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The books deserve more attention than Luck is giving them right now. There are a few niggling inconsistencies that could be simple errors on the part of a bookie, or the first evidence that someone hasn't learned from what they did to Jogi for trying to help himself to more than his share. But it's Tuesday afternoon, and that means Dallas is likely to show up soon, and Luck's mind is wandering.
It's almost embarrassing how quickly he's gotten used to this routine and how much he looks forward to these visits. Dallas has been coming to see him for three months now, once a week, and Luck knows full well how strained and conditional this agreement is, and yet. It's...enough, isn't it? Not romance -- and that's fine; he'll leave that to Claire and good riddance to it. And not even friendship, truly, nothing like what Firo has with Ennis. If he's being honest with himself it's mostly just sex.
But it's something, when Firo is through experimenting and Claire is besotted with some girl whose name he doesn't even know, and Dallas at least has the sense -- despite his behavior a few years ago -- not to try to extort anything out of Luck in exchange for his cooperation. Well, nothing that's any hardship to provide. Luck is fairly certain he'd be willing to stay out of Eve Genoard's skirts whether or not her brother volunteered to take her place.
He sighs. He's been staring at the same page of neat handwritten figures for probably ten minutes now, and he's no closer to an answer. Perhaps this evening he can show the records to Keith and get his opinion.
Downstairs Berga starts yelling -- not in itself always a cause for alarm, since the problem could still be something as mundane as three losing hands in a row. Luck wonders if he should get up to go check. Certainly he isn't doing much good up here.
And then there are footsteps on the stairs, heavy, hurried. Luck stands up, reaches under his jacket to make sure his gun is where he expects it to be. If someone's coming up here, then likely --
Only it's Dallas at the door, ducking inside and closing it behind himself, looking very much like he's just barely managed to avoid getting thrashed.
"What's going on?" Luck asks.
Dallas tries to smile at him, too nervous to do a good job of it. "Just your brother, ah, having an argument with one of your guys."
Probably nothing important. But still. "About what?"
"Just, ah. Something he said that Berga didn't think was polite." Dallas looks away, as if there's something fascinating over in the corner. "Real persuasive guy, your brother."
"Both of them," Luck says. All three, if you count Claire. It wouldn't be worth continuing this -- God knows there are other things he'd rather be doing right now -- except that Dallas is avoiding giving him a complete answer, and that makes him curious. "What did he say to make Berga upset?"
Dallas tries for a smile again, but it comes out more as a grimace. "Just being an asshole, that's all."
"What did he say?" Luck asks.
"He said --" Dallas glances at him, then away again. "He said he never expected to wind up working for a queer. In the mafia."
Luck doesn't let himself respond to that, not visibly. "I see," he says. He supposes it was inevitable for someone to notice the pattern, but for anyone to feel comfortable saying something about it -- he'll have his work cut out for him, even with Berga's help. "I suppose I'll have to deal with that later, then." He comes around the desk, watching -- trying not to watch -- the way Dallas shifts his weight like he wants to back away and is restraining himself.
When he looks up, Dallas has recovered his nerve enough to meet Luck's eyes. "It's true, isn't it?" he says. "This isn't just about you messing with me. You're a queer."
"Does it make a difference?" Luck says. He can see that it's the wrong answer before he's even finished asking; Dallas bluffs as badly as Luck bets today.
"I think it kind of does," Dallas says.
Luck reaches out and catches Dallas by his shirt front. "I think it doesn't," he says. No backing down now. "Nothing's changed since last week or the week before."
Dallas staggers when Luck pulls him closer, winds up half pressed against him, breathing hard. "No, I guess it hasn't," he says.
"Then don't make things more difficult on purpose," Luck says. Don't ruin this, he could add, except that he knows that as far as Dallas is concerned, there's nothing to ruin. He's the queer who wants this.
"Bastard," Dallas says, and glances up at Luck's face for a nervous second, the way he does whenever he thinks he's trying Luck's patience. But he doesn't fight it, doesn't say stop, when Luck reaches down to unbutton his trousers. His breath even hitches a little when Luck takes hold of his cock, and if he's not really hard, well, he's not completely disinterested, either. Luck leans back against the desk, holding Dallas close with one arm around his waist and the other in his pants. Dallas won't look at him. Luck leans in, mouths at the frantic pulse under Dallas's jaw as he works Dallas's cock slowly. It's enough. As long as Luck only pays attention to how it feels, and Dallas doesn't say anything to make it too obvious, he can pretend this is -- no, he doesn't need to pretend. This is enough. The feel of Dallas's cock in his hand, stubble rasping under his tongue, the friction of pressing his cock to Dallas's hip while he coaxes Dallas hard enough to -- to make this what he wants it to be. More or less.
"Shall we?" Luck says, when Dallas's cock is stiff in his hand. He lets go, gives Dallas enough room to move.
Dallas nods once, and still doesn't really look at Luck as he steps away and bends over the desk, pushing his trousers down. "All right," he says hoarsely.
Luck retrieves the oil and slicks his fingers. He doesn't have to remind Dallas to relax anymore; he can see the way Dallas's breathing slows deliberately when Luck's fingers first press against him. Instead Luck only says, "Yes," softly, without entirely meaning to, when he pushes the first time and Dallas yields. It makes Dallas shudder, either the sensation or the encouragement, and then he laughs awkwardly.
"That's what the -- all the petting and stuff is about, isn't it?" Dallas says, his head down, his voice muffled. His hands don't turn white-knuckled from holding on to the desk anymore. "Because you -- you're a queer, and you like it."
