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The first time they fucked after a case, it was an accident.
Not like he'd slipped and fallen on Nash's fucking prick. Just the part where nobody saw it coming, where nobody meant it to happen but somehow at the same time it couldn't have been avoided.
That was what it felt like, anyhow. Brant didn't even realise where it was all heading until he'd already followed Nash away from the arrest, until the itchy buzzing push under his skin already had him shoving Nash up against the wall of Nash's bare, clean little flat. And then there was nothing else for it, was there? Nothing else for it but to shove his hand down Nash's fucking trousers and find out what Nash would do about it.
Turned out the answer to that was that Nash would gasp a little, startled. Nash would gasp a little, and not look up, and jerk his hips against Brant's grip like he wanted to make sure it bruised.
It wasn't as though Brant wanted to see Nash's prick. He didn't need to, anyway—he could feel it, couldn't he? Narrow like all the rest of Nash, not hard just yet but on the way, the tip slicking up, and hot; and that was familiar, at least, how fucking hot it was. Didn't curve like Brant's, and it was getting slicker than Brant had expected, and the angle was hard to get used to—but hot under Brant's hand, just the way Brant's got when he rubbed one out himself.
So he undid Nash's zip a little to make it easier on himself reaching in, and he didn't look down, and it was almost like he wasn't even doing it. It was almost like Nash was doing it to himself, and Brant was just there—
Like that was so much fucking better.
Couldn't back out now, though, could he? Couldn't leave Nash hanging. Wasn't right to do that kind of thing to a bloke, get him all worked up and then not finish the job—wasn't right even when the bloke was a poofter, Brant figured.
"All right?"
"Fine," Brant heard himself say, and kept on not looking down. He'd slowed a little bit, that was all; he squeezed Nash a bit tighter, his prick and his hip where Brant was pressing him against the wall, and Nash jerked again and made a funny soft sound in his throat.
"Only," and Nash squirmed a little, and then Brant had a split second to brace himself so he didn't flinch back when Nash's fucking hand slid between his thighs. "Only, I could—"
Nah, Brant was ready to say, because—nah. Nash was Nash, and Brant was touching him, and that was all right because Nash liked that kind of thing. Nash liked blokes grabbing his prick. But Brant wasn't—Brant didn't—
But then Nash's hand curved up over Brant's—over Brant, and Brant couldn't exactly claim he minded and expect Nash to believe it. And—
"Hand's a hand," Nash said, sounding cool and practical, sounding like it was any old workday and they were standing at their desks. Like Brant's hand wasn't doing what it was doing and neither was Nash's.
"Yeah, all right," Brant said. Why shouldn't he get off if he could? Hand was a hand. Didn't even have to be Nash's, did it, as long as Brant didn't look down? Didn't have to matter.
And Nash was all right at this, after all. Had more practice than Brant, at least on people other than himself. Grip a little loose to start with, but he tried tightening it up after a second and Brant couldn't help making a noise, and after that Nash seemed to get the picture. Worked Brant just as fast as Brant was working him, not wasting time about it or getting fancy or doing any weird things Brant would've had to put a stop to. And he liked what Brant was doing to him—couldn't pretend not to, what with how close they were standing, how Brant could hear the rasping in his throat and feel the quiver in his knees. Gratifying, sort of, to think Nash could have done this however many times he had, with other poofs like him who knew what they were doing, and Brant could still make him weak for it.
And then Brant caught Nash for half a second with the edge of one nail—chewed rough and short, just enough to sting a little. Nash made another funny quiet noise and rolled his hips, shuddered and writhed for a second into Brant, and then came all across Brant's wrist, over his own waistband and a little on the front of his trousers.
"Ugh," Brant said, except it turned into a grunt halfway through because Nash was still stripping him pretty fucking good.
"Don't tell me you're surprised," Nash said, unapologetic and only a little breathless. "You're a detective, Brant."
"Yeah," Brant conceded, and then had to move his hands off Nash to press them against the wall, to dig his fingertips into the paint and gasp and rut into the circle of Nash's fingers, and then it was all over for him, too.
He couldn't help wondering, later, whether he'd gotten Nash's come on the wall when he'd flattened his hand on it—whether Nash had had to clean it off after he'd left. Made something feel strange and taut in his gut when he did, so he didn't wonder it for longer than he could help.
