Precious Coin
by saraid
"Schraeder? Can I see you in my office for a moment?"
Lt. Block shut his door before the startled detective could comment. She looked across the desk at her partner of four years, Angela Baylor.
"He must have found someone to work with me." Frances Schraeder made a face of displeasure. "I may never forgive you for this."
"You?" Angie laughed and patted the exaggerated six-month swell of her belly, made more obvious by the fact that she was carrying twins. "I'm still waiting to see if Henry forgives me."
"You've got three months of maternity leave to bring him around." Frances stood, slinging on her jacket. Her hands automatically checked the placement of her weapon, her badge, her cuffs. "I better get in there before he -"
On cue, the door opened and Block shouted at her.
"Detective! Get in here!"
"Right away, sir." With a fond smile at her friend, Frances strode between the desks to reach the office. Block held the door open with sarcastic politeness. She smiled at him as well, not letting his ill-humor affect her mood.
When she'd transferred to homicide three years ago, at first she'd thought Block disliked her personally. Wether it was her size; she was a big girl, 5'10" and built, her Dad used to say, 'like a linebacker' or her mixed ancestry, Peruvian and German, she'd thought the problem was with her.
That had changed over the years. Now she firmly believed, and Angie agreed, that Block was so unpleasant because of his name. It just didn't fit him. Every time he looked in the mirror he probably had to argue with himself about changing it.
If his name were Lt. George Stork, or George Giraffe anything along those lines would have been an improvement.
Frances stopped inside the door, ignoring the Lt. As he slammed it shut and walked around her to his desk. Her attention was on the stranger standing in front of the desk. She studied him, looking for the details that told so much about a person.
He was neat. Not obsessively so, but everything ironed and tucked. If her guess was correct, he was also of mixed race, though not the same blend that had produced her. His dark eyes, thick glossy black hair and the hint of color in his tan made her want to say 'Asian'.
He stood at ease, but seemed ready for a fight.
And he was wearing a long-sleeved black t-shirt under his denim jacket, while Frances was already sweating in her sleeveless cotton top under linen. In the air conditioning.
In San Francisco, in the summertime, wearing long sleeves almost always meant you were hiding something.
Block sat down and cleared his throat. Frances blinked, and then realized the man had been studying her as intently as she'd been studying him.
"Now that the two of you are acquainted -" Block made a grimace that was probably supposed to be a smile, "detective first grade Frances Schraeder, may I introduce you to your interim partner, Detective Peter Caine, recently arrived in our fair city."
Frances held ut her hand, wondering. What measure of man was Peter Caine? Would he treat her as fragile and merely clasp her hand? Would he assume she was 'one of the boys' and give it a good shake?
If he was threatened by her he would turn the handshake into a contest of strength. She usually won those.
He took her hand; his was rough, with lines of hardened callouses she couldn't explain, and he squeezed hers firmly.
A greeting between equals. Frances smiled.
"Pleased to meet you," she said, and he smiled. A big, bright smile, but sad for all of that.
"It's great to meet you, too. I'm looking forward to getting into the work." He released her hand.
"There's plenty of it." Frances glanced at Block. "Is he cleared to go out, sir?"
"He's your official partner as of this moment. Tell that woman at your desk to go home and put her feet up already."
"Yes, sir!" Frances chuckled. Everyone loved Angie. It was just the way she looked at things. Practical but always optimistic. Even in the midst of a murder investigation she could be counted on to make people smile, because she was there.
"Thank you for everything, Lt." Caine leaned over the desk and offered his hand. Frances was mildly surprised that the Lt. shook it.
"Just live up to your billing, Caine, that will be thanks enough." Block picked up a cigar and turned on the ceiling fan. Frances made a hasty escape before he lit the thing and she had to smell it.
As son as they were safely out of the office she gave her new partner a smile and began grilling him. She tried to be friendly about it, of course. But she wasn't trusting her life to this guy on Block's say-so.
"So, Pete, you have a reputation? Anything I should know about?"
"Nothing really, no. And it's Peter, or just Caine." His eyes flickered toward her as they stood and she knew that he knew what she was thinking.
"Must have been something pretty special to make Block notice it, Pete." This was why she and Angie had been such a great team; they were opposites. Yin and Yang, tall and short, muscular and delicate, bold and subtle.
"Is that your old partner, Frannie?" Cane flashed her a movie-star smile, then began heading for the set of desks. "I'd like to meet her before she leaves, get some pointers."
Frannie? She couldn't believe her ears. The gross abuse of her name left her stunned for a few seconds, then she was off after him.
"That's *Schraeder* to you, Detective *Caine*," she snapped when she caught up. He'd made his point, and quickly. It was too bad, she'd been ready to make friends.
She watched while he chatted with Angie, helping her clear the last of her things out of the desk that faced Frances'. When everything was loaded into a box he took Angie's hand and helped her out of the chair while she laughed.
"In another month I'm going to need a crane to get up! Frances, promise me you'll start coming over every night to get me off the couch for bed - Henry isn't big enough to lift me!"
Thinking of Angie's feisty little Hispanic husband, Frances couldn't help but smile despite her irritation with Caine.
"He'll find a way. Probably build a pulley system on the living room ceiling." Henry was a civil engineer; if Angie chose not to come back to work after the babies were born, they would be able to afford it. Frances was afraid she wouldn't, but wanted her friend to be happy.
When Angie was on her feet Caine let go of her hand but his own hovered over her distended stomach.
"May I?"
Angie rolled her eyes and Frances bit her lip to smother a grin. She'd already heard Angie's rant on that topic it seemed that everyone wanted to touch her belly. They didn't seem to understand that it was still a part of her body and thus still private.
She watched while Angie met Caine's eyes.
"Only if you'll give me your solemn vow that you'll take good care of Frances."
He hesitated, seeming to think the words over. Both women frowned.
"I thought that was understood when I became her partner.," Caine said at last. "But if my vow will ease your heart, then you have it, upon my honor."
He gave a slight half-bow and the women exchanged glances. They both knew what the other was thinking; What's with him?
"Okay, then." Angie smiled and took his hand. She placed it on her belly. "Oh, hey - the boys are turning flips!"
Caine smiled, and closed his eyes.
When he opened them a moment later the smile had become a grin.
"Did you says 'boys'?" His hand stayed in place, Angie's on top of it.
"The radiologist said two boys, definitely."
"You might want to consider having another sonogram," Caine said quietly. "Just in case the room needs to be blue *and* pink."
"The nursery is going to be green..." Angie stared at him, then shrugged. "I wanted a girl, you're probably just picking up on that. Unless Frances said something?"
"Not me. No mystic mumbo-jumbo allowed." Frances held up her hands. "Let me carry that down for you." She went around her desk and picked up the box. "That will give 'Father Caine' time to set things up the way he wants them and get familiar with the place."
Caine nodded. It seemed to Frances that he was embarrassed by his words to Angie. To show she wasn't upset, Frances bumped his shoulder with hers as she went past him.
It was like bumping a tree-trunk.
"Ow," she muttered under her breath. He didn't look that solid. What did he do, work out four hours a day? She'd cut down to one hour last year. Maybe she needed to step it up again.
***
Snarling with frustration, Frances hit the 'stop' button on her cellphone, effectively ending the annoying beeping sound it was making. Though she barely remembered them, she could imagine the satisfaction that slamming down the receiver of an old-fashioned rotary phone would have given her.
"Dammit!" She banged her fist on the steering wheel.
Her partner of five weeks, Peter Caine, could be hard to find sometimes. He seemed to keep odd hours. She didn't even know exactly where he lived.
It was a much different partnership than she'd had with Angie. Though Caine seemed to respect her; he listened to her, he followed her suggestions, and he made her feel as if she were in charge they were not close, and there was no sign they were ever going to be.
Frances knew next to nothing about his family life or past. He wore a ring on the third finger of his right hand. She'd asked about it once, and he had told her that it meant whatever she thought it meant.
He had admitted that he didn't have a wife, or any children.
And he had told her something else, the first day they worked together. When the shift had ended and they had left the precinct together.
She asked him what lot his car was in.
He told her he walked to work.
She offered him a ride home.
Caine had turned her down, with a smile that was both sweet and sad.
"I need to know how to find you if there's ever an emergency," she protested.
Caine just looked at her. Something crossed his face; a memory? Whatever it was, it caused him pain.
"If you ever need to find me -" he touched her arm, the first and only time he had touched her deliberately, "Come to Chinatown. Ask for Caine."
Frances had asked for an explanation. When that wasn't forthcoming she had demanded. He had only looked at her and then turned and walked away.
Over the past few weeks she'd been tempted to follow him. The only thing stopping her was the knowledge that he would make the tail. Whatever else he was, Peter Caine was a remarkable detective.
Who still wore long sleeves, even at the peak of August. Tonight he wasn't answering his cellphone, and she'd just gotten a tip on an informant they'd been trying to find for more than a week. She could go after him herself, but the informant didn't speak much English. Not at all to her surprise, Caine was fluent in Mandarin. To get any useful information out of the CI, she needed Caine with her.
So maybe she should do what he said.
Come to Chinatown. Ask for Caine.
Could it be that simple?
Frances didn't get to Chinatown often. She'd done the ususal tourist things, she didn't really like the food.. The small people and cramped streets combined to make her feel overly large and clumsy, something she patently was not. But she had been as an adolescent, her balance catching up to her height for two long and emotionally painful years. Chinatown reminded her of them.
There weren't many places to park. Most of the people she saw were walking, or on bicycles. It was getting late; there were paper lanterns at the doors of homes and restaurants.
It was kind of pretty.
Spying a small lot beside a large brick building, she pulled her jeep into it. The lot was still half- full even though it was past eleven. The sign was written in Chinese with no English translation, but as soon as she got out of the car she knew it was a restaurant. The smells gave it away.
The door opened as she pushed on it and she stepped inside. The air was muggy, stirred only by fans. There were only a few people still sitting at the scattered tables. The remains of a buffet were being cleared away from a long table on the far wall.
There was a large banner strung across the wall above the table. Frances couldn't read it, but the printed bells, flowers and doves gave her the gist.
She'd crashed a wedding reception. Or a shower or something.
A young man, thin, with a nervous face and hands knotting his spotless apron intercepted her.
"Closed," he said, with an insincere smile. "Private party." His accent was thick enough to make the words hard to understand.
