Work Text:
Nigel slams the door to the wood chalet that he and Bobby are staying in for the weekend.
"Jesus Christ, Bobby. Can't see shit out there."
Bobby scowls, or rather, has been scowling the entire time since they arrived. He doesn't know what overcame him when he invited Nigel here with him to the mountains. His partner Durst had been regaling him about the outdoors again, telling him what a fun activity it is and how they should go together some time, and the idea must have gotten lodged in his brain because the man actually went for it. It's not camping per se, the way Durst described it with the tents and sleeping bags at least, but Bobby doesn't spend enough time outdoors as is, so this seemed a good compromise as ever.
And it helps that it's not with Durst too. His partner’s happy go lucky, sunshine attitude irritates Bobby, and frankly, he spends enough time with the man as is, so he invited Nigel instead but is quickly regretting that decision from how complaintive his soon-to-be roommate is being.
"Quit your bitching, there's firewood somewhere here." He mumbles through the toke in his mouth, flicking the lighter so that the flame adds some much needed heat to the room. He sucks in, blows a plume of smoke into the air with an extended exhale. "Think the pamphlet is in the kitchen." Bobby waves nonchalantly behind him.
"I didn't come here to be your fucking errand boy. I'm not doing shit." Nigel says, stomping to the living room where Bobby is and nabbing the toke still in his mouth with deft fingers. Bobby can't help but watch as the Romanian's lips round on the end of the spliff, still wet with Bobby's saliva, and he takes a drag of his own. Bobby coughs, vague images of other ways he and Nigel could be swapping spit flitting to his mind, and stands up abruptly. "Fine, lazy motherfucker. I'll do it."
***
There was a rack of wood already prepared outside near the front door porch, which is great because Bobby doesn't think he would've been able to handle cutting some fresh tinder at these temps. The chill penetrates through his bones, even with his jacket on, and it makes him ache all over.
Nigel is worse off - braggadocious prick. He's told Bobby no more than ten times now that he doesn't need a jacket, because Romania is a naturally cold climate country, and he's "just bred for that," but Bobby knows he's full of shit because Nigel's been hovering around him for the past fifteen minutes as he transfers wood to the fireplace in the living room.
"Aren't you done yet? Doesn't take that damn long to start a fire." Nigel asks, failing to hide a shiver that shows off in his shoulders. He's wearing a short sleeve button-up shirt with the top buttons undone, showing off wiry, salt and pepper chest hair that Bobby wants to just yank on every time Nigel complains about how slow he's going.
"Listen boy scout, if you're so good at starting a fucking fire, then why don't you help instead of shaking over there in your skimpy, little outfit?"
"For the last fucking time, I'm not cold." But Nigel's already gone on two "smoke breaks" so far, sucking in the temporarily warm relief of a fag to stave off the chill. He only brought a few boxes with him when he was preparing his pack for the trip, but now he's thinking he should have brought the whole damn carton box.
Nigel doesn't even know why he agreed to come today with Bobby. He's a city boy, always has been. Nigel likes to walk the cobblestone alleys of Bucharest, lounging in a quaint café for a good cup of coffee, basking in the musicality of the daily goings of the city as it comes to life all the way through the night. This hermit lifestyle up in the mountains was never his vibe.
He leans forward, inspecting Bobby's handiwork as he prods uselessly at the kindling and wood he's placed in the hearth.
And immediately sees the problem.
"God damn it, Bobby. The wood's sopping wet from the snow."
He snatches the poker out of Bobby's hands, ignoring how cold the poker feels in comparison to the warm comfort of the hand he just brushed up on briefly during the exchange. Nigel stabs a particular log and brings it out for his clueless companion to review.
If he looks closely enough, he can see the hint of a partially melted snowflake on one of the ends; furthermore, there are splotches of bark that are clearly darker than others. The high winds must have blown the snow onto the wooden stash, making a portion of it wet and unusable.
"Do you see now?" Nigel asks irritatingly, as if his job isn't all about observation of small details. He lets the poker drop out of his hand in frustration.
