Moving On

Moving On

 

Lewis doesn't know what he's done to deserve this, but he figures it must have been bad. James Hathaway is prowling round his living room like a trapped animal. Earlier he'd managed to get himself dosed by some kind of designer drug while they were on a bust, and he's been driving Lewis crazy ever since.

 

 

The doctor they'd seen at the casualty department had said that Hathaway would be fine, and that the effects of the drug should wear off in a few hours. He'd given an embarrassed cough, and suggested that Hathaway should go home to his girlfriend and try and relieve the symptoms.

 

 

Unfortunately he is currently single, and even though a couple of the WPCs, who'd been along on the raid, had offered to take care of him; the Chief Super had decided that Lewis was the man for the job. He'd tried to argue, but Superintendent Innocent had simply over-ruled his objections, saying that she knew Hathaway would be safe with him. He knows what they think of him, boring, staid Robert Lewis, they probably can't imagine that he has a sex life at all, never mind that he's just as much a danger to Hathaway's virtue as they are.

 

 

It's been hard enough keeping himself under control around the younger man during their regular working life, but tonight Hathaway has been stretching his control to its limits. Crawling into his lap like a puppy, touching and petting, rubbing himself against Lewis, it's been pure hell, and Lewis isn't sure how much more of this he can take.

 

 

"Oh my god," Hathaway's excited voice cuts through his self-pity, and it takes him a moment to realise where the sound came from. When he does he rushes from the room, praying that he's mistaken, but he's not. The side door into the garage is standing open, and when he looks inside, he can see that Hathaway has pulled back the tarp, and is looking at the car.

 

 

His long fingers hovering just above the gleaming red paintwork, as though he's afraid to touch. The sight is like a fist in Lewis' gut, and he freezes in the doorway not knowing what to do.

 

 

"She's gorgeous, and she's just sat here, why don't you ever drive her?" Hathaway's eyes are still blown wide by the drug, and his voice is breathy and childlike.

 

 

Lewis doesn't know what to say, how to explain how he feels about the Jag. A big part of him refuses to see the car as his, he's no clue why Morse left it too him. Despite everything that'd happened between them, he'd never thought that the older man cared enough to will him his prized possession.

 

 

He's never been able to bring himself to drive the car, once a year he sends it out to be serviced and MOT'd, but he always has it picked up, he's never once got behind the wheel himself. The car's part of his past, it's boxed up and buried alongside Morse and his marriage, with all the broken pieces of his heart.

 

 

Hathaway's hand drops onto the bonnet, fingers caressing the gleaming metal, the combination of car and man pressing buttons that Lewis thought he'd buried years ago. He's spent the last few months telling him self that he can't have this, shouldn't want it, and he's all too aware of how close to breaking he's become. "It's his, isn't it? This is Morse's car." Hathaway's made the connection, and Lewis hates how exposed that makes him feel.

 

 

Hathaway has turned his well-ordered life upside down since he was assigned to Lewis' watch. He has a habit of spouting obscure bits of knowledge that reminds him of the old days, and the way being around Morse always made him feel insecure. Mostly he's over it, but sometimes it's like being forcibly reminded of all the things he doesn't know, of the way he doesn't fit in here.

 

 

Hathaway fits Oxford, knows the un-written rules and codes that have always eluded Lewis. He's come to think of him, as a kind of Proto-Morse, like this is the man Morse might have been in his youth. Before age and experience made him the cynical and angry man that Lewis worked with. He doesn't want Hathaway to become like that, doesn't want to see him ground down by the job the way Morse was.

 

 

Hathaway's taken advantage of his distraction and slipped into the car, he's sitting in the driver's seat, Morse's seat, and Lewis is struck by how good he looks there, how right, he suits the car far better than Lewis ever has. But he shouldn't be there, and Lewis crosses the garage, pulls open the passenger side door, meaning to reach in and drag Hathaway back to the house.

