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The first time they’re together, it’s all teeth and tongue. It’s rough and wet and Davenport tells him over and over slow down, Magnus, we have all the time in the world -- but it’s as if Magnus doesn’t hear him. He’s all heat and pressure and he fucks like a dying man, like he’s starved of air and kissing Davenport steals his, fills his lungs for one more beat -- and another, and another. He grapples with his hands and stutters with his hips. He’s all enthusiasm and no skill, always pressing forward, forward, forward. It’s not bad by any means, really, it’s just -- a lot. Magnus is huge, by human standards and much more so by gnome standards, and his skin is sizzling to the touch. He’s heat incarnate, not just physically, but emotionally. He’s overflowing with want and need, pouring it all out onto Davenport. He’s on Davenport and around Davenport and inside Davenport and it almost overwhelms him. He’s just so much.
Afterwards, they lie panting and sticky and curled up on the damp sheets with Davenport’s tail wrapped around Magnus’s ankle like an anchor. They do nothing for a long time, simply breathing in each other’s presence, but to Davenport, the silence and comfort feels something like love. Not like being in love, mind you, but there was some level of trust and intimacy that he doubted anyone else outside this ship would get from him. It had taken him a long time to be comfortable in Magnus’s -- anyone’s, really -- presence, for him to be touched and taken care of and approached. And the feeling of someone warm and happy nearby was something he hadn’t know he’d missed or even needed. So he leans into the heaving mass of muscle, tucks his smaller head against Magnus’s throat, and plays gently with the scars across his chest. They lay like that for a lot longer than they really should.
It’s the first time of many, many times they lay longer than they really should.
***
After Davenport is Back, he’s different.
He feels hollow, somehow, like there’s a piece of him still lost to static. It’s unnerving, to say the least, being here and not at the same time.
He closes in on himself, curls around like a gnarled oak warding off the elements, like a clamshell that doesn’t ever want to open again. He rejects touch and comfort like he used to all those years ago, and it’s safe , like isolation is his security blanket, but -- but he misses it.
He misses hands that pat his shoulder encouragingly, misses a warm hug given just because. He misses chapped lips and bristly facial hair against his forehead and misses warm twins’ purring that would lull him to sleep when the stress got to be too much. He misses it, but doesn’t dare ask for it -- it’s not safe.
Magnus seems to understand, at least on some level, that Davenport needs space. He keeps his distance, saves the bear hugs for others, but even through the facade of cheerfulness and rough playing, Davenport can see that he’s the same. They’re the same-- they both know the terrible awful feeling of something being forcefully slotted back into place and skewing the world ninety degrees to the left.
For all his goofiness, Magnus understands. And he wants to help Davenport.
***
They take it slow. It’s all Davenport knows how to do, and even then it’s hard. He forces himself to put a hand on Magnus’s arm, forces himself to lean his head on him if he’s tired instead of trying to stay awake so he wouldn’t.
They’re little, painful changes, but they add up.
And one night, an inordinately long time after that first night, Davenport invites Mangus over.
He overdoes it, he knows he does. He can’t help it, it’s just a thing he’s in the habit of doing -- he sets out wine, turns the lights on low, plays soft fantasy Norah Jones. Magnus snorts when he takes it all in, his eyes crinkling in the corners ( since when did he have those wrinkles? ) but plays along, lets Davenport wine and dine him and they talk about everything and nothing-- about the cosmos; about a ship’s journey; the color of Magnus’s nails this week,; Taako’s new cat. It’s nice, really, but Davenport’s trembling hard by the time dessert plates have been put away.
Still, he guides Magnus back to his old quarters, his bed made and clean and more ready for this than Davenport is.
He sits him down on the edge of the mattress, and they look at each other for a long moment as Davenport carefully puts his paw on Magnus’s thigh. He hums. “You’re sure?”
Davenport nods, licks his lips. “I’d just -- I’d appreciate it if we go slow.”
He hears Magnus’s little chuff of amusement at the irony and then there’s a huge, warm hand on his cheek. It brushes his hearing aid and his ear twitches. “You lead, then,” he says.
They’re both tentative -- it’s strange to Davenport, having Magnus very, very slowly unbuttoning his shirt and pressing impossibly soft kisses against his jaw. His fingers are featherlight and almost delicate in how they trace the gentle arc of his collarbone, dip into the hollow beneath his jaw. It’s nice, he thinks, and realizes the soft, platonic touches on his arms and torso aren’t making him panic. In fact, they’re making heat pool in his belly and between his legs.
