On Monday, Patrick acted like nothing had happened.

His nonchalance infuriated Frazer. He had expected the man to come to him in stumbling apology, perhaps with a confession of too much wine. He had at least expected a look of embarrassment in the older man’s eyes, but there was nothing. Patrick laughed and joked and played his usual games. If Frazer’s reluctance to join in showed, Patrick appeared not to notice.

It didn’t matter anyway. Jamie was supposed to be somber: Debbie Watling had decided to bow out of the show, which meant her character Victoria was leaving the TARDIS, and Jamie, forever. Frazer’s foul mood fit the role of sullen Scotsman perfectly.

At lunch he ate alone, doing his best to avoid Patrick. It was true he wanted to confront the man in private, to ask him what the hell had happened, but he wanted it to be on his own terms, not at lunch when he had to go back to filming afterward.

Filming lasted until ten, as it usually did. After a day of suppressed emotions and taxing acting, Frazer was exhausted. He didn’t want to talk to Patrick; he didn’t even want the events of the weekend to have happened. If only he could forget, like Patrick seemed able to do. He could just go on, convincing himself he hadn’t enjoyed it; that it hadn’t made him question everything he’d ever known.

In the dressing room he leaned over a chair, staring at himself in the mirror, aware the bags under his eyes were more pronounced today than usual. He hadn’t slept well the past few nights, and it was definitely starting to show. What he needed was a holiday, to get away from Patrick and the damn show. If he got out into the country and properly distracted himself with something else, maybe he could stop thinking about all of this.

“Frazer?”

He spun around quickly and there was Patrick. How had he not heard the door open? Dressed still as the Doctor, the man looked entirely too clumsy to move that silently. “What?” he snapped, hoping he sounded unconcerned.

“I think we should talk,” he replied.

The older man’s eyes flicked quickly over him, and Frazer suddenly wished he’d changed out of his own costume faster. “I don’t think I have anything to say to you.”

“Of course you do.” Patrick didn’t come closer, remaining unthreateningly by the door. “We can’t go on like this. It would be bad for the show if Jamie hated the Doctor.”

“I don’t hate you,” Frazer quickly amended.

Patrick’s eyebrows relaxed. “That’s a relief,” he said, and it was clear he meant it.

“I just don’t understand,” Frazer added, sadness creeping into his voice.

Gently, Patrick took a step toward him. “About what? About Saturday?”

Frazer glowered. “What do you think?”

“I think I got too forward and should have asked permission,” he answered. He held Frazer’s gaze. “I think you enjoyed yourself.”

“You’re married,” Frazer protested.

“That’s really not the issue though, is it?” Patrick said, his voice cool. “Shelagh is aware of my occasional indiscretions. She’s my third wife, Frazer. Of course she knows.”

Frazer wished that information didn’t make his skin crawl. “So she knew you were in the bathroom,” Frazer began, trying to figure out how to talk about this thing. “Doing—”

“You?” Patrick supplied. “No. No, she didn’t know that. Hopefully she won’t, either. But she knows that sort of thing happens, sometimes.”

“And she’s fine with it.” Frazer was not convinced.

“She would not be my wife if she wasn’t.”

Frazer turned away, but it didn’t help because he could still see Patrick in one of the mirrors over the dressing room counter. “I still don’t understand,” he said.

“What?” Patrick asked. “Why I picked you? Why you enjoyed it? I think that last one is fairly self-evident.”

“Have you fucked Debbie too?” he asked, his voice suddenly bitter. He turned around to glare and found Patrick much closer than he’d anticipated. He shied away, to the left, anxious not to get trapped by those eyes. “What about Michael, or Anneke? And I suppose you’ll have the new girl too, when she arrives? The Great Patrick Troughton, seducing all his co-stars?”

“And how many girls have you spent a single night with, never to call again, Frazer? You’re calling the kettle black.”

“Those girls aren’t my friends, Patrick.” Frazer was angry now.

“Oh? And that makes it somehow better?”

“Those girls know exactly what they’re there for, and they accept it,” Frazer retorted, focusing on Patrick. “Maybe they’d like a phone call someday, but mostly they’re happy just for the experience.”

“The experience of being fucked by the Great Frazer Hines?”

The words sounded so vulgar coming from Patrick’s usually modest mouth. “It’s different,” he protested.

