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Miscellaneous Exley/White shorts
aerye: Exley/White--mmm, something sweaty and hot, ice melting in the glass and a whirling fan
August, another late night. The other detectives gone home to the suburbs to escape the heat, not even criminals out. Steady whup-whup of the useless ceiling fans, trying to stir the heavy air. The ice machine down the hall was broken. Exley went downstairs. Running the cup across his forehead, condensation dripping slow down his neck, criss-crossing the sweat trails. No glasses, half the lights turned off to keep the temperature down: he didn't even see White in the corner right away.
White came to fill his own glass, crowded him up against the wall and reached around him to get the ice. "We don't usually get you detective lieutenants slumming down here."
Exley took another swallow, not trying to get out: wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. "Sorry if you've been feeling neglected."
White spilled the glass over him, not an accident, ice sliding down his back and chest. A high gasp got out before he stopped it and squeezed his eyes shut. His nipples tightened under the wet, translucent shirt; White less than six inches away. Nothing but the sound of their breathing and the creak of the fans.
"It's too fucking hot for this," White said, and touched him through the shirt.
aerye: Exley/White--Lynn just called
Bud put down the phone slowly. Ed watched him without saying anything. Short conversation, mostly yes and no on this side. "She okay?" he asked.
"Yeah." Bud sat down and emptied the glass: his second shot of whiskey. Ed filled it up again. "She got the papers from the lawyer," Bud said. "I told her to send them here. You mind? I'll get a place next week."
"Why bother?" Ed said. "I've got room, and I don't mind the company."
Bud looked at him across the table. "Exley, I stay here another week, I won't be sleeping on your couch anymore. Or is that the idea?"
Embarrassment crawled up Ed's neck: he'd forgotten just how stupid it was to underestimate the guy, three shots down or not. He cleared his throat. "That's the idea."
Bud finished the glass. "Good, because my back's been killing me."
Ed followed him to the bedroom, mouth watering, watching him take off his clothes. The white undershirt straps so bright against his sun-dark skin, hair just a little long and curling over the back of his neck. The belt came off, coiled around one big hand.
"This isn't a fucking peep show," Bud said, and Ed went to him, pulled the undershirt loose and slid his hands up under it, palms flat over all that smooth muscle, nipples going tight and pebbly under his fingers.
So different to actually touch, sweat on his palms, in the creases of Bud's skin; his cock sliding through the crack of Bud's ass, pushing clumsily, head skidding away over and over again. "Jesus fucking Christ, Exley," Bud said, looking over his shoulder. Ed gave up and slid down, put his tongue in him instead; Bud stopped complaining and grunted, fucking the sheets like crazy, and after he came, Ed finally managed to get his dick inside.
The thick envelope came four days later. Bud signed and signed, got drunk, bent Ed over the kitchen table. Papers scattered across the floor in a white drift.
The sex was fantastic, but after the first couple weeks they started saving it for Saturday nights. Weekdays were for work: Bud was keeping his hands dirty with a little private-eye, cheap tails and divorce evidence, some bodyguarding; but in the evenings Ed brought back his cases, the tough ones, and they broke them down together.
After a few months they started having friends over once in a while. Mostly Bud's -- Exley wasn't ever going to be good at making pals -- but the invitation had been Ed's idea. Five minutes in the apartment would be more than enough to spell things out for anyone who'd been wondering or not; Bud stared at him when he made the suggestion the first time, and then wordlessly dragged him into the bedroom, even though it was Tuesday.