Work Text:
Someone To Watch Over Me
Victoria Grant
Peter
Peter Caine looks at his watch. Twelve AM glows back at him. Not even an hour of sleep and another fucking nightmare rips him away from the rest he so desperately needs. Third night in a row, too.
Maybe I'll never get another normal night's sleep, he thinks. Maybe it's not the Brujo. Maybe it's me.
Peter acknowledges the ribbons of terror and despair that snake in twisted knots around his consciousness. Maybe the sleeplessness is only the tail of the comet that's going to shatter his world. Maybe he is truly losing his mind, losing himself. Just as the desperate thoughts threaten to escalate into full swing blown doom, a leaf of hope drifts from a hidden branch of his awareness. Suddenly midnight takes a different slant. It's early enough that his old man will probably be awake. Hell, at least it isn't three AM, the dead of night. If he leaves now, with his father’s help, he might be able to catch a few solid hours of uninterrupted sleep
Sweaty from the nightmare, Peter takes a quick shower and then dresses hastily in the same clothes he wore all day. Not waiting for the elevator, he bounds down the steps and runs to the Stealth. Despite the late hour, the night's a scorcher. The air, heavy and humid, clings to his already damp skin, but to him, it doesn't matter. He knows where he needs to be and doesn't want to waste a second getting there.
Once at Caine’s loft, Peter calls out, "Dad? Dad, are you there?"
Silly question. Of course his dad is there. Peter knows it but he doesn't care. When his eyes adjust to the darkened room he's not surprised to see Caine sitting lotus on the floor, dressed in white silks. The Shaolin floats to his feet and is instantly at Peter's side.
"My son,” the priest whispers.
Kwai Caine Chang reaches out to him; his fingers tenderly caress Peter’s cheek and his thumb strokes his son’s chin. Peter swallows hard, absorbing the compassion from the warm brown eyes. He searches further, probing their fathomless depths. Peter reads worry, maybe even pain -- but where is his father’s love ?
Father, he thinks, do you still love me, after everything I've said, everything I've done, everything I am, everything I'm not?
"Peter." His father's voice is low and warm; with gentle ease it loosens the vise of ache and guilt that squeezes Peter’s heart. But the release of the pressure also permits a torrent of fresh pain. Caine's hand slides through Peter’s hair and pulls his head tightly against the strong, familiar shoulder. A violent tremor shakes the young man and hot tears spill from his eyes. Peter's body shudders as one deep sob wrenches free.
His father holds him close while the powerful hands lovingly rub his back and smooth his hair. Peter yields to a gentle pressure that lowers them to the floor where he settles comfortably in his father's embrace. He buries his face against Caine's neck and holds on to the broad shoulders for dear life.
Finally, Peter catches his breath and begins to calm. His tense muscles begin to soothe , but he's so weary from bottling up his feelings and fears. He lifts his head to peek at his dad.
"I guess this isn't exactly what you had planned, is it, Pop," he mutters, feeling a little embarrassed. "Hope I didn't interrupt anything." He returns his face to the comfortable spot on Caine's shoulder.
"You interrupted nothing, my son," his father replies mildly. "I sensed your troubled spirit. Your arrival was not completely unexpected."
Caine tightens his arms around Peter and gently kisses his forehead. Peter's love for his father explodes inside him, and he suppresses a gasp when a breeze of desire teases his body. Peter cranes his neck to get a better look at his father's face. He sees nothing but amusement in the narrowed eyes and just the hint of a smile. He decides his father senses nothing unusual so he does his best to shove the feeling away. Caine ruffles Peter's hair, then his expression turns serious.
"Peter, you must sleep. First, to the shower, then to bed."
The young detective cringes. "Oh, Pop -- Dad! I already showered, can I skip it?" He raises his eyebrows hopefully.
Caine returns the raised-eyebrow look then shrugs. "Very well," he concedes in a resigned tone, but smiles and strokes Peter's face once more. The hand is removed and a finger points. "But--" his father begins.
"Okay, I know." Peter interrupts with a smile, pleased with his small victory. "I'll change. I'll wear what ever you want."
Caine leaves briefly and returns with white silks. Peter shifts and doubtfully eyes the long sleeves.
"Dad, I'll roast! You'll wake up tomorrow and have steamed son for breakfast."
Peter grins when Caine erupts in a gentle laughter. Sensing the advantage he continues. "Don't you have something... um... different? Cooler?"
Caine stands, immobile, his brown eyes guarded, and Peter decides compromise is the best option.
"Okay, okay! You win, but not that damn shirt. It's hotter than hell tonight."
His father raises one eyebrow but tosses only the bottoms to Peter.
Teeth brushed, tea sipped, bottoms on, Peter finally stretches out on his father's futon. Caine is not with him, but Peter can feel his dad's presence in the big apartment.
Probably doing something just for me, like banishing the bogeyman out of the closet, Peter thinks affectionately.
Peter tosses and turns, trying to find just the right spot to snare the elusive sandman. Out of nowhere apprehension starts to tease his mind, much like a tickling urge to cough. The effect is the same, denying him sleep. He sighs and rubs his eyes. It seems even his father can't help him tonight.
"Peter."
His father’s low voice startles him and he rolls over. Caine is squatting on the floor next to him.