The second time they fucked after a case, it was a mistake.
Not Brant's first, obviously, and not fucking likely to be his last either. But there it was. And like most mistakes, he'd only really discovered he was making it when it was already too late to do much about it.
Different case, of course. There had been one in between, pretty quick, where Brant hadn't done anything stupid after and had figured he was past it. And then this one, which had been longer and more frustrating, picking up leads one at a time only to have them each go cold, until at last Nash had made a leap and gotten them somewhere.
Brant had figured he'd have no opportunity to fuck up as long as he made sure not to get anywhere near Nash's flat, except apparently that didn't matter. Apparently—and he should have known, really—he could fuck up anywhere.
They were late finishing up, everybody else in the office done and long since clocked out, and nobody within a hundred metres of the lockers. Everything different, except that it was night and that it was Nash: that he was narrow and pale, and warm under Brant's hands when Brant put them on him.
For a second after he turned round, he met Brant's eyes; and Brant felt a sudden blistering fear that Nash meant to—meant to kiss him or some shit, which ripped through him so hard it made his hands clench tight on Nash's shoulders, ready to slam Nash backward into the lockers and—
But Nash didn't do that. Which was good, because hitting him probably would have soured the fucking mood a bit.
Nash didn't do that at all. He just looked at Brant for a second, eyes cool and sort of measuring in that bland way he had. And then he eased down to his knees right there, unzipped Brant's trousers and put Brant's prick in his mouth.
Opposite of last time—Brant wasn't quite hard to start with, but it didn't take any longer for him to get there than it had taken Nash before. Nash's mouth was hot, fuck, hot and wet and open, and Brant shoved in deeper without really meaning to and Nash just took it.
Probably had done this a lot, too, Brant thought. Probably that was why he was so fucking good at it: sucking tight and perfect, taking Brant deep like that, with his tongue all—oh, fuck, fuck, that was fan-fucking-tastic—
Brant might even have felt embarrassed about how little time it took, except—well, Nash did this for fun, didn't he? Nash liked doing it, being a cocksucker in his spare time and all. So no wonder he had the trick of bringing a bloke off quick.
And—well. Brant was sure as fuck not going to do that. But after Nash had done it for him, he couldn't just go, either. Had to drop down—knees weak anyway, so it was for the best—and get Nash's trousers undone, and wrap his hand around Nash, and listen to him gasp out of that wet red mouth. Red with sucking Brant off, and that was something worth thinking about even when Brant had got off already.
It felt a little like cheating or something, doing the same thing to Nash that he'd done last time when Nash had gone on and done something new. But Nash wasn't complaining. He was hard as nails in Brant's hand, and moving with Brant like this was all he wanted anyway, like he couldn't imagine anything he'd rather Brant were doing. His face was set almost in concentration, little line between his brows and his eyes narrowed, almost closed; and his mouth was right there—
"Oh, fuck, fuck," Nash murmured, and came in Brant's hand, and Brant didn't even remember to be disgusted this time.
And Nash was fine. He didn't get weird or anything afterward, didn't cling or ask Brant back to his or anything that would have caused a problem. He knelt there with Brant for a second, catching his breath, and then tucked himself away and zipped up.
"Sorry about that," he said, and pulled out a handkerchief, because he was Nash and he had one.
It was only when Brant was wiping his hand off that it occurred to him Nash had sucked him bare, had swallowed. But they were both coppers—they had to get workups all the time, they were both clean. Didn't mean anything.
They went their separate ways after, and Nash didn't say anything about it the next day. So it had been a mistake, but not that bad of one. Seemed like they'd be all right. It was fine.
Yeah.
The third time they fucked after a case, Brant couldn't kid himself anymore. They were—they were doing something, and they'd done it enough times now that it could almost be called a habit.
It was something about the way Nash had acted after the second time that made the third time—possible. Something about how normal he was, how he didn't look at Brant too long or touch him more than usual or anything like that. Made the second time feel almost like it had never happened, and that made a third time okay.
Brant almost wanted it, even. Just to prove that it could happen again, because Nash was acting like he'd never had Brant's prick down his throat at all—but he had, he had and he'd liked it, just like he'd liked Brant's hand on him, and he'd like it if Brant did it again. He would.