"I'm looking for Caine," Frances said, a bit too loudly. As if he were deaf. She winced.
"No Caine here." He looked at her as if she needed psychological help and perhaps she did. This must have been a joke on Caine's part. "Closed. Private party."
"I need to find Peter Caine." Frances crossed her arms over her chest stubbornly. She was six inches taller than the nervous young man. If this didn't work she was going to pound Caine into the street.
"Caine?" Now he looked perplexed. Half-turning, he waved a hand and a much older Chinese woman came over from the buffet table, still carrying a plate of cake remnants.
She stood in front of Frances and looked expectant. Frances looked at the waiter and he looked pointedly at the older woman.
Frances leaned down.
"I'm looking for Caine."
The woman smiled and began chattering to the waiter. Startled, Frances waited. After a series of rapid-fire exchanges the waiter nodded, smiling. He bowed his head so she could kiss his cheek. Frances wondered if she were his mother or his grandmother.
"I take you," he told Frances. He nodded at her and began to move toward the back of the restaurant. "Follow me. I take you."
"You'll take me to Caine?" They passed through the large kitchen, mostly empty. The row of ducks hanging from hooks made her stomach turn and she had to look away.
"Come to Chinatown." he looked over his shoulder at her as he led her down a narrow, smelly alley. Frances waited to see if he finished the phrase; it seemed to have some magical power here. "Ask for Caine," the waiter said, and she sighed. It seemed there was a lot more to her new partner than she'd suspected.
The waiter led here through a maze of tight alleys and twisted streets. Frances really hoped that Caine was actually to be found at the end, like nice chunk of cheese, because there was no way in hell she was going to be able to find her way back to her car alone.
They stopped at the base of a large tenement. Clothes hung out of the windows on long lines, the air was filled with the sounds of fast chatter and the scents of tea and spicy food.
"Up there." The waiter pointed to the top of the six-story building.
"Caine is up there?" This wasn't the sort of place a cop lived. She knew Caine made enough to afford a decent apartment. She did.
"Caine." The waiter smiled at her. His nervousness had faded sometime during their trek. Then he turned and left her without another word.
Frances felt abandoned.
She waited a few minutes. Unsure what she was waiting for; did she expect Peter to somehow know she was there and come down?
Nothing changed while she was waiting. She was still standing in a cramped, slightly spooky Chinatown alley.
With a sigh, Frances opened the only door she saw. Inside there was a staircase to her left and an elevator to her right. There was a small, hand-lettered sign taped to the elevator. It was in Chinese, but she was willing to bet that it read 'Out of Order'. She wasn't the least little bit surprised, but decided it was a good thing. The call from the CI had been forwarded to her jut as she'd been headed for the gym for a workout. At least the stairs would be a start.
To make it more challenging, she took the first five flights two at a time, until the fifth floor landing, where she paused to catch her breath before proceeding at a more normal pace.
Her mind recognized the sounds before her ears really registered them. The rhythmic slap and thump of a sparring session. Several years ago she'd worked up to a black belt in Karate, and the sound was familiar enough that she could imagine the scene.
When she emerged at the top of the stairs her imaginings became real.
There were no doors. The staircase ended rather abruptly by the wall of a large, open room. The wooden floor was polished from years of wear. The many tall windows were cranked open.
Mats were stacked to one side. There was a multi-purpose weight machine tucked into a far corner.
Frances saw all of these things, but her eyes were fixed on the two men sparring.
Her new partner, Peter Caine, was one of them. Wearing only a pair of loose white gi pants, he was mounting a fast and furious attack. Full frontal stance and advance, his hands flew through the air almost too fast for her to see.
The other man retreated slowly, step by step. He was taller than Peter, and thinner. At first glance Frances could tell her was older than Peter, but not by how much. His grey hair was in a tight braid that barely moved as he defended using arms and hands only.
Though it seemed impossible, given how fast he was throwing the blows, none of Peter's strikes landed. All were blocked or deflected.
She had never seen anyone spar at this level before. It was fascinating. Beautiful.
And intimidating. She'd had no idea Peter Caine was so far beyond her in martial skills.
There was a line drawn across the floor, about two feet wide. It looked like duct tape. Peter continued to attack ruthlessly, his movements gaining speed when others would have faltered from exhaustion, but the moment came when the older man stepped back and was over the line. Frances held her breath. Peter dropped his arms. His chest was heaving, he was dripping with sweat.
His sensei - so Frances assumed the man to be - also lowered his arms.
Peter lowered his head and leaned forward until it rested on the man's chest.
The older man pressed a kiss to the top of Peter's dark, shining head.
Frances could see the sigh as Peter filled his lungs and then exhaled. She opened her mouth, ready to speak up, but curiosity overcame her and she watched instead.
Peter kept his head forward and leaned until the man put a hand on his chest and gently pushed him back. That hand trailed across Peter's chest and over his arm as the man walked around behind him, bringing both hands the to base of Peter's neck. Anxious, but unable to define why, Frances watched.
The long fingers closed over Peter's shoulders, the thumbs seated firmly on his neck. He kissed the skin above them, and then took a step back.
He was wearing something that looked like black silk pajamas, so Frances couldn't see his arms, but she saw the result of his next action; Peter's arms rose in the air, his head snapped back and his body arched. Frances heard the cracking of his spine from where she stood.
Peter made a sound like a groan and turned. The other man put an arm around him and pulled Peter to his side.
Their interaction answered a lot of questions in Frances' mind. Like why Peter had come to San Francisco. She felt she needed to make her presence known, but the older man spoke before she did.
Both men turned the look at her.
"Welcome. I am Caine. How may I be of service to you?"
For five weeks Frances had been watching Peter Caine. She had decided that he carried some great pain that explained the melancholy that enveloped him even at the best of time. She had never expected to see Peter Caine look happy.
Now she revised that opnion. Apparently he was, in this man's arms.
"Poppy, that's my partner, Frances. The one I told you about." The two men broke apart as they came closer to her. Frances stared at the man Peter called 'Poppy' and wondered if it were some kind of nickname. He was older than she had first judged, in his fifties, perhaps even early sixties.
"Frances." He bowed to her. Flustered, she returned it. Her glance was caught by Peter's uncovered arms.
On each forearm was a brand, burned deep into the skin. A hundred questions leapt to her mind, fully-formed.
He waved a hand at her, turning away.
"C'mon, Frances. You can tell me why you came looking for me."
She'd almost forgotten about the snitch. They could meet him later.
She followed Peter and 'Poppy' through the only door on the far wall. It opened into another large room, with one end blocked off by a wall that didn't reach the ceiling.
There was a very long, ancient-looking table along the far wall, which was also covered with open windows. A kitchen to the left, with a small table, and a sort of living area set almost directly in the middle of the room.
A futon rolled against the dividing wall, bedding stacked on top of it.
"Have a seat." Peter gestured at the kitchen table. Frances sat but continued to look around.
The living area consisted of a low table holding a tv, VCR and small stereo faced by a worn-looking leather sofa. The space above the long table by the wall was covered with shelves that held clutters of bottles and jars. Bunches of herbs were strung from the visible rafters.
"Peter?" The older man walked into the kitchen with them, and paused.
"Go shower, Poppy. I'll set some tea."
"Thank you." He spoke so quietly, with infinite politeness. Frances couldn't help but stare as he walked across the room and through the open doorway in the dividing wall. His grace and dignity surrounded him like a visible aura.
"Okay, Caine." She turned her most formidable glare on her partner. Unfortunately, his back was to her as he crumbled leaves into a pot of water. "Who is he?"
"Kwai Chang Caine. My lover." A quiet, calm answer.
"He's old enough to be your father." That came out more accusatory than she's intended. "You're a young man, how did you get hooked up with him?"
"He is my teacher." Peter dusted his hands on his pants and picked a towel from an open shelf, using it to mop at his face and chest before he sat down. "We've been together ten years."
"So, you're married? You took his name?" It was okay to think that your partner was sexy, she decided. Especially if he was gay, as Peter apparently was.
Without answering, Peter got up again. He hung the towel over his shoulders and reached into cupboards that were little more than enclosed shelves, pulling out pottery cups.
"Do you want some tea?" he asked. "It's lemon grass and chamomile. Good for stress."
"Sure." Frances stood as well, and wandered into the living area. There was a single chest of drawers near the futon; on it she found a collection of framed photos.
Peter with a man and two girls younger than he was.
Peter and another man, this one fastidiously dressed, in a starkly pressed shirt and designer tie.
Peter and what seemed to be a whole squad of cops at a picnic. Kwai Chang Caine was in that one, too, in the background, and the snappy dresser stood beside Peter.
"Here." Suddenly he was at her elbow, extending a cup. "It's best when it's hot." Frances took it, hissing as the hot pottery touched her fingers. It cooled quickly and she blew on the surface of the oddly-colored liquid, sniffing gingerly. She's never seen greenish-yellow tea before.
"An old boyfriend?" She looked at the picture of Peter and the guy with the tie.
"No. My old partner, Kermit." He sounded sad when he answered. Frances sipped her tea while deciding what to ask next. It was actually pretty good. Lemony with an aftertaste she couldn't place.
"He retire?"
"No." Peter looked toward the doorway. Caine came through it, freshly dressed in pale yellow silks. "He died. I didn't get there in time."
"You did everything you could." Caine stopped beside Peter. Peter handed him the cup of tea he had been holding. Caine drank. "Thank you, beloved."
Frances sipped, studying them, their body language. They were standing closer than friends might, but not so close that the assumption they were lovers was automatic.
"So. We got a lead?" Peter asked her.
"Yeah." She shook off her intrusive thoughts. "Hirohoko Shutu. He called and told Kim at the front desk that he wanted to talk to someone. About the Cho murders."
Roger Cho and his second wife Gina had been brutally stabbed to death in their home three nights ago. Though the Chos lived in a suburb just outside of town, there were few Asian crimes in this city that didn't lead back to Chinatown, which is why they had caught the case.
"He doesn't speak English," she added.
"We better go talk to him Give me ten minutes." Peter went through the doorway and Frances heard a shower turn on.
She went back to studying the pictures.
Caine stood beside her. After a moment she became aware that he had a hand raised and was holding it in the air as if measuring her.
"Excuse me?" Made uncomfortable by his closeness, she moved away, back to the kitchen. Caine followed.
