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Parker’s so fucked. He’d promised himself he’d keep a lid on it, when he’d dragged that booze-soaked stray back to the office. He’d said to himself, ’Parker, you’re making a commitment, here. You’re gonna give this guy a steady job and a steady hand, and you’re not gonna fuck it up like you did with Freddie or Hank or Benji. You’re too old for that shit, and you’ve learned your lesson.’
But he hadn’t planned for Arthur to be so… so god damned appealing. Arthur’s smart as a whip, and funny, and he can be awfully sweet when he lets his guard down. And sure, he’s got a temper, and okay, he’s a bit of a fuckin dolt about some things too. Parker’s sure Arthur could beat him at chess, no problem, but he’s equally sure Art’s gonna walk face-first into a wall one of these days. It’s kinda cute.
And he’s talented! He plays the piano with those long, pretty fingers (‘Will you cool it on those fucking fingers, Park, it’s gettin’ weird,’) and there’s something so enchanting about a man who writes music. Even though Arthur waves it off and says he only wrote jingles. Even though Arthur gets so sad, sometimes, when he plays. Even though sometimes the music seems to open up the cracks in him until it looks like he’s ready to shake apart.
Well. Parker likes a fixer.
Can anyone blame him for wanting Arthur around? For spending late nights working side-by-side with his determined new partner? He's sure Arthur works himself to exhaustion for the same reason he used to drink himself into a stupor: to distract himself from something awful in his past. He feels guilty enabling it, he really does, but this has gotta be better than the drink, hasn't it? And when the city has gone quiet and they're tucked together in their crappy little office, working through the haze of cigarette smoke, and it feels like they're the only two people in the whole world.... Parker's not ready to give that up. Even if it's bad for Arthur. Even if it's bad for Parker, too.
So that’s how Parker ends up like this. Lying awake on his lumpy mattress at 3 in the fucking morning while Arthur “wraps a few things up” in the other room. Parker knows Arthur lied about closing shop. He knows Arthur’s not gonna sleep tonight. They always drink too much coffee on nights like this, so he lies here, wired and exhausted, and thinks of the cigarette tucked between Arthur's lips. How he wants to pluck it out and take a drag, just to share that little sliver of a kiss with this man. Arthur might laugh and snatch it back. Or, if he was in one of his dark moods, he'd call Parker an asshole and harry him out of the office for "wasting both our fucking time." Or maybe, if Parker were truly lucky, he'd watch Parker drag with a heated gaze, then lean in and steal the smoke that curled out of Parker's mouth, breathing slow and deep and so very close. "That's mine," he'd say, and pluck the fag from Parker's stunned grip
Parker squirms atop the mattress. He knows that a crank isn’t gonna make him feel any better. It won’t make the fantasies go away, it’ll just make them follow him in the daytime. But he's so fucking tired, and so fucking alone, and Parker’s never been good at resisting temptation.
The Arthur in his mind is warm and inviting. He smokes his cigarette and waits for Parker to talk himself into another bad decision. When Parker looks up at him, Arthur smiles. He takes one last puff, holding Parker's gaze all along, then pulls him in. Smoke makes his outline hazy and soft. He's so close, so warm, and it's nothing at all for Parker to duck down and catch his breath, pull it into his own lungs, and then he's kissing Arthur, and it's so easy, Arthur wants it as much as he does, and Arthur's stubble scratches Parker's chin, and his fingers tangle in Parker's hair, and on the cheap mattress in the chilly apartment with the real Arthur just down the hall, Parker slips a hand under his waistband.
He’s so fucked.