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Wear You Well
by Nicola
Rating: PG-13/R
Warnings: light BDSM
Notes: This is mildly AU, simply because it doesn't really fit in at any point in the Dylan/Paul timeline, or indeed, reference much of their storyline. I hope it remains in character, however.
"Never mix business with pleasure," was one of the first things Paul told Dylan, speaking as he poured himself a cocktail. "Unless it's . . . pertinent."
(It was the same kind of caveat that had peppered Dylan's childhood. "Stealing's wrong," Janelle would lecture, exhaling a long stream of cigarette smoke from the corner of her mouth as she spoke. "Unless it's necessary.")
Dylan went to Susan's house and looked up the word pertinent in the dictionary. Pertaining to; related; accessory. "Bullshit," he muttered, and went to pick up Paul's dry cleaning.
Dylan flopped onto Paul's sofa, burying himself in dry cleaning bags.
"You know, it kind of defeats the purpose of having something dry-cleaned if you don't hang it up afterwards," Paul pointed out wryly.
"So find some other lapdog to run your errands for you," Dylan mumbled. He was feeling tired and cranky; he was also wondering if being Paul's accessory was really all he wanted. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
"But you're my favourite lapdog," said Paul. Dylan could hear the smile in his voice; he was aware of Paul walking through from the kitchen, skirting around the back of the sofa. Paul's hand came to rest on Dylan's shoulder.
"Are you gonna offer me a cocktail?" Dylan cracked open one eye.
Paul let out a low chuckle. "No."
If Dylan were feeling bold, he would have shot back, You offer all your other whores a drink. But Paul's hand felt warm and heavy on his shoulder. He closed his eyes and said nothing.
Paul's hand began to slide down the front of his suit jacket. As Paul's fingers skimmed close to Dylan's heart, he felt as if someone had taken jump leads to it.
Dylan's heart stuttered. "Paul . . . ?"
Paul leaned down and reached across Dylan, fumbling inside one of the dry-cleaning bags. "It occurs to me"—his voice was a warm whisper against Dylan's ear—"that you really don't have a decent tie."
In a flourish Paul produced a silver silk tie. He wrapped it loosely around Dylan's neck and then drew away. Dylan heard the clink of a glass in the kitchen, but he could not bring himself to open his eyes.
Dylan imagines that the tie feels like Paul. It's all shit, really—because Paul isn't smooth, slippery-soft, reassuring to the touch. He's rough and abrasive and, once you get to know him, sort of worn down. Dylan thinks proudly, and then sadly, that he knows Paul. Out of everyone, it is he who really KNOWS Paul Robinson. Except, a part of Dylan still wants to pretend that the tie—the one he can't stop touching, obsessively; the one he loops around his wrist when he sleeps—the tie is just like Paul: slippery-soft and reassuring to the touch.
Paul didn't turn the lights on when he entered number twenty-two. He just closed the door and pushed Dylan back against the wall.
"I didn't know making out with your boss could be such a turn on," Dylan said in a low voice, inching closer to Paul.
". . . making out. What does that even mean," Paul murmured dismissively. His hand moulded gently around Dylan's chest. He pushed him back against the wall, hard. "And yes, you did."
"What did they call it in your day? . . . necking . . . pashing . . ." A note of frustration caught in Dylan's voice. He tried not to frown as Paul held him at arm's length.
". . . in my day . . ." Paul tutt'ed faintly at Dylan's words, smiling briefly. "Age"—he closed the gap between them, finally—"has taught me that if you can put a name to it, it's probably not worth talking about."
Dylan was suddenly glad of the wall for support as Paul leaned in to kiss him. He stopped trying to control the situation—a little voice in his head snidely commented that he was always eager to be fucked over by Paul Robinson. He slackened against the wall and Paul rewarded his compliance by kissing him harder.
Paul's hands had begun a thorough sweep of his body. Dylan's shirt had already come untucked from his trousers, and—"did you have a belt once? Has it merely got lost in whatever passes for the Timmins estate this week?" Paul muttered, breaking their kiss. His hands skimmed along the skin of Dylan's abdomen and then, slowly, he began to unbutton his shirt.
Paul's phone rang, and his fingers stopped moving. A growl of frustration swelled in Dylan's throat. Paul smiled slightly at the look of slow torture Dylan knew must be blooming on his face. He pulled away and opened up his briefcase (although, Dylan noted with manic satisfaction, that he still did not turn on the lights).
Paul flipped open the phone, but before he could say anything, Dylan reached over impulsively and grabbed the phone from his hands.
"Hello," Dylan said breathlessly.
"Ah hello, this is Belinda Hunter," a wispy female voice on the other end replied, "of the Bainbridge Group. I'm looking for Paul Robinson."
"I'm sorry," Dylan said in his best business voice, allowing an inescapable note of parody to creep into the polished vowels of his reformed-Colac accent. "Mr Robinson is a bit busy right now."
"Really? I was told he'd be available all afternoon."
Dylan bit down on his lip to keep from laughing. "No, sorry, he's unavailable." Dylan looked over at Paul, whose expression was impassive, unreadable. "He's . . ."—the final words slipped out in a warm rush—"all tied up."
"Oh. I suppose I'll ring back later then."
"Best make it tomorrow."
Dylan snapped the phone shut, and allowed the suppressed grin to break across his face. "Now," he addressed Paul, "where were we?"
Slowly, Paul took back the phone and replaced it carefully inside his briefcase. "Apparently, you are in dire need of a lesson in discretion," he said in a hard voice, as he turned back to face Dylan.
"What?" Dylan managed, his smile faltering. The beginnings of mortification stung across his cheeks like a sharp backhand.
"That"—Paul drew closer again, yanking open the last of Dylan's shirt buttons—"was unprofessional." His hands came to rest on Dylan's tie—Paul's tie. "It was stupid," he continued. He didn't move to loosen the knot, his fingers instead working to pull the tie tight around Dylan's throat. "And I . . ." His words trailed off into a sigh.
"I really have no patience for stupidity," Paul finished, his fingers coaxing around Dylan's throat.
Even if Dylan had wanted to reply, he wasn't sure he would have been able to. The material of the tie was taut against his Adam's apple and he was taking his breath in ragged bursts. Paul's hand was a cool, heavy presence; simultaneously reassuring and unnerving.
Paul leaned in to kiss him, with a slow gentleness that had previously been lost to Dylan's overexcitement. Dylan could feel himself sinking deep into sensation; he felt light-headed and overwhelmed. He wondered briefly if this was what dying might feel like: shit scary, but such awesome fucking release.
Paul pulled away and yanked suddenly at the tie. Dylan gasped, surprise hitting him harder than pain. And then Paul's fingers were fumbling gently at his neck, loosening the tie, and finally letting it fall to the floor.
"Be better," Paul growled, sounding angry and pleased. "I want you to want to be . . . better."
Finally he sighed slightly, like, see what you do to me? Paul was awfully good at passing blame. Dylan put his hand to Paul's face, using his fingers to guide Paul's mouth to his own. Dylan felt heavy with non-specific shame. I'm sorry I made you live.
He whispers soundlessly inside Paul's mouth as they resume kissing. I'm sorry I love you.
January 2006
Muse music: 'Work' by Jimmy Eat World; 'Fall To Pieces' by Matt Nathanson
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