“Different because we were friends, or different because I brought you to your knees in thirty seconds without hardly laying a finger on you?”

Frazer wished he were anywhere but there. He wished his heart hadn’t started slamming into his chest at the memory. He wished Patrick’s cold blue eyes weren’t burning on him. “You didn’t ask,” he finally said.

“I didn’t think it was necessary when you so clearly wanted it.”

Frazer tensed all over. “My girlfriend was right in the next room over. Some of your kids were watching telly in the parlor.”

Patrick was nodding, approaching. “And you came longer and harder than you ever have in your life.”

“That’s not true,” Frazer quickly countered, but it was like his voice was caught in the back of his throat. Some distant part of him realized what Patrick was doing, knew he was being cornered again. Only this time there was no girlfriend or wife to avoid, no excess of alcohol to blame. “Patrick,” he said in a low voice, hoping it came out like a warning.

“I want to fuck you, Frazer,” the man said, like he was asking for the time. “Will you let me?”

Frazer was suddenly achingly hard under Jamie’s kilt and he didn’t know how that had happened, or what to possibly do about it. Patrick was still looking at him with a hungry, animalistic stare, and Frazer found he couldn’t breathe, for if he did he’d be screaming, ‘Yes!’ And what if he said no? Would Patrick just accept that and leave?

At his silence, Patrick put a hand on Frazer’s chest and pressed him into the wall. The man’s palm felt like it was searing into his flesh despite the fact that he was wearing a heavy dress shirt for their outdoor scenes. His body shivered once, imaging that hand against his bare skin.

“Frazer?” Patrick prodded, looking evenly at him. “Did you hear my question?”

“Yes,” Frazer said, and the word was out of his mouth now, and he couldn’t stop it. “Yes,” he said again, realizing how badly he wanted this, wanted Patrick. He forced himself to shut up, before he became a blubbering idiot.

“Good,” Patrick replied, serenely. His fingers trailed down Frazer’s chest, pressing roughly into his abdomen. His eyes finally pulled off Frazer’s face, following the course of his hand; surveying the prize he’d just won. “Very good.”

Frazer sucked in air, feeling like he could breathe at last, now that those eyes weren’t pinning him in place. Patrick’s hand was still on him, but those eyes had released him. “We’re in the dressing room,” Frazer said, his voice coming out in a choked croak.

“We are,” Patrick agreed. He glanced around the room casually. “But I do think everyone’s already gone home.”

When Patrick lifted his eyes, fixed him in his sights again, Frazer realized he was well and truly trapped. He was going to be fucked here, in this dressing room, by Patrick. He didn’t even know what that meant, to be fucked by another man. He had some vague ideas, had heard people use crude terms before, knew the definition of a ‘sodomite,’ but he didn’t really know what that entailed exactly.

“You’re looking at me strangely,” Patrick said, tone velvety smooth.

“You’re going to fuck me,” Frazer plainly answered.

“Yes. Now turn around.”

Just like that? Frazer wondered. He turned though, staring at the wall in a strange sort of numbness. The paper was peeling in places; he could smell the glue that held it up. Patrick’s hands fell to his hips, fingers fumbling awkwardly at the buckles to his kilt. It felt wrong, having Patrick fumbling over him as he faced the wall. “Stop,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. He feared giving orders, but he couldn’t do it. Not like this.

But Patrick obeyed and for that Frazer was glad; it meant Patrick was listening, was compromising. Frazer turned back around.

“Second thoughts?” Patrick asked.

Frazer tried to detect if there was remorse in the other man’s voice, and he honestly couldn’t tell. Here he was, cock straining against his pants, heart screaming in his chest, and maybe Patrick didn’t care if he turned away even this late in the game. “Would you care if I did?”

Patrick’s eyes had been on Frazer’s kilt, probably trying to figure out the mechanics of it with his eyes, but he looked up at Frazer at his words, and there was that unbridled want again. “I don’t really have to answer that, do I?” he asked. For once, his voice sounded a little husky. The man’s hands reached out again, this time running down Frazer’s sides until they settled over his rear. “You really have no idea how long I’ve wanted you.”

“Yeah?” Frazer asked thickly, and he felt like an idiot saying it, felt like nothing was coming out of his mouth right.

“Yes,” Patrick answered. His eyes were back on the kilt, fingers now deftly undoing the buckles. It was easier, facing him.