"I could give you something to ease your pain," he said softly.
"I'm not in pain." She looked over at the long table, the pots and mortars and herbs. Of course.
He was Chinese medicine man.
"Your - cycles - cause you pain." He looked nothing but concerned.
"Did Peter tell you that? The painful cramping of her periods had always been hard, but over the past year it had gotten worse. The doctor she'd gone to had basically told her to suck it up.
She hadn't thought Peter had noticed. She took over-the-counter pain meds because she couldn't afford to be doped up on the job.
"Peter is now always observant, especially of those close to him."
"Was that a yes or a no?" Frances put her half-empty cup in the sink.
Caine smiled. It looked nice on his face. She had to admit he was attractive, for an old half- Chinese guy.
"No. Peter did not tell me."
"Good," Frances grumbled. "No, thank you. I'm fine."
"The pain will return."
"I can handle it."
"Why should you?"
She was about to snap a reply when Peter emerged. He'd changed to jeans, sneakers, and another long-sleeved t-shirt, this one a warm burnt orange.
"Ready," he said, grabbing his holster, hung on a hook by the door. Frances wondered how secure it could be there there wasn't even a door to lock.
"It was nice to meet you," Caine told her as she turned to follow Peter.
"You, too." She tossed over her shoulder. Peter was already trotting down the stairs.
Caine followed her into the Dojo. He gave a half-bow as she headed down.
As Peter led her back to the jeep, Frances held her tongue. There would be more appropriate times to tell her partner how weird his boyfriend was.
***
The loft was dark when Peter got back. He ascended the stairs soundlessly, but knew that his father would sense his arrival and waken.
His father. His lover.
Peter didn't think about how it had started. Not anymore. Once that had been one of his favorite memories. The best memory of his adult life. The tumbling joy and uncontrollable passion he'd felt within himself, after a lifetime of despair he hadn't cared why he felt that way. He'd just known that only one person was the cause of it.
Now it seemed strange, even astonishing, that he'd accepted it so easily. Taken his father as his lover; touched Kwai Chang Caine in all the ways a son should not.
Then he had thought it was karma. A reward for their years of suffering, a way for them to be even closer than before. In all ways.
Caine had just looked at him. Had looked at the love between them, and simply accepted it. His view of morality was broad enough that he didn't question.
"A gift is a gift," he had said quietly when Peter questioned. If it bothered him that the lips he kissed, that the body he stroked was his son's, he never showed it. Peter believed Caine had never felt that.
Peter didn't think much on that early happiness. Not anymore. In the end, the price had been too high. Paid in precious coin.
"Peter."
The younger Caine shook himself out of the reverie that had overtaken him. Damn, he needed to start meditating more regularly. Between the precinct, his studies, the dojo and assisting his father's medical practice there never seemed to be time. When something had to give, it seemed self-enlightenment went first.
"Sorry, Pop." He crossed to the living area and put his arms around the tall man, breathing the scents of herbs and clean hair. "I was distracted."
"You do not have to work so hard." Caine wrapped his long arms around his son and held him tightly. Peter could feel the calm beat of Caine's heart through the thin silk shirt. "We do not need the money."
"It's my penance." Peter tipped his head back and the large hands tightened their hold on his shoulders. "No -" He put a hand over Cain's mouth before he had to hear the words spoken too often. "I *do* need to do this, Pop. It's the only thing I *can* do. The only chance I have to make it right."
"You did nothing wrong, beloved." Caine turned, leading Peter toward the unrolled futon. A small candle burned steadily in a tall glass cylinder beside it, casting a pool of gentle light.
"I did everything wrong." Peter's response was automatic; a non-argument they'd had a hundred times. A thousand.
Caine completed his part by simply sighing. With casual ease he began to undress Peter. The younger man closed his eyes. A part of him basked in the tender affection of Caine's soothing touch, but another part cried out for passion. For want and lust and need, enough to drown out the memories that crowded his head.
Caine read his desires. His gentle touch became firmer, and then demanding. He stood after getting Peter's socks and shoes off, his hands rubbing up Peter's sides, the friction just short of painful. His hands gripped Peter's thighs, fingers digging in. Peter had to grab at him to maintain his balance.
"Oh, God, Pop -" It was a rejection, and a plea. "Please."
Please let me go. Please hold me forever. Peter wasn't sure which one he meant. "Pop, *please*."
"Yes, Peter." With a flick and a twist Caine dropped him to the bed and then turned him over before Peter could object. There was a slithering sound and when Caine laid his length and weight onto Peter he was warm and naked. "I will always give you what you need."
Peter clawed at the bed, trying to find leverage on the smooth cotton surface. Strong hands yanked his jeans and briefs down to his knees, leaving him bound by them.
"Pop!" he shouted, suddenly unbelievably hard. He struggled to arch, to offer himself to his father, but Caine's weight and strength held him down. It was like lying with a thick steel rod mashed into his belly.
"Patience," Caine breathed into his ear. Peter shuddered. Caine had one hand planted between his shoulder blades, and the other was sliding up past Peter's head, under the pillows he insisted they use.
Peter managed to stick his tongue out and give the hand a quick swipe as it reversed the journey, a tube of lubricant wrapped in those fingers.
"I don't want to wait," he panted. "It's okay, do me now."
Caine kissed the back of his neck, instead of answering. He rose to his knees but kept the other hand on Peter's back to keep him from moving too much.
The nozzle of the tube was the only warning Peter got. The gel squirted into him, thick and cool. He moaned, pressing his dick into the bed, desperate for relief.
Caine's hands came to his hips and pulled them up. Peter moaned at the loss of sensation. He could only pant, trying to control his need as he waited for Caine to come inside him.
The first hard, hot push sent a searing spike of pain up his spine. He bore down, as his father had taught him, the pain faded to a faint burning sensation as Caine forced his way in. Peter's body, as always, fought the intrusion, but Caine's strength quickly overcame it.
Once he was as far inside as he could get, Caine dropped to his elbows, using his weight on Peter again. Then he waited, scattering soft, dry kisses over Peter's neck and shoulders.
Peter began to squirm almost frantically. It wasn't enough - his dick needed more pressure, Caine's was at the wrong place to hit his prostate.
"Ask me," Caine whispered into Peter's ear. Then he nipped it sharply and Peter felt his whole body jerk. "Ask me."
"Pop....Father. Please, father. Please. Please fuck me." The words spun off his tongue like wishes, and were immediately granted.
Caine pulled out to the tip and thrust back into Peter as hard as he could. Peter screamed hoarsely, his shoulders bunching as he put his face into the futon and tried to push back.
Caine did it again. And again. Soon he was riding Peter as hard and as fast as he could. Peter was reduced to a writhing, pleading mass of desperate humanity.
There were no thoughts in his head but one; let me come.
"Father!" he shouted. "Father! Let me - *help* me -"
Caine only grunted, bit the back of his neck, and fucked him harder. Impossibly faster.
He was slamming Peter's prostate with every thrust. Peter could feel his dick swelling, planted hot and hard into the futon. He wanted his father to touch him, to stroke him, but suddenly at was all moot.
He was coming. Great roaring waves of release picked him up and tossed him back down like a ragdoll.
At the very end, when it seemed his lungs were going to work again, he was just aware enough to hear Caine's deep groan of satisfaction and the words he whispered as he pumped his seed into his son's clenching body.
"Peter - I love you - "
Sometime later Peter came back to himself. His father's hands were massaging the big muscles of his thighs, strained from the uncomfortable position.
"Mmmm," Peter sighed, and opened his eyes.
Caine was watching him.
Peter smiled and reached for him.
"C'mere, you." He tugged his father down until they were lying face to face. "We forgot one important part."
"Oh yes." Caine closed his eyes. His hands cradled Peter's face as they began to kiss' lightly at first, then with increasing depth and devotion. Peter ran his hands over Pop's back, fingers seeking little knots of tension and carefully rubbing them away.
They kissed longer than the sex had lasted. When at last Caine pulled back and pulled the covers up over them Peter was almost asleep. He felt the arm that went around him and turned to nuzzle into his father's neck, a strong shoulder the best pillow.
"Goodnight, Pop," he murmured into the gathering quiet.
There was a tiny hiss and he knew Caine had extinguished the candle. His hand settled to Peter's head, ruffling his hair.
Then it stilled.
"I do not like lying about ourselves," Caine spoke sadly.
"We aren't lying, Pop. We just aren't volunteering the details."
"This woman, Frances. She is your partner. She should know how important you are to me. Doubly precious - son and lover. My life's mate."
Peter shook his head slightly. Caine's long hair, freed from the braid and tangled by the lovemaking, tickled his face and neck.
"I can't risk it. I need to be a cop, to honor his memory. If I tell her -"
"That is not why he died, my son." Caine squeezed him gently.
"Yes, it is." A lump rose in Peter's throat. It had been more than two years. The pain should have faded by now. Become less sharp. Less urgent. "If I hadn't told him about us, he wouldn't have been so angry. And if he hadn't been so angry he would have called me for backup before he went into that warehouse."
"Kermit loved you the way only your best friend can." Pop stroked Peter's head. "He would have forgiven you."
"He didn't get the chance. I told him our secret, and it killed him." His eyes were shining. Clumsily, Peter used a handful of Caine's hair to scrub at them.
"In his last moments he forgave you." Caine sounded like he believed that.
"I'll never know. He was in there for almost two days before I found him, Pop. I should have gotten there sooner." He sucked in a deep breath and squashed his face into Caine's shoulder. "I should never have told him in the first place. He didn't want to know."
"Do not despair, my love." Pop held him and petted him. "Sleep with me, Peter. Rest with me."
The low, musical voice eased Peter away from the turmoil within. Sleep came to him at last. Though his heart was heavy, the sanctuary of his father's arms made the burden bearable.
***
"Caine! I've got him! Over here!" Ducking behind a plastic dumpster that would be little protection from bullets, Frances screamed again. She'd followed the suspect into the alley on foot after a crazy car chase, and he'd gotten the drop on her. Familiar with the territory, he had the advantage. She was in trouble.
"CAINE! OVER HERE!" She stuck her gun out and pulled the trigger twice, fast. An answering hail of lead confirmed her worst fear; the suspect had an automatic weapon. Wether he'd been carrying it beneath his jacket or had it stashed in the alley wasn't important. What mattered was the fact that she was going to be doing a really good impression of Swiss cheese in the near future if her partner didn't do something *fast*.
