Archive of Our Own ^beta

It starts with a case, because it always does. Then two more immediately on top of each other. A homicide, a murder suicide, and a string of pawn shop robberies grabbing on the tail end of each collar. 

Travis’ go bag ends up in the trunk of Wes’ car. He changes clothes six times in the men’s bathroom at work in two weeks, four times in the bathroom in Wes’ new apartment, once at home when he has to refill his go bag. He sleeps mostly in the car, two hours four times in Wes’ guest bed, and more than a few times at his desk - which Wes doesn’t even snap at him for. 

They have to leave therapy early three out of four times and the whole group is worried about them. Dakota and Peter even bring them a small stuffed meatloaf which they eat leaned against Wes’ trunk with plastic forks from McDonalds. It’s the best meal they have had in ages until the Dumont’s bring them thermoses full of chicken and vegetable stew a week later. 

It’s the longest month of his life.

It’s also the most frustrating. With all that’s going on he has barely any time to sleep, much less get laid. He’s itching for it under his skin, the sexual frustration he usually doesn’t have to deal with bubbling into aggression. He’s almost thankful that it’s not uncommon for him and Wes’ to argue and fight because it’s the only release of pent up frustration he’s getting. 

Wes is, of course, as perfectly put together as always in his stupid suits and his neatly gelled hair even if he’s wearing it an inch longer these days. The guy doesn’t look like he’s barely been sleeping and living off of vending machines and fast food for a month. It’s horribly insulting that he’s doing better at this but it also makes sense. 

Wes lived in a hotel for over a year. He’s an over worker to the point that it can sometimes be excessive. He’s much more equipped for a month like this one which isn’t a good thing. It reminds Travis that his partner isn’t taking care of himself like he should. 

It pisses Travis off, so they fight. They get their collar, they get their new case, they argue. They snipe at each other over lost pens and where they want to pick up food and everywhere in between. 

Everything is fine… until it isn’t. 

Travis has always been ruthlessly charming with women, to the point where even when he doesn’t mean it to it comes off as flirting. It’s something that annoys the daylights out of Wes but it comes in handy more than the ex-lawyer would like to admit. 

So it’s startling to everyone when Travis snaps at Kendall. 

“I’m sorry but the security cameras were disrupted with some low level emp, I couldn’t pull anything useful,” the woman says regretfully. On a normal day he would ask her about a game, complement her on her new lipstick shade, tease her and Wes about her initial crush on the anal detective. 

Today is, regrettably, not a normal day. “Can you do anything useful or did you just come up here to tell us something that you could have over the phone?”

Half the bullpen stops to stare at him and Kendall’s eyes go a little misty. 

Wes slams down his mug of coffee and snatches Travis by the back of his jacket. 

“Please excuse us, Kendall, we’ll get back to you,” he says politely before dragging Travis away by the scruff like a bad dog. 

He shoves Travis into the men’s bathroom, flicking the seldom used deadbolt before cramming him up against the wall between the two hand driers. “What the hell was that?”

Travis groans, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I know, I know, god I’m sorry.”

“I’m not the one you need to be apologizing to,” Wes snaps, his fist still pressing hard into Travis’ sternum. “What is going on with you?”

“I’m exhausted!” He snaps, ripping his hands away from his face to glare at his partner. 

Wes just glared back. “I’m exhausted too but I’m not snapping at our coworkers. I’ve got so much concealer under my eyes it feels like I’m baking a cake there Travis. You’re the people person.”

He doesn’t register half of what Wes says but the concealer comment ticks in his head somewhere like a save-for-later box at the library. 

“I haven’t slept more than two hours at a time in three and a half weeks, I barely get time to shower, we’ve been living off of vending machines and station coffee and food trucks! I haven’t gotten laid in a month!” He snaps, flailing a hand. 

Wes scoffs and scowls at him. “This is about sex? Of course it is, why would I think any differently?”

Travis sneers — he doesn’t mean to — he shoves Wes’ shoulders sending the blond a step back. It pulls Wes’ fist away from his chest and that aches because he’s barely been touched in a month and he craves the contact. 

“Not all of us are celibate robots, man, some of us need to have an orgasm more than once every ten years to remain healthy and functional,” he snaps. 

Wes hates being called a robot. He always does this twitchy thing, clenching his jaw and looking away. Travis usually tries to not call him that. 