“And today you’re going to finally have me,” Frazer said, feeling the bottom drop out of his stomach. He wished he were a true Scot, for just that moment.

“Yes,” Patrick whispered.

The pin finally undone, the kilt unwrapped, became a pile of red and green on the floor, and Patrick’s eyes never rose. Frazer wore tight black short pants beneath his kilt and, clearly straining against the fabric and his leg, was his cock. Patrick glanced up at him briefly, for what, Frazer didn’t know, before he reached out and touched him through the fabric.

Frazer sucked in his breath. This was too sensual, too intent. In the bathroom it had all happened so fast it had been over before he’d even realized it started. Now Patrick was tracing a lazy, deliberate finger against the bulge in his pants and Frazer was just standing there, letting him; wanting him to. “Patrick,” he tried, unsure what else to say.

“Too slow?” he asked, amused. “You should have turned around when I asked.”

“I did,” Frazer started, wondering how his mouth was still functioning, but anything else he had to say was cut off as Patrick easily jerked his pants down around his hips with one hand and took his cock up in the other. Surprised, Frazer’s arms flew out, gripping Patrick’s shoulders to keep from toppling over. “Jesus,” he hissed.

Patrick didn’t stroke or stimulate him, just held him in the palm of his hand. And Frazer just grew harder and heavier, despite himself. “Turn around, Frazer,” Patrick commanded. “And take this off,” he added, tugging at the tight fabric of his pants, trapped around his hips.

Heart pounding once more, Frazer obeyed. He kicked his shoes off before stepping out of the black fabric, feeling utterly unprepared for what was to come.

Behind him, a chair scraped against the cement floor. Patrick pulled it up beside him and Frazer couldn’t begin to fathom what it was for. “Put your foot there.”

Frazer did as he was told; he was beyond asking questions, now. A leg up on the chair was uncomfortable, but he didn’t have much time to complain as Patrick was soon touching him again, hands on his hips, just feeling. Those rough little hands were indescribable against the flesh of his hips. Between his legs, his cock strained for attention. “Pat,” he groaned.

“So impatient, aren’t we?” the man crooned. There was a rustle of fabric behind him and then Patrick pressed up against him, hot flesh against hot flesh.

The man did not mind his weight, forcing Frazer to reach out and grasp the wall to keep his balance as Patrick leaned into him. “There,” Patrick said. The man’s trousers had been abandoned and now Frazer could felt Patrick’s hardened length against him, pressed firm into the dip in his arse. “Do you feel that, Frazer?” the man hotly whispered into his ear. His arms snaked around Frazer’s middle, possessively. “That’s yours,” he said.

Frazer swallowed hard.

“This,” Patrick continued, reaching, reaching, reaching until he scooped Frazer’s heavy cock up in his hands, “is mine.”

Frazer looked down and, God, there was his cock, nestled in those broad little hands he knew so well. And against his backside he could felt Patrick move against him and his leg was already starting to cramp. Involuntarily, he bucked his hips, rubbing himself into the hand that held him.

Patrick chuckled thickly in his ear. “Do you understand the rules?” he asked.

“Rules?” Frazer choked. There were rules?

“What’s mine is mine. What’s yours is yours,” he coolly said. “I don’t play with your things.” He gave a gentle rock of his hips. “You don’t play with mine.” His hands tightened on Frazer’s cock.

Frazer wanted to say something witty about that, something funny and charismatic, but his brain had long ago shut off. Instead he just nodded, wishing he could press his hot brow into the wall before him, peeling paper or not.

Patrick’s right hand fell away, but the left stayed, teasing him torturously. Out of his line of sight, Frazer could hear Patrick opening something, and then a soft, fragrant smell hit his nose. “This will help,” Patrick said, returning his hand. He had smeared a glob of lotion on his hand, the type used to keep the skin of the actresses soft; Frazer was familiar with its multiple uses.

Patrick’s hand slid along his cock, lathering it down with the creamy solution, making the glide smooth, marvelous. Frazer shuddered, became aware again of that other cock, the one pressed against him. Patrick’s right hand slid down his length and then up again, fingers teasing at the tip of his foreskin, tugging it out, over the end of his cock. Then the man pinched his forefingers together, pressing the skin just over the head of his cock closed, trapping the precome inside, putting pressure on the tip. The intensity of it all made Frazer jerk and buck, anxious to fuck.

