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There’s a bit of an awkward stumble where Peter bumps his left knee against the edge of the bed and then they’re both falling down onto the bed and Peter tries not to accidentally mash his hands and/or elbows into any soft spots and aims for the mattress.
Nightingale – well, Thomas, actually, as he does keep reminding himself, but old habits are hard to break – lets out a breathless chuckle under him, his cheeks flushed from the excitement, hair tousled against the pillow, white shirt riled up and slightly crumpled in a way that will undoubtedly leave creases.
He looks absolutely ravishing and because Peter has never been overly good with words – and because it just seems like the most obvious thing to do – he leans down and kisses him.
Thomas, as he had discovered not so long ago, is a fantastic kisser; it’s probably the almost 100 years of experience that’s to thank. He’s certainly not giving Peter any reasons to complain, as the soft lips move against his own, Thomas placing a hand against the back of his neck to pull him down and deeper into the kiss.
Peter gladly follows, shifting his weight so he sinks back from his knees to sitting in Thomas’s lap. He can feel Thomas half-hard underneath him and gives an experimental thrust. Judging from Thomas’s gasp and the way his hips jerk under him he can count the experiment as a definite success and promptly rocks against him again.
He feels Thomas’s other hand grab his shoulder, holding him close, the kiss turning more forceful as they grind against each other.
As much as he’d be perfectly content staying like this, just enjoying the friction and languid kisses, he had been aiming for something other than fully clothed sex – no-clothes-involved sex, in this case.
In an action that costs a considerable amount of willpower he sits up, planting his hands against Thomas’s chest for support.
Thomas is watching him with heavy-lidded eyes, his lips red and swollen from the kissing and Peter’s willpower is melting away like an ice cube in the oven.
'You’re doing terrible things to my self-restraint,' he tells him, and Thomas (who probably knows exactly what he is doing to him) just smirks at him like he’s not even sorry.
'Do I, now?' he asks cheekily, the tip of his tongue licking at his upper lip in what is totally an intentional action and not helping. 'Maybe you should reserve your exercise in self-restraint for another time. It’s fairly overrated in this kind of situation, don’t you agree?'
'Ah, but applied correctly, one might get a reward for being patient enough,' Peter replies.
'What sort of reward are we talking about here?' Thomas asks, cocking his head as well as the pillow allows.
Now it’s Peter’s turn to smirk. 'Well, you naked, of course,' he says, reaching for the upper button of Thomas’s shirt.
The movement is so fast that he doesn’t even really register it until Thomas’s hand is clasped tightly around his wrist. He lets go almost immediately as if he had burned himself, drawing in a slightly shaky breath.
Peter carefully draws his hands back, sitting more upright as not to crowd the other man.
'Are you alright?' he asks, and immediately wants to hit his head against the wall, because wow, smart question. The bit about not being good with words rings true after all.
'Yes, I just… overreacted, I suppose,' Thomas answers, but he’s not meeting Peter’s eyes and looking quite uncomfortable, so Peter awkwardly climbs off of him, sitting down cross-legged next to Thomas on the bed, who in return pushes himself up into a sitting position.
There’s an awkward silence where they both seem to lack the right words, Thomas worrying the edge of his shirt collar with one hand and Peter intently studying the threads of the bed sheet.
'Did I go too fast?' Peter finally asks, because the silence is unnerving and awkward, and he'd really thought that he'd been reading the signs right; it's been two weeks since they kissed for the first time, but still, just the thought of – even unknowingly – pushing Thomas to something he didn’t want to makes him feel ill.
'Ah, no, it’s… nothing like that,' Thomas says.
'Are you sure?' Peter asks, watching him carefully, because British Stiff Upper Lip is something Thomas had converted into an art form before Peter was even born, and he wouldn’t be surprised if that might translate into the bedroom too. 'Because we can wait. However long you need.'
Thomas finally does look at him, a small smile on his lips. 'I appreciate the sentiment, but it’s really… not the having sex with you that’s causing any problems, it’s…' He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. 'I’m just being really ridiculous.'
'I set things on fire sometimes,' Peter deadpans. 'Your level of ridiculousness has nothing on mine, I’m sure of it.' ' Thomas actually laughs at that remark. 'Is it something magic?' Peter continues. 'Like, you need to be a virgin for certain spells, because you should have told me that like, nine years ago.'
'Oh no, nothing like that' Thomas chuckles. 'The concept of virginity is something that only applies to human society, but in no way to the magical world.'