He watches, halfway to brushing this whole thing off and storming out for some air, as Wes unclenches his jaw. He can see the other man’s cheek move as his tongue swipes against it clearly contemplating something. “You’re saying an orgasm will make you more pleasant to work with?”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Travis sighs, sagging against the wall. He lets his head fall back and he takes a deep breath. He knows that after they get this bust he can go home and sleep like the dead, he can shower, he can go out to a bar and find someone lovely to take to bed for a night or two. 

Wes reaches into his blazer and pulls out a crisp, white handkerchief. It’s not unusual for him to have, he also carries a pack of tissues, wet wipes, and a little bottle of purell on him practically all the time. This handkerchief, however, is about to change Travis’ whole life. 

Wes steps in close and Travis’ breathing hitches because the fingers of the other man’s non-dominant hand go right to the button of his jeans. 

“When we leave this room,” Wes says, flicking the button open, “you’re going to go get one of those strawberry-pomegranate smoothies Kendall likes.” 

The zip of his jeans is loud in the bathroom. He’s half hard and ten minutes ago he would have said he could get hard from a brush of hair right now but this is all Wes. He’ll be hard enough to hammer nails before his brain even catches up. 

“You’re going to take it to her,” Wes slides two fingers underneath the waistbands of his jeans and boxers and tugs them down, releasing his dick into the cool air of the bathroom, “apologize, and maybe if she’s feeling charitable she’ll check out what other pawn shops don’t use electric tills in our target area.”

Wes is so close. Travis can smell the sharp tang of hand sanitizer, the fading scent of his peppery aftershave, the pine of his hair gel. He can almost see the very slight difference in skin color under the man’s eyes. 

The blond hovers his handkerchief covered hand so close yet so far away. “Understood?”

Travis shudders and gasps out a haggard, “ Yes. ”

Wes’ hand wraps around his cock. The cloth is soft, feels amazing against him, better with the warmth and sturdiness of his partner’s hand seeping through the fabric. The blond gives him a squeeze close to the base and begins to slowly move his hand. 

Wes is looking at him, blue-grey eyes pinning him to the wall. He can see what this is doing to Travis, the way his eyes are starting to glaze over and his mouth parts to let out quiet, breathy sounds. He can see everything, maybe too much, so Travis clenches his eyes closed and tries not to buck into Wes’ hand. 

He fails. 

Gasping, Travis shoves his hips forward into the clutch of Wes’ hand and the softness of the handkerchief. The other man squeezes him just right, tilts his wrist and swipes his covered thumb under the head of Travis’ cock. 

“There you go,” Wes says. His voice is low, even, makes Travis’ dick twitch in his hold at the sound of it which can’t go unnoticed. “Take what you need, Travis.”

Travis has to shove his teeth into his bottom lip to stave off a moan. He does as Wes says though, pressing into the other man’s hand in time with Wes’ strokes. 

“That’s good,” Wes whispers, twisting his fingers on a downward stroke and squeezing around the base. 

“Fuck!” Travis moans pitifully through his teeth, clutches at the tiled wall of the bathroom so that he won’t instead clutch at his partner. 

“Are you close, Travis?” Wes murmurs. He ducks his head, lifts his other hand to rub his thumb against Travis’s tip through the white fabric of the handkerchief. 

Travis is helpless to do anything but watch, groaning his confirmation. 

“Finish for me then,” Wes orders softly. He’s rubbing these little circles against Travis’s dripping slit through the tacky fabric, shifting his hand into the slightly erratic thrusts of Travis’ hips. 

“ Wes! ” Travis spills over, his orgasm washing through him hot and sparking up his spine as he leans unsteadily against the wall. The liquid heat makes his legs unsteady, his whole body going loose and pleasantly fuzzy with his climax. 

When he comes back to himself he knows in a detached sort of way that Wes has wiped him clean with the handkerchief and carefully put him back in his pants. They’re still unbuttoned and unzipped but Wes is folding up the ruined piece of cloth and stowing it in an evidence bag. The bag is hidden in his blazer. 

Finally the blond looks at him. His eyes are dark, shoulders tense. He takes a breath and nods to himself, turning away to turn on the sink, pumping a little too much soap into his hand. 

“Next time just come to me. I don’t need you burning any more bridges at our precinct.” Wes’ voice is stern, a far cry from what it was two minutes ago. 

Travis buttons and zips his pants before fleeing the bathroom. He doesn’t have time to unpack that right now. He has a smoothie to buy and an apology to issue.