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He swears he's had this one before. This dream. This déjà vu. This feeling of protectiveness and possession burbling in the back of his throat, tightening his chest. But the tiles on the floor line up and the shadows are right and the body overly warm by his side may be unsteady as Noel guides him down the precinct hallway but he doesn't flicker under the florescent light and with everything else right he's able to pretend he doesn't see the unnatural glow of yellow deep in his eyes as they catch the desk lamp walking through the door to his office.
It's Pavlovian. He knows that. Somewhere in his mind he knows that. That exact shade of yellow. It would be putrid if it wasn't so beautiful. There's a scent coming off this shivering embodiment of the indomitable human spirit and his mystery passenger, somethin' recognizable in passing, when he's not looking directly at it, but right now that scent is covered by another's and it's making his skin itch, that wrongness covered up by more wrongness, like pointing mirrors at each other. Like he's on the edge of falling into the void.
The hand with the fucked-up finger runs through his hair. John's hand. That's John's hand through Arthur's hair, that's Arthur's shaky breathing. Arthur is panting. Charlie recognizes it for what it is. He's finally able to fall apart, released from his taunting performance now that he's inside this safer cage and Noel is there to cup his face and give him a desk to lean on and whisper sweet words of praise, "good, good doll" and "we got'im" and "you did good."
He doesn't like how frantic this makes him feel. He's in control, has been for two years. He's been back for two years. He's in control. So why's he crowded so close in Arthur's space now? This was his idea, for Christ's sake. At least, mostly his idea. Arthur had jumped at the idea so quickly it makes him wonder how much of his idea it really was.
And now he's breathing Arthur's air, babbling nonsense, couldn't even tell you if he was coherent over how loudly the smell of another on his skin rings through his senses. He thinks he's asking if Arthur's okay, how he feels, if he needs anything. That's what he means to ask at least. That hand is tangled in his shirt and pulling him closer, gripping the back of his neck, the weird fucked-up wood weirdly grounding in a fucked-up way as it scratches his skin and pulls at his hair. John's eyes bore holes into his soul from Arthur's dazed face and for a split second his world lurches to the left. There's no answers in those eyes, only questions and demands and he knows the eyes aren't who he wants them to be and he's not askin' questions past that and still perception smears when he tries to look away.
Get it together, Dowd. Finley. Fuck.
When did he get on his knees?
Arthur's hands are braced on the desk and his pants are crumpled around his ankles and watching the Butcher run down his legs is making Charlie see red. He tastes salty and bitter as Noel scrubs him clean. If his teeth scrape his thighs and his tongue is more violating than tender, well, he can just say he's bein' thorough.
For a brief insane moment Noel thanks the Butcher for doing the prep, his hole slick and wet and open for him and it would take nothing to push inside. Instead, he pushes himself up, lets the cracking in his knees temper the fire in his belly. Not like this. Not from behind, like a dog, like Collins had (hands cuffed behind him, grin wicked, pace punishing). No. He can take his time. He has time. He can lay Arthur comfortably on his back across his desk, doesn't have to be cruel to claim him, can whisper sweet nothings into his ear as wood creaks and scrapes the cement floor but oh, that moan was loud. He covers Arthur's open mouth with his hand.
Open moans shift to needy whimpers and Noel replaces his hand with his own mouth, drinks his sounds slowly. Those eyes stay open as they kiss. Not shy through lashes. They're hungry, sharp and focused. John's hand wipes the Butchers spend from his cheek and shoves it into his mouth and Charlie drinks from his fingers and doesn't wonder why it feels familiar.
There's a stupid, easy grin on his face right now, he just knows it. Despite the tension in his body and the desperate way he's punctuating each deep thrust with a groan, his brain still wants to crack jokes, wants levity, wants space, wants to crawl inside Arthur's skin and fuck the creature behind his eyes with Arthur's legs wrapped around him not like tentacles. He can escape anytime he wants.
He watches with amazement and delight (good, right) as Arthur comes again, as his half mast prick paints his stomach for Noel, fucked and filled by Noel, and Noel (good, right) follows him over the edge.
It takes him a minute to open his eyes. Doesn't want to see if the light has changed, doesn't want to check if it's the same face beneath him, just gonna stay here a minute longer, breathing in his own scent on Arthur's body while it's still Arthur's body, satisfaction coursing through his veins. A breathless, lilting accent whispers his name. "Noel." Like it's a prayer and an answer. Like he's touched the divine.
Braced on the desk, bracketing Arthur's body, Noel pushes himself up and runs a hand through his hair, taming back the strands that have fallen loose from their pomade. Still buried to the hilt he fishes in his pocket for his pack of smokes. This kid is so bad for him. He lights the cigarette.