She heard the creak of metal from above and looked up just in time to see Peter. To see him leap from the building on the right to the fire escape of the building across the alley. He grabbed on and hung precariously, a vulnerable target. Frances stood and began shooting in the direction of the suspect, holed up behind a junked car, to protect Peter, who hung twenty feet up, lower half dangling in mid-air.
"Peter!" As soon as the man gained the protection of the fire escape, he turned around and left it, leaping off to land on the suspect below him. Frances *heard* the snapping sounds as bones broke. Then she was out from behind the dumpster, doing a crazy little dance as the suspect's finger locked onto the trigger and the old Uzi shot bullets across the pavement, jiggling like mad.
By the time Peter got the gun stopped and Frances got to his side, he had the killer handcuffed and checked for injuries. Sirens were sounding as backup arrived to do cleanup.
There was a ragged tear in Frances' jeans. Peter touched it and drew his hand away with blood on his fingertips.
"Sorry. Should have been faster," he said, frowning.
"You were exactly fast enough." Frances offered her hand to pull him up. He stood beside her, barely an inch taller than she.
"You should have that taken care of."
"It's just a scratch. Hey, we still have time to get to Angie's shower."
"You go ahead." Now he was looking at the ground. "I'll get started on the paperwork."
There was no question of interrogating their suspect. They'd found enough in his dingy little apartment - including the knife he'd used to kill the Chos - to put him on death row.
"Angie would really like you to be there." The due date was only two weeks away, and it didn't seem likely Angie would carry the babies to term. Apparently twins were usually early.
Peter shrugged.
"I haven't been spending a lot of time with Poppy lately, we've been caught up in this case. He would be hurt if I didn't come home right away."
"So bring him along. I know Angie is dying to meet him." Because I vividly described how damned strange he is, Frances added to herself.
Peter still hesitated. Frances plunged ahead recklessly. She wanted to see the two of them in a social setting outside the dojo, where she'd been going to spar with students.
"I'll even let him doctor my leg. Okay?"
Peter's glance was disbelieving. She'd made it clear that she didn't believe in any natural remedies or mysticism.
It would please Caine to be able to care for her.
"Okay. But we won't stay long. I've got a lot to catch up on."
"Good." Frances gave him an honest smile, knowing she would rather crow. "I'm guessing we'll take my car?"
"Since I don't have one..." They began walking out of the alley together, giving brief instructions on the care of the prisoner. He would be spending the night in the hospital anyhow. There wasn't much else they could do with him at this point.
Driving, Frances silently hoped that Caine actually could do something to her leg. It was starting to throb and threatened to become very painful. She wasn't going to cool her heels in an ER tonight, though.
Tonight she was going to spy on her partner and his lover and see if she could scrounge any clues about who they really were, and who they had been.
***
"Why do you flinch?"
"Because it hurts," Frances snapped, speaking to Caine as if he were an obtuse child.
"There is a certain level of trust you need to achieve to work with my - beloved. Extend that trust to me, Frances."
She caught his hesitation over the word and wondered - but his hand on her leg distracted her.
Caine held her thigh with gentle firmness but she could feel the power in his hands. He was much stronger than she'd expected anyone his age to be. But she was still unsure of his age, as well.
Lately she'd begun to think that maybe he just looked older than he was. That would make more sense, if he wasn't *that* much older than Peter. Peter was a hunk, he could do much better than an old guy like Caine.
He stroked his fingers over the graze. The tips were dipped in some thick liquid he'd poured from a purple glass bottle that looked like it was a hundred years old. Frances prepared to flinch again, but a soothing coolness followed the touch. The relief spread from his fingers and outwards, until she felt no more pain at all.
"That's amazing." Her leg had to be bruised from the impact, as well as grazed by the bullet.
"You are surprised." He smiled at her and she saw a twinkle in his eyes.
Old eyes, surrounded by lines. Caused by age, caused by sun, caused by laughter.
Wise eyes.
"Well, it's not like you went to med school." Irritated - it seemed he was laughing at her - Frances pulled her leg from his grasp and began pulling her jeans back up. They were still torn, but she could pass it off as art.
"Fortunately for you." Caine stood, taking his bowl and bottle to the long table. Peter emerged from the bathroom, wearing a clean cream-colored long-sleeved T and black jeans. With his dark skin and hair it was striking.
"Poppy - are you going to change?" He paused beside his lover, a hand on the taller man's shoulder.
Caine looked down at himself. He was wearing an embroidered rust-colored silk tunic and pants set. With his grey hair loose, he looked very much an ancient medicine man.
"These are my visiting clothes." he told Peter, as if Peter would understand. After so many years together, Frances thought, Peter should understand. Unless this was an area of contention between them.
"I know, Poppy." Peter stretched to brush his lips over Caine's. "I just thought you might like to try something more Western tonight."
Caine seemed to consider this. His eyes were on Peter's when he asked, and Frances watched them both closely.
"Would you prefer I do that, beloved?" He had never called Peter by his name when Frances was around.
Peter stared back at him. Frances suddenly felt uncomfortable, as if she were eavesdropping, or a voyeur. This was a private moment and she shouldn't be witnessing it, despite the fact that they knew she was there.
They didn't seem to remember that, though.
The look that passed between the two men was so rich with unspoken meaning that Frances couldn't begin to interpret it. There were more levels between these two that she'd imagined. Before she'd had hints, but now she was seeing something real. Something powerful enough to make her want to scream, or cry; anything to break the spell that bound them.
"I prefer that you do whatever makes you happy," Peter answered at last.
The moment dissolved so cleanly that Frances wondered if she'd imagined it.
Then she saw Peter's hand, curled around Caine's elbow, and Caine's hand, resting lightly on Peter's hip.
No, it had been real.
"We've only got ten minutes to get to the 'burbs." She stood and grabbed her jacket, fishing in the pocket for her keys.
Caine tipped the small kettle he'd been using into a glass and handed it to her.
"Drink this first. To prevent infection. It should be hotter -"
"Liquid antibiotics are for kids."
"Frannie, just drink the tea." Peter caught her arm and gave her a small, quiet grin. It was the happy face she saw on him so seldom. Now wanting to make him frown, she accepted the cup and sipped. Finding the taste oddly astringent but not unpalatable, she gulped it down.
"There, Petey, happy?" She handed the cup back to Caine, and saw that Peter was still smiling. She'd done a good thing. "Let's go."
***
"Thank you, Peter - Kwai, um, Chang Caine."
Angie held up the small silk shirt, heavily decorated at cuff and collar. There were four in the box; two in pale yellow and two in pale green.
"This is the year of the Dragon, Angela." Caine smiled gently at her as she stumbled with his name. "It is good to have your babies this year; they will be strong, creative, and healthy."
"And boys." Henry glanced over his wife's shoulder at the shirt she held; one of the yellow ones. "That might give him a complex."
Frances took the shirt, folded it, and put the box in the stack of things that had already been opened, writing a note in the than-you book she was keeping track of. She'd sort of been pressed into service, Angie's sisters and Mom were getting into the party games and refreshments and she'd only brought the one gift - a practical set of cute blankets - so she'd been put to work. At least she was being useful. Being surrounded by Angela and Henry's large, gregarious families was always disconcerting. Having something specific to do made her more comfortable. And it gave her time to surreptitiously watch Peter and Caine.
The two men were standing close together. Studying them while Angie took a bathroom break, Frances tried to decide which of them was seeking comfort. It was clear that neither of them was entirely comfortable in the situation. Angie knew they were gay, but the rest of the people present were mostly Catholics and so not particularly open-minded. Frances was glad she hadn't needed to say anything to the two men. They had been introduced and apparently understood the situation right away.
Now they stood together, sipping punch and looking around as they spoke quietly. One of Angela's aunts seemed to have made it her mission to keep them supplied with cookies and full glasses. Placing her, Frances smothered a smile; she had lost her husband several years ago and might be on the lookout for another.
Sure enough, Angie's mom came over a few minutes later and sat on the couch beside her.
"Fannie, sweetie, tell me more about your new partner. And his father, I think it's so sweet that they 'hang out' together. Peter must be a good son, to spend time with his father this way."
Frances swallowed a gulp of punch, too big a gulp, and began coughing as the cold liquid tried to run into her lungs and out her nose.
"Shit!" She gurgled, trying to breathe. Immediately she was surrounded by people, all offering napkins and advice. Her nose burned and her cheeks were hot with embarrassment.
"Frances." It was Caine. Somehow he'd gotten through the crowd without creating a stir and now he knelt in front of her, a hand on her shoulder. "Relax, Frances. Hold your breath for a count... Eight, seven,..."
Feeling her eyes water, Frances did as directed. It would be better to stop choking and talk than continue to humiliate herself.
Caine counted slowly and methodically. It seemed to quiet the party-goers as much as it calmed Frances. By the time the deep voice rolled out with 'one', she was able to take a deep breath and the crowd had parted, letting Angie sit back down.
"Geez, leave for a minute and you take the spotlight." Her friend teased. Still blushing hotly, Frances made a rude gesture. But not too rude, considering the company.
Angela's mom was still sitting on the sofa. Her attention seemed to be caught up in Peter and Caine, who were now standing much closer together. It looked like Peter didn't like crowds.
Gathering her courage, Frances leaned closer to her and whispered, as quietly as she could.
"Moma -" she'd always called Angela's mom that, at her insistence, " -Caine is not Peter's father. He is his 'domestic partner'." She tried to make it as clear as she said without using the words homosexual or gay. The woman had grown up in San Francisco, surely she would get it.
"But they look so much alike, and they have the same last name..." Moma seemed confused, then determined. "If you say so, Frances."
"Yes, Moma."
The party picked up again. Moma took over the tracking of the gifts, so Frances got up and wandered out of the room.
Henry was a civil engineer, but he'd built this house for himself and Angela. It was pretty special. Not too fancy; no vaulted ceilings or four-story windows. Just comfortable and roomy and well- organized, to enhance their very busy lives. Which were about to get much busier.
She went up to the second floor and into the nursery. She'd meant to help Angie paint it, but the Cho case had swallowed all of her free time. Now it was pretty and airy, soft green and blue on the walls, cut-outs of fuzzy animals marching along the chair-rail.