And once Brant had thought that, he couldn't un-think it. He couldn't un-think it, and he couldn't forget about it. Which was fine, because he didn't really want to do either.
So the next time they went out with Falls, and were full and a little drunk and standing outside on the wet pavements, Brant brushed off Nash's vague attempt to say goodnight. He followed Nash right onto the bus, rode all the way back with him to his place, crowded him right through the door and tugged his jacket off from behind. And then they—they actually fucked.
That part, Brant hadn't really planned on. Somehow with Nash's jacket off, it made sense to keep going—to pull his shirt off, too, and yank his belt loose, and all the rest. The more of Nash that showed, the tighter Brant felt himself wind, until even the littlest thing could've fucking snapped him. If Nash so much as asked him what he was doing, he was going to be up and out the door without even trying, heart like a fucking jackhammer—
But Nash didn't ask. Nash said, "Hey, wait up a second," and grabbed something out of the bedside drawer, did—did something to himself for a minute, two, that Brant didn't really want to look at too close. He turned away and yanked his shirt off instead, tugged his trousers down and then glanced over his shoulder to see how Nash was getting on. And Nash seemed to be done, was putting the fucking slick or whatever back where he'd got it from, and his arse was just as narrow and pale as the rest of him; and something about seeing that made it easy to climb back on the bed and push him down.
And after that it was fine. Better than. Brant didn't bother taking his trousers off the rest of the way, just shoved his pants down too and slid inside. He went in smooth and deep with that first go, and Nash made a choked noise and said, "Oh, fuck you, oh."
Brant snorted and said, "You mean fuck you," and then did: hard and steady, hands sometimes on Nash's hips and sometimes on his thighs, and he had to be leaving marks but Nash just pressed back into it, unhesitating.
He had to reach round to make sure Nash got off first, but that was all right—he'd done that part before, after all. And it was a thing and a half, Nash coming on Brant's cock like that, fuck, shuddering with it while Brant held him down and shoved in hard; fuck, fuck.
It was hard to tell himself he'd better not do it again, when it fucking felt like that.
The thing that was really off about it all in the end wasn't any of the fucking. It was Nash—it was the way Nash wasn't off about it.
Which sounded fucking stupid, but there it was. Brant had been expecting to have to talk to Nash about it, just to get it all clear with him, because he was a poofter and all and might get the wrong idea. Not that Brant wanted to do it, because it was going to be fucking awkward and he'd probably fuck it up. He hadn't been looking forward to it at all. But—
But it didn't happen. Nash seemed fine. He didn't act different at the station or anything. He didn't give Brant any funny looks, or try to get him in the locker room again when it wasn't a good time, or touch Brant anywhere he usually didn't when anybody was about. He didn't get soft in the eyes or the face when he did look at Brant. He hadn't tried to make all this anything it wasn't, not once—hadn't tried to get Brant to stay at his, or angled to stay at Brant's, or even so much as put his mouth on Brant anywhere but Brant's prick.
Which was good. It wasn't—thinking about Nash trying shit like that was—it made Brant feel tense, full of sharp uncertain energy, something tight and uncomfortable low in his gut. It was good, that Nash hadn't pushed it or done anything stupid. It was just a shoe Brant was waiting to have drop, that was all, and the longer he had to wait for it the harder it got to do the waiting. It was following him around all the time like a shadow, this idea that sometime soon Nash might—do something like that, kiss or touch Brant some way Brant couldn't let him; it was—
"Brant. Brant. Brant?"
Brant looked up. "Hm?"
Nash was standing over his desk with an eyebrow raised, and Brant couldn't say for sure how long he might've been doing it.
"Brant," Nash said again, and then paused a second, and then added, "Can you spare a minute?"
So this was it, Brant figured. This was finally it. He followed Nash through the station to a hallway nobody was in, a supply closet with a working light so Nash could close the door behind them, and the whole way he was bracing himself. This was it: Nash was going to say something. He was going to ask Brant what it was they were doing, try to call it something it wasn't or push Brant someplace Brant didn't want to go, and Brant was going to have to set him straight.
Straight. Ha.
And Brant hadn't been looking forward to this, but it was happening and he was going to try to do it right. He wasn't going to be any crueler to Nash than he had to be—he was just going to be clear, so he and Nash would be on the same page—
"All right?"
