they're coming to get you, barbara!

[royalpassport]

Who: Jefferson & Eliot (and later Kenzi??)
Where: Go Ask Alice
When: May 23
What: Jefferson caught a bit of Laura's transmission, but not a pretty important detail. Cue: attempted liberation from his tracker.
Warnings: Blood? Will update as necessary.

[Closed]

'There are trackers in our legs. They come--'

He doesn't even get to finish listening to the message before it cuts out. And, considering he can't go back and listen to it again, Jefferson spends the rest of the day trying to push the transmission out of his mind. It was only one and a half sentences, there one moment, gone the next. He must have imagined it. (Hard to say, when he can't ask anybody if they heard it, too. Not without violating the notices or sounding mad.)

But the thought won't leave him. Two days, three, his mind always finds its way back to the tracker that may or may not be in his leg. Whenever he's alone and undressed, he'd press his fingertips along his calves, then his thighs, feeling for anything unusual. The first few times, it turns up nothing. But then he notices it, a little bump an inch above the back of his knee. Small, easy to miss, but it's there.

If he manages to find his way to the edges of the woods, if he somehow escapes, would they hunt him down and haul him back? What if he needs to hide from the sheriff? He's already been visited twice. And as long as this thing's in him... The thought that he'd be so easy to find by... by whoever, makes him sick to the very pit of his stomach. He'd cut it out right then and there if he could, but every time he presses the tip of a knife to his leg, he stops short of breaking the skin.

Weak. He doesn't have what it takes to take the damn thing out himself. But if he has help...

The next day, he goes through the motions at the tea shop for a couple of hours, before he leaves it to Cassian and Rhiannon, retreating into the back office when the company of others becomes too much to stomach. But even there, he can't feel any peace. They're watching. There are eyes everywhere. He huddles by himself on the beaten up office couch, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling like he knows somebody's staring at him. A couple more hours pass, and he calls Eliot, voice strained but reaching for casual.

Come on over at 7. I'll close the shop. We'll have tea and sandwiches before you go to work. Just us.

He closes up shop at 5. And when the last straggler leaves and he's all alone (but not alone) again, he starts to turn over his office, upending everything to try to root out the cameras. He manages to find one, but nothing more. (Was there only one eye watching all along, or did he miss the others?)

Hair and clothes disheveled, eyes red-rimmed from days of unrest, he sits on the desk and waits for Eliot, a paring knife dangling between his fingers. Hopefully it'll do the trick.

Comments

[royalpassport]

For all his faults and weaknesses (and there are many), Jefferson's typically a rather observant person. He notices the way his not-ex follows the touch. Eliot doesn't go right for his body; there's no sense that touching each other in that light, exploratory way is just tedious foreplay to be endured before everything zeroes in on their dicks. Which is for the best, since-- for as much as Jefferson certainly enjoys the act of fucking and the countless variables that go into each encounter-- he tends to crave sensation more than anything. The sound of his partner's breathing changing with every touch, the feel of fingers ghosting over his inner thighs, the sight of flushed skin in dim lighting, each piece coming together to overwhelm his senses.

Not that he hasn't had his share of quick lays without much preamble. And those were fun, too. Especially when pressed for time, which, incidentally, they're not right now, so he feels no need to rush.

"Look around. Anyone who walks in will think we already did," he points out, playing along as if he's taking Eliot's remarks at face-value. He scrapes his teeth along his lower lip, deliberate in calling attention to his mouth, to the color his bite brings out in his lips, before grinning. "So we might as well. It's only practical." Right. It's a matter of practicality! Of justifying why the office is a wreck.

Anyway. Jefferson's just going to hook his ankles around Eliot's middle and use his legs to pull him closer which-- he immediately regrets a little, because it just reminds him of that throbbing pain above the back of his knee. But despite his brief wince of discomfort, he doesn't seem interested in stopping now.

PROBABLY THIS SHOULD.....TO AN INBOX

[sybaritic]

Eliot is--well. That's most of his sexual history, frankly, and he has no real regrets save one of the very small handful of exceptions. What he does have is a defiant streak a mile wide, so between that and how much he wants this to be real, despite its unreal origins, it's enough to make him shove down the idea that the last time he liked someone enough to want time, and exploration, and banter between equals, it went so sideways not everything that's making his heart beat double-time is anticipation and happiness.

You know what's a great distraction from that, though? Jefferson's mouth, for one thing, and for two (...or about six, really) being lassoed with legs. This is a newsletter he would like to receive everyday, thank you. "Listen, Jefferson. I love the banter and everything? I really do, just say the word go and my ability to chatter from now 'til one of us passes out will put blue jays to shame, but--"

Ah, this is his only even facsimile of regret regarding a lack of clothing right now; it would be a spectacular opportunity to pull Jefferson's head down by the scarf. Oh well, Eliot will use his curls instead, meaning by necessity (because his hands are the size of catcher's mitts) the heel of his palm lines up with where the prominent scar rings the back of his neck. It couldn't be said Eliot doesn't notice; there's a sudden new shade of light in his eyes that says he's watching whether or not that's all right (in a second he'll just ask, but he has a point to make):

"That is - and I don't say this lightly - the least practical thing I've ever seen a person do with his mouth." A beat. "Well. That's a lie, but it's high on the scale! Fortunately for you, I hate practicality. It's so ...practical."

This isn't all about trying to see if he needs to make sure he avoids touching the scar without embarrassing Jefferson, but that's. A lot of it. He can, and will be, direct, that tends to save time, but it's--it's complicated. At least it would be for Eliot. "Not that I'm saying we shouldn't profane the shit out of your office."

Which is the note on which he's going to push off with his hands to either side of Jefferson's hips and stand up just, in the leg lasso, because this is the optimum angle to maybe encourage general.....draping backwards over the desk.