"I saw that, but I thought it was some kind of special wood. Like palo santo or some shit. Hell if I know."
Nigel knows probably just as little on trees as his counterpart, but he's pretty damn sure palo santo is what they say is used to cleanse the aura of a space, which isn't such a bad thought right now as the energy in this cabin is shot to hell at the moment.
"I'll go check if there's anything we can actually use." Nigel says, already heading to the door.
That warm hand touches him again, suffusing his entire shoulder in a comfortable, stabilizing heat; he shivers. "Wait dumbass, you can't go out looking like that." Bobby says, shrugging his ratty jacket off in the process. "Wear this." Then, he drapes the tattered thing on Nigel's shoulders.
As someone who isn't hurting monetarily, what with the drug dealings and other unsavory tasks providing a steady flow to his bank account, Nigel likes to dress the part. He invests in high-quality clothes and accessories and generally puts some thought in his wardrobe. Bobby, on the other hand, couldn't give a shit if he forgot to launder a shirt and has to wear it for another day unwashed. If there aren't any visible stains, then there's no problem for him.
The juxtaposition of Bobby's worn out work jacket on top of Nigel's nice linen button up is very clear, and Nigel's about to decline, tell the man to piss off and remind him again that he's really not cold, but the jacket feels so warm, still fresh with Bobby's body heat. It smells like the man too, a natural mixture of his scent, his cheap cologne, a touch of the cigarettes they've been smoking all evening, and a different kind of smoky tone from his time poking around in the fireplace. It's like his senses are nursing on a tumbler of smoked whiskey, the warmth of the alcohol pooling in his belly as it goes down.
So Nigel keeps his mouth shut, shoving his arms into the sleeves and basking in the warmth there too. His biceps have to squeeze to get through the narrow arms of the jacket; he may have stretched the fabric a little when he does so. And if he happened to catch a deep whiff of the inner lining as he propped the collars up to protect his face from the snow, then it was all coincidental.
***
"We're fucked." Nigel says behind another cigarette.
Once Nigel had made it outside, he saw how badly the snowstorm had apparently gotten. Not even the large trees surrounding the property could be clearly seen, trunks and branches entirely covered with snow so that the outside looks bright white like a fresh canvas, which he promptly decided to piss on. As he was taking a leak, he felt the pitter patter of it landing on some kind of canvas material. Apparently not only had the original homeowners forgotten to lay the tarp on the wood before they arrived here, but his moronic companion had forgotten to place it back on before he came inside the first time he tried to build a fire.
"I was hauling ass as quick as I could out there. Sorry if I didn't take my time to put a stupid fucking cover back on."
"Yeah, well, we got no fire and no heater here. What're we gonna do when we eventually go to bed?"
Bobby goes silent; he wasn't really thinking that far. Nigel's still wearing his jacket, the only one he brought, so he really wants to ask for it back, his biceps freezing in the cold air. But he does also have to admit he likes the sight of Nigel wearing it too.
The man is lithe, long lanky body but muscular in the arms, filling it in. If Nigel didn't have such a bad attitude, Bobby thinks he could be on the runway or a magazine model of some sort, what with the way he dresses on the daily. He even makes his own jacket look stylish, just from the way he poses his body when he stands, hip jutted like so.
His stomach interrupts any further mental analysis of Nigel's form, grumbling loudly. "Jesus, I'm starving. Let's eat first before we sort that all out."
***
Of course Bobby's idea for food was cold cut meats and sandwich bread. There's not even a toaster, so the bread is floppy in his hand. Thankfully, Nigel had the thought to pack some snacks of his own, to add some much needed flavor and variety to the bland selection that his companion has prepared for them. Some tapenades, wrapped bruschetta... Staples that he took for granted when he was living out in Europe and had as snacks daily.
Bobby took one look at the tapenade and gave it a stink eye. "Don't like olives," he said, trimming the sides of his bread to remove the crust.
"You're like a fucking toddler. Don't like olives, can't even eat the fucking crust off your bread. What, you like to have your sandwiches cut in triangles too?"