She wandered around, opening drawers and looking at little outfits - 'onesies', they were called. Everything was so tiny and pretty. She'd never really thought about having children, never really wanted them, but - this she might want. Someday.
She sat in the big white rocking chair and cuddled a large stuffed sheep, leaning back and closing her eyes for a minute. She was so tired. Her leg didn't hurt, but she was aware that it could, and that kept her on edge....
"Frances."
"Hm?" Where was she?
"Wake up, sleeping beauty." A strong hand closed on her shoulder and shook gently. Frances squirmed away, but came up hard against the side of the chair, sending a flash of pain through her leg.
"Ow!" Her eyes flew open and she swung out with the sheep, catching Peter across the face with it. He laughed and grabbed at it. Frances stared as he disarmed her.
"Now what did that lamb ever do to you?" Peter chided gently. Caine was standing behind him, at the doorway.
"Oh, shit. How long have I been up here?"
"Half an hour. Angie asked me to come find you. They're just getting ready to cut the cake and she wants you there."
While Frances watched, Caine came into the room. He touched the tiny baby clothes laid out on top of the dresser, a small smile playing on his face. He seemed lost in a memory.
"We were just going to leave. I thought I should let you know."
"You going in tomorrow?" Sitting up straight, Frances ran her hands through her hair, getting it into some semblance of order. Peter stood and glanced over at Caine, not looking at her when he answered.
"No, I think we've earned a weekend off. If we don't go in, then Block can't give us something to do."
Caine looked over and the two of them exchanged one of those looks; the ones that Frances couldn't decipher, but was sure meant more than she could see.
"Besides, " Peter continued, "I've been neglecting other aspects of my life."
"Training," Caine said slowly, with deliberation.
"Yes," Peter agreed softly.
"I better get downstairs." Frances pushed herself out of the chair. Peter replaced the sheep, fluffing it slightly.
She left the room, and hovered at the door for a moment, out of sight. It made her feel guilty, but
"I remember when my son was small enough to wear things like this."
"He was *really* that small, Poppy?" It sounded like Peter was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of something else there.
"Tiny. I could hold him in one hand." Frances could imagine Caine holding out his large hand, demonstrating.
And Peter taking it, laying a kiss in the palm as he replied.
"But he's grown now, and his hands are as large as yours."
"Large, strong, and capable." Caine's words didn't seem to be a response to what Peter had said. Frances wished she could see what they were doing. What their faces showed.
"We better go."
"Time to go home." Caine sounded very happy with those words.
Frances went down the stairs as quickly and quietly as she could, her mind made up. She needed to know more about Peter Caine.
***
"It's goood to be home." Peter sighed the words, allowing himself to flop backwards on the battered sofa, arms stretched over the sides.
"You have spent much time away lately." Caine folded into lotus position on the floor in front of him. He lay his hands on Peter's knees.
"I thought we were never going to catch that guy." Leaning forward, Peter tucked his face into Caine's shoulder. His next words were muffled. "And then I let Frances get hurt. I wasn't fast enough. Again."
"A minor wound. You saved her when it mattered most, and went to the party because she wished it." Caine's hands came up and cupped Peter's head. He stroked it gently with small movements of his fingers. Peter heard the sigh that passed his lips, and turned his head just enough to be understood when he whispered.
"But I have neglected you. You always forgive me when I do that, and I always feel special when I come back to you."
"You are special, Peter. To me, to your mother, to everyone that knows you. Special, and precious, and irreplaceable." Caine kissed the side of Peter's neck. Peter felt the brush of lashes on his skin.
He didn't question Caine's assertation. Even the part about the mother he didn't remember. Tonight he had seen a rare pain in Caine's eyes; the loss of the woman he had loved so dearly. If Peter were only a poor substitute for her, that would be enough. To ease the pain he knew his father still felt, reminded of her.
Reminded of the years they spent apart, neither knowing the other was alone, both lost in spirit.
"You know what I want?" He whispered, sliding off the couch to kneel in the small space between Caine and the sofa. He wedged his knees between Caine's legs, breaking the lotus, and put his arms around his father's waist.
"What you always want," Caine teased. His dark eyes lit up with anticipation and Peter felt a shiver go through his belly.
"Yes," he agreed, unable to prevent the grin that spread across his face. "But I want more, tonight, too."
"Whatever you want." Caine pulled him closer and they kissed with an edge of hunger until Peter broke away and pushed Caine backward, onto the floor.
"I want you tonight."
"Yes." Caine seemed to be holding his breath. "But should we not take this to the bed?"
There was a faded rug beneath them, but Peter was, once again, all too aware of his father's age. Though it might seem spontaneous and romantic to take him there, on the floor, it would no doubt leave his Pop with a sore backside and maybe a few bruises. He was careful, whenever he thought about it, to not cause any more damage than he could prevent. His father was strong and healthy, but no younger than he had been the day before.
Given his lifestyle and the way he cared for himself, he could live a very long time but it still wouldn't be enough for his son.
"Yeah," Peter said, standing and pulling Caine up with him. "This would be better in the bed."
Together they walked the few feet to the futon. Peter bent to roll it out, keeping an eye on his dad. After so many years the movements were automatic; unroll, fluff, grab the sheet, flap, the blanket, flip - and the bed was made. Though he sometimes missed having a big bed to fall onto whenever he felt like it, this was what Caine was used to; the way he'd slept almost all of his life. And it wasn't bad. Just not as comfortable as a big, soft bed might be.
Caine was sifting through the contents of the top dresser drawer, which Peter used as a dump spot, in deference to Caine's preference to a tidy living environment. Now he emptied his pockets into the drawer instead of on top of the dresser.
Any place was good as long as Caine was in it with him.
He grinned again, realizing the sappy turn his thoughts had taken. Caine turned back to him, a small bottle in hand, and smiled gently, his eyes asking Peter to share the joke.
"I'm just stupid-in-love, Pop," Peter told him, pulling his shirt off over his head and letting it drop to the floor from a dangling hand. "It still makes me smile to think about it."
"Love is not stupid." Caine scolded. He came around the futon and pressed the bottle into Peter's hand, then began unbuttoning his shirt. "This will suit us best this night."
Peter turned the bottle over, recognizing it.
"This is..."
"Yes." Caine shed the shirt, and it seemed the trappings of modern America went with it. His eyes darkened and his stance shifted as he gained the comfort of his home.
"I didn't know you still had it."
"Why would I not?"
"It's just - it's been almost ten years, Pop." Peter let his attention drift from the bottle to Caine, now nude and back again. Caine lay on the futon and pulled the sheet up to his waist, and gave Peter and inquiring glance, as if he didn't understand the significance of the words.
Peter swallowed, and his hand closed tightly around the bottle.
"I'm going to take a fast shower. You'll wait for me?"
Caine smiled.
"Of course, beloved."
"I'll, uh, get this warm while I'm at it."
"You are thoughtful." Caine spoke to his back as Peter went to the small bathroom. He had to set the bottle down as he stripped and got the water going, but he couldn't take his eyes from it.
One night that seemed a very long time ago, Caine had opened this bottle. The oil in it was thick and smelled of the garden; wintergreen, sunflower, aloe.
That had been the night Peter finally admitted what he wanted from his father. The night his father had given it to him.
The feel of a man's penis inside him had been terrifying at first, but Peter had wanted it so badly he'd managed to override his body's initial protest. It had been an effort, to lie there and let Caine do that to him; to let Caine fuck him, when everything he knew, everything he'd learned, screamed that it was wrong. On so many levels.
But he had done it. And in his memory this bottle, and the scents of what it contained, were all tied up with that night. The pain and shame and glory of it.
For Caine to conjure the bottle again tonight for it had to have been magic, if the bottle had been in that drawer all along Peter would have *seen* it meant something. He could not yet guess what.
But something.
He washed quickly, rinsing soap and sweat from his form with absent-minded strokes. The bottle was in his free hand, held mostly in the stream of hot water, to warm it. It had been thick and cold when it touched him. Would it be thinner now, warm? Would it run down his father's thighs and drip over the sheets instead of pooling thickly?
His body responded to the images that brought to mind. He was hard, achingly so. Briefly he thought about relieving himself here, in the shower, to make sure he would last longer later, but decided against it. Pop deserved all he had to give. They could not create life together, but they made brilliant love. And what was life, after all, but an extension of love?
Caine was still lying on his back when Peter got out. His hands were crossed on his stomach, his eyes closed. His breathing was slow and regular.
There was no sign of arousal in the smooth sheet that covered him, but Peter knew how quickly that would change. He had no worries on that score.
The bottle, dried, was smooth and warm in his fingers. It felt almost alive.
"Pop," he said, and the word was dry in his mouth. He swallowed and tried again. "Father."
Still not right. Caine opened his eyes and stared up at him. The invitation was there, in his eyes.
Do with me what you will. It is all love.
"Kwai Chang Caine." Peter breathed the name, and dropped to his knees beside the futon, reaching to embrace his lover.
"Peter." Caine muttered, and it was enough. To this man, it was all he needed to be.
The embrace was surprisingly fierce. Peter felt his father holding him as hard as he held. After a few moments he loosened his grip a little bit, sighing with pleasure as Caine sought his lips and they kissed. Wet and loose and a little wild - it was good.
There had been little time to spend together lately, and what there was had been dedicated to meditation and rest. Peter knew that his father worried when his son got caught up in his life and wasn't able to slow down and breathe. So Caine made a special effort to be sure Peter ate well, and rested as much as he could. They'd only come together twice during these long weeks, and both times had only been touching and kissing, not the soul-deep connection that intercourse gave them. They needed to sink into each other and reaffirm the trust that kept them together.
So, even though it was late and he knew Caine had appointments starting early, Peter took his time. He covered Caine's body with his own, and they kissed for an immeasurable amount of time. The skies outside the loft were dark with the clouds of a summer storm, rising fast. Their need kept pace with the wind, and Peter tasted his father intimately as the first drops of rain splashed loudly against the windows.
"Peter..." Caine groaned, his hands clenched around Peter's head. He was trying to be gentle, to keep his control, but Peter could tell he was losing it. The tremors running through the lean body gave him away.
"Let go, Dad," he whispered. He seldom used the honorific in bed - though he always thought of Caine as his father, there was so much more to the relationship that 'Dad' just didn't encompass all of it. "Don't hold back. I want to hear it all."
