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The warehouse’s kitchen is obnoxiously posh, bigger than his entire damned apartment, but seeing as four of the five men that call it home don’t really need to eat food, it’s one of the few places Chase can be alone late at night. Sometimes, the resident Puny Mortal just needs to whip up a quick meal in peace after a mission’s run long and left him ragged and exhausted and starving. He’s got to drag himself out of bed bright and early to get to the station in the morning, but he can’t sleep with his stomach gnawing at itself because he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. And even that was a cup of bitter, black coffee and half a croissant he forgot to finish.
The shiny stainless steel and marble surfaces, dark elegant wood, and fancy backsplash don’t mean much to him, much more accustomed to his cozy, utilitarian kitchen back at his apartment, but the pristine, untouched peace of the place is nice. Vaguely, drowsily, he wonders if the local vampires know the warehouse even has a kitchen at all. Nate probably does, at least. For his tea, if nothing else.
Chase flips his egg-soaked bread in the pan, humming something tuneless to himself, pleased to see months of microwave meals and takeout on top of persistent sleep deprivation haven’t robbed him of his ability to get his French toast beautifully crisp, even when he’s used to a gas stove and not a fancy induction top.
The back of his neck prickles as he flips the last slice onto a plate, and he can only sigh. “Guess you lot do know there’s a kitchen after all,” he drawls without looking behind him, mechanically pouring syrup over his early AM breakfast.
A low, throaty chuckle tells him just who his new companion is, and that’s all the warning he gets before warm hands are sliding underneath his undershirt to press to his belly, a long, lean body moulding along his back. A kiss presses against the top of his head, and he snickers a bit to himself thinking of how Mason must look, bending to do so.
As if reading his mind, Mason mumbles an offended, “You’re too short without those boots,” against his bristly scalp.
“You’re the one who decided to come bother me at three in the morning,” Chase retorts, pushing his hips back so he can lean on the countertop and start shoving piping-hot toast into his mouth-- since the table is clearly not an option, with a certain Horny Creature of the Night crowding him up against the counter. He smirks around a bite when Mason groans, hunching over Chase and bracing his hands against the edge of the countertop on either side of him. Mason kisses the top of his head again, then his temple, then gets distracted for a moment by nibbling along the shell of his ear.
Chase closes his eyes, syrup and vanilla and fancy bread (brioche maybe?) rich and sweet on his tongue, Mason’s tongue flicking along the little notches of scars where he used to have piercings, and sleepily thinks he could get used to this. Those lips trail down his neck, that sharp nose bunting along the angle of his jaw, and he just smiles to himself and keeps eating, shifting from one foot to the other.
Mason makes another rough noise, somewhere between a moan and a laugh, this time muffled against the side of his neck, as the motion shifts Chase’s hips against him.
“Hope you know this is as good as you’re getting tonight,” Chase warns him, humming softly. He tips his head to the side to give the vampire better access to his neck, and it’s only when Mason’s lips catch against eerily still-tender scar tissue that the memories hit him like a bolt of fucking lightning.
The soft bread turns to ash in his mouth and the fork clatters to the marble countertop. With his body curled around Chase’s and pressing close, he can tell the instant the lazy teasing wriggles stop cold, and he freezes, his mouth hovering over where Murphy’s teeth buried themselves in the meat of Chase’s neck and shoulder.
“Fuck,” Mason blurts, jerking back, but just the breath skimming across Chase’s carotid makes his stomach twist . He claps a hand over his mouth and stubbornly swallows down his mouthful, hunching over the counter and pushing his plate as far away as he can get it, heat rushing to his head so quickly it leaves him dizzy and shaking with his heart thrumming so fast in his chest he’s short of breath.
“Fuck,” Chase echoes weakly, pressing his forehead to the cool countertop. The heat leaves him as quickly as it came leaving an eerie chill in its wake, but the kitchen is still spinning, so he stays where he is.
Mason’s still behind him, no longer touching him, but still close enough that he can feel the faint heat of his body, and it makes him ache and he’s not sure why. He shudders and pushes himself upright slowly, white-knuckling the counter’s edge to keep himself steady.
He turns and slumps around the counter, rubbing at his face with one hand and rubs his neck with the other, forcing himself to breathe steadily. When he opens his eyes Mason’s expression is…
Chase looks away. “I’m fine ,” he bites out. “I’m okay. Stop looking at me like that.” He turns around again and grabs the plate, more than half of his meal left, and dumps it into the trash. He hates to waste food, but French toast doesn’t exactly keep, and he can barely stand the smell of it now, much less the thought of eating it. His hands are shaking and he’s a bit unsteady on his feet, but he gets to work on cleaning up regardless. He may have essentially raised himself, but he didn’t do it in a bloody barn .
He almost jumps when Mason slips around him to snag the pan off the stovetop, then snags the plate and fork from his hand. “Hey!” he barks.
“Hey,” Mason retorts, eyebrows quirked, and he ambles to the sink and turns on the water. Chase can really only glower at him while he rolls up his sleeves and gets the soap, because even if he could trust his feet right now, what’s he going to do? Wrestle the soapy dishes away from a supernatural entity that could bend the stainless steel pan like paper in the middle of the damned night? In the time it takes for Mason to do the washing up, Chase’s heart has slowed to at least a more comfortable pace, if not a regular one, and things are pitching around him a bit less. Doesn’t feel like he’s in danger of losing what little food he did manage to get down, but there’s still a prickle to his skin, a knot in his stomach. He forces Murphy’s crazed eyes out of his head and focuses instead on Mason’s back, the subtle flex of his forearms, the clink of dishes settling into the spotless metal rack, the smoky grey of his eyes whenever he glances over his shoulder and catches Chase watching him in a bit of a daze.