“Ready, are you?” Patrick drawled, his mouth hot against Frazer’s ear, his voice breathy. “That didn’t take much.”

Patrick’s hands went away but Frazer’s cock stayed there, rigidly hard, jutting out from his body eagerly. It began to list to one side; foreskin slowly retracting back, dribbling liberally now, and Frazer watched it, felt its desperate need keenly. Despite Patrick’s rules, he would have taken his hands off the wall to touch himself if he hadn’t been so certain he’d tumble over if he did.

Patrick’s weight lifted almost imperceptibly, and Frazer wondered what he was up to; what could be more interesting than what he had been doing? And then one of Patrick’s hands fell against his backside, fingers slick with hand-warmed lotion. The fingers traced the space Patrick’s cock had been, over the tight ring of muscles at his opening, and Frazer shuddered. It was a place even he rarely touched, and then only out of absolute need, so private and unspoken of; to have Patrick fingering it was unbearable. His cheeks began to burn.

“Frazer?” Patrick asked, his fingers working small circles against his skin. “I’m going to fuck you now.”

“Okay,” Frazer said. What kind of answer was that? His mind had detached itself. All his blood had pooled into his groin, and there was his cock, still slowly listing, rising, throbbing, untouched.

Patrick pressed back into him, like he had been before, hot cock wedged against his opening. Things were warmer now, slipperier, and Frazer braced himself, expecting resistance and pain. But there was no rough penetration, no forced entry. Instead, Patrick’s hand returned to Frazer’s aching cock. The other held Frazer’s waist tight for support.

Patrick’s grip on him was steady and confident. He slowly pulled his hand down to the root. Frazer knew the man was watching this time, over his shoulder, as when his foreskin slipped down to reveal the flushed dark of his head, Patrick’s breathing quickened. That hard shape against his backside pressed against him more.

“Fraze,” Patrick breathed into his ear. “Look at you,” the man whispered. “Look at that.”

Frazer had nowhere else to look. It was Patrick’s hand on his hard, leaking cock and that sight alone was too much. He swallowed hard, fighting down the urge to moan as he took it all in: Patrick bent over him, jerking him off from behind. It was beyond his ability to even imagine.

Patrick moved against him again, a slow slide, and Frazer thought that was how it’d be: Patrick rubbing against the opening of his arse while giving him a handjob. He found it strange, propped up on the chair like he was, but he couldn’t complain. Not with Patrick finally properly stroking him now. Not with the thought of what they must look like: little old man pressed against the firm young boy. Behind them, the door to the dressing room stood open, unlocked because there was no locking mechanism on the door, and Frazer groaned aloud at the thought of someone walking in on this.

Whatever slow deliberateness Patrick had begun with was gone. His hand was now operating smoothly, effortlessly, following the natural curve of Frazer’s length. It seemed to Frazer somehow too fast, too sudden—it was all going to be over before he’d quite got around to enjoying it.

Only he was enjoying it, trapped against the wall with Patrick pressed into him. It wasn’t the best sex he’d ever had, but it was good; he’d get off on it. But the encounter in the bathroom loomed into his mind. That had been better, more unexpected and urgent; somehow more taboo.

Patrick was now doing something else behind him, but he couldn’t focus on what. His mind was too clouded by the pleasure of the hand on his cock and the need to keep from toppling over. The chair was starting to wobble beneath his leg. Frazer focused, feeling the end looming very close. Although he tried to hold it back, to make this last, Patrick knew what he was doing, knew exactly how to please him. All over, Frazer’s body was tightening up, preparing. He broke out into a hot-cold sweat, hips rocketing into Patrick’s hand eagerly. His balls tightened, pulled up. His breath came in sudden, short gasps. “Patrick,” he moaned.

“That’s it, Frazer,” Patrick crooned, hot in his ear. “I’m ready now.”

He didn’t have time to wonder what Patrick was ready for as his orgasm ripped through him. It was strong, good, powerful—but it wasn’t the weekend before, in the toilet. Patrick’s lips weren’t around him, sucking him dry. He wasn’t wondering how the hell he’d got there, or why this was happening. It was just strange, in a way, and uncomfortably faceless. Frazer jerked one last time, gasping as he watched the culmination of the act as it sprayed the dirty dressing room floor.

