Love's Not Time's Fool
Title: Love's Not Time's Fool
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Christian Kane/Steve Carlson
Rating: R
Feedback: All feedback, including constructive criticism, is welcomed.
Disclaimer: This is FICTION. None of it's real.
A/N: My thanks to waterofthemoon for the beta; remaining mistakes are all mine. Title taken, obviously, from Shakespeare. Written for elebridith, who bought me a million years ago at fics4books and has been very, very patient. I hope you like it, honey.

Chris turns up on his doorstep, easy as you please: hair longer, that damn cowboy hat tipped low over his eyes, cocky smirk on his lips.



It’s raining outside the day it happens, the day everything changes again. Chris turns up on his doorstep, easy as you please: hair longer, that damn cowboy hat tipped low over his eyes, cocky smirk on his lips. Only sign he’s not so sure is the way he’s standing, the slight slouch, one leg back and foot turned like he’s ready to run away.

“Chris,” Steve says. Surprise and alcohol don’t make for creativity.

Chris gives him that infuriatingly beautiful smile, made even more devastating by the vulnerability that seeps into it. “Hi.”

“Uh.” Steve blinks. His mouth’s moving, but no words are coming out. What do you say to someone you’ve hardly seen in months who disappeared out of your life and turns up to stand on your doorstep at three o’clock in the morning when it’s pouring down rain? “Hi.”

Chris’ smile falters, and his weight shifts backwards as he steps back. “I, uh. I shouldn’t—I should go. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—I just thought—”

“Nuh uh,” Steve says, hand going out to grab Chris even as Chris moves away. “You don’t get to roll up here, say hi, and disappear again, Kane. That’s not how this works.”

Chris shakes his head, shakes him off, backs up a few more steps, out into the rain where he obviously thinks Steve won’t follow. It’s warm and dry inside, and the rain has a bit of a bite; he feels faint splatters against his shins. He hasn’t talked to Chris in months, got left behind, singing broken love songs. He’s got no reason to follow Chris out into the rain.

But Chris looks up, swallows hard, and offers him that tiny, crooked, shy smile. There’s so much there in that one look, and he can’t stop himself. He takes three steps forward, knocks the hat right off Chris’ head, fists his hands in Chris’ hair, and crushes their lips together.

It’s been building for years—building since forever. Steve doesn’t know what possessed him to actually… but Chris is reacting, arching against him, arms going around his neck, fingers sliding into his hair. Kissing back like he’s drowning for it.

“Steve,” Chris whimpers when they break to breathe, brushing his lips against the corner of his mouth, pressing in closer like it’s even possible. His eyes flutter, mouth open as he pants a little. “Oh god, Steve. I’ve waited—I’ve wanted this. Steve, I—”

“I know,” Steve says, kisses Chris again, licks deep into his mouth. He can feel the heat of Chris’ skin through his t-shirt, and he wants—he wants to trace Chris’ muscles, wants to feel them move under his fingertips, wants to find the places that make Chris moan that sweet sound he’s only almost heard. He slides his hand under Chris’ shirt and pulls it over his head, then dips his head and licks the raindrops from Chris’ collarbone, where he tastes rain and salt and Chris. God, it’s better than he’s ever imagined—and there’s that sound.

That gorgeous, beautiful sound he’s never heard from Chris’ lips, not for anyone Steve’s seen him with. He can’t stop touching, can’t stop tasting, can’t stop his hands from sliding down Chris’ spine to the waistband of his jeans. He undoes them, slides them off Chris’ hips, fingers following as Chris clutches at him, tugs at his shirt. Takes it off.

Chris is shaking, pulling at his hair, and Steve tips his head until Chris can kiss him, needy and wanting. He’s never imagined Chris to give so sweetly, so easily to him. Comes with him, step by step—almost trips, struggles to get his damn boots free of his jeans, but stays skin against heated skin as he moves them back towards the house. Steve wants more than he can get outside on the drive. He can’t fight the urge to press Chris back against the nearest hard surface, the doorframe, and fits in close, slides a thigh between Chris’, and rubs up. Chris’ whine is just plain dirty. They’ve got to be breaking more than one law, but he can’t stop yet, can’t break away enough to stumble those three steps that would get them inside. He dips his head and licks the raindrops from Chris’ jaw as he rubs against Chris’ cock, rubs until it’s hard and leaking, and Chris is almost thrashing where he’s pinned.

He turns—because if he does any more, he’s pretty sure they’ll be finishing this off in jail—kicks the door shut behind him, and walks Chris back thirteen steps before the backs of Chris’ legs hit the armrest of the couch. Steve just pushes, topples Chris back onto the cushions, legs still hanging off the side.

And then he moans Chris’ name because fuck if Chris isn’t looking like sin: rain-soaked, lips swollen and bruised, eyes dark and heavy as they watch him, dick hard against his stomach. Damn boots still on.

Steve pauses only to take his own jeans off before he’s sliding onto the couch, straddling Chris and leaning down to fuck Chris’ mouth with his tongue, deep and dirty, want and need built up over years just pouring into it. There’s nothing careful or fine or particularly mind-blowing about it; they don’t even get as far as any actual fucking. They’re too worked up, too needy, and there’s not enough of anything, but it’s all almost too much.

He shifts down until he can curl his hand around both their dicks, rocking his hips to pin Chris down when Chris arches, twists under him, claws at his shoulders and rocks into his hand. He jacks them both off, rough and fast, swallows all of Chris’ moans, feels Chris’ fingers digging into his skin—it just drives him on, pushes him harder.

Chris comes first with a choked-off cry, back arching off the couch as he tears his mouth away, tips his head back, and just lets go. The look on Chris’ face is all it takes to tip him over the edge, makes him follow Chris down, paint Chris’ stomach with their come. He collapses against Chris and presses his mouth to Chris’ jaw, lazy and sated and too boneless to move.

It takes Chris a few minutes to respond. “We’re gonna get real sticky real fast,” he says. Steve sits back up slowly and doesn’t resist the urge to lean down and kiss Chris again, to slide his hand in to tangle in Chris’ hair. When he slides off him, Steve offers Chris his hand, pulls him up, and doesn’t let him go as he leads Chris into the bedroom. Steve leaves the door open when he goes into the bathroom, listens to Chris kicking off his boots, and comes back in to find Chris already making himself at home in his bed.

Chris looks up at him and grins, pulls him into another kiss when he finally makes it to Chris’ side. Chris keeps kissing him, slow and warm and easy, as Steve cleans them both up and throws the towel to the side.

“Tomorrow,” Steve mumbles as he pushes Chris back onto the pillows. “We talk.” There’s a rumble of a sound, something that’s maybe agreement, from under him, but he’s already half asleep. He keeps Chris pinned under him in case he tries to get away while he’s sleeping, and he relaxes when he feels a familiar hand in his hair, an open-mouthed kiss pressed against his temple.

Chris murmurs something that could have been “fuck you” or “I’m sorry” or, knowing Chris, maybe it’s just “you’re heavy,” but it’s all the same to Steve. Chris is warm and solid under him, and Steve’s not letting him go any time soon. Not until he’s gotten answers, made the stubborn bastard talk. And definitely not until there’s been some fucking when he’s sober enough to know it’s not another hallucination.