Bought

Rafe lifted his head watching the door to the bathroom. Had he heard something, his name being called....? Minutes ticked by, but when no second summoning call came, and the door didn't open, he slowly lowered his head again until his chin rested on his crossed arms on the back of the couch. His imagination taking flight again.



Another false alarm. He eased back more comfortably onto the tan leather couch, a hand drifting down to sit on the folds of the robes he had acquired for the Guide. The folds of pure cream silk were satiny smooth under his palm, light as a feather, relying on myriad layers for concealment, each layer by itself, caressingly sheer. He ached to see the Guide in them, draped head to foot in the copious, fine woven cloth, the fabric floating with the slightest movement or hint of breeze.



Brian sighed, feeling his skin contract with his envisioning of the Guide so dressed. he would be beautiful, so beautiful, his faint scent drifting out from beneath the many layers in tiny puffs of tantalizing musk. A male dominated yet female tempered scent, rich, beckoning, alluring. Brian licked his lips and fixed his eyes on the door to the restroom.



Ellison was in that closed room, with the injured Guide. He'd gone straight in, shut the door, and Rafe didn't dare enter unless his Senior called him. At the very least Ellison would box his ears if he tried. Rafe's skin literally itched to be in there, the draw close to impossible to ignore. How bad could or would Ellison hurt him for the affront, for not waiting? Rafe tried to reason his way off the couch. Reluctantly he admitted that, for taking liberties with a Guide Ellison would beat the shit out of him. So. He had to wait. And wait.



So, he waited. Ears cocked and straining for the smallest cue. And he watched. And listened to the low rhythm of murmurs. Of speech. Of Jim talking to the Guide. The tones of that voice, the young and battered man, heard only once before when the Guide had called out in terror and denial. So sweet to Rafe's ear, the tone, not the fear. He shivered. The fear had been.... He had felt murderous, resentful that he hadn't been one of those to take revenge on the ones who had defiled the Guide.



The splash of water, almost silent, came through the door, telling him how careful Ellison was while he washed the Guide, lifting handfuls to suds with, more to rinse. Sluicing away the things that should never touch a Guide's skin. Things worse than profanity in church, blasphemy of a different, physical kind.



Brian listened and wanted. His fingers curling into fists, so great was the demand from his body he be in there, that he be caring for the Guide in need. Pain cut into his palms as his nails penetrated, drawing faint half-circles of welling blood. Red, scarlet. He had no other way to resist the compulsion that damned him for not going to the Guide; if he eased his control for an instant he would be up and on his way. The pain kept him focused, just able to resist.



No need to save any evidence of the rape. Sentinel justice was swift and brutal. Ellison had killed the one man who had been within his reach, Snapping his neck with vicious ease. The avenging Sentinels who had followed Rafe and Ellison into the hovel had taken care of the rest. Any man who's scent had been on the small body, was now dead. News articles had splashed lurid color photos of the scene across the evening papers within hours of the crime being reported. And the Sentinel vengeance which had followed. A cautionary message to anyone who thought about harming a Guide.



Little light leaked out from under the door. They were in there, Ellison and the Guide, in the near dark. The un-draped Guide reassured by the low light of a single candle. Safe from unwelcome eyes. Or unwelcome hands baring him in the bright glare. How anyone, any man of any race, could do what they had done to such a gentle creature was beyond Rafe's comprehension. Even at a distance, the soothing sounds washed over his skin. His fingers curled into fists.



Brian almost missed it. The opening of the door to the bathroom a crack, the curl of steam wafting out, nearly invisible, but this time real. When his eyes caught it he was up on his feet and moving before he realized what he was doing, the bundled robes in his arms, filling them to overflowing. His footfalls were silent, noiseless as he came across the floor his heart pounding. The Guide knew he was coming, didn't need sight nor sound to tell him that, the Guide just...~knew~. Brian felt him knowing. Felt the pounding of his heart, his and the Guide's.