"What?"
"All right?" Nash said again. "Look, I didn't want to say anything out there where it would be—official, or anything. But you—got some bad news or something?"
Brant blinked. "What?"
"You seem distracted," Nash said, easy, nothing on his face but concern for a colleague. "It's not a problem or anything, or at least it hasn't been yet. I'm not trying to make a fuss, Brant. I just wanted to ask."
"Fine," Brant said, and that was all he meant to say but he found more words spilling out anyway: "I—this thing we're doing—"
And then his throat clogged, sudden and choking. It felt like a mistake—more of one than fucking in the first place, even—to have said it, to have spoken even that much aloud. Like he'd broken a rule, trespassed on marked ground, and Nash was going to go up in a puff of smoke because of it; or maybe not Nash but the fucking itself, somehow, and Nash was about to look at Brant with a little frown and say, What thing we're doing? Brant, what are you talking about?
But all Nash did was nod. "Yeah?"
"It isn't anything," Brant tried to explain. "I don't want you thinking—it isn't anything. Right? You understand."
He felt strange saying it, half-expecting to have to fight Nash over it, not really wanting to but at the same time it was—it was important, for Nash not to have got the wrong end of the stick anywhere.
Not that he'd ever got the wrong end of Brant's stick, he seemed to know his way around there—
"Sure," Nash said evenly, and smiled a little. "It is what it is. I know that. It's no problem, Brant, I understand fine. Now let's get back to work, all right?"
"Yeah," Brant said, and Nash clapped him on the shoulder and then went out; and left Brant, gut sinking and he didn't know why, standing there in the closet alone.
Brant was the one who was off, after that. Kept catching himself fucking watching Nash, for—for he didn't even know what. It had thrown him, being ready for a fight and not getting one. And from Nash, of all people, who could hit as hard and low as Brant could when he tried; who had to be thinking Brant was full of shit but still wasn't pushing.
It is what it is. I understand.
As if Nash had ever let anything lie in his life—as if he hadn't told Brant right to his face that when things felt like they were getting away from him, he chased them down with a baseball bat.
There was something about it that nagged at Brant. And he wasn't any better at letting things go than Nash was.
It wasn't exactly a case, but Brant found himself treating it like it was. Going through Nash's file, like there was an answer in there somewhere, and never mind that Brant didn't know what the question was. Trying half a dozen times to bring it up with Falls, and always having to drop it when he couldn't decide how to say what he had to say—and that drove him fucking mad, feeling it fall apart on him like that, like a lead going cold.
That, maybe, was what finally sent him over to West London.
He had half a memory of Nash telling him something about West London, about how it had been for Nash there—condoms in his locker, wasn't it, and something about his car, the petrol. Brant had been three-quarters asleep at the time.
But he had enough to be getting on with. He came up with something, a cold file somebody had requested once that had never made it over from West London, and made on like he was after it, and like it was only being there that had reminded him there was some bloke from West London—Nash, wasn't it? Anybody there who remembered Nash?
"Oh, sure," one copper said, leaning on the desk, while the clerk was off hunting down Brant's file. "Sure, Nash," and Brant had the sense he wasn't elaborating with the queer, yeah only because he'd gotten some kind of dress-down for it once already this month. "Kept to himself, that chap. Trouble with him?"
"Nah," Brant said. "Hardly see him, myself. Why? Trouble here, was he?"
"Stayed in line all right," the copper said, and grinned at Brant. "Needed reminders now and then, didn't he, not to step out, but—"
"But no trouble?" Brant said, raising an eyebrow.
The copper shrugged. "He knew the deal. Didn't report it, did he? He knew better."
"Yeah," Brant said, and then the clerk came back with the file, so he couldn't throw a punch.
Could swing an elbow around, to catch the clerk's mug of tea and dump it all down the copper's front. Least he could do.
And that, Brant thought, was it. That was the thing he'd needed to hear, to make it all come together.
Nash knew better.
Nash didn't let things lie, and he wasn't going to let himself get hurt or taken advantage of, because he was a copper and a good one and he could handle himself. But he knew what was in reach of him and what wasn't; he'd spent a good fucking while in West London learning it. And getting a partner who wouldn't pull that shit on him—and better still, who'd let Nash suck him, and rub Nash off once in a while, and fuck Nash sometimes even if he wouldn't look at Nash while he did it—well, that was already past all Nash's expectations, wasn't it? And looking a gift horse like that in the mouth—Nash wasn't stupid.