He tries to cover it up, to drag some of his usual bold shamelessness out of this fog of don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it , but it’s creeping towards four in the morning, he’s been on his feet all day and hasn’t slept, he’s barely eaten, and it takes more energy than he’ll ever admit out loud to bury the shit he doesn’t want to think about.
“Alright, sweetheart,” Mason’s voice is soft, but in the silence of the empty, airy kitchen, it’s sharp enough to startle him. He wants to beat his head against the wall. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?” Chase asks dumbly, scrunching his eyes shut as soon as the words are out.
“Bed,” Mason snorts, rolling his eyes and catching him by the elbow. “I’d offer to carry you, but I’d rather not get kicked in the dick.”
“Smart man.” That, at least, comes out like normal, if a little sharper than necessary. “I told you all you were getting tonight was--”
Mason cuts him off by steering him towards the door. “Contrary to popular belief, I do know that beds are traditionally used for sleeping .” They stop at Chase’s door, and Mason releases his arm. It leaves the spot cold, and Chase curls his hand around it without thinking, forcing himself to look up at Mason, his jaw clenched so hard it's giving him a headache.
“I’m fine,” he insists, though he’s not sure who he’s trying to convince. Mason’s gaze is steady, just as stubborn as his. Chase breaks eye contact first, with an annoyed scoff, so the bastard doesn’t think he’s… won , or something, and turns to open the door. It takes him longer than he’d like, fingers still shaky, but he shoves the door open and stalks inside with a single-minded determination. He leaves Mason in the open doorway, stripping out of his undershirt and tossing it over a chair before he flops gracelessly into his bed, kicking down the duvet so he can squirm underneath.
He hears the click of the door closing, but he focuses on burying himself as thoroughly as possible, determined to eke out at least an hour of sleep before he’s got to play Responsible Detective. The bed dips next to him, and he swallows hard, but he doesn’t let himself react beyond that. Mason doesn’t make a move to get under the blankets with him. They’re past the whole “walk of shame” nonsense at this point. They’re both adults. Everyone knows they’re sleeping together, so if they actually sleep afterwards, it’s not a big deal, just convenience. The only one who really makes it one is Felix, when he barrels into either one of their rooms to give them a rude awakening and gets what he likes to call a “Two For One Special.” But they don’t do… this. Just sleeping together.
Chase grumbles a soft curse and sits up, letting the blankets slip down around his waist. Mason gives him a look, quirking a brow. Chase yanks the rest of the duvet from underneath him, and he snickers when the vampire barks out a rough curse and almost slides off the bed.
He turns to glare at Chase, who just lifts the blanket. "Hurry up, I'm cold."
Mason stares at him.
"I said hurry up," Chase snaps, a little more urgent. The rest of him might still be persistently chilled, but the back of his neck is warming with heat that's beginning to suffuse his ears. "You've seen me all sorts of naked, don't tell me you're shy now?"
Warily, as if he's not sure Chase isn't going to try to bowl him over again, Mason slides underneath the blanket. Chase rolls over again and flops against the pillows, heavy and exhausted. After a few long moments, the chill creeping back in all the while, Mason curls around his back, draping his arm over Chase's waist and pressing a palm to his chest.
Their breathing falls into a rhythm, slow and steady, and gradually Chase finally starts to warm up properly again.
He relaxes little by little, wound up in the familiar embrace. For such a perpetual sourpuss, Mason can be quite the cuddler. Chase would never say so aloud, of course, but it's nice. It's always been hard for the detective to trust anyone like this. At his back. Bare and unprotected, and--
No, not unprotected.
He and Mason (and all of Unit Bravo) have been through some… Some intense things together. There's no "unprotected" when Mason's with him.
He feels the knot in his stomach loosen, his eyes fluttering closed, and he bites his lip tilting his head and burrowing deeper into the pillow. It leaves the stretch of his neck vulnerable, above the poof of duvet bunched around his shoulder. He can feel Mason's chest expand against his back when his breath hitches.
Chase closes his eyes.
At first, he can't be sure he doesn’t imagine the first brush. Barely-there, a faintly ticklish graze at best. Starting at his temple, then along the shell of his ear. It grows a little more firm along his jaw, and he almost twists around to catch it with his mouth, but he's loathe to break whatever quiet spell's fallen over them both. The featherlight touch becomes the undeniable press of warm, soft lips as it trails down the back of his neck, a line of little kisses that slowly and steadily wind their way along his shoulder and back up.
Chase's breath catches in his throat, and the kisses stop, lips hovering above his neck. There's a breathless moment of stillness, then another, and then he relaxes, and Mason's mouth presses firmly against faint white scars that are lost beneath a canvas of bold black ink. Not firm enough to hurt by any stretch, but pointed , nonetheless.
Chase’s stomach flutters oddly, he sighs out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. In the near-silence, the only sounds the rustling of bedclothes and the faintest scratch of Mason’s stubble grazing his skin, the wordless declaration is somehow deafening.
Chase dozes off, finally, with Mason’s face buried against his neck.
He wakes up to his alarm going off a few hours later, alone. He can’t say he’s terribly well rested, but he’s not miserable, at least, and he’s not being weighed down by nightmares, for once.
He rolls over and slaps the snooze button, hauling the pillow Mason abandoned close and burying his face. Just this once, he allows himself a few more minutes of peace.