"*Peter*..." Caine groaned, louder. His cries rose in volume over the next few minutes, as Peter took him deeply into his mouth and sucked strongly. Peter had never mastered the technique of bobbing his head, so he worked the organ with his tongue and used suction to replace movement. He was able to swallow around it, and that made Caine thrash his head and mutter broken words of Chinese.
His cock swelled in Peter's mouth, signaling that he was close to orgasm. When Peter tried to pull away his father's hands clamped onto his head and kept him there. It was frightening for a few seconds, and then Peter was amused; he'd really gotten him worked up. He slid a thumb along the cock, breaking the suction he'd maintained, and wetting it, then slid it between Caine's cheeks.
Without warning he plunged it into the clenching hole, and Caine moaned deeply, his body arching off the futon. His hands fisted in his shock and Peter was able to pull away. Caine's cock slapped onto his belly with an audible smack.
Caine seemed to be calling on the Gods for patience. Peter chuckled as he lubed himself and coated his fingers thickly. He crawled up the bed and silenced the prayers with his lips while he used those fingers to open his father more gently.
It seemed that Caine was no longer in the mood for gentleness, though. As soon as Peter had two fingers in he pushed himself down on them, taking them deep. He began to move, rocking on the fingers, and Peter had to look away quickly, before the sight set him off.
It was time. They were both too close to the edge to draw it out any longer. To do so was to risk embarrassment and the mild unhappiness he always felt when they didn't come together, or at least close.
He moved between Caine's legs, which spread wider for him. His father might be past middle age, but his form was lithe and trim. Peter felt nothing but desire as he pulled Caine's ass onto his thighs and positioned himself.
He took a moment to look at his lover before he entered.
Caine's hands were clenched on his own thighs. His body was flushed with excitement. Peter had only ever seen him this way while making love. With the legendary control stripped away, Kwai Chang Caine was just a man. Peter was certain, in the furthest reaches of his heart, that no one else had ever seen him thus. His father had never given up control like this for any woman. *To* any woman.
Taking the submissive role did not change the overwhelming nature of Caine's physical presence. Peter still had to concentrate for a moment before he could bring himself to enter. And the muscle resisted, before giving up with what seemed to be a sigh. Caine's entire body relaxed as Peter drove his cock into it in one smooth, swift stroke.
Caine opened his eyes and reached a hand to Peter, just touching his face. Peter turned his head and nuzzled the palm, happy when it cupped his face and stayed there.
He closed his eyes and moved. To better feel the heat and tightness that surrounded him. To better hear the small groans and encouraging noises Caine made.
It was always amazing. To be inside of someone so close to him. Someone so tight and hot. Someone that trusted him to do whatever he wanted.
The hand on his face tightened, and he flickered his eyes open, and couldn't close them again. Caine's face was bathed in sweat, and his free hand was around his own cock, stroking just beneath the plump head, which was purple with need.
"Yeah..." he moaned. "Yeah, Pop, like that - let me see you come. Shoot all over me -"
Caine liked it when he talked dirty. Not too much, not enough to sully their joining, but just a little bit. It had surprised Peter when he'd discovered the kink and he used the knowledge sparingly, not wanting to make it mundane.
"Yes - yes -" Caine could only gasp. He had no talent for dirty words, and truly could seldom speak at all when this close. For Peter, the loss of words was a tremendous compliment, and he rewarded it.
"That's it, Pop - do it. Make yourself cum."
"*Peter*!" It was clear Caine was shocked, and equally clear that he loved it. His head went back and his mouth opened as he began panting for air. Peter quickened his strokes, knowing the end was near.
"Don't wait for me, Pop - c'mon, do it, you know you want to.... Let me have it, show me what I do to you. My cock, your *son's* cock, so far up your ass you can feel me in your belly -"
"PETER!" Caine shouted, and then he began to come. Jets of pearly white fluid shot from his cock, his hand clenched tight around it. His body arched higher, and his ass clinched so hard on Peter's cock that he saw stars for a minute. Then he was coming too, his cock pumping his seed into his father's body, the pleasure so immense that he wondered if he could stay that way forever.
When he recovered enough to think again, he was splayed over Caine, still between his legs, still inside him. Caine was lying quietly, one hand petting Peter's head, a small, abashed smile on his lips.
Peter got up on his elbows and took a kiss before Caine could speak.
"That was amazing," he said simply.
"I do not know how you make me do that." Caine shifted and Peter realized he was probably getting sore. So he pulled out as carefully as he could, pleased when Caine didn't wince.
"I love making you do that. I love knowing that I'm the only one who can."
"Love with you is so strange sometimes." Caine seemed pensive. "It's like something I missed when I was younger, yet didn't know I should have had."
"I don't think everyone gets this, Pop." Peter kissed him again. Reluctantly he freed himself from Caine's arms and reached for the cloth and warm oil beside the futon. With gentle urging he got Caine to turn on his side so Peter could clean him and oil him to prevent soreness.
"So we should be thankful for it in the face of trial?" Caine asked when he turned back over and took Peter into his arms.
There was a twinkle in his eye, and Peter knew he was setting himself up for something, but answered anyhow.
"Of course."
"Then forgive yourself for Kermit's death, beloved. It was not your doing."
"I'm trying," Peter answered, snuggling close and closing his eyes with a sigh. The storm continued to beat against the windows, bringing welcome coolness to the night.
"Try harder." Caine's chuckle was the last thing he heard before sleep claimed him.
***
"Hi yes, this is Detective Frances Schraeder. I've been waiting for your call."
Seated at her desk, Frances glanced around the squad room. It was early too early for most of the dayshift to be in. The night shift, who shared the group nickname of owl, had all abandoned the place for their usual breakfast meeting, where they would write their reports and trade stories. It was a nice tradition, sometimes she wished the day shift was as close as the nighttime crew.
Peter wasn't in yet, but he would be soon. He almost always beat her to the station.
Her attention was only half on the phone call as she yawned, covering it with a hand.
"Information on Peter Caine and Kwai Chang Caine. You don't have anything? Well, who can I talk to? No, this isn't an official call, just a preliminary investigation "
Frances hung up the phone and stared at it for moment, then scrambled out of her chair and headed for the print room. She'd better catch this fax before anyone else saw it.
***
"You've been awfully quiet lately." Peter spoke quietly, too. As if he were expecting her to snap at him. Frances glanced at him, slouching in the passenger seat of her Jeep. His long-sleeved shirt was dark blue today, his jeans black. Both looked new, as did the black running shoes. None of it carried any designer logo or name.
"Did you go shopping yesterday?" They'd had a rare midweek day off after closing another homicide case, and shopping seemed a harmless way to start a conversation. There were so many things she wanted to ask, things she wanted to say - but she wasn't sure it was her place.
"Um, yeah Caine said I looked like an urchin. He's big on upholding the dignity of a profession."
Considering that Caine always looked cool and collected to her, even in the midst of battle, Frances understood that.
"What is his profession, exactly?" It sounded more challenging than she'd meant it to, but the words were out and couldn't be taken back now.
Peter shifted and sat up straighter, his eyes searching her face for a minute before he answered.
"He's a Shaolin priest."
"What does that mean, exactly?" Frances stopped at a red light and leaned over the steering wheel, glancing around the intersection idly.
There were things she wanted to know. Questions she had to ask, before she could make up her mind about things.
Her family hadn't been particularly open-minded, but her Granny Dane had always said "Those people ain't hurtin' anybody and we got no business getting into theirs."She said it about everyone, really. Black people, gay people, orientals. Her philosophy seemed to be live and let live.
Unfortunately, Frances thought, it seemed that she herself hadn't inherited that attitude.
Peter seemed to be having some trouble answering. Part of it could have been that he hadn't been expecting the question, but maybe it wasn't something someone could easily describe.
"Don't tell me; it's not something a middle-class Hispanic girl can understand?"
"No! Nothing like that." The look he gave her was bewildered. There were times he really did look like a lost puppy. "He he gives spiritual support to members of the community. He offers medical services and teaches whatever someone wants to learn."
"And he makes a living from this?"
"He doesn't file a tax return, if that's what you're asking." He was settling down now, and getting angry. Frances was glad to see it; it would make the rest of this conversation easier. "Most of his patients pay him in goods or services. There's an active barter system in Chinatown."
"How did the two of you meet?"
Peter shrugged.
"We knew each other when I was a kid. Then he showed up again, years later, and things were different."
I'll bet, Frances thought. Even though she knew, now; she knew *exactly* what was going on between the two of them - she still didn't quite believe it. It was so far out of the realm of possibility.
What had it been like? The awareness, when it came, that what they were feeling for each other wasn't normal between father and son? Even if they had been apart for much of his childhood, it still must have been strange. Difficult. Hard to accept, much less act on.
"He's so much older than you are. Old enough to be your father." Watching out of the corner of her eye as she drove, she didn't miss the tiny flinch he tried to hide.
"That's not important between us. It's not something you could understand."
"Because I'm a girl or because I'm straight?" She challenged, pulling into the parking lot of the deserted warehouse they'd come to search.
"Because you're not Shaolin." He got out of the car quickly, his anger clear in the stiff movements.
"Front and back?" Frances nodded at the warehouse. They had permission to search it, gained after employing the two most basic police techniques; first they had intimidated a couple of names out of some scared street punks, and then they had spent several days hunting through paperwork to connect those names to the name they really wanted, Solomon King. A small-time gangbanger, he'd suddenly, inexplicably jumped to the big-time with a shipment of illegal weapons meant for the Middle East. There was no doubt in either of their minds that he'd somehow stolen them, and that the people he'd stolen them from would come looking to reclaim their property. It would be a bloody mess, unless they got the guns first.
King was pretty good at the paperwork end. It had taken hard work and a little luck to tie him to this warehouse, and it was just really lucky that the storage company he rented it from didn't want to be involved in anything illegal the management was trying to adopt a baby from a state agency and had given them permission to search.
It might not pass the 'reasonable expectation of privacy' standard, though, so they were just going to make sure that what they wanted was there, and then call for a warrant.
"Give me ten." Peter nodded ad jogged toward the back, cutting through what had to be a dark and nasty alley. Frances waited, knowing he would hit the door at exactly the time he'd said. They usually split this way. Because, even though she was a big girl, and intimidating in her own right, she was still a girl, and a pretty one. That meant that she could sometimes talk her way out of things, whereas Peter looked like a cop, moved like a cop, and smelled like a cop. They weren't expecting anyone to be inside, but the fewer chances they took, the better.