 

 

He can't bring himself to do it, there's an expression of pure bliss on the younger man's face, he's so happy to be sitting there, and so Lewis just slides into his old seat, and watches. Hathaway is running his hands over everything he can touch, rubbing soft circles on the leather, curling round the steering wheel, and Lewis is torn between wanting to rip his hands away, and the urge to find out what they'd feel like against his own skin.

 

 

He's got a thing about Hathaway's hands, has ever since he met him. He's watched them curl around papers and pens, seen them throw a punch, and offer a comforting touch to a victim. Long elegant fingers and soft palms have been featuring in Lewis fantasies every night for months. He's dealt with it, learned to live with the need, after all he's had long years at Morse's side to perfect the art of denying his own desires.

 

 

But it's one thing to stay away when you're sure that you'd be rejected, quite another to stay strong in the face of the invitations Hathaway's been offering all night. The younger man's actions are pushing Lewis closer and closer to the edge with each passing minute, and he's not sure how much longer he can hang on.

 

 

"Oh fuck," the whispered words draw his attention back to Hathaway, just in time to see him slide a hand into his opened trousers and wrap around his cock. Slow languorous movements hold Lewis mesmerised, he knows he should walk away, give Hathaway some privacy, come back once he's sure the younger man is done.

 

 

He can't do it, can't walk away, not when the sight of those beautiful fingers wrapped around a cock that he's spent months imagining, has him completely fascinated. He's done holding back, reaching out, he lets his own blunt fingers tangle with Hathaway's for a moment. Then he slowly pulls their hands away, leans in and sucks the tip of Hathaway's cock into his mouth.

 

 

He feels the body above him stiffen for a moment, and almost pulls away, but then Hathaway relaxes into his touch. He sinks lower, sucking the full length into his mouth, and feels a hand come to rest on his head. It's a gentle touch, fingers carding through his hair, chasing away the last of his fear.

 

 

He's been here before, had the gear-stick digging into his side, the steering wheel bruising his shoulder, a cock in his mouth and a hand wrapped around his neck. It's painfully familiar, and completely different all at the same time. Morse gripped him hard, rode his mouth, like he was nothing but a hole to get off in. Hathaway is barely moving, content to let Lewis set his own pace. His cock twitching and pulsing at the attention he's receiving, but never thrusting. Lewis isn't choking on punishing thrusts or pulling away from a punishing grip. Hathaway's petting him still, his hand easy on Lewis' head, caressing and encouraging instead of tugging and pushing.

 

 

Morse talked all the time, orders and instructions, More, like that, harder, now Lewis, all in that powerful demanding voice. It'd always left Lewis feeling as humiliated as he was turned on, being spoken to that way. He'd never been sure that the words were for him, or if it was just that Morse could never keep his mouth shut, and that he'd just been a convenient audience.

 

 

Hathaway's talking too, but he's not giving orders, he's begging and pleading, sounding more desperate by the second. "Please God, feels so good, need this, need you. Please Robert, please." It's strange hearing his Christian name spill from Hathaway's lips. He's been Lewis for so long, he's almost forgotten how to respond to his given name, he thinks that Cathy was the last to use it.

 

 

He's grateful for the cock in his mouth, he can't respond, and that means he can't say anything he knows he'll wind up regretting later. Hathaway's not talking anymore, just making tiny breathy moans and whimpers, Lewis is harder than he's been in years, his own cock trapped in his trousers, aching and weeping. He ignores his own need in favour of Hathaway's pleasure.

 

 

He hums around the hard length in his mouth, drawing the cock deep into his throat, and swallowing around it. The extra stimulation proves to be too much for Hathaway, and his body stiffens and jerks. Then his cock's pulsing and Lewis is swallowing a mouthful of bitter liquid.

