Epilogue

Luxury loft living. Not so much.

James looks around at the messy apartment then at his watch and then back at the messy apartment. He’s got a couple of hours ‘til Mal gets home so if he starts now he’ll get the place cleaned up in time for… Thanksgiving maybe?

It’s not his fault, because it wasn’t him who invited Hobbs and Friar over, was it? Okay so it’s a year since Hobbs got a bullet in the chest and lived to see another one and it’s a year since Astley went to meet his maker - whoever the fuck that might be. So it is a day worth celebrating but it’s still got nothing to do with him.

Then James sighs because the mess is a direct result of him and he has this worrying feeling that he promised to cook tonight. So basically he’s fucked.

Essential things for a dinner party. Food is useful, and somewhere to eat it. That’s a good place to start seeing as he buried the dining room table last week when he went looking for a particular press cutting he wanted to re read to help him get over an evil bitchy review of his latest art house movie.

He’s doing great sorting all the papers and books into piles and he manages to clear a whole strip down the middle when he finds this script that he’s been searching for days and an Italian recipe book. So he lies on the partially cleared table top, finds his reading glasses, which were on top of his head along with a pair of sunglasses, and the thing is, the script is so good that he must have forgotten the time a little. Unless maybe Mal came back early to help.

“Hi, honey, nice day at work?” he says with a big welcome home smile.

Mal gazes around at the chaos masquerading as his apartment and sighs. He shoulda known better. Jim cleaning up’s like a junior officer planning strategy, all good intentions and still it goes tits up.

“Quiet,” he says, scooping a pile of paperwork off the floor. “Got a team going out tomorrow. Angola. Getting info from a bunch of ex-diamond smugglers for the international court.” Not exactly tasteful work, nor well paying, but it kinda assuages his conscience. In his head Mal sees it as a way of paying back for some of the damage his boys have done over the years. And still do, when they take the jobs that bring in the big bucks.

Jim’s already gone back to reading whatever it is that’s grabbed his attention. Probably a script. Normally is. Mal’s gotten used to it. Enjoys it even, when Jim gets that intense look on his face that says he’s found something he can work on. Acting’s Jim’s life like Storm Force is Mal’s and they don’t let either get between ‘em anymore. Just ignore the bits they don’t like and make the most of the bits they do.

After clearing the floor, Mal heads to the kitchen for a broom, pausing on his way to poke his head into the fridge. An open jar of mayo and a stick of celery stare back at him.

“Groceries?” he calls through, more in hope than expectation.

“Just deciding what we’re eating,” says James waving the recipe book at Mal with the script hidden away on the inside. “Then I’ll go out and fetch them.” And avoid cleaning.

“Diamond smuggling sounds interesting,” he says using his patented distraction technique. He’s a bitch, he really is. Mal talks about work and tidies and James listens to the parts he wants to hear and does fuck all. Cullen may deal with logistics but James is the master of campaigns. He narrows his eyes slightly wondering just how far he can push Mal tonight. Yeah, he was feeling a little guilty for getting all wrapped up in X Box and TV but he’s supposed to be living a guilt free happy existence now and anyway he’s on vacation since filming finished two months ago.

Maybe he could help a little more.

Maybe not.

“Chicken Marsala,” he says thoughtfully still reading his script and mentally running through what had been on the menu last time they’d eaten Italian, “Salmon in lemon garlic butter, asparagus risotto.”

Jim’s not listening to a word he’s saying Mal realises when he hears that litany of impossible dishes being recited. Impossible because all of them take ingredients and time to prepare and they ain’t got either. Taking advantage on James’ obvious distraction, Mal tidies his way to the edge of the table, grabs Jim by the waist of his pants, and drags him backwards.

Jim yelps and tries to turn over, but Mal’s too quick for him. Pinning flailing arms and legs to the glass table top, Mal leans over, deliberately rubbing against that tight ass and whispers in Jim’s ear, “We’ll order in but it’s gonna cost.”