At just the right moment she inserted the key and turned it. The heavy steel door swung open with barely a creak, well-oiled.
It was dark inside. She turned on her flashlight and played it over the large space.
Except for some wooden loading pallets and a scattering of battered cardboard boxes, it was empty.
"Shit." She kept her voice down, but Peter must have heard her, because he laughed, and called her name quietly.
"No, Frances, this is good - back here!"
She saw the low yellow glimmer of his light and made her way back to it. There was a rustle and squeak - rats!, yuck - and then she was entering a back room. Much smaller than the main area, probably used for an office once, but now stacked floor-to-ceiling with heavy wooden crates.
There was a prybar handy, and the lid of one crate was already unfastened. She leaned over while Peter lifted it.
"Oh, yeah." She whistled at the sight of dully gleaming metal, dark and dangerous-looking.
"Paydirt." He was grinning, satisfied, wolfish. "Let's check the next room."
"Right behind you, partner." They weren't sure how big the shipment was, there could still be more.
There seemed to be two more offices. The windows were blacked so they couldn't see through them, so Peter motioned Frances behind him and opened the door. She went with a grimace, allowing him his moment of chivalry.
A sound behind her made her turn just as he swung the door far enough to slip through. She saw more than heard the slither of rope, but there wasn't enough time to shout a warning before things started falling from the rafters high above them.
She leaned, to shove Peter out of the way, but instead his arm was there, grabbing at her, pulling her, yanking her painfully out of the way as he traded places with her beneath the deadfall.
Frances clung to the doorframe, the scant protection it offered the only safety she could see.
The silence after the thundering rang in her ears. Cautiously she opened her eyes, not remembering when she had shut them. Her hands were gripping the wooden molding of the doorframe so tightly she had to pry them off one finger at a time.
Panic hit abruptly, and she looked for Peter, fear rising in her throat.
The details barely registered. They had been right in front of the door, and now that area was buried beneath a stack of old lumber, planks and timbers, cement blocks. The pile was taller than the doorway, she couldn't see the top of it, and there was no sign of Peter.
"Oh, shit, oh shit." There didn't seem to be anything else to say. She dropped to her knees, and felt the pain in her back for the first time. A sharp, stabbing pain; something must have hit her when she turned away. Gingerly she reached 'round to touch it, found her shirt ripped and a long, oozing gash topped with a raw-feeling welt. Probably nothing broken, then, and she wasn't bleeding much. She licked her fingers and tasted blood, but it was diluted by other fluids. Not in danger of bleeding out, then.
She stared at the pile. Somehow her flashlight had survived, falling between her feet, and now she scrambled to pick it up. Though it was broad daylight outside, there were no windows in the little room and the pile of debris blocked the rest of the warehouse. She was trapped here.
At first she didn't see it, but then her eyes began to make sense of the pile, and she could pick out shapes. There were chunks of jagged metal, long twisted pieces of bedframes, other things. The longer she looked, the more convinced she became that it had been deliberate. A booby-trap, set for anyone that came snooping in this warehouse.
At last she recognized a hand, then a shoulder. She put the flashlight safely behind her and pulled. The pile shifted and she flinched, but pulled again. She was probably hurting him, he had to be hurt, under all this stuff, but she had to find out if he was alive. Then she could decide wether to pull him out of not.
It was slow and horrible. She could feel the give as his shirt and then his skin was stripped off, caught on something she couldn't see. But then his face came into view and she had to stop, to take a deep breath and mentally cross her fingers.
Peter's eyes were closed, his face pale and blue. She wet a finger, put it under his nose, got no response. He wasn't breathing.
That answered that question. She had to dig him out, even if it meant the pile fell further. Her cellphone was on her belt, but if she stopped to call for help she might not be able to get him breathing again.
Crouched low, on her feet, both hands on his shoulders, fingers digging in deeply enough to leave bruises, Frances put all of her weight into pulling Peter free. He was stuck, some part of him pinned beneath the pile, but still she pulled. Her back ached and burned, the new wound taking on seemingly gigantic proportions.
Panting, she fell back as his torso came into view. Cut and bleeding freely from a gash in his armpit that laid the muscle open to the bone. She hurriedly yanked off her filthy t-shirt and balled it up, jamming it as far into the wound as she could, praying that would be enough to stop the bleeding. Holding it there with one hand, she used the other to check for a pulse, her fingers leaving a bloody smear on his pale neck as his head lolled.
He was alive, at least. But she should have known that because he was bleeding. Dead people didn't bleed.
She still didn't think he was breathing, so he wasn't going to be alive for long is she didn't do something.
It was awkward, holding the makeshift bandage in place with one hand while she tried to tip his head back and give him mouth-to-mouth with the other. Frustrated, she used a knee to put pressure on the wound while she made sure his throat was clear and gave him a couple of good breaths. Then she waited, her face near his, and gave a sigh as he opened his mouth and gasped, then moaned low in his throat.
"It's okay, I've got you, partner." Frances moved to sit beside him, propping his head in her lap while she dug for her cellphone. It would have been nice to pat him or something similarly comforting, but both of her hands were occupied. He stared up at her, eyes wide, one of the whites colored with bright red blood, a sign of head trauma.
The precinct was on speed dial, she only had to hit two buttons, and then she cradled the phone between shoulder and ear, her free hand stroking Peter's face as he shuddered and moaned again.
"I need the Lieutenant!" She snapped at the desk clerk, who seemed miffed, but put her through. She knew she would get a quicker response going directly through him than if she'd called 911 or something equally stupid. At least the phone was working in here.
"Schraeder?!" Block sounded angry, moreso than usual. "What the hell is going on with you? Where's Caine? I've got his boyfriend outside my office demanding to know where you two went."
Caine?
"His boyfriend? Kwai Chang Caine, sir?"
"Some old fruit wearing blue pajamas, Detective. He doesn't seem to know what telephones are for."
Frances glanced at Peter and saw that he was watching her with more awareness in his eyes. His mouth was open and he was still breathing through it; heavy, labored breaths that had to be dragged in with effort.
"That's him, sir. Good thing he's there, we've gotten into a bit of trouble." She proceeded to override his comments and gave him the details. "There isn't an address for the warehouse, exactly; it's just number twelve on the street. Caine is hurt pretty bad, get somebody here as fast as you can."
"The other one wants to talk to you." Frustration practically oozed from the phone, then Frances heard Caine's voice. Almost as calm and soothing as always, but there was an edge to it that unnerved her.
"It is Caine. Frances, I ask you - please tell my son that I love him. His hold on this world is fragile. Only you can convince him to wait for me to reach him."
My son. The words rang in Frances' head. She'd been right. Not that there was ever any doubt, after she'd talked to the people from his old station.
Peter and Kwai Chang Caine were father and son. They were having a sexual relationship. Had been for years.
She didn't have time to react. Caine was speaking again.
"His friend Kermit did not understand, but I see your heart, Frances. I know you will do whatever you can to save him."
"I will, Caine. I'll keep him here for you." It was a reckless promise, but suddenly she saw that Peter living without Caine or Caine living without Peter would make a mockery of life.
He hung up without any goodbyes, and she turned her attention to Peter. His looked at her, and then closed his eyes, trying to turn his face away.
"Don't - don't -" He was struggling so hard to breathe, there was nothing left to speak with.
"Shhh, it's okay. Don't talk. Save your strength." She lifted the t-shirt and saw that the bleeding had slowed, but not stopped. She pressed it close again and he winced, then shuddered. "I already knew, Petey."
That got his attention. He twisted his head to look at her again, eyes wide with surprise.
"I found out a couple of weeks ago. After Angela's party."
He closed his eyes. The sound of his breathing seemed loud.
"I asked around. I figured it out."
"Not - sick." He gasped. "Love."
She petted his face with her fingers.
"I don't know if it's sick or not, Petey. I do know that I've never seen a couple the way you and Caine are. It's easy to see how much you love each other."
"Love." He repeated, turning his face into her hand, his eyes closing. A few tears, tinged red, slipped down his face.
"I don't know if it's right or wrong, either." She wiped the tears with her fingers, feeling suddenly, oddly maternal. "I do know that it's not my place to judge. You aren't hurting anyone else."
This time he didn't answer. She checked his pulse; it was too fast and very faint.
"Petey? C'mon, Peter, I promised Caine I'd keep you around until he got here. Peter, *wake up*."
He twitched and opened his eyes when she slapped his face lightly.
"Bossy."
"Well, I'm in charge, right? You're just a poor little fag, you need someone to take care of you." Frances smiled widely, but could feel wetness on her own cheeks. She was sweating or crying, she couldn't tell which. Maybe both. "They should be here soon." Block had said twenty minutes. They were on the other side of town, after all.
"*Frannie*." Peter stuck his tongue out a little and she laughed. Then he swallowed hard, and his mouth worked around words. "Kermit died. Like this. In a warehouse."
"Buried under a pile of junk?"
"Suspect caught him. Kept him. Tortured him." He seemed to be gaining strength with the words. "MY fault."
"Not your fault." She knew that much, from her conversation with that woman from his old station. Peter had been frantic to find his partner, had practically moved heaven and Earth to locate him, only to be a few hours too late.
"Pop says that, too." He held still for a moment, then shuddered, eyes clenching shut.
"Peter?" She leaned further over him, as if she could protect him that way.
"Hurts," he whispered the word, and then was silent. If she poked him he grunted in response, telling her that he was still awake. He was breathing hard, but steadily, in a slow pattern.
"It'll be okay. Caine your father - " it was harder to say that than she'd thought it would be, "He'll be here soon. He can hold your hand while they get you loose. He'll make you feel better."
"Tell Angela she's having a girl." Peter sighed softly. Frances grinned, then realized that his breathing was uneven again, ragged.
"Peter? Peter!"
This time he didn't wake back up.
It was a long time before they got there. At least it felt like it to Frances. And when they did it took forever for them to decide what to do. The firemen finally cut in through the back wall, to get to them faster. Frances cowered under a flame-retardant blanket they stuffed through the first small hole, while sparks filled the room and the scent of melting metal singed her nostrils. She did her best to keep Peter covered too, but he was having so much trouble breathing that she was afraid that covering his face completely would make him stop.