 

 

When he feels Hathaway's softening cock slip from his mouth, he comes back to his senses. He's disgusted with himself, he's taken advantage of a man who was too stoned to think straight, and he's not sure he can live with that. He keeps his head down, terrified of raising his eyes and seeing anger and scorn on Hathaway's face. He's already composing his resignation in his head, and wondering what the hell he's going to do for the rest of his life.

 

 

Then he feels his head being drawn up, and when he looks at his companion, he sees no bitterness on his face, and he's too shocked to protest when he's drawn into a bruising kiss. He's still not sure it isn't all going to go wrong, but for now he's enjoying the taste of the man he thought he'd never get to have.

 

 

When Hathaway pulls back, he's convinced it's over, and there's an apology on his lips, but he never gets to say it. He's shoved back into the passenger seat, and he can feel Hathaway's hand grabbing his zip, and worming its way inside his trousers. Then there's a hand wrapped around his cock, those beautiful fingers are gripping him tightly, stroking him.

 

 

Morse never did this, never kissed him or touched his cock. After their encounters, he'd always had to slink off to a bathroom and bring himself off, his own hand on his cock and Morse's name on his lips. He squeezes his eyes tight shut; not quite believing this is real.

 

 

Hathaway's talking again, his voice low and steady, "Don't do that, don't hide. I wanted this, wanted you. Have done for a while, this just made a good excuse, I knew you'd never do anything."

 

 

It's hard to concentrate through the pleasure, but Lewis tries to answer all the same, "I shouldn't have, the drugs…"

 

 

"Wore off a couple of hours ago." Hathaway interrupts, and the words are shocking enough that Lewis opens his eyes again, searching for the truth in his lover's face.

 

 

"Let it go Robert, I'm not him, but I'm here, stop thinking this wrong."

 

 

"Oh God," he wants to believe, he really does. But Hathaway's bright, beautiful, and much too young. What would he want with a man whose best years are behind him? Lewis knows he's not in Hathaway's league; he's middle-aged, running to fat, and far too set in his ways for someone like him.

 

 

Hathaway's not stopping, he's still whispering words of praise and comfort, still touching him. Lewis gives up the fight, lets him self succumb to the exquisite pleasure he's feeling. It's only a matter of moments before he finds release, spurting over Hathaway's hands, splattering the dashboard with his come.

 

 

A small part of his mind is irrationally happy about the sight of it, his come desecrating Morse's precious car. It's a little petty, but it feels like a victory of sorts, like Morse no longer controls him. He's feeling more relaxed than he has in months, and he's pretty sure that's not just because of the sex. He's still avoiding Hathaway's eyes, half-convinced that even at this late stage the other man is going to cry foul. He has no clue what's going to happen next.

 

 

"Robert," Hathaway grips his chin, and forces his head up; apparently he'd said that last bit out loud. "Next we're going to go inside and get cleaned up, and I was rather hoping you were going to offer to share that big bed of yours with me."

 

 

"Hathaway, are you sure about this? I can't believe that you…"

 

 

This time he's interrupted with a kiss, and before he knows it he's got his arms wrapped around the younger man, pressing their bodies together. When they finally separate, Hathaway steps out of the car, walks around to the passenger side, then leans in and offers Lewis his hand.

 

 

He lets himself be helped from the car, following his new lover back into the house. They're barely halfway down the hall when Hathaway presses him up against the wall, taking his mouth in another searing kiss. He's starting to believe that this just might be real, and this time lets him self sink into the feeling, no longer caring about the consequences.

 

 

Hathaway pulls away, leading him towards the bedroom. "For the record I'm not still stoned, and I'm definitely sure. But if we're going to do this I'm not answering to Hathaway in bed. I've got an actual name, you know? Try using it when we're not at work."

 

 

"James," the sound of his name falling from Lewis' mouth causes a blinding smile to spread across his lover's face. It's a smile Lewis is pretty sure he's going to want to see over and over again. His lover,, that's a phrase that is going to take some getting used to. But Lewis thinks he's going to have fun trying.