James feels his breath mist the table top and he pants with excitement. He’s hard and overheated and desperate like he always is from just one word, one touch. He’ll never want anything more in his life.

“What you willing to pay?” he smirks but Mal just continues to rubs up against him and if he carries on like that James’ll have come before his jeans are down past his butt. It says a lot when sex this good is the least important out of everything in this relationship.

Scrabbling to find purchase on the smooth surface, James reaches for the top edge and hauls himself away, putting up some token resistance and wishing they’d got time for a good long fuck. Best thing about being older is that they can screw all night if they want to. Long as they’ve both got the energy.

Mal’s still got one hand tucked into the waistband of James’s jeans and he pulls him back and grinds against his backside, fingers sliding up inside James’ shirt rubbing slow forceful circles onto his back, restraining and soothing him and making him slow burn from the inside out.

“Not me doing the paying,” Mal says and slips one hand round to the front of James’ pants, loosing the buttons. They pop open slowly letting James’ dick gradually hit the cool glass. He squirms, cursing when Mal just laughs and yanks his pants down. But not down far enough. Damn it, what the fuck is he up to?

“See,” Mal’s saying, “I’m thinking that I done the cleaning while you laid around. So now you get to clean the table.”

Tugging Jim backwards so his legs are dangling off the table, Mal tugs tight fitting jeans down and baggy shirt up, and then digs in his pocket for the half empty tube of lube he found while he was tidying. He flips open the top with his thumb and squeezes a generous dollop onto the small of Jim’s back.

“Cold!” Jim yelps.

“Reckon we’d best give it somewhere to warm up then.” It’s not a game they play often, ‘cos neither of them really get off on it, but damn it, Jim’s playing him this evening and deserves everything he gets.

The first slap lands sweet as you like on a pale buttcheek, turning it slightly pink.

“Ow! Fucker!”

“After.”

“Cullen, you are one mean motherfucking-“

The next slap is harder still and Jesus Christ his cock is throbbing away more with every swipe of Cullen’s palm.

“Shit ow! Stop screwing around or I’ll…” Come in his pants is pretty damn likely. He’s so wound up tonight and this is making him harder than ever.

Mal laughs and slaps him once more and James isn’t sure if it’s the pleasure pain of the blow across his butt cheeks or the sound of that laughter that makes the pre-come flood out of his slit.

He shivers and bites his lip and his glasses are digging into his nose and his cheeks are numbed by the coldness of the table and he’s one mass of raw nerve endings and goose flesh.

“Fuck me, Cullen.” He swallows down a gulp and his voice is nothing more than breath and he feels Mal quiver slightly and press up against him.

Then there’s another stinging slap and James can’t help the moan that spills out of his lips. “Mal, please, I need you.”

The desire in Jim’s voice makes Mal’s dick twitch. Keeping one hand on James’ ass, he quickly unzips, pushes his pants to his knees and slicks himself up with the now slightly warmer lube. This is gonna be hard and fast, just the way Jim likes it. Just the way Mal likes it too, when he feels like this. Making love in the bath can wait for another day.

With no other preparation, he presses the head of his cock against Jim’s hole and thrusts home. Jim groans, always does when Mal takes him like this. Scared him the first couple of times, thinking he was hurting him, but he’s been told not. Plus Jim arches up against him, pushing back and taking him in ‘til he’s bending over that muscular back, lips pressed against the soft skin between Jim’s shoulder blades.

Jim turns a little, straining back for a kiss, and Mal obliges. As their mouths meet, his hips snap forward of their own accord setting up a pumping rhythm that sees them both gasp and Jim’s arms sweeping the rest of the paperwork to the floor.

“Shit,” Jim moans. “All in fucking order.”

“Sort… after…” Mal mutters, not giving a damn about clippings and scripts when he’s got his boy to give a good seeing to. Not that it’s gonna last long. Already he can feel his desire rising as he ruts frantically into that welcoming body. Sweat drips from his brow joining wet streaks on Jim’s back, and Christ, it feels so damn good.