'Well, I’m definitely relieved' Peter quips. 'Though also a bit more confused, because I’m running out of guesses here.'
'Already?' Thomas says, a grin on his face, but he grows solemn soon enough. 'I’ll just show you. Though I can assure you that it really is quite ridiculous.'
'I’ll be the judge of that then,' Peter replies, and then watches as Thomas swiftly unbuttons his shirt, hesitates for a brief moment, and then shrugs it off to let it fall onto the bed sheets.
As it turns out, Thomas has scars. A lot of them.
It never really occurred to Peter, who apparently had let himself be fooled into thinking that the unmarred outer appearance equalled an unmarred appearance underneath the layers of clothing –which was quite ridiculous given that he had seen the man getting shot in the back, which was bound to leave some mark.
Most of the scars looked very old, faded, and barely visible, but some were more recent and defined. Or just had been very severe. What looked like a very old bullet wound was splashed against his left shoulder, just under the collar bone. Three parallel slashes that looked newer, running over the right side of his ribcage. A jagged cut, starting at his right hipbone and running down below the line of his waistband. A burn mark, just to the left of where his stomach was, circular and about an inch in diameter. Peter reached out to run his fingers along the edge of it, feeling Thomas tense under his touch.
'Is that what it looks like when you get hit by a fireball?' he asks.
'Not quite' Thomas answers. 'If you were hit by a fireball nowadays, and it’s one that is properly done, it would burn a hole straight through you. I got this one in the 70’s, when magic was only starting to come back. I was ambushed by a Hungarian wizard and my shield was too weak to fully stop his attack.'
For a moment Thomas is silent, then he asks, 'Do you want to see the back too?'
'In for a penny, in for a pound?' Peter jokes, but it falls a bit flat. Still, Thomas turns around.
The first scar he notices, he recognises. It’s the bullet wound from when they had been on their first case. Further down there’s a long cut that runs nearly horizontal over Thomas’s back, at the height of his waist. There are a few smaller scars, but they don’t look as scary as the other two. He nearly thinks that he noticed everything, when he sees the faint, thin lines. They stretch across the whole back, from top left to bottom right and vice versa, criss-crossing each other. They look very faint and must be very old as they are nearly invisible in the dim light. Peter traces along one of the lines and feels Thomas flinch under his fingers, turning around and blocking the view.
'I’d rather not talk about those right now,' he says quietly and Peter nods.
'So, were those specifically what you… didn’t want me to see, or more all of them?' Peter asks.
Thomas chuckles mirthlessly, 'More all of them.'
'Ah,' Peter says, awkwardly trying to find the right words for his next question and pretty much failing. 'Were you worried about my reaction because of what happened to Lesley?' he finally blurts out, not wanting to ask but needing to know at the same time.
Thomas looks at him with a surprise that tells him that he didn’t expect that question. 'No,' he quickly says. 'I didn’t really… I don’t think our injuries can compare in their severity and nature. I just… don’t imagine you ever had a lover who had quite such a collection.'
'Can’t say I have,' Peter responds. 'But hey,' he reaches for Thomas's face, bringing him to look up. 'I don’t mind. I can understand that you might feel… self-conscious about them, but you don’t have to, okay?'
A small smile appears on Thomas' face. 'Okay,' he says quietly, leaning into Peter’s touch, then sighs. 'I’ve made quite a mess out of this, haven’t I?'
'Hey, it’s alright. We’re not in a hurry.'
Thomas' smile broadens and then he leans forward and presses a soft kiss against Peter’s lips, pulling back again way too quickly for Peter’s tastes.
'You know, you can keep doing that,' Peter remarks. 'I like that.'
'And there I had been planning on getting you naked and ravishing you, but if you’d rather not…' Thomas trails off innocently.
'What?! No, I withdraw my previous stateme—' He’s interrupted by Thomas kissing him again. 'Stop tha—' Another kiss. 'The ravishing part, now ple—' Kissed again.
He indignantly sputters, batting Thomas away who’s already barely holding back his laughter.
'You impossible, mischievous… something!' he complains, jabbing at Thomas.
'Why, thank you Peter,' Thomas replies drily, somehow keeping a straight façade.
'You’re welcome,' Peter deadpans.
For a moment they’re both silent again, Peter fidgeting with the hem of his T-Shirt.
'So, ravishing, yes?' he finally blurts out, 'If you still want to, that is, I’d totally understand if we’d just call it a night—'
Thomas’s warm hand covers the one that is currently pulling at the loose threads of the T-Shirt.
'I’d very much like to,' Thomas says softly.