It wasn’t as good, but it was still good. His body relaxed utterly as he felt the warm rush of climax wash over him. His eyes lidded with the bliss of it all. Even the cramping in his leg had temporarily ceased hurting. Frazer took a deep, shuddery breath of relief and then nearly doubled over as Patrick unexpectedly thrust up into him.

One of the older man’s hands wrapped around his waist, holding him up, the other gripped his hip, manhandling him into position. Patrick let out a sharp hiss of his own, rocketed his hips into Frazer once, and came to rest, buried to the base.

Frazer gasped heavily, feeling as though the top of his head was going to blow off. He’d just come all over the place and had no higher to soar; he had been completely unprepared for this: to be filled utterly by Patrick. His fingers scrambled at the wall, tearing the paper with his chewed fingernails. He cried out something that was meant to be ‘Patrick!’ but it came out as little more than, “Pssaugh!” He was utterly lost, somewhere between gagging and moaning.

“You thought it was over?” Patrick growled into his ear, his chest pressed flush against Frazer’s back now, arm tightening possessively. The man worked his hips against him, driving that hardness out and then back in, even deeper into him. The man kissed Frazer’s neck before whispered, “It’s just starting, my boy.”

Frazer couldn’t form words anymore; he couldn’t even begin to think of something to say. His mind was refusing to process what was happening, what Patrick was doing to him. He clung to the wall, struggling to stay up right, and Patrick began to continue move inside him. Inside him.

“Fuck,” Frazer whimpered, utterly unable to think. Patrick’s hands burned against his skin, but that was nothing compared to that heat inside him, stretching him, filling him. It was unnatural, unexpected, utterly glorious. He shuddered violently, bucking back against Patrick, longing to respond but not knowing how.

“Relax, Fraze,” Patrick whispered, his voice catching in his throat, growing kinder. “Enjoy it.” The man pulled back, not completely out, but enough to readjust, pressing Frazer into the wall more. “Here,” he said, and pushed back in, the angle different.

Sparks flew behind Frazer’s eyes and he suddenly understood the reason for the wall, the chair. He’d be on his knees by now, a mindless puddle, without them.

“I thought you might like that,” the man crooned and did it again.

Frazer liked girls who whimpered and moaned when he fucked them, but he’d always thought that they were putting him on, making a show of things for his enjoyment. As the wordless, burbling cries escaped his lips as Patrick ploughed into him again and again, he realized it could be real. “Pat,” he groaned deliberately, determined not to blubber.

“Mmm,” the older man returned, thrusting harder and slower. His voice was only slightly strained as he concentrated on his work.

Frazer couldn’t wrap his brain around what Patrick was doing, why it felt so good. He sagged against the wall. His right hand strained hard to support his weight and Patrick’s, his left flailed behind him, reaching desperately for contact.

“Ah,” Patrick grunted. He caught Frazer’s hand and twisted the arm around. But he didn’t stop fucking him, just adjusted Frazer’s fingers as he worked.

First Frazer found himself touching the smooth curve of his own arse, muscles tight and taut as his legs strained to support him. Then Patrick moved his hand, over the shallow dip of his spine, down his tailbone, and then lower, until his forefinger and index finger were framing his opening, and he felt where Patrick disappeared inside him.

He could feel the slippery length as it buried itself deeper and deeper, until coarse wiry hair pressed against his fingers. For one second, Frazer staggered at the full, complete realization that was Patrick fucking him, and the pair nearly ended up a heap on the floor as his legs gave out. They only didn’t because one of Patrick’s arms was wrapped securely around Frazer’s waist, holding him in place; Patrick did not break the rhythm of his stride.

“So glorious,” Patrick said, his voice tense but full of admiration as he worked. Between his words, the slap of skin against skin and Frazer’s labored breathing were the only noise in the dressing room. “So tight, my Frazer.”

Over and over again, Patrick slipped between Frazer’s fingers, burying himself deep inside, brushing every so often against something that turned Frazer’s insides into molten lead. He couldn’t get over it: the fact that Patrick was inside him. He’d been fucking for well over a decade now, had had fat girls and skinny girls, young girls and old girls, threesomes and limber dancers, and yet he’d never been fucked.