His voice is guttural as he talks, telling James how good it is, how close he is to coming, how he wants to fuck him like this forever. Beneath him, Jim clings onto the glass, sliding back and forth and fuck knows if he’ll have a dick left after all this.

Can’t take much more. James’s fingers are cramped from hanging on to the table and it’s all cold glass and hot sweat and glide and friction as Mal slams his cock deep inside him, slick and smooth pounding against James’ sweet spot with every thrust until he can’t think of anything but this. Can’t see anything, feel anything but this.

Mal’s rearing up over him, one hand resting possessively on the back of his neck like a collar, the other pushing down on his hip, holding him in place as he fucks him harder. The words are a total contradiction to the sex and they’re all James can hear. They make him shudder and pant and fuck back onto that cock until he’s full of sparks and stars and Mal’s lifting him and gripping his dick and squeezing him tighter and fucking him harder still and then it’s one huge explosion in his head and, Jesus, if he doesn’t feel like he’s gonna pass out. Except he’s determined not to.

Resting his cheek against the tabletop he can see Mal out of the corner of his eye licking the taste of him off his fingers. He’s still talking, telling him how good he is, how much this means, how fucking great this is. He’s dipping and arching and roaring and James is full and hot and grinning like he’s on top of the fucking world. He is. And he’s so high he feels like he’s coming for a second time. Maybe he is. Maybe not.

Then Mal drops down over him like a very exhausted sweaty blanket and they kiss as best they can in this weird position, lips and tongue just about managing to make contact in between the murmured words about caring and loving and- What the fuck is that sound?

“You guys should be in porn,” says this deep booming voice accompanied by slow appreciative applause.

James pulls off his reading glasses, cos no one sees him wearing them, turns his head and grins at Hobbs who’s as crass and as full of badly timed humour as ever.

Of course where there’s Hobbs there has to be Friar who’s draped elegantly against the breakfast bar, cigarette dangling from his fingers as he rims a bottle of Smirnoff Ice.

“I would say encore,” he says lifting his eyebrow and smiling at them in that trademark lascivious way of his. “but-“

“Saying I can’t do the necessary, boy,” Mal growls, narrowing his eyes. Despite being soft, he shoves his hips forwards and making Jim grab hold of the glass again with a worried squeak.

Friar’s eyes darken and his mouth drops open showing hint of tongue. If it wasn’t for Jim and the orgasm still thumping in his chest, Mal would be tempted to go take advantage. As it is, he groans and rests his head back on James’ shoulder. “Give us a second and I might be able to conjure something up.”

Hobbs’ laugh washes over them but there’s not a hint of mocking in it. Never would be, not from Hobbsy.

“We eating tonight or just watching the floor show?”

“Ask Jim,” Mal says, glaring at the visitors ‘til they decorously turn their backs lending a semblance of privacy. Only then does he move, heaving his body up and forcing it to recover quicker than it wanted.

“You said we were having take-out,” James whispers urgently as he slides off the table yanking his jeans up.

“In that case, I vote for Thai,” Friar says, peering back over his shoulder with a grin. “Want me to order while you chaps get decent?”

“And clean the table,” Hobbs adds. “So not wanting to eat off that ‘til it’s sterilised.”

“Give our fucking keys back,” yells James on his way to the bathroom leaving the others to sort everything out.

Fifteen minutes later he’s joined in the shower by Mal and they kiss properly the way they couldn’t when they were screwing.

“Tell ‘em to go home,” says James washing Mal all over with his favourite shower gel. “I want you to myself.”

James has to go away filming in just over two weeks and he’s been counting down the days with dread. For the first few months he was full of this terror that as soon as his back was turned Mal would just disappear off to the Balkans and not even tell him. Now the misery is just because he misses him so bad.

“Can’t do that,” says Cullen in that way he has that’s nothing to do with words but all about caring and then he kisses James again.