"Hey! Hey! HEY!!!" She shouted and finally they heard her, turned off the cutter and a fireman- young, good looking and covered with sweat and grime - stuck his head in.
"Can I get some oxygen in here? He's barely breathing."
"Is he critical?" The hole wasn't big enough for any of them to get through yet.
"Yeah, I think so." She wasn't a doctor or a nurse, but Peter's color looked worse, and there were distinct pauses between his breaths now.
"It's going to be another fifteen minutes before we get through this stuff."
"Just toss me a tank and a mask - I can get it on him, at least." The office was about fifteen feet wide - she'd left Peter to get the blanket, she could leave him again to get this.
"You got it." He seemed awfully cheerful, considering the circumstances. When he pulled his head out of the hole, she realized that he had to be tall, too; he'd been ducking to talk to her.
Soon an oxygen tank, with mask dangling, and a thin silver blanket were handed through to her. She wrapped the blanket around him as tightly as she could, knowing he was in shock, and got the mask on, adjusting the airflow to the fireman's confident instructions.
"Just hang on. Your back's a mess, is the pain bad?"
"No, I can hardly feel it."
"That's the adrenalin. It's going to be a bitch tomorrow." With those encouraging words he ducked out again and Frances pulled the heavy blanket over her head, feeling suffocated. She kept her flashlight on Peter's face and saw that he seemed to be breathing a little easier. At least the O2 would keep him alive until they got out of here.
The sudden slamming creak of the cut wall being torn out prompted her to pull the blanket off, but she didn't move as they were swarmed by firemen and EMTs. Not until Caine stepped through the breach, his eyes on Peter's still form, and she reached a hand for him.
They traded places with the ease of practice, the medics disgruntled but not noticing in time to stop them.
Frances was hustled off by her very tall fireman, whose name was Joe, and bundled into an ambulance while she was checked out.
It took another two hours for them to free Peter. By that time she was beyond worried. Had she done everything right? She'd stopped the bleeding, kept him warm, kept him awake as long as possible. She stood by the warehouse wall, and when Caine came out she grabbed onto him, held on. Not very macho, but she was a girl, right? So it was okay. As long as no one she knew saw her.
"He'll be okay." She heard herself promise Caine, but saw in his eyes that he didn't believe her. He simply held her until she felt foolish, and released her when she was ready.
At last they carried Peter out, and put him on a stretcher. He didn't look alive, but Caine went right to his side, and refused to be moved. One of the EMTs even tried to physically nudge him aside, but Frances knew from experience that it was like trying to move a tree. An old tree.
He watched while he followed Peter into the ambulance and then was hustled off herself, looking forward to getting stitches in her back, x-rays, and Joe's phone number.
She watched as the doors to the ambulace closed. Caine had one hand on Peter's chest and the other holding one of Peter's hands to his own. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be praying.
Well, why not? Frances said a couple of her own on the way to the hospital, sure hers weren't as eloquent as Caine's, and not directed at anyone in particular, either. But it never hurt to try.
***
"You are supposed to be resting."
"We're *supposed* to babysit for Henry and Angela tonight." Peter gave his father an exasperated look but allowed himself to be gently push back down onto the futon. Three months after his injury and he still wasn't completely up to par. He was scheduled to go back on limited duty next week.
And he wasn't sure Frances would want him back as a partner.
"*Rest*." Caine loomed over him, his face stern.
"I'm tired of resting." Peter crossed his arms and frowned. Then he pouted.
Caine rolled his eyes, a very expressive gesture for such a controlled man.
Peter peered up at him, speculating.
"I could rest better if you were resting with me."
"I must finish cleaning if we are to care for small infants this night."
It was Henry and Angela's fifteenth anniversary. They were double-dating with Frances and Joe, so Frances had suggested Peter and Caine. One of the many relatives would have been glad to do it, but Frances had told them, on the sly, that Angela was becoming increasingly frustrated with her family - and Henry's - as they became ever-more bossy about the babies.
"They just want to go out andhave a good time and come home wihtout being lectured on how they're raising their kids. They're ten weeks old, for goodness sakes' How can you screw them up at ten weeks old?!"
Her defense of Angela was inspiring to watch. So they were babysitting tonight.
Peter looked around.
"They can't crawl yet, can they?" He didn't know much about babies.
"No, beloeved. They mostly sleep and eat at this age."
"Then the place is plenty clean. Lie down with me." He flipped back the sheet and held out an arm.
Caine looked at him doubtfully.
"You will not rest."
"Please." Peter added. "I've missed you. You've been sleeping on the couch long enough. Lay with me a while."
His recovery was something of a miracle. He knew the doctors wanted more time to poke and prod at him, more answers to their questions. He couldn't just say that Caine had been sharing his Chi, speeding Peter's recovery. Making him well with the gift of himself.
"I would like to lay with you." Caine brought his hands up and began unfastening his silk tunic. "I worry that it's too soon."
Peter could barely believe his ears. Lay with him? His dad wanted to *lay* with him? Hallelujah, he'd started to think that was *never* going to happen again.
"I'll be good, I promise." He wiggled slightly in anticipation. The bruises were healed, the stitches taken out or dissolved. The broken ribs had mostly knitted, there was only some residual pain from the crushing his body had taken, and a corresponding drop in his endurance that led to these nap sessions.
Caine paused, his tunic almost off his shoulders. Peter sucked in a breath, startled by the strength of his reaction.
"Nothing strenuous, beloved."
"I'll just lie here and let you do whatever you want," Peter promised with a sigh.
"Whatever I want?" Caine dropped his silk trousers to the floor and slid onto the futon, naked. Peter reached under the covers to wriggle out of his boxers, kicking them down to his feet.
"Anything." Peter breathed, reaching for Caine.
He was gathered close, held. He could take a deep breath, smell and taste the scent of his lover in the air around them.
It was easier to breathe now anyhow. Somehow, after the booby-trap, he'd found a way to forgive himself. He understood now that Kermit's death wasn't his fault, that it had been a matter of bad timing and bad guys, nothing more. He chose to believe that Kermit would have learned to be happy for him.
Because Kermit had, in his own way, loved him.
Not this way, though. Not this way.
"Be still, " Caine told him, turning him onto his side and slipping a hand down between them. "I have waited too long for this."
Hearing the want and need in Caine's voice was enough to set Peter on fire. It was a struggle, to be still.
He managed it, because he knew Caine would stop, and get up, and go back to cleaning, if he didn't.
Gentle touches; stroking his ass, rubbing his thighs. Then deeper, fingertips brushing the little hole, untouched for months.
"Please," Peter whisperd. "Please."
He didn't have to ask again. Caine reached under the futon cushion and came up with the small tube of lubricant Peter had been keeping there, to pleasure himself with when Caine wasn't around. Doing completely without had been too hard for him. He'd wanted Caine to participate, but he had refused; quietly, tenderly. Still refused.
"Do you know how hard it was for me?" Caine whispered in Peter's ear as he prepared him. Opened him slowly, knowing he would be tight, after long months without. "To leave for the day. To know what you would do in my absence. I could always smell it when I came back."
"Could have watched." Peter twisted his head to smile athim, as lovingly as he could. "I wanted to do it for you, too."
Caine shook his head no.
"I wouldn not have been able to stop at watching. I was so close to losing you only a complete joining would have satsified me."
"Oh. Wow." Peter arched backwards in slow motion, trying to get the probing fingers deeper into himself.
"You thought I was being strong," Caine whispered, pulling the fingers free. Peter knew he was slicking himself with the lubricant. "I was only hiding my weakness."
He placed the head of his cock at Peter's entrance and pushed. Not gently, but not too hard, either.
There was no doubting his strength. Peter never had.
"You're strong." He grunted as the pressure grew. "You'll always be strong." The intensity increased and it felt like he was being pulled steadily in two. Caine's hands were firm on his hips, comforting at the same time.
"I am almost in." Caine's voice was rough with need and restraint.
"No hurry," Peter gasped. The pain reached a crescendo and then faded out, like he'd known it would. He'd never slept with another man before his Pop, he wondered sometimes if it would hurt worse if it were someone else. There was no way it could feel better.
"Peter." Caine pressed up behind him, his taller frame aligned with Peter's body from shoulder to toe. His arms came around and held Peter still. His mouth kissed the side of Peter's neck, his chin, his cheek. "I love you."
"Oh, yeah. I love you too, Pop." Peter arched back into the embrace, but Caine's strong arms and lean body prevented the movement. "Are you just going to lie there?" He was amused, and turned on.
"You invited me to lay with you." Caine also sounded amused, and Peter felt his face break into a wide smile.
"So you *are* just going to lay there." He wiggled a little to test his theory. Caine grunted and held on tighter.
"I will move. When the spirit moves me."
Peter laughed quietly. To be able to laugh, in these circumstances, to laugh at all after the past year. Kermit's discovery, the rejection, his death, the precipitous move here... he knew that Caine had not wanted to move, had done so only because Peter needed to.
They had made a new life together. Here, in this city far from the old one.
Peter sucked in a deep breath and released it in a sigh. He felt safe and warm and horny; all of those feeling wrapped up with being in his father's arms, with being his father's lover. For once he truly felt that it didn't matter what the rest of the world thought. He knew, and Caine knew. Frances knew, and she accepted it. He had seen understanding in her eyes lately, and wished he could tell her how much that meant to him.
Someday; not a day soon, but far off in the future, someday he would need someone who knew. Someone who would understand the depth of his grief. When age finally caught Kwai Chang Caine, and Peter was left alone.
Frances could be that someone.
Caine pulled out, just a little bit, and then slid back in. Peter caught his breath on a sob and tilted his head back as far as he could.
"Kiss me." He begged, mouth hanging open.
Caine did. His tongue mimicked the slow, steady motion of his body; everything slow and easy, too gentle for Peter's taste but perfect for his health. The steady slip, slip, slip of Caine's cock over his prostate was enough to bring him to the brink, and it seemed that he stayed there a very long time.
When he finally tipped over the edge, fire burning through his veins, he knew he'd been babbling, that he'd begged, that he'd praised.
He'd felt the tremendous love of Caine in the way he was held, he was petted, he was soothed afterwards.
Closing his eyes for the nap he had to admit he actually needed now, he kept a grip on Caine's hand as sleep came for him.
It was sad, that the cost of this happiness should have been so high. That this understanding had taken him so long to reach.
But it was worth any price.