Nash knew better.
And what was there to do about that? What needed doing about it? Fuck if Brant knew. He'd wanted to be sure Nash wasn't going to get the wrong idea, right, he'd—that was what he'd wanted. And he had it. Stupid to get in a strop about it.
So maybe Brant was fucking stupid, then.
Lucky he didn't have to figure out what to do about it for himself, really. He'd probably have kept on fucking Nash every other week and not knowing what the fuck he was doing until it was all fucked up, until Nash fucking hated him.
But he didn't have to figure out what to do about it for himself, in the end, because the fuckface at the bar did it for him.
Just going for a pint after a long day, him and Nash, and maybe they'd have fucked after or maybe they wouldn't have. Brant had been trying to figure out whether to let it happen—whether maybe this time he could make it happen, and whether that was all right or not, and whether he cared if it wasn't.
And then somebody got in Nash's face at the bar over who'd been next in line to order. And even when Brant was still half a dozen steps away, he could hear the bloke saying fag loud enough to carry.
Nash didn't look angry, Brant thought. Nash looked fine: calm, a little bored, that was all. Because—
Because Nash knew better.
Nash caught sight of him before Fuckface did, and grabbed for his arm. "Brant—"
"Yeah, you heard me," Fuckface was saying, "fucking fairy—"
"So what if he is?" Brant said, conversational, as if he were interested in the answer—leaning in past Nash with his shoulder to Nash's, right up in Fuckface's ugly fuck of a face.
"Brant," Nash said again, very low.
And maybe Nash knew better, but that didn't mean Brant had to, did it? Brant never fucking knew better. Story of Brant's fucking life.
So Brant leaned in a little further, and didn't look at Nash—locked eyes with Fuckface instead, and tilted his head, and waited for his fucking answer.
Which came in the form of Fuckface scoffing. "What, we got another one here? You let him fuck you, do you—"
And Brant felt it all at once: that winding tension going tight again, the sharp electric stab of fear, and how easy it would be to shove Nash away from him—
How Nash would expect that. How he knew better than to expect anything else.
"Yeah," Brant found himself saying. "Maybe I do. Maybe we'll get our pints and drink them, right here in your pub, and then we'll go home and he'll give it to me harder than you've ever fucked anybody in your life. Hm?"
He didn't want to look, but couldn't help it. His eyes cut sideways to Nash without telling him first so he could fucking stop them, and Nash was—
Nash was looking right back at him. And there it was, just like Brant had imagined it might be, something awful and soft in his face and warm in his eyes, and all of it fucking terrifying. He'd had his mouth halfway open to say Brant's name again, and he pressed it shut and looked at Brant like that and then smiled, just a little.
"Got a problem with that?" Brant said, a little bit to Nash and mostly to Fuckface; and Nash looked at him and didn't say anything and just kept smiling.
Fuckface, not so much.
"Yeah, I think I fucking do, you fucking—"
"All right then, ladies and gents," Brant said, shaking out his hands, cracking his neck, "looks like we have a problem."
He caught Nash's eye once more and raised his eyebrows. And Nash looked at him and then squinted off into the middle distance, weighing—and then swung round all at once, too quick for Fuckface to dodge, to land the first punch.
Brant was only weaving a little bit on the way to Nash's after, whatever Nash said. Concussion, maybe, but he'd had plenty of those, hadn't he?
"You're a maniac," Nash said comfortably, bunching up another one of his fucking handkerchiefs a little better against his lip where it had split.
"Oh, says you," Brant said, and wiped at his nose. His knuckles were fine, all dried and starting to itch, and his forehead felt stiff and papery in a way that said something was scabbing over up there. But his nose was still fucking bleeding. "Fuck this fucking—"
"All right, come on, let me see," Nash said, and grabbed Brant's chin, turned him round and tilted his face a little. And maybe he moved first, or—or maybe it was Brant—
Or maybe it didn't fucking matter how; they fucking kissed, was the point, right there in the dark in the middle of the fucking street, Nash's split lip splitting again and Brant bleeding all over, painful and a little nasty and fucking perfect—and nothing to be afraid of after all.