“How long does it take you guys to get cleaned up?” yells Hobbs from outside the shower cubicle.

One day he’ll just fucking get in with them.

“Coming,” snaps Mal.

“That’s what I was afraid of,” replies Hobbs and then disappears with a grin before he gets hit.

By the time they’re dressed the food has arrived and Friar’s laying everything out like a good little hostess on the clean table. James sits up on the kitchen counter and pinches one of Friar’s Bensons, lighting it with a match. He looks at the matchbook and grins.

“Chariots Men’s Health Club,” he reads loudly, “Fun in the sauna, hey, Leo.”

“A hot blooded single man has to get his pleasures somehow,” Friar snaps, snatching the matches back. He stares at and sighs. “Jed. Six foot four and hung like a donkey,” he says wistfully.

“If that’s all you wanted, you shoulda asked me,” Hobbs grins.

“I said hung like a donkey, not looks like one.”

Mal shakes his head as his friends banter back and forth. He’s already decided that locking them in the guestroom tonight’s the best option, if they don’t get it on before. The expression on Jim’s face and a sharp squeeze on his thigh say Jim’s feeling the same way. Fuck knows why they keep dancing round each other.

They all settle down to eat, sharing bowls and plates and refilling glasses liberally. Pretty soon conversation turns to what they’re celebrating. Or commemorating, though Mal don’t mention that, least not where James can hear him.

“Shit that bullet hurt,” Hobbs’s saying, jabbing the air with his chopsticks. “Thought the bastard thing had me for sure.”

“Would have done if it weren’t for Jim and Florry,” Mal comments. He don’t let it slide anymore. Tries to make sure Jim gets the thanks he deserves, so he knows he’s appreciated. Jim’s small private smile suggests it worked.

“Where is our colonial cousin these days?” Friar enquires before popping a sauce-laden shrimp in his mouth.

Mal shrugs. “No idea. Said he was going undercover again and that was a coupla months ago. Guess he’ll show again one of these days.”

“I still can’t believe he was a plant,” says Hobbs later, pushing his plate away with a contented sigh. He doesn’t mention Ryan or Danza, but then none of them do. To know one of your own would take you down is terrifying to men who have to rely on each other in the field.

“Damn good one,” Mal acknowledges. “Kept your ass going more then once.”

James listens to them chatter on about that day - the day they’re here to celebrate - but he doesn’t feel any need to join in. Not because it freaks him and makes him want to run for the hills. It’s just that he spent that whole year in shock and he never really got around to making sense out of any of it.

“Show us the crater in that pretty chest then, Hobbs,” says James when conversation dies down. He can almost see the man puff up with pride as he rolls up his cream shirt and displays the puckered scar.

“Look at that baby.” Hobbs stands up and spins around making sure everyone gets a good visual. “Bet you wish you got one of them to boast about.”

“Mmm, the key to a life long career in paperwork,” smirks Friar, “What fun.”

“Least I can travel out the country without getting arrested for drug offences on every continent,” frowns Hobbs squaring up and ready for a fight.

“I got that wound beat,” says Cullen kind of loudly and James knows it’s to stop the bickering. And even though the more interesting solution would be to let them wrestle it out naked, he still gets a nice view as Mal turns around and unfastens his pants, sliding them down low enough to show off a long thin scar at the base of his spine that James knows intimately and has licked time and time again.

When Mal’s told the tale and sat back down and Friar’s busy recounting how espionage is more about mental scars than physical ones, James thinks of his own wounds and how Cullen’s helped him overcome them. He lifts his leg and slides his bare foot into the lap opposite him, curling his toes around the soft bulge of Mal’s cock.

Mal smiles and rubs his thumb over the instep and James steals another of Friar’s cigarettes lighting it and passing it over. They’re both supposed to have quit but this is social and there’s something incredibly sexy about sharing a smoke and a drink, so fucking absorbed in each other that…

“Hey, you two, stop being revoltingly romantic. You do have guests you know,” says Friar whacking James with an empty beer bottle “Got any more cadaver jobs lined up then, Jamie?”