"My son," Caine says softly, "If you are to sleep, you must try to relax."
News flash, stop the presses, he thinks irritably. Headlines read: If you are to sleep you must try to relax.
Peter tries to keep his voice even, "Sorry, Dad, but that's not a particularly helpful observation."
Just relax. Why don't I just put a gun to my head.
The thought creeps in, and just like that, his emotions are out of control. He's a mess and there's nothing he can do about it. One minute he's annoyed with his dad, the next he's a basket case. Peter feels the hole opening beneath him and fights the urgent tug to drop right through it — and then there is warmth, spreading through his gut like a shot of whisky. It's a hot and sticky night but this heat is dry and gentle, filling the threatening chasm like a giant pillow he knows will protect him even if he jumps. He watches, mesmerized, while his father's hand gently massages his bare shoulder.
An ache gnaws within him and he realizes he wants more than just one of the loving hands on his body. Peter wants something much more, something he's not sure he really understands. Plopping his head back down he closes his eyes and lets the heat suffuse him and penetrate him fully. With his father's strong hand rubbing him rhythmically, he suspects he might be able to fall asleep if he wants to, but he doesn't want to sleep anymore.
The words come out in a rush. "Dad, this is crazy, but would you lay next to me, on this futon? Maybe I, that is, I think,” Peter falters.
I think I flipped my lid, crossed over the line. Just lock me in a padded cell and throw away the key. He holds his breath while he waits for his father's reply.
"Yes." His father agrees! Relief sweeps through him and he scrambles to make room.
As his father lowers to the futon Peter says, "Dad, it's really hot. I'm not kidding. Why don't you take that long sleeve tunic off? If you don't, you're gonna be sorry."
Peter knows there is truth in his words, the night is warm and sticky, but he also knows there is more to his request than concern for his father's comfort. As Caine shrugs and begins to remove the silk shirt Peter wonders what other truths will be revealed during the night.
Caine
Peter feigns sleep but I know he is awake. My son is in pain, an unremitting ache caused by feelings of emptiness and worthlessness. One who has not known such misery cannot understand torment of the soul and of the heart. Peter believes I do not, perhaps cannot, comprehend his suffering.
But I do. All too well.
Because I am Shaolin, his father and his teacher, he thinks I have not faced the shadows when towers of doubt and fear obscure the light.
But I have. All too often.
I know that in many ways I have failed him. Failed to fill the cold abyss that threatens to swallow my son, failed to slay the predators that would feed on his warmth then cast him aside, a husk, a broken shell of a man. Peter deems my silence a condemnation, a punishment. He feels my lack of words as keenly as he would a dagger to his heart.
So as I am, indeed because of who I am, I hurt him when what I want to do is reach him and make him know the depth and power of my love. I sense his urgent longing for more than my spoken words, more than my gentle embrace to convince him of my love. He needs more, Peter wants more than I had thought I had to give him, but now the time has come. I am strong enough and am ready to heal him, to soothe and reassure him. So I will, but at an unknown cost, because I will not allow him to bear this intolerable pain any longer. Peter sighs and rolls over on his back. His arm presses against mine and I feel the tension hidden under warm skin.
"Father,” my son begins but can not finish. His voice shakes with need. I know tears flow freely onto his cheek. His fear of being alone, his feelings of despair and abandonment threaten to destroy him, which would destroy me, too. I will not allow it.
"Peter, I love you,” I whisper, knowing the words are not enough. Reaching over his trembling body, I brush the wetness from his cheek. He grasps my hand and squeezes it. For seconds he holds my hand, lightly, just inches above his face, then he haltingly pulls my fingers to his mouth and kisses them.
I will myself to keep perfectly still, to neither influence nor encourage. I do not want my actions to be a factor in his decision. His lips linger on my fingers, softly kissing the length of them. His mouth opens and I feel the wetness of his inner lips on my palm. I can not silence the sharp intake of breath that accompanies the stirring of my body.
Then carefully his hot tongue slowly licks his tears from my fingers. My hand is then lovingly kissed before my finger is drawn into his mouth and lightly sucked. The sensations overwhelm me. I feel lightheaded and realize I am holding my breath.
Peter turns on his side and grinds his hard sex into my thigh. He presses his mouth against my chest and his tongue drifts across my body, spreading a trail of liquid flame. I reach down, slide my hand under silk pants and stroke the hot flesh that throbs with unrestrained excitement. My son extends his arms and tries to pull me into his embrace but I flip him on his back and easily pin him down, reminding him I am stronger. I cover him with the length of my body. His eyes widen when he feels my desire stab sharply into his belly.
I know what he wants, what his body aches for perhaps better than he does. Our eyes meet. I read his silent plea and answer by covering his lips with my mouth. By sunrise Peter will suffer no doubts concerning my love for him. Peter will know, with certainty, that he is mine and I am his. Forever.
Peter
The sun rises and morning breaks. Peter strolls to his Stealth, a spring in his step that had been missing for quite a few days.
He eventually slept, after he had been kissed and caressed almost beyond his ability to endure. Most importantly he knows he is loved. Yes, unbelievably loved. Peter's not going to analyze what happened, he's just going to enjoy being loved by the most amazing man in the word. Now he has places to go, people to see. A job to do. And a father who loves him, of that he has no doubt.
end