It's unnerving, having someone say it out loud. Even Claire let him just do things without having to explain them. Luck's hand falters for a moment. "Yes," he admits. He thinks Dallas knows better than to try to hold that over him. When he presses a second finger in, Dallas hisses, and Luck swallows a moan. It seems as though this is easier now than it was at first.
"You know I'm not," Dallas says. He looks back, over his shoulder, and Luck tries to keep his face impassive.
"I know," Luck says, and pushes deeper, reaches for the sensitive spot that makes even Dallas shudder and moan for it.
"God, you son of a bitch," Dallas says, his back arching, and Luck tells himself it's because the sensation is too much, and not -- for any other reason.
He makes it good for both of them, has tried to do that from the first -- rather than letting Dallas choke and panic and suffer, easy as that would have been -- and that -- that should matter. Does matter, does make a difference. Dallas would have stopped coming back, would have tried to argue or change the terms of their...arrangement, by now, if it were really so awful.
Luck withdraws his fingers almost entirely, reaches for the buttons of his trousers with his other hand. "Now?" He says. He doesn't need to ask.
"Go on," Dallas says. His head's down again, his shoulders hunched.
"Breathe," Luck says, slicking his cock, lining up. He knows Dallas doesn't really need the reminder anymore, but it's become a habit.
Dallas nods. "Do it," he says. He lets his breath out slowly when Luck presses in, and Luck could almost believe that he's pushing back, that he -- that he likes how it feels, if not what it means.
And it feels -- God. So good. Luck doesn't try quite so hard to keep silent this time. Dallas knows about him. Knows the truth. This isn't about proving anything, isn't about putting Dallas in his place. It's about the heat, the tightness, the taste of Dallas's sweat still lingering on his lips, the flex of muscle around his cock, the stiffness of Dallas's cock when Luck reaches down to take him in hand. The low moan Dallas almost stifles, burying his face in his shoulder. The bare nape of his neck.
"Yes," Luck whispers -- he doesn't want to make enough noise to be heard outside, no more than Dallas does, but God. He strokes Dallas's cock slowly, as he starts to thrust, trying not to hurry this. "Move with me," he breathes, and he's asking and he hopes it sounds that way. "Dallas."
"Stop it," Dallas answers, even as he starts to move, pushing back to take Luck's cock deeper. "Don't talk. Please."
Luck bites his lip, closes his eyes. He can hardly begrudge Dallas that. Hasn't he been hoping Dallas wouldn't say anything he doesn't want to hear? They just won't think about this, then, either of them, won't do anything but feel it -- the slick heat around his cock and the stiffness of Dallas's cock in his hand -- and Dallas's harsh breaths sound like wanting. His shoulders tremble and his hips rock in time with Luck's thrusts, and Luck's fingers brush a drop of fluid gathered at the tip of his cock, slicking the next few strokes. If he's being considerate Luck knows he won't draw this out. If he's being considerate --
No, this is fine, and Dallas hasn't told him to stop. Luck braces his hand against Dallas's hip to steady himself and tries to hold his own climax at bay, thinks instead of making this good, of the way Dallas claws at the desk when Luck's thrusts fill him at just the right tempo, of how he shivers when Luck handles his cock just a little more roughly. God, Luck wants Dallas to tell him when it's right, harder, like that, more, but it's more than he can ask for, and he can get answer enough from the way Dallas moves, the way Dallas tenses, and Luck makes himself wait, not take more no matter how he wants to, until Dallas's back arches and he tightens hard around Luck's cock and his curses are just whispered breath with no voice to carry them.
Then, only after that, Luck lets himself push harder, taking what he wants. He brings his hand to his lips to taste -- he hadn't dared before, but the pretense is done now, and he wants to -- and the bitterness of it is both familiar and slightly different, tingling on his lips and tongue. He can feel his rhythm slipping with his control and Dallas tells him softly, fiercely, that he's a bastard, that he's a God damn queer son of a whore, and he'd demand that Dallas not talk either except that it's already too late and he comes anyway and it hurts, high up in his chest where he won't let the sound escape.
It's too much unwelcome self-indulgence, but he stretches out across the desk anyway, draping himself over Dallas's back. His cock slips free, and the air feels cold, but Luck doesn't care. His head rests against Dallas's shoulder, and he's staring at the stray wisps of downy hair just above Dallas's collar, and just for a minute he thinks he'll let himself pretend this is...more than it is.
Dallas doesn't let him do that for long. He shrugs as though he's uncomfortable -- which seems likely, really -- so Luck steps back enough to let him up. Dallas stands, only slightly stiffly, pulling up his trousers.
Luck blames the lingering awkwardness for his selfishness now. He doesn't step away when Dallas stands, and instead slides his arms around Dallas's waist, his chest to Dallas's back. It feels good, solid and warm.
"Are we through?" Dallas says.
Luck lets go. "We're through." He's already indulged himself too much. He pulls away, tucks his cock back into his shorts, buttons his trousers. Next week? he wants to say, the way he's been doing for the last few months at the end of each of Dallas's visits, but the question sticks.
"You son of a bitch," Dallas says. "You never wanted Eve at all, did you?"
"I contacted your sister regarding a business proposition," Luck says. "I never pretended otherwise."
Dallas glares at him. "You let me believe you wanted to," he says, and cuts himself off, swallowing with a grimace of disgust. His protectiveness toward her is truly one of his most admirable traits. Luck shouldn't be trying to enumerate those now.
"Would you have believed me if I'd denied it?" he says instead. Never mind that he had no reason and no desire to deny it, especially after Dallas made his offer.
"Fuck you," Dallas says. "Fuck you, you lying queer." He yanks the door open and bolts -- like he doesn't want to let Luck answer or like he's afraid Luck will hurt him, one of the two.
Luck waits for the anger, but it won't come.