As Nigel says that, Bobby flushes red, ears to neck. His knife hovers over one corner of his sandwich where he clearly was about to make a diagonal cut. "Mind your own fucking business," he mumbles, before slicing his dinner in half, albeit a little bashfully.
***
Once their bellies are full, none the warmer since everything was chilled or room temp at best, they lounge in the living room, very clearly avoiding the elephant in the room. Bobby had gotten a call during their dinner from the landlords of the property who had found out about the terrible snowstorm headed their way.
Apparently, the property manager may have forgotten to cover the firewood rack outside with its tarpaulin but had only just remembered after seeing the weather report. Go fucking figure. Bobby then informed them in as kind words as he could muster, that he and his buddy were freezing their balls off and to get Mr. Forgetful to bring some new firewood for the cabin tomorrow morning stat, which they obligingly agreed.
That solves their issue for the rest of the weekend, but it doesn't help them with their situation tonight.
Bobby's rolling another spliff, tongue licking the paper as he says, "Why don't we just use the oven, turn it on and leave it open?"
"Why don't we just burn the whole fucking house down along with ourselves?" Nigel parrots, sarcastically. "Good thinking, Bronson. Cold's gone so far up your fucking head you're ready to commit arson."
"Well, do you have any better ideas?" Bobby says, covering the back of his mouth as he yawns. He looks at the spliff he just finished rolling. He doesn't even feel like smoking another one, but it's the only thing keeping him warm. He tosses the thing on the table, untouched.
"I'm too tired to think right now," Nigel says, pinching the bridge of his nose. He's starting to get a killer headache from all the fumes they're blowing into the house and opening the window to circulate the air would only let more of the chill in.
"Well, I'm going to hit the hay. Landlord said the property manager will be here bright and early tomorrow morning with some firewood, so it's only for a night." Bobby stands, palm outstretched towards Nigel.
"What?"
"My jacket, give it back. That's the only one I brought with me, and I'm sure as hell not going to bed without it."
Nigel hesitates, just for a moment. Just long enough for Bobby to catch the brief panic in his eyes before he assumes a more nonchalant expression. He shrugs it off, immediately feeling the loss of heat and just Bobby as he does so. "Here, take it." Nigel says defiantly.
Bobby can't help but crack a grin as he puts it back on, feeling Nigel's residual warmth blanket his back and arms. Still smiling, he wordlessly walks up the stairs to the second floor where the room is.
It's a double bed room of two queen sized mattresses. The comforter is nice and soft, with real feathers inside the stuffing, but even the insulation of the bedspread isn't enough to thwart the cold. He hasn't even taken his clothes off, which is what he'd normally do at home. All he's taken off is his shoes. Bobby clenches his eyes, willing the cold to go away so sleep can take him and in hopes that the night will pass quickly.
***
Stubbornly, per Nigel’s usual dramatics, he stays in the living room, feeling miffed about the jacket situation. If he was feeling the cold earlier, he feels it even more now that he's no longer wearing Bobby's jacket. Nigel can't forget the brief moment of reprieve where he was surrounded by Bobby - his scent, the warmth of his jacket laying over him, the chill outside made all the more manageable with the extra layer that he provided him. He'll be damned if he folds that easily.
He worries himself with the tea kettle instead, sampling the selection of tea bags that the landowners left for them. Nigel’s really more of a coffee person, but the Earl Grey he's sipping on helps with the cold. After he's finished with his tea, it's been about ten minutes. He'll give it another five before he pretends he's even remotely tired and head to bed. The cool of the air is making his eyelids droop, sleepiness taking over him as his body tries to consolidate how cold it is.
And how quiet, too. Without Bobby in the room to keep him awake and talking, it feels too silent for Nigel.
He waits the five minutes before trudging up the stairs, giving an obnoxious yawn as he passes the threshold. Bobby's eyes are clenched, his brows are furrowed as if he's fighting off a bad dream.
The room they're in is freezing cold, just like everywhere else in the damn cabin, so Nigel all but jumps into his own bed. After some tossing and turning, he realizes it's a futile effort, and he won't be going to sleep any time soon.