Butterflies tickle at the back of his throat as it occurs to him how familiar the slow, thick trickle of arousal is, like sliding into an old pair of heavily worn shoes after a long time going barefoot. It had been decades, but it’s like his body is waking up and falling back on instinct. The nervousness from dinner evaporates off his shoulders as he leans into the touches, helps Magnus tug off his binder. He’s comfortable in Magnus’s hands, and as they migrate onto the sheets he finds it effortless to roll over on top of him, to run his barely-sheathed claws across his naked chest and spread goose pimples.
Magnus groans, and it’s almost too easy to lean in and bite at that soft spot on his throat that makes him repeat that beautiful sound. He’s rusty, but at least he remembers.
Hands grip his hips and Davenport finds he doesn’t mind it one bit. He nibbles and licks and marks and sucks, and Magnus becomes putty in his hands. It’s a delight to feel his hips canting up against Davenport, feels the wet heat against his thigh that’s between Magnus’s. They fool around for a bit, grinding and kissing and touching, but then Magnus is between his legs, laving softly at his lips, and it’s him -- of course it’s him, Magnus knows all the spots that make his breath catch and his knees weak -- but it’s different.
He’s slow, careful, his rough fingertips making leisurely, methodical circles against his clit instead of the frantic rubbing he used to do. His thick beard brushes against Davenport’s thighs and his whole presence is less intense and more -- more comforting. If before he was a bear hug, now he’s a hand between the shoulder blades, guiding. It’s no less protective, but (gratefully) less excessive. He dips his head low and fucks him with his tongue, and it’s an embarrassingly short time before Davenport’s grinding down against him, tipping him off to his impending climax.
He comes with Magnus’s name low in his chest, arching around a finger almost too big to fit inside him and a tongue almost too hot to be against him. It coils through his body slowly, his breath a long, ragged inhale as he peaks and tumbles with almost too much sensation, so much contact that he feels like he’s sinking. He comes down sweaty and shivering, though this time in pleasure. At least the fact Magnus can do that is the same.
He kisses Magnus when he’s done and it’s gross and clumsy and both their lips are a little too chapped, but there’s love and warmth in the way their mouths move together, and Magnus even does that patented little huff in his throat that tickles Davenport’s mustache.
And it’s that little thing that sets off Davenport -- the stupid little huff -- that makes tears well up in his eyes, and Magnus must feel them against his face because he pulls back immediately, eyebrows creasing in the middle in concern. He starts to ask what’s wrong but Davenport shakes his head, pulls him down to bury his nose in his neck and just -- sob.
Through the tears and snot he vaguely hears Magnus whispering nothings against him, vaguely feels his hands running across his hair. He can hear the little bit of panic in his voice, but can’t build it in himself to actually console the man because he’s trying to catch his breath through the hiccups as he inhales Magnus’s warm scent. He tangles his fingers in the auburn hair that’s longer than it’s ever been and now has streaks of gray in it. It’s been too long, and he regrets ever thinking he could live without the touch or the warmth of someone who cares about him.
His lips find a hairy jaw, a rough cheek, a scarred nose, and then lips, and he kisses Magnus through salty tears. “I’m sorry,” he whispers hoarsely, “I’m sorry.”
Magnus pulls him tighter, curls around him like a shield, and kisses back with as much enthusiasm. “Nothin’ to be sorry about,” he mumbles between their kisses.
Davenport wants to refute that, but holds his tongue. He’s spent too long a time refuting others, and doesn’t plan on any more of it. Instead, he catches his breath, wipes his tears, and internally thanks Magnus for not asking about them. He shows his thanks by returning the favor, making his jaw sore with how unused it is. He curls his fingers inside him and sucks hard on his cock tongue between hood and tip. Magnus is enervated within a few minutes, which, admittedly makes Davenport feel better about his own lack of stamina.
Once they’re both spent (they’re really too old to be going more than one round, anyway), Davenport lies on Magnus’s chest, lulled and warmed by the steady reverberation of his heartbeat. He feels sated, drained, and impossibly giddy all at once, underlied by a soft nostalgia as Magnus methodically combs his fingers through his hair and down his spine.
He pushes aside the lingering regret of not acting and instead looks forward to the future that he can shape.
He doesn’t plan on not acting anymore.