His knees began to tremble as he pondered it too much. He pulled his hand away, using it to brace himself against the wall again. Head bowed, back arched, he stood there, bent over, watching his heavy cock sway between his legs as he took Patrick into him, over and over. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the action returned back at him in the mirror; found his lust filled eyes and gaping, opened mouth reflected back to him; and Patrick, lumbering over him, face set in steady concentration, bushy dark brows furrowed to points. The sight brought him back to full hardness without even touching himself, and he groaned low and deep in disbelief when he did.

The moment felt like it stretched on to infinity. It seemed as if all his life had been consumed with this: Patrick fucking him. His head began to fuzz up—canceling his ability to think, to process thought—and reassuring warmth enveloped him. He had been born to this and he would die to this: a vessel of pure pleasure, with Patrick its center.

“All right?” the older man asked at length, his voice strained in passion.

Frazer had slipped into a sea of bliss, an unending world where he was addicted to being fucked, over and over, harder and harder. He could drown here and die happy, awake to this and be refreshed. It was infinite and final, absolute. Nothing would ever be the same, nor as good, nor as intense.

“Yeah,” he finally managed, his voice thick. “Yeah.” And the strain he had heard in Patrick’s voice made him suddenly ache anew, because Patrick had been nothing but cool and calm, quietly determined, since this whole affair had started. He realized now that the man had to be on the edge. Close to coming, at long last, because of him, because of what he was willingly letting Patrick do to him. That knowledge sent a surge of fiery hot electricity through him.

Before he quite realized it, Frazer was shooting hot, stringy jets against the tattered, papered walls, moaning wantonly as he came again. It seemed like streaming ribbons to him, and Frazer wasn’t sure he’d ever come so much all at once before. His fingertips scrabbled at the wall, gaining no purchase due to how closely his nervous teeth kept the nails shorn. His hips thrust with the climax, pumping hard still, and he ached to reach down and help himself along, to work every last drop out; a prize to show Patrick what he’d done. But Frazer knew if he took the support of his arms away, he’d utterly collapse, and still Patrick was pounding into him, his speed suddenly increased twofold.

It was all Frazer could do just to keep standing, to resist the desire to drop to his knees in recovery from what had possibly been the hardest orgasm he’d ever had, and that on top of a less powerful orgasm he’d had only a few minutes before. He held on through sheer, stubborn determination and the intense desire to finally bring Patrick over the edge. Suddenly overcome with the need to see the sort of face Patrick made when he came, Frazer lifted his eyes, focusing on the sliver of mirror he could see. He was just in time to witness Patrick craning his neck as he bent over him, to press his mouth nearer Frazer’s ear.

“Frazer,” the man rasped, sex making his voice rough and deep, the word sounding like worship the way he said it. Short, strong little fingers dug into Frazer’s skin. “My Frazer,” he repeated, breathlessly. But, despite sounding a bit scratchy and winded, Patrick’s voice was cool and level.

But Frazer knew it was the equivalent of a girl screaming his name as she came. And come Patrick did. The man’s voice caught in his throat, and for a few seconds he made an almost whimpering noise as his body tensed and exploded. Those fingers dug deeper into Frazer’s flesh as Patrick released, still buried deep inside. A little sound of approval emanated from the man, a sigh of content, and the body inside him ceased thrusting but twitched and jerked, remaining where it was. Patrick was savoring the moment.

Frazer’s thighs thrummed with the tension and energy of keeping upright. If Patrick weren’t still holding him, he knew he’d be a mess on the floor. The leg he had propped up on the chair ached something fierce, but he could not find the energy to pull it down.

“Pat,” Frazer began, his voice little more than a whimper. Some part of him flushed in embarrassment at how overwhelmed he sounded, but his come was sliding down the wall in front of him and Patrick was softening inside him. His body felt alive with fire and he was only surprised the intensity of it all hadn’t made him black out.

“Mm,” Patrick growled, deep in his throat. His grip on Frazer’s backside loosened. He bent to kiss Frazer’s neck again before clearing his throat as he regained his composure. Giving the skin, marred with his fingerprint indents, a loving slap, he slid out. “Easy now,” he said.

But Frazer was already on the floor, his right leg twisted slightly from having caught briefly on the chair during his decent. Without Patrick to support him, and with his adrenaline waning, and the thoughts that were pounding around in his head, Frazer couldn’t function anymore. Without really seeing it, he watched the mess on the wall trickle over itself on its lackadaisical descent.