"Can't sleep," Bobby murmurs from the other bed.
Nigel turns his body on the bed so he's facing the man. "Too fucking cold. Are there any extra blankets in here?"
"Nope, already checked."
Nigel slips off his bed to rummage through the wardrobe situated next to Bobby’s bed. Nothing but a bunch of rusted, deformed hangers and a safe that looks way too easy for Nigel to crack.
He kicks his suitcase on the floor, popping it open. Rummages through it. Didn't even bring a sweater.
"You could stuff your bed with those," Bobby says, goading. "Make yourself a little high designer nest." He snorts before burrowing his face in the comforter so Nigel can only see his eyes.
Little shit, Nigel thinks as Bobby retreats from the conversation with such a childish gesture. Frustratingly, Bobby looks adorable cocooned in his blanket, like a child hiding from the dark; his retort comes out more fond than irritated. "Those clothes are expensive, I'm not going to fucking wrinkle them up and sit on them like a fucking guinea pig."
Bobby can't help the sense of concern he feels when he sees the mild tremors in his companion's body as he pretends to be unphased by the cold. He lifts the covers off his face. "Did you really not bring a jacket?"
"No, I didn't. How was I supposed to know there wouldn't even be a fucking radiator here? No toaster, no radiator, but they have an electric tea kettle. Got their fucking priorities straight." Nigel says with heavy sarcasm.
"How about you give me your blanket, and you can make a nest with your ratty old clothes?" Nigel says, pulling on Bobby's comforter hard so that it rises and chill starts to seep in at his feet.
"Fuck off, Nigel." Bobby says, tugging back just as hard on the comforter that Nigel slips onto the mattress. The two men start to wrestle with one another, first fighting for the blanket, then taking out their aggression on each other's persons. Nigel might be a mouthy motherfucker, but Bobby's a cop so he has plenty of self defense training. Moreover he's scrappy to boot. Soon enough, he's got Nigel in a chokehold, broad forearm blocking his airway like he's about to apprehend him.
Warm breath ghosts at his arm, causing goose bumps to form where it tickles at his skin. They're both panting from the exertion, and they've worked up a mild sweat from all the tussling.
Suddenly, Bobby is hyperly aware of how hot Nigel is against him, as if his irritation is only further stoking the body heat radiating from inside of him. The chill seems negligible like this, the two of them - together. He gets distracted by the feeling before Nigel is tapping the bedsheets for mercy, Bobby not realizing how long he's been holding onto Nigel in that position. He lets go, reluctantly, allowing Nigel to catch his breath.
"Fucking prick," Nigel says, rubbing his hand on his neck where Bobby was choking him out. The chill hits Nigel again hard with the absence of Bobby's heat against him. Even his neck feels frozen where the arm once was, and Nigel thinks that even buttoning himself up wouldn't warm him up the way he craves.
Nigel's sat up, as if he's about to leave, still looking away at Bobby and rubbing at his neck as he pretends that that's what's still bothering him. Bobby rolls on his back, giving him an easy out and bringing another inch or so of distance between them, which makes Bobby feel even colder.
"There might be another solution," Bobby offers, casually staring at the ceiling. He hopes in the dark it's not obvious the way his face is starting to flush again, bringing the heat to his face and making his body even more demanding for supplemental warmth.
"Oh yeah?" Nigel says, craning his head over his shoulder. But he's placed his right hand firmly on the mattress now. As if anticipating the invitation, as if he's already given his response to said invitation.
Bobby picks up on Nigel's hand; wants to grab it with his own, intertwine their fingers together, so that he can feel the warmth of Nigel radiating through him. Instead, he says, "it's only for the night. Manager'll be here 6:00 a.m. sharp. Only seven hours." He's babbling now, trying to justify the scenario that circumstances have pushed them towards. To the circumstances he wants to push towards.
His mouth and brain shut off as Nigel settles himself into bed, after a weak attempt on Nigel’s part of looking like he was deliberating on it much. He positions himself close to the edge where there's still a few good four inches between them. Nigel sniffs, says gravelly: "Sounds good to me. Well, 'night." But his body is stiff, frozen like the blocks of ice forming outside as the snowstorm rages on.