“Are you ever gonna shut the fuck up about that?” pouts James but he knows it’s all fun. Ironically enough he’s actually got a part in a film about a group of tourists who are taken hostage by a bunch of guerrilla soldiers in Columbia. He’s not gonna talk about it tonight though cos it doesn’t feel right. Cullen knows and he’s okay with it. “I played one corpse. Just one, you bastard,” he says, smacking Friar in the arm.

Throughout all the banter and refilling of glasses and serious amounts of taking the piss out of actors, James keeps kneading away gently at that cock and finally when he tries to move his foot, Mal won’t let go.

Feeling a tug against his hand, Mal tightens it. No way in hell is that foot going anywhere. Bad enough Jim touching him up in public without the guys seeing how hard it’s made him. Not that they’d be seeing anything they ain’t seen before. Both Hobbsy and Friar have been in his bed, more than once, but that was before Jim.

“Y’know what we need,” Hobbs says, his words slurring a little from the wine.

He fiddles for something in the pocket of his khakis and a second later a tin lands on the table. Mal grins. He don’t do dope often, but the stuff Hobbs gets is always good. It’ll make for a fitting night.

“’Member this from before we set off to go rescue Culley, James?”

“Christ, I do,” Friar mumbles. “I woke up the next day thinking some bastard had poured ground glass down my piss hole, you sadistic bastard.”

Hobbs narrows his eyes and fixes Friar with a mock glare. “Never did get your ass,” he says. “You gonna play nice tonight?”

“You call getting a two way blow job not playing nice?” Friar answers, doing his best to look innocent. “Personally I would have said that me and James going down on you made all your wishes coming true.”

James blinks. Cos there may have been one or two or possibly three things he hasn’t actually mentioned to Cullen. He glances up but there’s no expression on that face and that may well be good - or bad. He’s just not sure right now.

“We-“

As confessions and apologies go that was total crap so he reaches over to the tobacco tin hoping he might find some inspiration in a joint, but Mal’s hand swats down over his. Now if he’s not careful he’ll only be up for acting roles playing short one handed, one-footed guys. Help, where’s that fucking prompt when you need it?

“I-“

That was a little better. Not.

It’s the panicked expression on James’s face that makes Mal crack. Laughing, probably too hard, he grabs Jim’s hand and damn near drags him over the table to plant a kiss on those pouting lips. Jim squirms tying to get away, determined to sulk, so Mal simply hauls him round behind Friar and wraps him up in a hug he can’t escape.

After a moment James stops trying and Mal whispers, too quietly for the others to hear, “Wish I’d been there.”

“Bastard,” says James then slaps Mal and kisses him better. “You may get a chance to play in the re-match though.” He nods at Hobbs and Friar who are still sniping at each other in an out and out flirtatious way as they share the smoke from a spliff.

Mal grins and steals a joint from the tin and James can’t quite get his head around the idea of a stoned Cullen but then his phone rings and when he answers it the voice on the other end throws him completely.

“Fuck, Steve, how did you get my number?” he says wandering out to the balcony to get away from the Hobbs and Friar who are louder than Green Day on the CD player.

He listens to the blast from the past and tries to take in what Steve’s saying about mutual friends and it’s then that he has a revelation. The hurt has gone.

“Yeah, it would be great to meet up but I’m out of the country filming in South America next week,” he says with a smile of absolute satisfaction.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Next time we’re over in Los Angeles I’ll give you a call.”

“Yeah, good to hear you too, man.”

The phone snaps shut at the exact same time as a pair of arms snake their way around him.

“You’re in London next week,” says Mal with a happy grin that has maybe something to do with the weed.

“He doesn’t know that,” says James peering in at Hobbs and Friar who’re all over each other on the couch. “Looks like the party’s started without us.”