“I’m afraid that was all a bit too much for you,” Patrick said fondly, chuckling softly. “But I suppose you’ll soon be used to it.”

Frazer pulled his eyes off the wall, watching in time to see Patrick redoing up his trousers.

He wiped his hands on the Doctor’s handkerchief before stuffing it away, out of sight, smiling secretively. “I suppose I had better let you rest awhile.” Glancing over his shoulder at the open door, Patrick shook his head ruefully. “I am glad we weren’t interrupted, but we’d best not get too lax. The janitor will arrive before long, I’m afraid.”

“Patrick,” Frazer tried again. The man’s name was all he had been able to say for the past few minutes. “God, Pat.” He looked down at his hands, palms upturned, and flexed his fingers. This was all too unreal. Patrick had fucked him. He had let Patrick fuck him. And he had come not only once but twice, and was now sitting, cold and naked, on the floor of the dressing room.

“Frazer,” Patrick said, his voice grown soft. The chair scrapped somewhat noisily on the floor as Patrick turned it around, straddling the seat. He pillowed his head on the arms he folded across the back of the chair and looked down at him. “It is all right, you know,” he said. Then, as if doubting himself, he added, “It is all right, isn’t it?”

At last, Frazer looked up at the man. Patrick’s hair was slightly rumpled, brushed out of his eyes and off his sweaty brow. His expression was concerned; the smug look of contentment he’d been wearing had faded away. His face was open and honest; eyebrows furrowed now in worry. Taking a deep breath to center himself, Frazer nodded. “Yeah.” He put his hand to his head, wiping the damp fringe from his eyes. Things were weird, everything was different, but it wasn’t wrong. He didn’t want Patrick to be afraid of how he might react. “I think so.”

“I am glad,” Patrick said, features relaxing. “You did rather seem to enjoy yourself.”

Patrick’s eyes drifted to the wall, and Frazer followed his gaze and groaned, embarrassed. “I’m such a mess,” he said, finding his voice came easier the more he talked. “And my legs hurt and my body is sore and . . . and my head.” He closed his eyes, rubbing his temple. “God, Pat. All I want to do is sleep.”

Pushing out of the chair, Patrick moved around to Frazer’s side. “The youth of today is so ungrateful,” he teased, his voice soft. With surprising strength, Patrick hoisted Frazer to his feet and deposited him in the chair he’d just vacated. “You sit there and recover. I’ll,” he straightened, looking about, “I’ll tidy up a bit.”

Turning to go, Patrick found himself restrained as Frazer reached out, catching his wrist. Frazer stared hard at the hand, unwilling to meet Patrick’s eye, unable to explain how he felt now, what he needed to have happen. “Wait,” he finally managed, trying not to shiver against the cold, and the strange feeling inside him. Unable to put to words what he needed to say, he just studied the hand he’d grabbed. Those fingers were familiar, the lines and the wrinkles ones he’d seen many times before. But the touch he wanted now was different in so many ways.

Knowing no better way to express himself, Frazer lifted Patrick’s wrist, until he made the man’s hand cup his face. It didn’t take Patrick long to understand, to yield to him, leaning in to stroke Frazer’s cheek of his own accord. Frazer let his eyes close, released the wrist, and put his hands up, to find Patrick’s shirt, gripping the fabric.

“Frazer,” Patrick quietly whispered, as his thumb stroked his cheek. Sounding like he was smiling, Patrick stepped closer, until Frazer could rest his head against his stomach. “I should have known.”

Gratefully, Frazer clung to him, pressing his face against the cool fabric of Patrick’s shirt. His hands kneaded the skin before him, and deep down, he wished they were in the big bed he had back at his flat, so he could curl against Patrick’s back, bury his nose into the man’s neck and fall asleep with an arm thrown across his middle. This was a poor substitute by far, but it was better than being left alone on the floor, while Patrick slipped away, or gave him his space.

It wasn’t space he needed; if he could, he would have crawled inside Patrick’s clothes to be closer to him. Sex with anybody did that to him, and he had been more than fond enough of Patrick before this to enjoy being near the man. Now, to not have the opportunity to hold him, or fall asleep beside him after such incredible sex was like denying him a proper finish. To him, this wasn’t done yet. It wouldn’t be done until he woke up beside Patrick in the morning, saw his sleepy face and bed head and they discussed the day’s events over a fresh cup of coffee, all the while shyly eyeing each other with memories of what had transpired the night before.

