=> Be late. As usual.
The ease of it is unexpected. Their other…encounters, of sorts, have set a standard: Swift attentions from Droog, forward and pressing, sometimes literally in the case of a wall downtown. To just be…sharing a space with him, now, feels like a stellar alignment.
Where else would he be?
Anywhere but here, with anyone else, for a start.
“Dunno,” he says, and it isn’t smooth, he winces at his own stupid answer. He answered it in his head, and then, that, just came out of his mouth. Stupid. He sets a hand over the one on his hip and leans in to kiss Droog again, more than the corner of his mouth.
He backs up a little, toward his bedroom. He kisses Droog again and takes a few more steps back. His room has a skylight, a wide bed right under it, books on a shelf and scattered everywhere. A small, barely-stable looking desk in a corner. The sheets and blankets and pillows are a nest lined with literature and a spatial puzzle or two. The big window gives the room some pale light from the city and the moon.
Pickle lifts Droog’s wrist and kisses the burnt number in his skin. It’ll be alright, he wants to say. Forget the Felt.
He follows attentively, leaving the mug on the counter. Droog’s hands move instead to Pickle’s hips, holding him and stepping in time with him as they kiss, and it’s so easy to follow someone with strides that match his own for once. Tall and confident in his steps, even backwards; this is the Inspector’s apartment and he knows where he’s going, what he’s doing. It’s like a dance when they move in time.
He lets go of the detective’s hips when they’re in his room, eases the door shut behind them for posterity. A small space for just the two of them, and Droog’s breath is caught in his chest. This isn’t his style, it’s not how he works. He makes things fast and hard in situations like these, and that’s how it’s been with the two of them since they started their game of tag.
But, he supposes, this is why he’s been following the detective like a dog for so long.
Because everything is different in all the right ways.
Especially when soft lips slide over the burn on his wrist, blond hair and pale skin and white coat literally glowing in the moonlight and Droog thinks he might be poetic about it if he were a different man. But he’s not, he’s Diamonds Droog, and his focus is there and on Pickle and nothing else in the single-minded way he has always functioned. It’s close and warm, and Diamonds kisses the Inspector hard, wants to push him into that nest of a bed and make him come apart. He thinks he might. If there weren’t so many books scattering the duvet. Instead he loops an arm around his waist and kisses him slow, wet, careful.
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