t have to stand up.

He played with various knobs for a minute. Contemplated pouring some of the suggestively labeled bottles, next to the sink, into the water, and then decided that James, who despite all the laughter had to be both sore and exhausted, might not be in the mood for experiments with such ingredients as “Purple Bath Fizz!”

Maybe tomorrow, though. James would probably appreciate all of those things, including the excited exclamation point. Or would at least laugh again.

He let the bathtub fill itself, lazily, steam drifting up to heat the air, too. An invitation, he thought. And a drop of water splashed up onto his hand like it’d just been waiting for him to come to the same conclusion.

Speaking of inviting things, he hadn’t heard any sounds from the bed in quite a while.

He spun around and raced back into the other room, where the air now felt a lot colder after the coaxing warmth of the bathroom, and then stopped mid-step beside the bed, and the waiting inquiry fell off his tongue and vanished somewhere into the chilly night.

James had fallen asleep, nestled securely beneath every blanket and clean sheet within reach, cuddling the nearest multicolored pillow as if for sanctuary. His hair sprawled out in every conceivable direction, and he was breathing evenly, and he looked absurdly young and very defenseless and too small for the broad expanse of the king-sized mattress.

Michael stood there watching him sleep, and felt his own heart ache at the sight, with the fierce desire to keep James warm and safe and comfortable, forever.

James sighed in his sleep, and cuddled the pillow more closely, and Michael remembered abruptly that he’d left the water running, and bolted for the bathroom.

Fortunately, nothing had overflowed yet, though if he’d spent much longer being entranced by closed eyes and that fortunate pillow, he might’ve caused a minor flood. He flipped off the tap, checked the temperature—he wanted James to be warm, after all, not scalded—and then sprinted back into the bedroom, in case James had awakened, alone, in the seconds he’d been gone.

Not yet, though. So Michael sat down on the edge of the bed, carefully, and hesitated, undecided. Wake James up? Disturb all that worn-out contentment? James probably needed the rest.

But James sighed again, and opened wide blue eyes, weary as the beat of ocean waves against the shore. Yawned. Smiled, heartbreakingly beautiful, when he realized Michael was sitting beside him. “Love you.”

“And I love you. Are you awake? Can we go clean you up?”

“Yes, and yes. But…either I’m more tired than I thought, or you turned off the shower, because I can’t hear it running. Why—”

“Um…bathtub.” He’d meant to have a more clever response, but he kept getting lost in those ocean-water eyes, every time James gave another sleepy blink.

“Really? I haven’t had a bath in ages—I mean an actual bath, not a shower, and I know you know what I mean, so you can stop laughing. Years, anyway. Since…I don’t know, before I could walk.”

“Appropriate, then. I’m fairly sure you can’t walk now.”

“That’s not—” James stopped talking in order to give him a reproachful look, as Michael tugged off all the layers of the blanket cocoon. “It was warm under there, you know.”

“I know.” He put one arm under long legs, and one around compactly muscular shoulders, and scooped James off the bed. He’d expected a protest, but James was evidently either too tired, or too surprised at being picked up, to say anything. Just blinked at him again, round-eyed, and then put his head on Michael’s shoulder.

In the bathtub, hot water leapt up eagerly to caress tender flesh; James flinched. Michael winced, too, in guilty sympathy. Tried not to imagine the sensation.

James wiggled around, submerged acres of golden freckles, shut his eyes again. Tipped his head back, letting the water wander up towards his face.

“Hey.” Michael reached out to cup his cheek, making ripples in the hot water. “Stay up here. I want you to relax, not drown.”

A smile; James turned his head just enough to kiss Michael’s hand, eyes still closed. Michael sat there on the side of the tub and gazed at him, surrounded by drifting steam and white tile and tranquility.

After a while, he scooped up water in his free hand, and splashed it across dark hair, rinsing away sweat and fatigue and soreness. James made an amused noise, through trickling droplets, and didn’t move away.

“You could join me.”

“I don’t think we both fit.”

“We can figure it out.”

He still almost said no—he’d be happy to sit there on the not-unfriendly tile and take care of James for the rest of the night—but James sat up, and fixed him with that expectant blue gaze. And the no turned itself around and became, “All right.”

They really didn’t fit, at least not easily. But eventually he ended up leaning against the back of the tub, with James curled up between his legs, head resting against his chest. The water threatened to overflow, but didn’t follow through.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes?”

“Good.”

“Are you?”

“Very.” Technically, physically, this wasn’t true, as his knees were being slowly crushed into the sides of the tub, but in all the important ways, it was entirely accurate. Eventually they’d need to get out and have a real shower, with soap and actual scrubbing and cleanliness, but for now, the water was warm and the steam hung in the air like familiar company and James felt reassuringly solid in his arms.

When he rested one cheek on the top of James’s head, wet hair stuck to his face, happily. The overhead lights and the whiteness of the bathroom picked out all the auburn highlights, considerately, and made each strand glow more vividly than usual, banked embers under all the darkness of the water.

Tomorrow they could sleep in. And he could keep James in bed, all day, not for sex—sex wasn’t going to be an option, not for several days, until he was convinced that James was really truly all right—but just lying there beside him, wrapped up in blankets and warm arms, reading through next week’s script changes or arguing about character motivations or watching Die Hard because obviously he needed to educate James about the relative merits of classic action heroes. And the day after that they could go back to work, long hours and night shoots and everything else that Matthew had planned, and those days would be perfect, too.

The hair left cheerfully damp tracks along his face, as James tilted his head back, eying Michael’s expression. “You’re smiling.”

“So are you.”

“I’m happy.”

“So am I.”