Rafe slipped into the room, it was fogged and warm with moisture hanging in the air, filling his lungs, clinging to his skin. Ellison was on his knees in front of the commode, powerful thighs bunched, his attention focused on the figure in front of him. Rafe's eyes were caught, not for the first time by the leashed power of his Senior, by the overwhelming masculinity, dominance of his partner. His neck arched instinctively, throwing his gaze to the tiles as he crept forward, low to the ground, not daring to stand when Jim was on his knees.



The Guide sat on the closed lid wrapped in towels from his head to his toes. Loops of long, dark, damp curls peeking out from the terry cloth around his head. Rafe had the impression of large eyes, blue maybe, staring down at him. Not afraid, no, the Blessed Protector was at the Guide's side; Jim had managed to reassure him. A fearful Guide would not have dared to look at him.



Slim fingers, just the tips, rested on top of his covered thigh, the moonglow of his nails revealed. His skin olive toned, his fingertips tinged pink, warmed by the heat of his recently completed bath. There was no scent of the men on him, none lingered in the air. They had been washed away down the drain, along with the cleansing water, all sluiced away by the bare, patient hands of the Senior Sentinel.



Rafe felt his body tremble at the closeness of the scent of this Guide. He wanted to stare, to reach out, to touch the Guide, to creep closer and closer. He went onto his hands and knees, the stark reality of the situation making itself known to him with the impact of a fist to the chest. He kept one hand on the floor, fingers clenched into a fist.



This man, this one Guide, was his Guide. Their Guide. His Match. Their Match. There could be no other reason Brian Rafe's entire body was singing, his every sense tuned to perfect pitch, all of him focused on the rightness of being here, next to his Guide. And the wrongness of not touching him. His heart beat synced, his breath one with the breath of the man sitting wrapped in pristine white towels.



He placed the robes in Ellison's outstretched hands. He knelt, not moving from where he was, absorbing all he could. He looked up at Ellison who was showing the Guide the voluminous robes. Brian's eyes were drawn to the small movement, a foot peeked out from under the many towels. Sturdy, somewhat smaller than his own. Beaded with drops of moisture. Brian inched forward. And when there was no protest, another inch closer. His arms trembled with the urge to reach out to wipe away those few droplets. To care for the Guide.



"Senior." He said, his eyes unable to leave the fingers on the Guide's towel-blanketed thigh, the foot peeking out below. Not even to look at Ellison.



"Companion." It was a growl, on the verge of a warning, but not there, not yet. Rafe knew he had to move carefully, cautiously. He reached out, hand extending, fingers un-curling, flattening, relaxed in profile, no grabbing, just gentleness. His dry, lightly calloused fingers wiped the water away. Oh yes, gently. The cry of alarm from the Guide caught him by surprise.



He half expected the hand that rose to his throat and the body that bore him back on the bathroom floor. Not slamming him down, but hard and authoritative. Bending him, forcing him just a little faster than he could bend gracefully, taking his control of the movement away, until he was flat, until he was looking up into the ice blue eyes of his Senior. Who was watching him with interest more than censure, even while he was shaking his head.



Even so, Rafe knew what was expected. He exhaled, willing his body to ease. Not to follow Sentinel instinct and fight back. All Sentinels wanted to be alpha, not all got to be. Rafe knew he would never see the time he would top Ellison. He knew it, and he accepted it.



Or he thought he had. Then...he had inhaled the rich, real scent of this Guide. A scent that called to him to be dominant to be top, to be alpha. He squeezed his eyes shut, tightened every muscled and fought not to fight back. Now he understood what Ellison had been looking for. Why he had not been willing or interested in settling for less. Why so few Guides regardless of training, breeding, or pedigree made his very short list.



Now Rafe wanted to go to his Guide. Now he didn't want Ellison to be first. But he lay still, not resisting as Ellison knelt over him. The tension taking forever to leach out of him, cell by cell.



Minutes later he felt the grip on his throat ease. A small caress of fingers as they withdrew from his neck. But the larger Sentinel didn't move off of him, he sat on Rafe's legs, pinning him where he was, on the bathroom floor.



Brian saw movement behind Jim, the Guide rising, getting to his feet, moving forward, pressing up behind the much larger Ellison, his body surrounded by towels, completely hidden by the big detective. His eyes, huge and brilliant in the dark of the restroom, a stunning, vibrant blue.