Bobby selfishlessly craves for more. Even sharing the same bed, their collective body heat barely warms it any higher. The intensity of Nigel's bare skin on his earlier fueling his inner core. That’s what he wants. At this distance, Bobby can still smell the notes of Nigel's cologne sweating off of him from their scuffle earlier; it smells so undeniably Nigel. It has floral notes to it, which Bobby would make fun of, but it really does pair well with Nigel, how he presents himself. The smell of cigarettes doesn't cling to him as easily as it does to Bobby; instead, Nigel smells like the aftermath of a candle that's just wickered out. Bobby has the sudden urge to lean in and take a deeper whiff, right behind the earlobe currently exposed to him as he shifts onto his side to stare at Nigel's muscled back. He could do it if he wanted to, the smell of him so close - a torturous reminder of how near Nigel is but not being able to vocalize what he really wants.
It's then that Bobby realizes that Nigel still doesn't have any blanket on him, considering it ended up all pooled and jumbled on his stomach and legs earlier. He could go and grab the one on the other bed, give them both their own separate one, but Bobby's gotten too comfortable in bed and doesn't want to get up, he rationalizes to himself.
Instead, Bobby grips the edge of the comforter and then very gently lifts it so it can cover the two of them from neck to feet. The motion feels far too domestic, something he might do to one of his little girls, tucking them into bed. It baffles him how shy he is about such a simple act.
Bobby’s about to let the comforter slip from his hands when he reaches Nigel's shoulder, so close he could brush the long strands of his companion's hair with his pinky finger, when his hand is suddenly grabbed and wrenched around so that the flat of his palm is lying directly on Nigel's sternum, where he can feel the man's chest go up and down as he breathes.
A surge of frisson runs through them both as they finally get the real contact they've been craving for. Nigel’s blaming the tea he drank earlier for the way his heart rate’s picking up. Suddenly, he feels warm, all thoughts focusing on the other man's hand laying on his chest. The hand he grabbed.
"Don't fucking say a word." He hears himself say, feeling flustered and defensive all of a sudden. It doesn't have to become a big deal if they don't make it one. If Bobby doesn't want to make it one.
"Wait," Bobby says, and the single word pulls all the warmth from Nigel’s body, chilling him instantly. The fragile moment between them is broken, he thinks, and now Nigel’s made a damn fool of himself for asking more than Bobby's willing to give. He readies himself for another tiff.
Bobby moves his hand from Nigel’s chest and over to his shoulder, pushing him back so that he can roll over and face Bobby directly. Bobby gets blushy as he starts to stammer, "I uh- I like it better when I'm-" He doesn’t finish the thought, feeling bashful at the words “little spoon” on his tongue. Even when he and Tina were still together, he slept best with her wrapping around him; it feels embarrassing to even bring it up. Brusquely, Bobby flips to his side facing away from Nigel, losing his resolve and dropping the subject.
Nigel's face, which was blank in anticipation of rejection, quickly transforms into a look of disbelief. He scoffs incredulously, accepting the request as it is and closing that four inch gap between them, blanketing Bobby's back with his warmth.
He chuckles, and the sound in Bobby's ear makes him shiver. "Whatever you say, gorgeous.." The endearment slipping out of him unbidden. He rumbles contentedly as they slot into place, the sound vibrating through Bobby as he huddles closer to Nigel. Both of Nigel's strong, muscular arms are wrapped tight around him, and he feels blissfully warm. The two fall into a deep sleep like this, bodies tangled close, way past 6:00 a.m. that they miss the property manager who stopped by to check on things.
By the time they wake up for an early smoke break, they see that the property manager forgot yet again to place the tarp to protect the new wood he's brought in for the weekend. Based on the forecast, they could be getting another wave of the snowstorm that started yesterday. Looking at Bobby with a raised eyebrow, Nigel lifts the tarp and lets it get blown away with the strong winds.
They'll manage.