“Come home with me tonight,” Frazer suddenly said, surprising even himself, though it was exactly what he wanted.

“What?” Patrick stepped back slightly. “Frazer, you know I can’t.”

“Tell her we got too pissed to drive and my place was closer. Tell her you got into an accident. Tell her you’re seeing someone else. I don’t care.” His fingers possessively tightened on the ends of Patrick’s shirttails. He was sitting half-naked on a dressing room chair, weak from the mind-blowing sex he’d just had, and he desperately needed this. He wasn’t going to beg, but Patrick’s answer would dictate exactly where the two of them were going to go from here.

As he mulled over the words, Patrick’s hand returned to Frazer’s hair, stroking through it gently. “I do want to,” he said kindly, but there was reserve in his voice. “But this is different from your usual sort of one-night stand.”

“I know that,” Frazer countered. Pulling back, tugging his head out from beneath Patrick’s hands, he glared up at him. “Don’t you think I know that? Jesus Christ, Pat.” Patrick looked like he was about to cut in, but Frazer didn’t give him the chance. “The difference being we’re friends, and we have to work together tomorrow, and every day after that, and this is what I do. So, you can come home with me tonight and we can do this my way, or you can go sleep beside your wife tonight and we can both forget any of it ever happened.”

“I’m not going to forget this any time soon,” he quietly replied.

Unnerved by the non-answer, Frazer forced himself off the chair. He staggered past Patrick, feeling a horrible lurching inside that told him he’d better concentrate very hard on what he was doing, and started to make his way toward the locker he kept his street clothes in.

He unsteadily changed his shirts, stopping to brace himself against the wall for a second, before returning to buttoning the front closed. He was aware Patrick had followed him, but did not acknowledge the man. He carefully tugged on his underwear and trousers and was in the process of tucking his shirt in when Patrick finally spoke.

“You drive a hard bargain, you know.”

Frazer turned, ready to snap at him, but when he did, Patrick put a hand on his chest, pushed him into the open locker, and kissed him. Gasping in surprise at first, it didn’t take long for Frazer to respond. This was different than the first time they’d kissed, back in the toilet in Patrick’s house. This wasn’t driven by sexual passion or need, just the desire to have and hold. It was Patrick’s quiet way of acquiescing. Frazer’s arms went up, clutching to Patrick again, and he broke the kiss, pressing his forehead into the older man’s shoulder, fingers kneading gratefully at Patrick’s warm, bunched muscles beneath his clothes.

Patrick easily supported Frazer’s weight, one hand held securely around his back. “It’s not something we can make a habit of,” Patrick murmured into his ear. “And I’ll have to call Shelagh when we arrive, to let her know where I am.”

Frazer felt his insides twisting excitedly, like he was twelve. “Where, just not why?”

“I’ll tell her I drank too much. I doubt she’ll believe me, but since Debbie’s left, it’s possible.” Sighing into his hair, he added, “This is all a bit too barmy for me, Frazer.”

“Hey,” he countered, unable to keep the grin off his face. “You started it.”

“So I did.” Patrick pulled back enough to look Frazer in the eyes. He wore a tight little mischievous smile of his own, and there was a glint of somewhat disbelief in his eyes. Shaking his head amusedly, he kissed Frazer on the forehead and said, “You finish dressing. I’ll change and clean up.”

And Patrick went off, leaving Frazer to mull over recent events by himself for a few minutes. Frazer hated being alone after sex, but he had to admit that at that moment he needed the time by himself to recompose. Grinning unashamedly into his locker mirror, he finished dressing, thinking on how nice the morning with Patrick would be, and how absurdly ridiculous and strange this all was, and yet how very normal and right it felt.

He turned to see Patrick push the chair back into its place at the dresser, stopping to straighten his hair in the mirror, and shook his head in amusement. He was utterly unable to describe, even to himself, how strongly he felt about Patrick. Before this, he hadn’t realized his intense admiration was love, but it was beyond obvious to him now. And, although unexpected and new, he was all right with it; more than all right.

They could never be conventional or casual about this, but the fact that it existed at all—would continue to exist—made his heart ache in his chest and his knees weak with want. That someone like Patrick would desire someone like him was flatteringly unbelievable.

Yet, here they were, and it was a chance and an opportunity he was not about to waste.